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ADVENTURES 
 
 Delete U TX OT E 
 
 DE LA MANCHA. — 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH OF 
 
 MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA. 
 
 Philadelphre : 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
 
 
 
 MDCCCLXIX. 
 

 
CONTENTS. 
 
 See Sh ee 
 ° a} 
 Hirst Dart 
 CHAP. PAGH 
 Author’s Preface . 5 2 . 5 vii 
 BOOK I. 
 I, Which treats of the quality and manner of life of our renowned i 
 hero, 
 II. Which treats of the first ‘sally that Don Quixote made from his 
 native village, . 7 
 III. In which is related the pleasant method Don Quixote took to be 
 dubbed Knight, 6 13 
 IV. Of what befell our knight after he had sallied from the iy, cg 18 
 V. Wherein is contained the narration of our knight’s misfortune, 22, 
 VI. Of the grand and diverting scrutiny made by the priest and the 
 barber, in the library of our ingenious gentleinan, . 26 
 
 VII. Of the second sally of our good knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, 81 
 VIII. Of the valorous Don Quixote’s success in the dreadful and never- 
 
 before-imagined adventure of the windmills, . : 36 
 BOOK II. 
 IX. Wherein is concluded the stupendous battle between the gallant 
 Biscayan and the valiant Manchegan, 43 
 X. Of the pleasant discourse which Don Quixote had with his good 
 squire Sancho Panza, . 5 : 47 
 XI. Of what befell Don Quixote with the coatherds, 6 50 
 XII. What a certain goatherd related to those who were with Don 
 Quixote, : 55 
 XIII. The conclusion of the story of the shepherdess Marcella, : 59 
 XIV. Wherein are rehearsed the despairing verses of the deceased shep- 
 herd, with other unexpected events, C A d 65 
 BOOK III. 
 XV. Wherein is related the unfortunate adventure which befell Don 
 Quixote, in meeting with certain unmerciful Yanguesians, . 71 
 XVI. Of what happened to Don Quixote in the inn which he imagined to 
 beacastle, . 76 
 
 XVII. Wherein are ‘continued the innumerable disasters that befell the 
 brave Don Quixote and his good squire Sancho Panzain the inn, 80 
 XVIII. The discourse which Sancho Panza held with his master Don 
 
 Quixote, with other adventures worth relating, ‘ 87 
 XIX. Of the sage discourse which passed between Sancho and his master, 
 and the succeeding adventure of the dead body, ° 94 
 
 XX. Ofthe unparalleled adventure achieved by the renowned Don Quixote, 
 with less hazard than any was ever achieved by the most famous 
 knight in the world, ; 99 
 XXI. Which treats of the grand adventure and rich prize of Mambrino’ 8 
 helmet, with other things which befell our invincible knight, 106° 
 XXII. How Don Quixote set at liberty several unfortunate persons, who, 
 much against their will, were being conveyed where they had no 
 wish to go, ; ; A A . 115 
 
Ss 
 
 1V 
 
 CHAP, 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 XXIV. 
 XXY. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 XXIX. 
 XXX. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 OO G108 
 XXXIV. 
 XXXV. 
 XXXVI. 
 XXXVIL. 
 XXXVIII. 
 xX XIX. 
 XL. 
 
 Sot 
 TL 
 XLII. 
 XLIV. 
 
 xT 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 XLVII. 
 XLVIII. 
 
 XLIX. 
 L. 
 
 II. 
 
 Il. 
 
 IV. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 Of what befell the renowned Don Quixote in the Sierra Morena, 122 
 A continuation of the adventure in the Sierra Morena, . . 1380 
 
 Which treats of the strange things that befell the valiant knight of 
 La Mancha in the Sierra Morena: and how he imitated the 
 penance of Montenebros, 136 
 A continuation of the refinements practised by Don Quixote, as a 
 lover, in the Sierra Morena, . 7 
 How the priest and the barber put their design into execution, 152 
 BOOK IV. 
 Which treats of the new and agreeable adventure that befell the 
 priest and the barber in the Sierra Morena, 162 
 
 Which treats of the beautiful Dorothea’s discretion, with other very 
 ingenious and entertaining particulars, 168 
 Which treats of the pleasant and ingenious method pursued to with- 
 draw our enamoured knight from the rigorous penance which he 
 had imposed on himself, 177 
 Of the relishing conversation which passed petween Don Quixote 
 and his squire Sancho Panza, with other incidents, 184 
 Which treats of what befell Don Quixote and his compayy at thei inn, 190 
 The dreadful battle which Don Quixote fought with the wine-bags, 194 
 Which treats of other uncommon incidents that happened attheinn, 197 
 
 Wherein is continued the history of the famous Infanta Micomicona, 201 
 The continuation of Don Quixote’s curious oration upon arms and 
 letters, 5 A 207 
 Wherein the captive relates his life and adventures, 5 . 210 
 In which is continued the history of the captive, 5 . 215 
 Wherein the captive continues his story, : 5 HPAL 
 
 Which treats of other occurrences at the inn, and of various things 
 worthy to be known, . 232 
 Which treats of the agreeable history of the yourg muletecr, with 
 other strange accidents that happened at the inn, . 236 
 A continuation of the oxraor diary adventures that happened in 
 the inn, 
 In which the dispute concerning Mambrino’ 8 helmet and the pannel 
 is decided, with other adventures that really and truly happened, 247 
 In which is finished the notable adventure of the holy brotherhood, 
 with an account of the ferocity of our good knight Don Quixote, 252 
 Of the strange and wonderful manner in which Don Quixote de la 
 
 Mancha, was enchanted, with other remarkable occurrences, 257 
 In which the canon continues his discourse on books of chivalry, 
 
 with other subjects worthy of his genius, . 3 
 Of the ingenious conference between Sancho Panza and his master 
 
 Don Quixote, . , 267 
 Of the ingenious contest between Don Quixote and the canon, 271 
 The goatherd’s narrative, 275 
 
 Of the quarrel between Don Quixote and the goatherd, with the 
 rare adventure of the disciplinants, : ‘4 278 
 
 Second gil. 
 
 Preface to Part IL., : : 50 ; 
 BOOK I, 
 
 287 
 
 . Of what passed between the priest, the barber, and Don Quixote, 
 290 
 
 concerning his indisposition, 4 
 Which treats of the notable quarrel between Sancho Panza and Don 
 Quixote’s niece and housekeeper, with other pleasant occurrences, 297 
 Of the pleasant conversation which passed between Don Quixote, 
 
 Sancho Panza, and the bachelor Sampson Carrasco, 300 
 Wherein Sancho Panza answers the bachelor S: wmpson Carrasco's 
 doubts and questions, . . ‘ . 805 
 
CONTENTS. Vv 
 
 CHAP, PAGE 
 V. Of the discreet and pleasant conversation which passed between 
 Sancho Panza and his wife Teresa, 308 
 VI. Of what passed between Don Quixote, his niece, and housekeeper, 
 which is one of the most important chapters i in the whole history, 313 
 
 Vil. Of what passed between Don Quixote and his squire, é 316 
 VIII. Wherein is related what befell Don Quixote as he was going to visit 
 
 his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, . : : 3 822 
 
 TX. Which relates what will be found therein, ‘ ; 326 
 
 X. Wherein is related the cunning used by Sancho in enchanting the 
 lady Dulcinea, with other events no less ludicrous than true, 329 
 XI. Of the strange adventure which befell the valorous Don Quixote, 
 
 with the cart, or wain, of the Cortes of Death, - 835 
 
 XII. Of the strange adventure which befell ‘the valorous Don Quixote, 
 > with the brave knight of the Mirrors, : A 339 
 XIII. Wherein is continued the adventure of the knight of the Wood, 343, 
 XIV. In which is continued the adveyture of the knight of the Wood, 347 
 XV. Giving an account of the knight of the Mirrors and his squire, 855 
 
 XVI. Of what befell Don Quixote with a worthy gentleman of La Mancha, 356 
 XVII. Wherein is set forth the extreme and highest point at which, the un- 
 heard-of courage of Don Quixote ever did or ever could arrive, 
 
 with the happy conclusion of the adventure of the lions, : 362 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 XVIII. Of what befell Don Quixote in the castle, or house, of the knight of 
 the Green Riding-coat, with other extraordinary matters, 368 
 XIX. Wherein is related the adventures of the enamoured shepherd, 874 
 
 XX. Giving an account of the marriage of Camacho the Rich, and also 
 the adventure of Basilius the Poor, . 380 
 XXT. In which is continued the history of Camacho’s wedding, - 38f 
 
 XXII. Wherein is related the grand adventure of the cave of Montesinos, 
 situated in the heart of la Mancha, 39) 
 
 XXIII. Of the wonderful things which the accomplished Don Quixote de la 
 Mancha declared he had seen in the cave of Montesinos, i 896 
 
 XXIV. In which are recounted ‘a thousand trifling matters, equally perti- 
 nent and necessary to the right understanding of this grand 
 history, 402 
 XXV. Wherein is begun the praying adventure, and the diverting one of 
 the puppet-show, with the memorable divinations of the wonder- 
 ful ape, : 407 
 XXVI. Wherein is continued the pleasant adventure of the puppet- -player, 413 
 XXVII. Wherein is related who Master Peter and his ape were, with Don 
 Quixote’s ill-success in the braying adventure, 418 
 XXVIII. Concerning things which, Benengeli says, he who reads of them 
 
 will know, if he reads with attention, z 4 423 
 XXIX. Of the famous adventure of the enchanted bark, . 426 
 XXX. Of what befell Don Quixote with a fair huntress, . . 430 
 XXXI. Which treats of many and great things, . : é 435 
 XXXII. Of the answer Don Quixote gave to his reprover, . c 441 
 BOOK III. 
 
 ' XXXIII. Of the relishing conversation which passed between the duchess, her 
 
 damsels, and Sancho Panza, worthy to be read and noted, 451 
 
 XXXIV. Giving an account of the method prescribed for disenchanting the 
 peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, 456 
 XXXV. Wherein is continued the account of the method prescribed to Don 
 Quixote for disenchanting Dulcinea, 460 
 XXXVI. Wherein is recorded the strange and inconceivable adventure of the 
 ill-used duenna, or the countess of Trifaldi; and likewise 
 Sancho Panza’s letter to his wife Teresa Panza, . ° 465 
 XXXVII. In which is continued the famous adventure of the afflicted duenna, 469 
 XXXVIII. Which contains the account given by the afflicted duenna of her 
 misfortunes, . 471 
 XXXIX. Wherein the duenna Trifaldi continues her stupendous and memor- 
 able history, . 475 
 XL. Which treats of matters relating and appertaining to this adventure, 
 and to this memorable history, . : : 477 
 
v1 
 CHAP, 
 XLiI. 
 Deramee 
 XLII. 
 XLIV. 
 XLV. 
 XLVI. 
 Gia BE 
 XLVIII. 
 
 XLIX. 
 L. 
 
 AR 
 Lit. 
 
 LITl. 
 LIV. 
 
 LV. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 LVI. 
 LVIII. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 LX. 
 LXI. 
 LXII. 
 
 “5 
 
 LXIII. 
 LXIY. 
 
 LXV. 
 LXVI. 
 
 LXVII. 
 LXVIII. 
 
 LXIX. 
 LXX., 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 LXXITI. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 PAGE 
 
 Of the arrival of Clavileno, with the conclusion of this proliz 
 
 adventure, 3 480 
 
 Containing the instructions which Don Quixote gave to Sancho 
 Panza before he went to his government, 487 
 
 Of the second series of instructions Don Quixote gave to Sancho 
 Panza, 
 
 How Sancho Panza waa conducted to his government, and of the 
 strange adventure which befell Don Quixote in the castle, 
 
 How the great Sancho Panza took possession of his island, and of 
 the manner of his beginning to govern it, 
 
 Of the dreadful bell-ringing, and cattish consternation into which 
 Don Quixote was thrown in the course of the enamoured Altisi- 
 dora’s love-making, 
 
 Giving a further account of Sancho’ 8 behaviour i in hig government, 
 
 Of what befell Don Quixote with Donna Rodriguez, the duchess’s 
 duenna, together with other incidents worthy to be written, 
 
 Of what befell Sancho Panza in going the round of his island, . 
 
 Which declares who were the enchanters and executioners that 
 
 whipped the duenna, and pinched and scratched Don Quixote ; 
 
 and also the success of the page who carried Sancho’s letter to 
 
 his wife Teresa Panza, . 
 
 Of the progress of Sancho Panza’ 8 government, with other enter- 
 taining matters, 
 
 In which is recorded the adventure of the second afflicted matron, 
 otherwise called Donna Rodriguez, 
 
 495 
 501 
 
 e 
 
 506 
 509 
 
 516 
 520 
 
 528 
 534 
 
 i 
 e ° o> L 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 Of the toilsome end and conclusion of Sancho Panza’s government, 544 
 
 Of what befell Sancho on his way, and other matters which will be 
 known when read, 550 
 
 Of the prodigious and unparalleled battle between Don Quixote de 
 la Mancha and the lacquey Tosilos, in defence of the duenna 
 Donna Rodriguez’s daughter, é 
 
 Which relates how Don Quixote took his leave of the ‘duke, and of 
 what befell him with the witty EE one of the duchess’s 
 damsels, 6 
 
 Showing how adventures crowded 80 fast upon Don Qnixote, that 
 they trod upon each other’s heels, 
 
 Wherein is related an extraordinary accident which befell Don 
 Quixote, and which may pass for an adventure, . 
 
 Of what befell Don Quixote on his way to Barcelona, . 
 
 Of what befell Don Quixote at the entrance into Barcelona, 
 
 Which treats of the adventure of the enchanted head, . 
 
 Of Sancho Panza’s misfortune on board the galleys, "and the extra- 
 ordinary adventure of the beautiful Moor, 
 
 Treating of the adventure which gave Don ‘Quixote more vexation 
 than any which had hitherto befallen him, 
 
 In which an account is given who the knight of the White Moon 
 was; and of the deliverance of Don Gregorio, with other events, 
 
 Treating of matters which he who reads will see, and he who listens 
 to them, when read, willhear, . 
 
 Of the resolution which Don Quixote took to turn shepherd, and 
 lead a pastoral life, till the promised term should be expired, 
 
 Of the bristly adventure which befell Don Quixote, ” 
 
 Of the newest and strangest adventure of all that befell Don 
 Quixote in the whole course of this great history, . 
 
 ah eed, treats of matters indispensable to the capitan of this 
 
 istory, 
 
 Of what befell Don Quixote and his squire Sancho on the way to 
 their village, 
 
 How Don Quixote and Sancho arrived at their village, : 
 
 Of the omens which Don Quixote met with at the entrance into hig 
 village, with other matters which adorn and illustrate this 
 greathistory . 
 
 How Don Quixote fell sick, "made his will, —and died, 
 
 556 
 
 559 
 
 570 
 575 
 583 
 585 
 593 
 599 
 603 
 605 
 
 609 
 612 
 
 . 
 e 
 . 
 
 616 
 619 
 
 624 
 629 
 
 634 
 639 
 
AUTHOR'S PREFACE, 
 
 * 
 
 Lovine reader, thou wilt believe me, I trust, when I tell thee it 
 was my earnest desire that this offspring of my brain should be as 
 beautiful, ingenious, and sprightly as it is possible to imagine; but, 
 alas! I have not been able to control that order in nature’s works 
 whereby all things produce their like; and, therefore, what could 
 be expected from a mind sterile and uncultivated like mine, but a 
 dry, meagre, fantastical thing, full of strange conceits, and that 
 might well be engendered in a prison—the dreadful abode of care, 
 where nothing is heard but sounds of wretchedness? Leisure, an 
 agreeable residence, pleasant fields, serene skies, murmuring 
 streams, and tranquillity of mind—by these the most barren muse 
 -may become fruitful, and produce that which will delight and 
 astonish the world. 
 
 Some parents are so hoodwinked by their excessive fondness, 
 that they see not the imperfections of their children, and mistake 
 their folly and impertinence for sprightliness and wit; but I, who, 
 though seemingly the parent, am in truth only the step-father of 
 Don Quixote, will not yield to this prevailing infirmity ; nor will I 
 —as others would do—beseech thee, kind reader, almost with tears 
 in my eyes, to pardon or conceal the faults thou mayest discover in 
 this brat of mine. Besides, thou art neither its kinsman nor friend ; 
 thou art in possession of thine own soul, and of a will as free and 
 absolute as the best; and art, moreover, in thine own house, being 
 as much the lord and master of it as is the monarch of his revenue ; 
 knowing also the common saying—‘‘ Under my cloak, a fig for a 
 king;” wherefore, I say, thou art absolved and liberated from . 
 every restraint or obligation, and mayest freely avow thy opinion 
 on my performance, without fear or reproach for the evil, or hope 
 of reward for the good, thou shalt say of it. Fain, indeed, would 
 [ have given it to thee, naked as it was born, without the decoration 
 
Vili AUTHOR’S PREFACE. 
 
 of a preface, or that numerous train of sonnets, epigrams, and 
 other eulogies, now commonly placed at the beginning of every 
 book; for I confess that, although mine cost me some labour in 
 composing, I found no part of it so difficult as this same Preface 
 which thou art now reading; yes, many a time have I taken up my 
 pen, and as often laid it down again—not knowing what to write. 
 
 Happening one day, when in this perplexity, to be sitting with 
 the paper before me, pen behind my ear, my elbow on the table, 
 and my cheek resting on my hand, deeply pondering on what L 
 should say, a lively and intelligent friend unexpectedly entered ; 
 and seeing me in that posture, he inquired what made me so 
 thoughtful. I told him I was musing on a preface for Don Quixote, 
 and frankly confessed I had been so teased and harassed by it that 
 I felt disposed to give up the attempt, and trouble myself no further 
 either with the preface or the book, but rather leave the achieve- 
 ments of that noble knight unpublished. ‘‘ For shall I not be con- 
 founded,” said I, ‘‘ with the taunts of that old law-maker, the 
 Vulgar, when, after so long a silence, I now, forsooth, come out, at 
 this time of day, with a legend as dry as a rush, destitute of inven- 
 tion, in a wretched style, poor in conception, void of learning, and 
 without either quotations in the margin, or annotations at the end: 
 while all other books, whether fabulous or profane, are so stuffed 
 with sentences from Aristotle, Plato, and the whole tribe of philoso- 
 phers, that the world is amazed at the extensive reading, deep learn- 
 ing, and extraordinary eloquence of their authors! Truly, when 
 these wiseacres quote the Holy Scriptures, you would take them for 
 so many St Thomases, or doctors of the church! And so observant 
 are they of the rules of decorum, that in one line they will cite you 
 the ravings of a lover, and in the next some pious homily—to the 
 delight of every reader. In all these matters my book will be 
 wholly deficient; for, I have nothing either to quote or make 
 notes upon; nor do I know what authors I have followed, and 
 therefore cannot display their names, as usual, in alphabetical suc- 
 cession, beginning with Aristotle, and ending with Xenophon, or 
 Zoilus, or Zeuxis—the one a painter, the other a slanderous critic. 
 It will also be ungraced by commendatory sonnets from the pens of 
 dukes, marquises, earls, bishops, ladies of quality, or other illus- 
 trious poets: though, were I to request them of two or three 
 humbler friends, I know they would supply me with such as many 
 of higher name amongst us could not equal. In short, my dear 
 friend,” continued I, ‘‘it is plain that Signor Don Quixote must lie 
 buried amongst the musty records of La Mancha, till Heaven shall 
 
AUTHOR’S PREFACE. 1X 
 
 send some abler hand to fit him out in a manner suitable to his 
 high deserts; since I find it impossible to perform that duty my- 
 self, not only from a want of competent talents, but because I am 
 naturally too lazy in hunting after authors to enable me to say what 
 I can say as well without them. ‘These are the considerations that 
 made me so thoughtful when you entered; and you must allow 
 that it was not without sufficient cause.” 
 
 On hearing this tale of distress, my friend struck his forehead 
 with the palm of his hand, and, bursting into a loud laugh, said, 
 *‘T now see I have been in error ever since I have known you; I 
 always took you for a discreet and sensible man, but now it appears 
 you are as far from being so as heaven is from earth. What! is it 
 possible that a thing of such little moment should have power to 
 embarrass and confound a genius like yours, formed to overcome 
 and trample under foot the greatest obstacles ?—By my faith, this 
 is not incapacity, but sheer idleness; and if you would be con- 
 vinced that what I say is true, attend to me, and in the twinkling 
 of an eye you shall see me put those difficulties to the rout which 
 you say prevent your introducing to the world the history of 
 the renowned Don Quixote, the light and mirror of all knight- 
 errantry.” 
 
 **Say on,” replied I, ‘‘and tell me how you propose to fill up 
 the vacuum which my fear has created, or how brighten up the 
 gloom that surrounds me.” ‘‘ Nothing so easy,” said he; ‘‘ your 
 first difficulty, respecting the want of sonnets, epigrams, or pane- 
 gyrics by high and titled authors, may at once be removed simply 
 by taking the trouble to compose them yourself, and then baptizing 
 them by whatever name you please: fathering them upon Prester 
 John of the Indies, or the Emperor Trapisonda, who, to my cer- 
 tain knowledge, were famous poets ; but suppose they were not so, 
 and that sundry pedants and praters, doubting that fact, should 
 slander you, heed them not; for, should they even convict’ you of 
 falsehood, they cannot deprive you of the hand that wrote it. 
 
 ‘¢ Now, as to your marginal citations of those authors and books 
 whence you collected the various sentences and sayings interspersed 
 through your history, it is but scattering here and there over your 
 pages some scraps of Latin, which you know by heart, or that will 
 cost you but little trouble to find :—for example, when treating of 
 liberty or slavery, 
 
 ‘Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro ?’ 
 
x AUTHOR’S PREFACE. 
 
 and then on the margin you clap me down the name of Horace, or 
 whoever said it. If your subject be the power of death, then op- 
 portunely comes, 
 
 ‘Pallida mors, equo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas 
 Regumque turres.’ 
 
 If friendship, or loving our enemies, as God enjoins, forthwith you 
 look into the Holy Scriptures, and without any very curious search 
 you will be able to take the identical words of the sacred text :— 
 
 ‘go autem dico vobis, diligite inimicos vestros.’ 
 
 If you should be speaking of evil thoughts, recollect the Evangelist : 
 ‘De corde exeunt cogitationes male.’ 
 
 On the inconstancy of friends, Cato will give you this distich :— 
 
 ‘Donec eris felix, multos numerabis amicos, 
 Tempora si fuerint nubila, solus eris.’ 
 
 By the assistance of these, or such-like driblets of learning, you 
 will at least gain the credit of being a scholar—a character which 
 in these times leads to both honour and profit. 
 
 ‘* As for annotations at the end of your book, you may safely 
 manage it in this manner: if you should have occasion to speak of 
 a giant, let it be Goliath, for there you will have, at a small ex- 
 pense, a noble annotation, which will run thus :—‘ The giant Golias, 
 or Goliath, was a Philistine whom the shepherd David slew in the 
 valley of Terebinthus, by means of a great stone which he cast 
 from a sling’ as recorded in the Book of Kings, where you will 
 find both chapter and verse. And in order to prove yourself 
 skilled in literature and cosmography, take an opportunity to 
 mention the river Tagus, on which an admirable note will pre- 
 sent itself, to this effect :—‘ The river Tagus was so named by a 
 king of Spain; its source is in such a place; after kissing the 
 walls of the celebrated city of Lisbon, it is swallowed up in the 
 ocean. Its sands are reported to be of gold’—-and so on. If you 
 would treat of robbers, I will furnish you with the history of 
 Cacus, for I have it at my fingers’ ends. If you have to speak of 
 cruel females, Ovid will supply you with Medea; if enchanters and 
 witches be your theme, Homer has a Calypso, and Virgil a Circe ; 
 if valiant commanders. Julius Cesar and his Commentaries are at 
 
AUTHOR’S PREFACE. Xie 
 
 your service, and Plutarch will give you a thousand Alexanders. 
 If love should chance to engage your pen, with the two ounces 
 which you possess of the Tuscan tongue, you may apply to Leon 
 Hebreo, who will provide you abundantly ; or in case you dislike 
 to visit foreign parts, you have here, at home, Fonseca, on ‘the 
 Love of God,’ which contains all that you, or the most inquisitive, 
 can possibly desire on that subject. In short, do you only contrive 
 to introduce these names or allusions, and leave both quotations 
 and annotations to me; for I will engage to fill up your margins, 
 and add four whole sheets to the end of your book. 
 
 ‘‘Wenow come to the list of quoted authors—another of your 
 grievances, which also admits of an easy remedy ; for you have only 
 to look out for some book containing such an alphabetical list, from 
 A down to Z, and transfer it bodily to your own; and should the 
 artifice be apparent from the little need you had of their help, it 
 matters not; some, perhaps, may be silly enough to believe that in 
 your plain and simple tale you really had made use of every one of 
 them ;—at all events, such a display of learned names will give your 
 book an air of importance at the first sight, and nobody will take 
 the trouble to examine whether you have followed them or not, 
 since nothing would be gained by the labour. 
 
 « 
 
 ** Yet, after all, sir,” continued my friend, ‘‘if I am not greatly 
 mistaken, none of these things are necessary to your book, which is 
 a satire on the extravagant tales of chivalry ; a subject never con- 
 sidered by Aristotle, overlooked by St Basil, and utterly unknown 
 to Cicero. The minute accuracies of true history, the calculations 
 of astrology, the measurements of geometry, and subtleties of logic, 
 having nothing to do with it; neither does it interfere with eccle- 
 siastical concerns, mingling divine and human things—from which 
 every good Christian should abstain :—to Nature only do you refer ; , 
 she is your sole guide and example, and the more closely you attend 
 to her suggestions, the more perfect must be your book. Books of 
 chivalry are your game, and your chief purpose is to destroy their 
 credit with the world; you therefore need not go begging for sen- 
 tences from philosophers, precepts from holy writ, fables from poets, 
 harangues from orators, nor miracles from saints, but simply endea- 
 vour to express your meaning in a clear and intelligible manner ; 
 and in well-chosen, significant, and decorous terms, give a harmoni- 
 ous and pleasing turn to your periods; so that the perusal of your 
 history may dispel the gloom of the melancholy, add to the cheerful- 
 
Xi AUTHOR’S PREFACE. 
 
 ness of the gay, and, while it affords amusement even to the simple, 
 it shall be approved by the grave, the judicious, and the wise. In 
 fine, the downfall and demolition of that mischievous pile of ab- 
 surdity which, though despised by some, is admired by the many ; 
 and, if successful, believe me, you will have performed a service of 
 no mean importance.” 
 
 I listened to my friend’s discourse in profound silence, and so 
 strongly was I impressed by his observations, that I acknowledged 
 their truth, and immediately converted them to my use in com- 
 posing this Preface; wherein, gentle Reader, thou wilt perceive 
 the judgment of my friend, my own good fortune in meeting with 
 so able a counsellor in the crisis of my distress, and at the same 
 time thou wilt confess thy own satisfaction in thus receiving, in 
 so simple and artless a manner, the History of the famous Don 
 Quixote de la Mancha, who, in the opinion of all the inhabitants 
 of the Campo de Montiel, was the chastest lover and most valiant 
 knight that had appeared in those parts for many years. I will 
 not enlarge on the benefit I confer in presenting to thee so dis- 
 tinguished and honourable a personage; but I do expect some 
 acknowledgment for having introduced to thy acquaintance his 
 faithful attendant, the famous Sancho Panza, in whom are com- 
 bined all the squirely endowments that are to be found scattered 
 over the pages of knight-errantry. And now, may God give thee 
 health!—not forgetting me. Farewell. 
 
THE = 
 
 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE, 
 
 Book First. 
 
 GrivA;P T i. RT. 
 
 Which treats of the quality and manner of life of our renowned hero. 
 
 Down in a village of La Mancha,* the name of which I have no 
 desire to recollect, there lived, not long ago, one of those gentlemen 
 who usually keep a lance upon a rack, an old buckler, a lean horse, 
 and a coursing greyhound. Soup, composed of somewhat more 
 mutton than beef, the fragments served up cold on most nights, 
 lentils on Fridays, pains and groans on Saturdays, and a pigeon, 
 by way of addition, on Sundays, consumed three-fourths of his 
 income ; the remainder of it supplied him with a cloak of fine cloth, 
 velvet breeches, with slippers of the same for holidays, and a suit 
 of the best home-spun, in which he adorned himself on week-days. 
 His family consisted of a housekeeper above forty, a niece not 
 quite twenty, and a lad, who served him both in the field and at 
 home, who could saddle the horse or handle the pruning-hook. 
 The age of our gentleman bordered upon fifty years; he was of a 
 strong constitution, spare-bodied, of a meagre visage, a very early 
 riser, and a lover of the chase. Some pretend to say that his sur- 
 name was Quixada, or Quesada, for on this point his historians 
 differ; though, from very probable conjectures, we may conclude 
 that hisname was Quixana. This is, however, of little importance 
 to our history; let it suffice that, in relating it, we do not swerve 
 a jot from the truth. 
 
 Be it known, then, that the afore-mentioned gentleman, in his 
 leisure moments, which composed the greater part of the year, 
 gave himself up with so much ardour to the perusal of books of 
 chivalry, that he almost wholly neglected the exercise of the chase, 
 and even the regulation of his domestic affairs; indeed, so extra- — 
 vagant was his zeal in this pursuit, that he sold many acres of 
 
 * Partly in the kingdom of Arragon, and partly in Castile. 
 
 A 
 = 
 
2 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 arable land to purchase books of knight-errantry ; collecting as 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 WAN iy 
 a 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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 WK 
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 many as he could possibly obtain. Among them all, none pleased 
 
READS BOOKS OF KNIGHT-ERRANTRY. 2 
 
 him so much as those written by the famous Feliciano de Silva, 
 whose brilliant prose and intricate style were, in his opinion, in- 
 finitely precious; especially those amorous speeches and challenges 
 in which they so abound; such as, ‘‘ The reason of the unreason- 
 able treatment of my reason so enfeebles my reason, that with 
 reason | complain of your beauty.” And again, ‘‘ The high heavens 
 that. with your divinity, divinely fortify you with the stars, ren- 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Won appl! 
 
 = 
 = 
 S 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 dering you meritorious of the merit merited by your greatness.” 
 
 These and similar rhapsodies distracted the poor gentleman, for he 
 laboured to comprehend and unravel their meaning, which was 
 more than Aristotle himself could do, were he -to rise from the 
 dead expressly for that purpose. He was not quite satisfied as to 
 the wounds which Don Belianis gave and received; for he could 
 not help thinking that, however skilful the surgeons were who 
 healed them, his face and whole body must have been covered 
 
4 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 with seams and scars. Nevertheless, he commended his author 
 for concluding his book with the promise of that interminable 
 adventure; and he often felt an inclination to seize the pen him- 
 self and conclude it, literally as it is there promised: this he would 
 doubtless have done, and with success, had he not been diverted 
 from it by meditations of greater moment, on which his mind was 
 incessantly employed. 
 
 He often debated with the curate of the village, a man of learn- 
 ing, and a graduate of Siguenza, which of the two was the best knight, 
 Palmerin of England, or Amadis de Gaul; but Master Nicholas, 
 barber of the same place, declared that none ever came np to the 
 knight of the sun; if, indeed, any one could be compared to him, 
 it was Don Galaor, brother of Amadis de Gaul, for he had a genius 
 suited to everything; he was no effeminate knight, no whimperer, 
 like his brother; and in point of courage, he was by. no means his 
 inferior. .,In short, he became so infatuated with this kind of study, 
 that he passed whole days and nights over these books; and thus, 
 with little sleeping and much reading, his brains were dried up, 
 and his intellects deranged. His imagination was full of all that he 
 had read ;—of enchantments, contests, battles, challenges, wounds, 
 courtships, tortures, and impossible absurdities ; and so firmly was 
 he persuaded of the truth of the whole tissue of visionary fiction 
 that, in his mind, no history in the world was more authentic. 
 The Cid Ruy Diaz, he asserted, was’a very good knight, but not to 
 be compared with the knight of the flaming sword, who, with a 
 single back-stroke, cleft asunder two fierce and monstrous giants. 
 He was better pleased with Bernardo del Carpio, because, at Ron- 
 cesvalles, he slew Roland the enchanted, by availing himself of the 
 stratagem employed by Hercules upon Anteus, whom he squeezed 
 to death within his arms. He spoke very favourably of the giant 
 Morganti, for, although of that monstrous brood who are always 
 proud and insolent, he alone was courteous and well-bred. Above 
 all, he admired Rinaldo de Montalvan, particularly when he saw 
 him sallying forth from his castle to plunder all he encountered ; 
 and when, moreover, he seized upon that image of Mahomet, which, 
 according to history, was of massive gold. But he would have 
 given his housekeeper, and even his niece into the bargain, for a 
 fair opportunity of kicking the traitor Galalon. 
 
 In fine, his judgment being completely obscured, he was seized 
 with one of the strangest fancies that ever entered the head of any 
 madman; this was a belief that it behoved him, as well for the 
 advancement of his glory as the service of his country, to become 
 a knight-errant, and traverse the world, armed and mounted, in 
 quest of adventures, and to practise all that had been performed by 
 knights-errant, of whom he had read; redressing every species of 
 grievance, and exposing himself to dangers which, being surmounted, 
 might secure to him eternal glory and renown. The poor gentle- 
 man imagined himself at least crowned emperor of Trebisond, by the 
 valour of his arm; and thus wrapped in these agreeable delusions, 
 and borne away by the extraordinary pleasure he found in them, he 
 hastened to put his designs into execution, 
 
 é 
 
 > 
 
PREPARATIONS FOR HIS EXPEDITION. 5 
 
 The first thing he did was to scour up some rusty armour, which 
 had been his great grandfather’s, and had lain, many years neglected 
 
 inacorner. This he cleaned and adjusted as well as he could, but 
 » he found one grand defect ; the helmet was incomplete, having only 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 My 
 
 tite 
 
 ; oe 
 ZZ WAAL 
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 ——_—_— 
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 LLLP LE, 
 
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 — 
 W2A84/ im, 
 
 
 
 the morion: this deficiency, however, he ingeniously supplied, by 
 making a kind of vizor of pasteboard, which, being fixed to the 
 morion, gave the appearance of an entire helmet. It is true, 
 indeed, that in order to prove its strength, he drew his sword, 
 and gave it two strokes, the first of which instantly demolished 
 
¥ 
 % 
 
 6 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the labour of a week; but not altogether approving of the facility . 
 with which it was destroyed, and in order to secure himself against ~ 
 a similar misfortune, he made another vizor, which, having fenced 
 in the inside with small bars of iron, he felt assured of its strength, 
 and, without making any more experiments, held it to be a most 
 excellent helmet. 
 
 In the next place he visited his steed; and although this animal 
 had more blemishes than the horse of Gonela, which ‘‘ tantim 
 pellis et ossa fuit” (was only skin and bones), yet, in his eyes, 
 neither the Bucephalus of Alexander, nor the Cid’s Babieca, could 
 be compared with him. Four days was he deliberating upon what 
 name he should give him, for, as he said to himself, 1+ would be 
 very improper that a horse so excellent, appertaining to a knight _ 
 so famous, should be without an appropriate name; he therefore 
 endeavoured to find one that should express what he had been 
 before he belonged to a knight-errant, and also what he now was : 
 nothing could indeed, be more reasonable than that, when the 
 master changed his state, the horse should likewise change his 
 name, and assume one, pompous and high-sounding, as became the | 
 new order he now professed. So, after having devised, altered, 
 lengthened, curtailed, rejected, and again framed in his imagina- 
 tion a variety of names, he finally determined upon Rozinante, a 
 name, in his opinion, lofty, sonorous, and full of meaning ; import- 
 ing that he had been only a rozin, a drudge-horse, before his 
 present condition, and that now he was before all the rozins in the 
 world. : 
 
 Having given his horse a name so much to his satisfaction, he 
 resolved to fix upon one for himself. This consideration employed 
 him eight more cays, when at length he determined to call himself 
 Don Quixote ; whence some of the historians of this most true his- 
 tory have concluded that his name was certainly Quixada, and not 
 Quesada, as others would have it. Then recollecting that the 
 valorous Amadis, not content with the simple appellation of 
 Amadis, added thereto the name of his kingdom and native 
 country, in order to render it famous, styling himself Amadis de 
 Gaul; so he, like a good knight, also added the name of his pro- 
 vince, and called himself Don Quixote de la Mancha; whereby, in 
 his opinion, he fully proclaimed his lineage and country, which, at 
 the same time, he honoured by taking its name. 
 
 His armour being now furbished, his helmet made perfect, his 
 horse and himself provided with names, he found nothing wanting 
 but a lady to be in love with; for a knight-errant without the 
 tender passion, was a tree without leaves and fruit—a body with- 
 out a soul. ‘‘If,” said he, ‘‘for my sins, or rather through my 
 good fortune, I encounter some giant—an ordinary occurrence to 
 knights-errant—and overthrow him at the first onset, or cleave 
 him in twain, or, in short, vanquish him and force him to sur- 
 render, must [ not have some lady to whom I may send him asa 
 present? that, when he enters into the presence of my charming 
 mistress, he may throw himself upon his knees before her, and in a 
 submissive, humble voice, say, ‘Madam, in me you behold the 
 
; # " 
 SETS OUT IN SEARCH OF ADVENTURES. 7 
 
 giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island of Malendrania, who, being 
 _ vanquished in single combat by the never-enough-to-be-praise 
 Don Quixote de la Mancha, am by him commanded to present 
 myseli before you, to be disposed of according to the will and 
 pleasure of your highness.’” How happy was our good knight 
 after this harangue! How much more so when he found a mistress! 
 It is said that, in a neighbouring village, a good-looking peasant 
 girl resided, of whom he had formerly been enamoured, although it 
 does not appear that she ever knew or cared about it; and this 
 was the lady whom he chose to nominate mistress of his heart. He 
 then sought a name for her, which, without entirely departing from 
 her own, should incline and approach towards that of a princess or 
 great lady, and determined upon Dulcinea del Toboso (for she was 
 a native of that village), a name, he thought, harmonious, uncom- 
 mon, and expressive—like all the others which he had adopted. 
 
 Galea Pal Ea cer 
 
 Which treats of the first sally that Don Quixote made from his 
 
 native village. ; 
 As soon as these arrangements were made, he no longer deferred 
 the execution of his project, which he hastened from a consideration 
 of what the world suffered by his delay: so many were the 
 ‘grievances he intended to redress, the wrongs to rectify, errors to 
 amend, abuses to reform, and debts to discharge! Therefore, 
 without communicating his intentions to anybody, and wholly 
 unobserved, one morning before day, being one of the most sultry 
 in the month of July, he armed himself cap-a-pie, mounted 
 Rozinante, placed the helmet on his head, braced on his target, 
 took his lance, and, through the private gate of his back yard, 
 issued forth into the open plain, in a transport of joy to think 
 he had met with no obstacles to the commencement of his honour- 
 able enterprise. But scarce had he found himself on the plain, 
 _ when he was assailed by a recollection so terrible as almost to make 
 him abandon the undertaking: for it just then occurred to him 
 that he was not yet dubbed a knight ; therefore, in conformity to 
 the laws of chivalry, he neither could nor ought to enter the lists 
 against any of that order; and, if he had been actually dubbed, he 
 ‘thould, as a new knight, have worn white armour, without any 
 device on his shield, until he had gained one by force of arms. 
 These considerations made him irresolute whether to proceed ; but 
 frenzy prevailing over reason, he determined to get himself made 
 a knight by the first one he should meet, like many others, of 
 whom he had read. , As to white armour, he resolved when he had. 
 an opportunity, to scour his own, so that it should be whiter than 
 ermine. Having now composed his mind, he proceeded, taking 
 whichever road his horse pleased : for therein, he believed, con- 
 _sisted the true spirit of adventure. 
 
78 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 7 
 
 Our new adventurer, thus pursuing his way, conversed with 
 himself, saying, ‘‘ Who doubts but that in future times, when the 
 true history of my famous achievements is brought to light, the 
 sage who recorded them will, in this manner, describe my first 
 sally! ‘Scarcely had ruddy Pheebus extended over the face of this 
 wide and spacious earth the golden filaments of his beautiful hair, 
 and scarcely had the little painted birds, with their forked tongues, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 hailed, in soft and mellifluous harmony, the approach of the rosy 
 harbinger of morn, who, leaving the soft couch of her jealous con- 
 sort, had just disclosed herself to mortals through the gates and 
 balconies of the Manchegan horizon, when the renowned knight, 
 Don Quixote dela Mancha, quitting the slothful down, mounted 
 Rozinante, his famous steed, proceeded over the ancient memorable 
 
 plain of Montiel’ (which was indeed the truth). O happy era, happy 
 
 -% 
 
ARRIVES AT AN INN. Q 
 
 age,” he continued, ‘‘ when my glorious deeds shall be revealed to the 
 world ! deeds worthy of being engraven on brass, sculptured on ~ 
 marble, and recorded by the pencil! And thou, O sage enchanter, 
 whoever thou mayest be, destined to chronicle this extraordinary 
 history ! forget not, I beseech thee, my good Rozinante, the 
 inseparable companion of all my toils!” ‘Then again, as if really 
 enamoured, he exclaimed, ‘‘O Dulcinea, my princess ! sovereign of 
 this captive heart ! greatly do you wrong me by a cruel adherence 
 to.your decree, forbidding me to appear in the presence of your 
 beauty! Deign, O lady, to think on this enslaved heart, which, for 
 love of you, endures so many pangs !” 
 
 In this wild strain he continued, imitating the style of his books 
 as nearly as he could, and proceeding slowly on, while the sun arose 
 with such intense heat that it was enough to dissolve his brains, if 
 any had been left. He travelled almost the whole of that day with- 
 out encountering anything worthy of recital, which caused him much 
 vexation, for he was impatient for an opportunity to prove the val- 
 our of his powerful arm. 
 
 Some authors say his first adventure was that of the straits of 
 Lapice; others affirm it to have been that of the windmills; but 
 from what I have been able to ascertain of this matter, and have found 
 written in the annals of La Mancha, the fact is, that he travelled 
 all that day, and as night approached, both he and his horse were 
 wearied and dying with hunger; and in this state, as he looked 
 around him, in hopes of discovering some castle, or shepherd’s cot, 
 where he might repose and find refreshment, he descried, not far 
 from the road, an inn, which to him was a star conducting him to 
 the portals, if not the palace of his redemption. He made all the 
 haste he could, and reached it at nightfall. There chanced to stand 
 at the door two young women, on their journey to Seville, in the 
 company of some carriers who rested there that night. Now as 
 everything that our adventurer saw and conceived was, by his im- 
 agination, moulded to what he had read, so in his eyes the inn ap- 
 * peared to be a castle, with its four turrets, and pinnacles of shining 
 silver, together with its drawbridge, deep moat, and all the appur- 
 tenances with which such castles are usually described. When he 
 had advanced within a short distance of it, he checked Rozinante, 
 expecting some dwarf would mount the battlements, to announce 
 by sound of trumpet, the arrival of a knight-errant at the castle ; but 
 finding them tardy, and Rozinante impatient for the stable, he ap- 
 proached the inn-door, and there saw the two girls, who to him 
 appeared to be beautiful damsels or lovely dames enjoving them- 
 selves before the gate of their castle. 
 
 It happened that just at this time a swincherd collecting his hogs 
 (I make no apology, for so they are called) from an adjoining stubble- 
 tield, blew the horn which assembles them together, and instantly 
 Don Quixote was satisfied, for he imagined it was a dwarf who had 
 given the signal of his arrival. With extraordinary satisfaction, 
 therefore, he went up to the inn; upon which the ladies, bein 
 _ startled at the sight of a man armed in that manner, with lance an 
 buckler, were retreating into the house ; but Don Quixote, perceiving 
 
10 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 their alarm, raised his pasteboard vizor, thereby partly discovering _ 
 his meagre, dusty visage, and with gentle demeanour and placid 
 voice, thus addressed them, ‘‘Fly not, ladies, nor fear any dis- 
 courtesy, for it would be wholly inconsistent with the order of 
 knighthood which I profess, to offer insult to any person, much less 
 to virgins of that exalted rank which your appearance indicates.” 
 The girls stared at him, and were endeavouring to find out his face, 
 which was almost concealed by the sorry vizor; but they could not 
 forbear laughing, and to such a degree, that Don Quixote was dis- 
 pleased, and said to them, ‘‘ Modesty well becomes beauty, and 
 
 
 
 excessive laughter, proceeding from a slight cause, is folly; but I 
 say not this to humble or distress you, for my part is no other than 
 to do you service.” This language, so unintelligible to the ladies, 
 added to the uncouth figure of our knight, increased their laughter ; 
 consequently he grew more indignant, and would have proceeded 
 further, but for the timely appearance of the innkeeper, a very 
 corpulent, and therefore a very pacific man, who, upon seeing so 
 ludicrous an object armed, and with accoutrements so ill-sorted ag 
 were the bridle, lance, buckler, and corslet, felt disposed to join the 
 
 * 
 
ADVENTURES AT THE INN. 7 11 
 
 damsels in demonstrations of mirth; but, in truth, apprehending 
 some danger from a form thus strongly fortified, he resolved to be- 
 have with civility, and therefore said, ‘‘If, Sir Knight, you are 
 seeking for a lodging, you will here find, excepting a bed (for there 
 are none in this inn), everything in abundance.” Don Quixote, 
 perceiving the humility of the governor of the fortress, for such to 
 him appeared the innkeeper, answered, ‘‘ For me, Signor Castellano, 
 anything will suffice: since arms are my ornaments, warfare my 
 repose.” The host thought he called him Castellano because he took 
 him for a sound Castilian, whereas he was an Andalusian, of thé 
 coast of St. Lucar, as great a thief as Cacus, and not less mischievous 
 than a collegian or a page: and he replied, ‘‘If so, your worship’s 
 beds must be hard rocks, and your sleep continual watching ; and — 
 that being the case, you may dismount with a certainty of finding 
 here sufficient cause for keeping awake the whole year, much more 
 a single night.” So saying, he laid hold of Don Quixote’s stirrup, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 who alighted with much difficulty and pain, for he Lad fasted the 
 whole of the day. He then desired the host to take especial care of 
 his steed, for it was the finest creature ever fed; the innkeeper ex- 
 amined him, but thought him not so good by half as his master had 
 represented him. Having led the horse to the stable, he returned 
 to receive the orders of his guest, whom the damsels, being now re- 
 conciled to him, were disarming; they had taken off the back and 
 breast plates, but endeavoured in vain to disengage the gorget, or 
 take off the counterfeit beaver, which he had fastened with green 
 ribbons, in such a manner that they could not be untied, and he 
 would upon no account allow them to be cut; therefore he remained 
 all that night with his helmet on, the strangest and most ridiculous 
 figure imaginable. aT 
 While these girls, whom he still conceived to be persons of 
 quality, and ladies of the castle, were disarming him, he said to 
 them, with infinite grace, ‘‘ Never before was knight | so honoured 
 by ladies as Don! Quixote, after his departure from his native vil- 
 
we ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 lage! damsels attended upon him; princesses took charge of his 
 steed! O Rozinante—for that, ladies, is the name of my horse, 
 and Don Quixote de la Mancha my own—although it was not my 
 intention to have-diseovered myself, until deeds, performed in your 
 service, should have proclaimed me ; but impelled to make so just 
 an application of that ancient romance of Lanzarote, to my present 
 situation, I have thus prematurely disclosed my name; yet the 
 time shall come when your ladyships may command, and I obey; 
 when the valour of my arm shall make manifest the desire I have 
 to serve you.” The girls, unaccustomed to such rhetorical flour- 
 ishes, made no reply, but asked whether he would please to eat 
 anything. ‘‘I shall willingly take some food,” answered Don 
 Quixote, ‘“‘for [apprehend it would be of much service to me.” | 
 That day happened to be Friday, and there was nothing in the 
 house but some fish, of that kind which in Castile is called Aba- 
 dexo; in Andalusia, Bacallao ; in some parts, Curadillo; and in 
 others, Truchuela. They asked if his worship would like some 
 truchuela, for they had no other fish to offer him. ‘‘If there be 
 many troutlings,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘they will supply the place 
 of one trout ; for it is the same to me whether I receive eight single 
 rials or one piece-of-eight. Moreover, these troutlings may be prefer- 
 able, as veal is better than beef, and kid superior to goat; be that 
 as it may, let it come immediately, for the toil and weight of arms 
 cannot be sustained by the body unless the interior be supplied 
 with aliments.” For the benefit of the cool air, they placed the 
 table at the door of the inn, and the landlord produced some of his 
 ill-soaked and worse-cooked bacallao, with bread as foul and black 
 as the knight’s armour; but it was a spectacle highly risible to see 
 him eat; for his hands being engaged in holding his helmet on and 
 raising his beaver, he could not feed himself, therefore one of the 
 ladies performed this office for him; but to drink would have been 
 utterly impossible, had not the innkeeper bored a reed, and, placing 
 one end into his mouth, at the other poured in the wine; and all 
 this he patiently endured, rather than cut the lacings of his helmet. 
 
 In the meantime there came to the inn-.a sow-doctor, who, as 
 soon as he arrived, blew his pipe of reeds four or five times, which 
 finally convinced Don Quixote that he was now in some famous 
 castle, where he was regaled with music; that the poor jack was 
 trout, the bread of the purest white, the girls ladies of distinction, 
 and the innkeeper governor of the castle; consequently he re- 
 mained satisfied with his enterprise and first sally, though it 
 troubled him to reflect that he was not yet a knight, feeling per- 
 suaded that he could not lawfully engage in any adventure until 
 he had been invested with the order of knighthood. 
 
+ 
 
 PREPARATION FOR KNIGHTHOOD. 13 
 
 @ieAcP DER ell. 
 
 In which is related the pleasant method Don Quixote took to be dubbed 
 Knight. 
 
 Agitated by this idea he abruptly finished his scanty supper, 
 cailed the innkeeper, and shutting himself up with him in the 
 stable, he fell on his knees before him, and said, ‘‘ Never will I 
 arise trom this place, valorous knight, until your courtesy shall 
 vouchsafe to grant a boon which it is my intention to request: a 
 boon that will redound to your glory and to the benefit of all man- 
 kind.” The innkeeper seeing his guest at his feet, and hearing such 
 language, stood confounded, and stared at him without knowing 
 what to do or say; he entreated him to rise, but in vain, until he 
 had promised to grant the boon he requested. ‘‘I expected no less, 
 signor, from ‘your great magnificence,” replied Don Quixote ; 
 
 
 
 , 
 4 
 Sank 
 A \ 
 ta 
 i \ 
 
 The Host. 
 
 
 
 ‘‘know, therefore, that the boon I have demanded, and which your 
 liberality has conceded, is, that on the morrow you will confer upon 
 me the honour of knighthood. This night I will watch my arms 
 in the chapel of your castle, in order that in the morning my earnest 
 desire may be fulfilled, and I may with propriety traverse the four 
 quarters of the world in quest of adventures for the relief of the 
 distressed ; conformable to the duties of chivalry and of knights- 
 errant, who, like myself, are devoted to such pursuits.” 
 
 The host, who, as we have said, was a shrewd fellow, and had 
 already entertained some doubts respecting the wits of his guest, 
 was now confirmed in his suspicions ; and to make sport for the 
 night, determined to follow his humour. He told him, therefore, 
 that his desire was very reasonable, and that such pursuits were 
 natural and suitable to knights so illustrious as he appeared to 
 be, and as his gallant demeanour fully testified ; that he had him: 
 self in the days of his youth followed that honourable profession, 
 and travelled over various parts of the world in search of adven- 
 tures ; failing not to visit the suburbs of Malaga, the isles of Riaran, 
 
 ate ~*~. 
 
14 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the compass of Seville, the market-place of Segovia, the olive-field 
 of Valencia, the rondilla of Grenada, the coast of St Lucar, the 
 fountain of Cordova, the taverns of Toledo, and divers other parts, 
 where he had exercised the agility of his heels and the dexterity of 
 his hands : committing sundry wrongs, soliciting widows, cheating 
 youths ; in short, making himself known to most of the tribunals 
 in Spain ; and that, finally, he had retired to this castle, where he 
 lived upon his revenue and that of others ; entertaining therein all 
 knights-errant of every quality and degree, solely for the great 
 affection he bore them, and that they might share their fortune 
 with him, in return for his good-will. He further told him that in 
 his castle there was no chapel wherein he could watch his armour, 
 for it had been pulled down in order to be rebuilt ; but that in 
 cases of necessity he knew it might be done wherever he pleased ; 
 therefore he might watch it that night in a court of the castle, and 
 the following morning, if it pleased God, the requisite ceremonies 
 should be performed, and that he should be dubbed so effectually 
 that the world would not be able to produce a more perfect knight. 
 He then inquired if he had any money about him? Don Quixote told 
 him he had none, having never read in their histories that knights- 
 errant provided themselves with money. ‘The innkeeper assured 
 him he was mistaken, for, admitting that 1 was not mentioned in 
 their history, the authors deeming it unnecessary to specify things 
 so obviously requisite as money and clean shirts, yet was it not, | 
 therefore, to be inferred that they had none; but on the contrary 
 he might consider it as an established fact that all knights-errant, 
 of whose histories so many volumes are filled, carried their purses 
 well provided against accidents ; that they were also supplied with 
 shirts, and a small casket of ointments to heal the wounds they 
 might receive; for in plains and deserts where they fought and 
 were wounded, no aid was near, unless they had some sage enchan- 
 ter for their friend, who could give them immediate assistance by 
 conveying in a cloud through the air some damsel or dwarf with a 
 phial of water possessed of such virtue that, upon tasting a single 
 drop of it, they should instantly become as sound as if they had re- 
 ceived no injury. But when the knights of former times were without 
 such a friend they always took care that their esquires should be 
 provided with money and such necessary articles as lint and salves ; 
 and when they had no esquires, which very rarely happened; they 
 carried these things themselves upon the crupper of their horses, 
 in wallets so small as to be scarcely visible, that they might seem 
 to be something of more importance ; for, except in such cases, the 
 custom of carrying wallets was not tolerated among knights-errant. 
 He therefore advised, though, as his godson (which he was soon to 
 be), he might command him, never henceforth to travel without 
 money and the aforesaid provisions ; and he would find them ser- 
 viceable when he least expected it. Don Quixote promised to fol- 
 low his advice with punctuality ; and an order was now given for 
 performing the watch of the armour in a large yard adjoiming the 
 inn. Don Quixote having collected it together, placed it on a cis- 
 tern which was close to a well; then bracing on his target and 
 
EVENTS WHILE WATCHING HIS ARMOUR. 15 
 
 grasping his lance, with graceful demeanour he paced to and fro 
 before the pile, beginning his parade as soon as it was dark. 
 
 The innkeeper informed all who were in the inn of the frenzy of 
 his guest, the watching of his armour, and of the intended knight- 
 ing. ‘They were surprised at so singular a kind of madness, and 
 went out to observe him at a distance. They perceived him some- 
 times quickly pacing along, and sometimes leaning upon his lance, 
 with his eyes fixed upon his armour for a considerable time. It 
 was now night, but the moon shone with a splendour which might 
 vie even with that whence it was borrowed ; so that every motion 
 of our new knight might be distinctly seen. 
 
 At this time it happened that one of the carriers wanted to give 
 his mules some water, for which purpose it was necessary to remove 
 Don Quixote’s armour from the cistern, who seeing him advance, 
 exclaimed with a loud voice, ‘‘O thou, whosoever thou art, rash 
 knight ! who approachest the armour of the most valiant adventurer 
 that ever girded sword, beware of what thou dost, and touch it not 
 unless thou wouldst yield thy life as the forfeit of thy temerity.” 
 The carrier heeded not this admonition (though better it would 
 have been for him if he had), but seizing hold of the straps he 
 threw the armour some distance from him, which Don Quixote 
 perceiving, he raised his eyes to heaven, and addressing his thoughts 
 apparently to his lady Dulcinea, said, ‘‘ Assist me, O lady, to 
 avenge this first insult offered to your vassal’s breast ; nor let your 
 favour and protection fail me in this first perilous encounter.” 
 Having uttered these and similar ejaculations he let slip his target, 
 and, raising his lance with both hands, he gave the carrier such a 
 stroke upon the head that he fell to the ground in so grievous a 
 plight that had the stroke been repeated there would have been no 
 need of a surgeon. This done he replaced his armour, and con- 
 tinued his parade with the same tranquillity as before. 
 
 Soon after, another carrier, not knowing what had passed, for the 
 
 - first yet lay stunned, came out with the same intention of watering 
 his mules; and as he approached to take away the armour from 
 the cistern, Don Quixote, without saying a word or imploring any 
 protection, again let slip his target, raised his lance, and with’ no 
 less effect than before, smote the head of the second carrier. The 
 noise brought out all the people in the inn, and the landlord among 
 the rest ; upon which Don Quixote braced on his target, and laying 
 his hand upon his sword, said, ‘‘O lady of beauty! strength and 
 vigour of my enfeebled heart! Now is the time for thee to turn thy 
 illustrious eyes upon this thy captive knight, whom so mighty an 
 encounter awaits!” This address had, he conceived, animated 
 him with so much courage, that, were all the carriers in the world 
 to have assailed him, he would not have retreated one step. | 
 
 The comrades of the wounded, upon discovering the situation of 
 their friends, began at a distance to discharge a shower of stones 
 upon Don Quixote, who sheltered himself as well as he could with 
 his target, without daring to quit the cistern, because he would not 
 abandon his armour. The innkeeper called aloud so them, begging 
 they would desist, for he had already told them he was insane, and 
 ns 
 
16 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 that, as a madman, he would be acquitted, though he were to kill 
 them all. Don Quixote, in a voice still louder, called them in- 
 famous traitors, and the lord of the castle a cowardly, base-born 
 knight, for allowing knights-errant to be treated in that manner ; 
 declaring that, had he received the order of knighthood, he would 
 have made him sensible of his perfidy. ‘‘ But as for you, ye vile 
 and worthless rabble, I utterly despise ye! Advance! Come on, 
 molest me as far as ye are able, for quickly shall ye receive the re- 
 ward of your folly and insolence!” This he uttered with so much 
 spirit and intrepidity, that the assailants were struck with terror ; 
 which, in addition to the landlord’s persuasions, made them cease 
 their attack; he then permitted the wounded to be carried off, and, 
 with the same gravity and composure, resumed the watch of his 
 armour. 
 
 The host, not relishing these pranks of his guest, determined to 
 put an end to them, before any further mischief ensued, by imme- 
 diately investing him with the luckless order of chivalry : approach- 
 ing him, therefore, he disclaimed any concurrence, on his part, in 
 the insolent conduct of those low people, who were, he observed, 
 well chastised for their presumption. He ‘repeated to him that 
 there was no chapel in the castle, nor was it by any means neces 
 ’ sary for what remained to be done; that the stroke of knighting 
 consisted in blows on the neck and shoulders, according to the cere- 
 monial of the order, which might be effectually performed in the 
 middle of a field; that the duty of watching his armour he had 
 now completely fulfilled, for he had watched more than four hours, 
 though only two were required. All this Don Quixote believed, 
 and said that he was there ready to obey him, requesting him, at 
 the same time, to perform the deed as soon as possible; because, 
 should he be assaulted again when he found himself knighted, he 
 was resolved not to leave one person alive in the castle, excepting 
 those whom, out of respect to him, and at his particular request, 
 he might be induced to spare. The constable, thus warned and 
 alarmed, immediately brought forth a book in which he kept his 
 account of the straw and oats he furnished to the carriers, and, — 
 attended by a boy, who carried an end of candle, and the two 
 damsels before mentioned, went towards Don Quixote, whom he 
 commanded to kneel down ; he then began reading in his manual, 
 as if it were some devout prayer, in the course of which he raised 
 his hand and gave him a good blow on the neck, and, after that, a 
 handsome stroke over the shoulders, with his own sword, still mut- 
 tering between his teeth, as if in prayer. This being done, he 
 commanded one of the ladies to gird on his sword, an office she 
 performed with much alacrity, as well as discretion, no small por- 
 tion of which was necessary to avoid bursting with laughter at 
 every part of the ceremony; but indeed the prowess they had seen 
 displayed by the new knight kept their mirth within bounds. At 
 girding on the sword, the good lady said, ‘‘ God grant you may be 
 a fortunate knight and successful in battle.” Don Quixote inquired 
 her name, that he might thenceforward know to whom he was in- 
 debted for the favour received, as it was his intention to bestow 
 
DON QUIXOTE IS KNIGHTED. 17 
 
 upon her some share of the honour he should acquire by the valour 
 of his arm. She replied, with much humility, that her name was 
 Tolosa, and that she was the daughter of a cobbler at Toleda, who 
 lived at the stalls of Sanchobienaya; and that, wherever she was, 
 she would serve and honour him as her lord. Don Quixote, in 
 reply, requested her, for his sake, to do him the favour henceforth 
 to add to her name the title of don, and call herself Donna Tolosa, 
 which she promised todo. The other girl now buckled on his spur, 
 and with her he held nearly the same conference as with the lady 
 
 2 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 \ 
 SS 
 ty 
 
 lH) 
 ‘! 
 
 BA ANY 
 Ni KK wy 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 of the sword; having inquired her name, she told him it was 
 Molinera, and that she was daughter to an honest miller of Anti- 
 quera : he then requested her likewise to assume the don, and style 
 herself Donna Molinera, renewing his proffers of service and 
 thanks. 
 
 These never-till-then-seen ceremonies being thus speedily per- 
 formed, Don Quixote was impatient to tind himself on horseback, 
 in quest of adventures. He therefore instantly saddled Rozinante, 
 mounted him, and embracing his host, made his acknowledgments 
 for the favour he had conferred by knighting him, in terms so ex- 
 
 B 
 
18 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 _traordinary, that it would be in vain to attempt to repeat them. 
 The host, in order to get rid of him the sooner, replied, with no less 
 flourish, but more brevity; and, without making any demand for 
 his lodging, wished him a good journey. 
 
 
 
 OmvA PTE. LV; 
 Of what befel our knight after he had salhied from the inn. 
 
 Light of heart, Don Quixote issued forth from the inn about break 
 of day, so satisfied and so pleased to see himself knighted, that the, 
 joy thereof almost burst his horse’s girths. But recollecting the 
 advice of his host concerning the necessary provisions for his un- 
 dertaking, especially the articles of money and clean shirts, he 
 resolved to return home, and furnish himself accordingly, and also 
 provide himself with a squire, purposing to take into his service a 
 certain country fellow of the neighbourhood, who was poor, and 
 had children, yet was very fit for the squirely office of chivalry. 
 With this determination he turned Rozinante towards his village ; 
 and the steed, as if aware of his master’s intention, began to put 
 on with so much alacrity that he hardly seemed to set his feet to 
 the ground. He had not, however, gone far, when, on his right 
 hand, from a thicket hard by, he fancied he heard feeble cries, as 
 from some person complaining. And scarcely had he heard it when 
 he said, ‘‘ I thank Heaven for the favour it does me, by offering me 
 so early an opportunity of complying with the duty of my profes- 
 sion, and of reaping the fruit of my honourable desires. These are, 
 doubtless, the cries of some distressed person, who stands in need 
 of my protection and assistance.” Then, turning the reins, he 
 guided Rozinante towards the place whence he thought the cries 
 pipceedod, and he had entered but a few paces in the wood, when 
 
 e saw a mare tied to an oak, and a lad to another, naked from the 
 waist upwards, about fifteen years of age, who was the person that 
 cried out; and not without cause, for a lusty country fellow was 
 laying on him very severely with a-belt, and accompanied every 
 lash with a reprimand and a word of advice; for, said he, ‘* The 
 tongue slow and the eyes quick.” ‘The boy answered, ‘‘ I will do 
 ' so no more, dear sir; I will never do so again; and I promise for 
 the future to take more care of the flock.” 
 
 Don Quixote, observing what passed, now called out in an angry 
 tone, ‘‘ Discourteous knight, it ill becomes thee to deal thus with 
 one who is not able to defend himself. Get upon thy horse, and 
 take thy lance” (for he had alsoa lance leaning against the oak 
 to which the mare was fastened), ‘‘and I will make thee sensible 
 of thy dastardly conduct.” The countryman, seeing such a figure 
 coming towards him, armed from head to foot, and brandishing his 
 lance at his face, gave himself up for a dead man, and therefore 
 humbly RAN rey **Signor cavalier, this lad I am chastising is 
 a servant of mine, whom I employ to tend a flock of sheep which I 
 
THE KNIGHT'S MERCIFUL ARBITRATION. 19 
 
 have hereabouts ; but he is so careless that I lose one every day ; 
 and because I correct him for his negligence, or roguery, he says I 
 do it out of covetousness, and for an excuse not to pay him his 
 wages ; but, on my conscience, he lies.” ‘‘Dar’st thou say so in 
 my presence, vile rustic?” said Don Quixote. ‘‘ By the sun that 
 shines upon us, I have a good mind to run thee through with this 
 lance! Pay him immediately, without further reply; if not, I 
 will dispatch and annihilate thee in a moment! Unbind him 
 instantly !” The countryman hung down his head, and, without 
 reply,untied his boy. Don Quixote then asked the lad how much 
 his master owed him, and he answered nine months’ wages, at 
 seven reals a month. Don Quixote, on calculation, found that it 
 amounted to sixty-three reals, and he desired the countryman 
 instantly to disburse them, unless he meant to pay it with his life. 
 The fellow, in a fright, answered that, on the word of a dying man, 
 and upon the oath hehad taken (though, by the way, he had taken 
 no oath), it was not so much; for he must deduct the price of 
 three pair of shoes he had given him on account, and a real or two 
 blood-lettings when he was sick. ‘* All this is very right,” said 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘ but set the shoes and the blood-lettings against the 
 stripes thou hast given him unjustly; for if he tore the leather of 
 thy shoes, thou hast torn his skin; and if the barber-surgeon 
 drew blood from him when he was sick, thou hast drawn blood 
 from him when he is well; so that upon these accounts he owes 
 thee nothing.” ‘‘The mischief is, signor cavalier,” quoth the 
 countryman, ‘‘that I have no money about me; but let Andres 
 go home with me, and I will pay him all, real by real.” ‘I go 
 home with him !” said the lad ; ‘‘no, sir, I willdo no such thing ; for, 
 when he has me alone, he will flay me like any Saint Bartholomew.” 
 ‘¢ He will not do so,” replied Don Quixote : ‘‘to keep him in awe, 
 it is sufficient that I lay my commands upon him ; and, on condi- 
 tion he swears to me by the order of knighthood which he has 
 received, I shall let him go free, and will be bound for the pay- 
 ment.” ‘‘Good sir, think of what you say,” quoth the boy ; ‘‘ for 
 my master is no knight, nor ever reczived any order of knight- 
 hood ; he is John Aldudo, the rich, of the neighbourhood of 
 Quintanar.” ‘‘That is little to the purpose,” answered Don 
 Quixote ; ‘‘there may be knights of the family of Aldudos : more 
 especially as every man is the son of his own works.” ‘‘That’s 
 true,” quoth Andres, ‘‘ but what works is my master the son of, 
 who refuses me the wages of my sweat and labour?”  ‘*I do not 
 refuse thee, friend Andres,” replied the countryman ; ‘‘ have the 
 kindness to go with me, and I swear, by all the orders of knight- 
 hood that are in the world, I will pay thee every real down, and 
 perfumed * into the bargain.” ‘‘ For the perfuming, I thank thee,” 
 said Don Quixote: ‘‘give him the reals, and I shall be satisfied : 
 and see that thou failest not, or else, by the same oath, I swear to 
 return and chastise thee ; nor shalt thou escape me, though thou 
 wert to conceal thyself closer than a lizard. And if thou wouldst be 
 
 * A Spanish phrase for paying or returning anything with advantage. 
 
20 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 informed who it is thus commands, that thou mayst feel the more 
 strictly bound to perform thy promise, know that I am the valorous 
 Don Quixote dela Mancha, the redresser of wrongs and abuses; so, 
 farewell, and do not forget what thou hast promised and sworn, on 
 pain of the penalty I have denounced.” So saying, he clapped 
 spurs to Rozinante, and was soon far off. 
 
 The countryman eagerly followed him with his eyes ; and when 
 he saw him quite out of the wood, he turned to his lad Andres, and 
 said, ‘‘Come hither, child, I wish now to pay what I owe thee, as. 
 that redresser of wrongs commanded.” ‘‘So you shall, I swear,” 
 quoth Andres ; ‘‘and you will do well to obey the orders of that 
 honest gentleman (whom God grant to live a thousand years !) who 
 is so brave a man, and so just a judge, that, egad, if you do not 
 pay me, he will come back and do what he has threatened.” ‘* And 
 I swear so too,” quoth the countrymen: ‘‘and to show how much 
 I love thee, I am resolved to augment the debt, that I may add to 
 the payment.” Then, taking him by the arm, he again tied him to 
 the tree, where he gave him so many stripes that he left him for 
 dead. ‘‘ Now,” said he, ‘‘ Master Andres, call upon that redresser 
 of wrongs ; thou wilt find he will not easily redress this: though I 
 believe I have not quite done with thee yet, for I have a good mind 
 to flay thee alive, as thou saidest just now.” At length, however, 
 he untied him, and gave him leave to go in search of his judge, to 
 execute the threatened sentence. Andres went away in dudgeon, 
 swearing he would find out the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha, 
 and tell him all that had passed, and that he should pay for it 
 sevenfold. Nevertheless, he departed in tears, leaving his master 
 laughing at him. 
 
 Thus did the valorous Don Quixote redress this wrong; and, 
 elated at so fortunate and glorious a beginning to his Senighie 
 errantry, he went on towards his village, entirely satisfied with 
 himself, and saying in a low voice, ‘‘ Well mayst thou deem thy- 
 self happy above all women living on the earth, O Dulcinea del 
 Toboso, beauteous above the most beautiful! since it has been thy 
 lot to have subject and obedient to thy whole will and pleasure so 
 valiant and renowned a knight as is and ever shall be Don Quixote 
 de la Mancha! who, as all the world knows, received but yesterday 
 the order of knighthood, and to-day has redressed the greatest 
 injury and grievance that injustice could invent, and cruelty com- 
 mit ! to-day hath he wrested the scourge out of the hand of that piti- 
 less enemy, by whoma tender stripling was so undeservedly lashed !” 
 
 He now came to the road, which branched out in four different 
 directions; when immediately those cross-ways presented them- 
 selves to his imagination where knights-errant usually stop to con- 
 sider which of the roads they shall take. Here, then, following 
 their example, he paused awhile, and, after mature consideration, 
 _ let go the reins; submitting his own will to that of his horse, who, 
 following his first motion, took the direct road towards his stable. 
 Having proceeded about two miles, Don Quixote discovered a com- 
 pany of people, who, as it afterwards appeared, were merchants of 
 Toledo, going to buy silks in Murcia. ‘There were six of them in 
 
ADVENTURE WITH THE MERCHANTS OF TOLEDO. 21 
 
 number; they carried umbrellas, and were attended by four serv- 
 ants on horseback, and three muleteers on foot. Scarcely had Don 
 Quixote espied them, when he imagined it must be some new ad: 
 venture ; and, to imitate as nearly as possible what he had read in 
 his books, as he fancied this to be cut out on purpose for him to 
 achieve, with a graceful deportment and intrepid air, he settled 
 himself firmly in his stirrups, grasped his lance, covered his breast 
 with his target, and posting himself in the midst of the highway, 
 awaited the approach of those whom he already judged to be 
 knights-errant ; and when they were come so near as to be seen 
 and heard, he raised his voice, and, with an arrogant tone, cried 
 out, ‘* Let the whole world stand, if the whole world does not con- 
 fess that there is not in the whole world a damsel more beautiful 
 than the empress of La Mancha, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso !” 
 The merchants stopped at the sound of these words, and also to 
 behold the strange figure of him who pronounced them; and, both 
 by the one and the other, they perceived the madness of the 
 speaker; but they were disposed to stay and see what this con- 
 fession meant which he required ; and therefore one of them, who 
 was somewhat of a wag, but withal very discreet, said to him, 
 ‘* Signor cavalier, we do not know who this good lady you mention 
 may be; let us but see her, and if she be really so beautiful as you 
 intimate, we will, with all our hearts, and without any constraint, 
 make the confession you demand of us.” ‘‘ Should I show her to 
 you,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘ where would be the merit of con- 
 fessing a truth so manifest? It is essential, that, without seeing 
 her, you believe, confess, affirm, swear, and maintain it; and, if 
 not, I challenge you all to battle, proud and monstrous as you are: 
 and, whether you come on one by one (as the laws of chivalry re- 
 quire), or all together, as is the custom and wicked practice of 
 those of your stamp, here I wait for you, confiding in the justice of 
 my cause.” ‘‘ Signor cavalier,” replied the merchant, ‘‘ I beseech 
 _ your worship, in the name of all the princes here present, that we 
 may not lay a burden upon our consciences, by confessing a thing 
 we never saw or heard, and, especially, being so much to the pre- 
 judice of the empress and queens of Alcarria and _Estremadura, 
 that your worship would be pleased to show us some picture of this 
 lady, though no bigger than a barleycorn, for we shall guess at the 
 clue by the thread; and therewith we shall rest satisfied and safe, 
 and your worship contented and pleased. Nay, I verily believe 
 we are so far inclined to your side, that although her picture should 
 represent her squinting with one eye, and distilling vermillion and 
 brimstone from the other, notwithstanding all this, to oblige you, 
 we will say whatever you please in her favour.” ‘‘ There distils 
 not, base scoundrels,” answered Don Quixote, burning with rage, 
 ‘‘there distils not from her what you say, but rather ambergris 
 and civet among cotton; neither doth she squint, nor is she hunch- 
 backed, but as straight as a spindle of Guadarrama:* but you shall 
 
 * A small town nine leazues from Madrid, situated at the foot of a mountain, the 
 rocks of which are so perpendicular that they are called ‘‘ the Spindles.” Near it 
 stands the Escurial.—Jarvis. 
 
22, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 pay for the horrid blasphemy you have uttered against so tran- 
 scendent a beauty!” So saying, with his lance couched, he ran at 
 him who had spoken, with so much fury and rage that, if good for- 
 tune had not so ordered that Rozinante stumbled and fell in the 
 midst of his career, it had gone hard with the rash merchant. 
 Rozinante fell, and his master lay rolling about the field for some 
 time, endeavouring to rise, but in vain; so encumbered was he with 
 his lance, target, spurs and helmet, added to the weight of his an- 
 tiquated armour. And while he was thus struggling to get up, he 
 continued calling out, ‘‘Fly not, ye dastardly rabble; stay, ye 
 race of slaves ; for it is through my horse’s fault, and not my own, 
 that I le here extended.” A muleteer of the company, not over 
 good-natured, hearing the arrogant language of the poor fallen 
 gentleman, could not bear it without returning him an answer on 
 his ribs; and coming to him, he took the lance, which having 
 broken to pieces, he applied one of the splinters with so much 
 agility upon Don Quixote, that, in spite of his armour, he was 
 threshed hike wheat. His masters called out, desirig him to for- 
 bear; but the lad was provoked, and would not quit the game, 
 until he had quite spent the remainder of his choler; and, seizing 
 the other pieces of the lance, he completely demolished them upon 
 the unfortunate knight ; who, notwithstanding the tempest of blows 
 that rained upon him, never shut his mouth, incessantly threaten- 
 ing heaven and earth, and those who to him appeared to be assassins. 
 At length the fellow was tired, and the merchants departed, suffi- 
 ciently furnished with matter of discourse concerning the poor 
 belaboured knight, who, when he found himself alone, again en- 
 deavoured to rise: but, if he could not do it when sound and well, 
 how should he in so bruised and battered a condition? Yet he was 
 consoled in looking upon this as a misfortune peculiar to knights- 
 errant; and imputing the blame to his horse: although to raise 
 janet up was impossible, his whole body was so horribly 
 ruised. 
 
 Velie to Roy. 
 Wherein is continued the narration of our knight’s misfortune. 
 
 Very full of pain, yet soon as he was able to stir, Don Quixote had 
 recourse to his usual remedy, which was to recollect some incident 
 in his books, and his frenzy instantly suggested to him that of 
 Valdovinos and the Marquis of Mantua, when Carlotto left him 
 wounded on the mountain; a story familiar to children, not un- 
 known to youth, commended and even credited by old men; yet no 
 more true than the miracles of Mahomet. Now this seemed to 
 him exactly suited to his case; therefore he began to roll himself 
 on the ground, and to repeat, in a faint voice, what they affirm 
 
A NEIGHBOUR PEASANT COMES TO HIS HELP. 23 
 was said by the wounded knight of the wood :— 
 
 ** Where art thou, mistress of my heart, 
 Unconscious of thy lcver’s smart? 
 Ab me! thou know’st not my distress, 
 Or thou art false and pitiless.” 
 
 In this manner he went on with the romance, until he came to 
 those verses where it is said :—‘‘O noble marquis of Mantua, my 
 uncle and lord by blood !”—Just at that instant it so happened 
 that-a peasant of -his own village, a near neighbour, who had been 
 carrying a load of wheat to the mill, passed by; and, seeing a man 
 lying stretched on the earth, he came up, and asked him who he 
 was, and what was the cause of his doleful lamentations? Don 
 Quixote, firmly believing him to be the marquis of Mantua, his uncle, 
 returned him no answer, but proceeded with the romance, giving 
 an account of his misfortune, just as it is there recounted. The 
 peasant was astonished at his extravagant discourse; and taking off 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ela 
 Cok A ln ie As 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 SSS 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 his vizor, now battered all to pieces, he wiped the dust from his 
 face; upon which he recognised him, and exclaimed, ‘‘ Ah, Signor 
 Quixada” (for so he was called before he had lost his senses, and 
 was transformed from a sober gentleman to a knight-errant), 
 *‘how came your worship in this condition?” But still he an- 
 swered out of his romance to whatever question he was asked. 
 
 The good man, seeing this, contrived to take off the back and 
 breastpiece of his armour, to examine if he had any wound; but 
 he saw no blood nor sign of any hurt. He then endeavoured to 
 raise him from the ground, and with no little trouble placed him 
 upon his ass, as being the beast of easier carriage. He gathered 
 together all the arms, not excepting the broken pieces of lance, and 
 tied them upon Rozinante ; then taking him by the bridle, and his 
 ass by the halter, he went on towards his village, full of concern 
 at the wild language of Don Quixote. No less thoughtful was the 
 knight, who was so cruelly beaten and bruised that he could 
 
94 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 scarcely keep himself upon the ass, and ever and anon he sent 
 forth groans that seemed to pierce the skies, insomuch that the 
 peasant was again forced to inquire what ailed him. It was 
 wonderful how his memory was furnished with stories so ap- 
 plicable to what had befallen him; for at that instant, forgetting 
 Valdcvinos, he recollected the Moor Abindarraez, at the time when 
 the governor of Antequera, Roderigo of Narvaez, had taken him - 
 prisoner, and conveyed him to his castle; so that when the peasant 
 asked him again how he was, and what he felt, he answered him 
 in the very same terms that were used by the prisoner Abindarraez 
 to Roderigo of Narvaez, as he had read in the Diana of George of 
 Montemayor, applying it so aptly to his own case that the peasant 
 went on cursing himself to hear such a monstrous heap of nonsense, 
 which convinced him that his neighbour had run mad, and he 
 therefore made what haste he could to reach the village, and there- 
 by escape the plague of Don Quixote’s long speeches; who, still 
 continuing, said, ‘‘Be it known to your worship, Signor Don 
 Roderigo de Narvaez, that this beauteous Xarifa,, whom I men- 
 tioned, is now the fair Dulcinea del Toboso, for whom I have done, 
 do, and will do, the most famous exploits of chivalry, that have 
 been, are, or shall be, seen in the world.” To this the peasant an- 
 swered, ‘‘ Look you, sir, as] am a sinner, Iam not Don Roderigo 
 de Narvaez, nor the Marquis of Mantua, but Pedro Alonzo your 
 neighbour: neither is your worship Valdovinés, nor Abindarraez, 
 but the worthy gentleman Signor Quixada.” ‘‘I know who I am,” 
 answered Don Quixote; ‘‘and I know, too, that I am not only 
 capable of being those I have mentioned, but all the twelve peers 
 of France, yea, and the nine worthies, since my exploits will far 
 exceed all that they have jointly or separately achieved.” 
 
 With this and similar conversation, they reached the village 
 about sunset; but the peasant waited until the night was a little 
 advanced, that the poor battered gentleman might not be seen so 
 scurvily mounted. When he thought it the proper time, he entered 
 the village, and arived at Don Quixote’s house, which he found all 
 in confusion. The priest and the barber of the place, who were 
 Don Quixote’s particular friends, happened to be there; and the 
 housekeeper was saying to them aloud, ‘‘ What do you think, 
 Signor Licentiate Pero Perez” (for that was the priest’s name) ‘‘of 
 my master’s misfortune? for neither he, nor his horse, nor the tar- 
 get, nor the lance, nor the armour, have been seen these six days 
 past. Woe is me! I am verily persuaded, and it is certainly true 
 as I was born to die, that these cursed books of knight-errantry, 
 which he is often reading, have turned his brain; and, now I think 
 of it, I have often heard him say, talking to himself, that he would 
 turn knight-errant, and go about the world in quest of adventures. 
 A plague take all such books, that have spoiled the finest under- 
 standing in all La Mancha.” The niece joined with her, adding, 
 *‘And you must know, Master Nicholas” (for that was the barber’s 
 name), ‘‘that it has often happened that my honoured uncle has 
 continued poring on those wicked books of misadventures two 
 whole days and nights; then, throwing the book out of his hand, 
 
HIS RETURN HOM®. 25 
 
 he wouid draw his sword and strike against the walls; and when 
 he was heartily tired, would say, he had killed four giants, as tall 
 as so many steeples, and that the sweat, which his labour occasioned, 
 was the blood of the wounds he had received in the fight ; then, 
 after drinking off a large pitcher of cold water, he would be as quiet 
 as ever, telling us that the water was a most precious liquor, 
 brought him by the sage, Esquife, a great enchanter and his friend. 
 But | take the blame of all this to myself, for not informing you, 
 gentlemen, of my dear uncle’s extravagancies, that they might have 
 been cured before they had gone so far, by burning all those cursed 
 books, which as justly deserve to be committed to the flames as if 
 they were heretical.” ‘‘I say the same,” quoth the priest ; ‘‘ and, in 
 faith, to-morrow shall not pass without holding a public inquisition 
 upon them, and condemning them to the fire, that they may not 
 occasion others to act as I fear my good friend has done.” 
 
 All this was overheard by Don Quixote and the peasant; and, as 
 it confirmed the latter in the belief of his neighbour’s infirmity, he 
 began to cry aloud, ‘‘Open the doors, gentlemen, to Signor 
 Valdovinos, and the marquis of Mantua, who comes dangerously 
 wounded ; and to Signor Abindarraez, the Moor, whom the valorous 
 Roderigo de Narvaez, governor of Antequera, brings as his prisoner.” 
 Hearing this, they all came out, and immediately recognising their 
 friend, they ran to embrace him, although he had not yet alighted 
 from the ass ; for indeed it was not in his power. ‘‘ Forbear, all of 
 you,” he cried, ‘‘ for I am sorely wounded through my horse’s fault: 
 carry me to my bed; and, if it be possible, send for the sage 
 Urganda, to search and heal my wounds.”  ‘‘ Look ye,” said the 
 housekeeper immediately, ‘‘if my heart did not tell me truly on 
 which leg my master halted. Get upstairs ; for, without the help 
 of that same Urganda, we shall find a way to cure you ourselves, 
 _ Cursed, say I again, and a hundred times cursed, be those books of 
 knight-errantry, that have brought your worship to this pass !” 
 They carried him directly to his chamber, where, on searching for 
 his wounds, they could discover none. He then told them, ‘‘ He was 
 only bruised by a great fall he got with his horse Rozinante, as he 
 was fighting with ten of the most prodigious and audacious giants 
 on the face of the earth.” ‘Ho, ho!” says the priest, ‘‘ what, 
 there are giants too in the dance! by my faith, I shall set fire to 
 them all before to-morrow night.” They asked Don Quixote a 
 thousand questions, to which he would return no answer ; he only 
 desired that they would give him some food, and allow him to 
 sleep, that being what he most required. Having done this, the 
 oe inquired particularly of the countryman in what condition 
 
 on Quixote had been found. The countryman gave him an 
 account of the whole, with the extravagancies he had uttered, both 
 at the time of finding him, and during their journey home ; which 
 made the Licentiate impatient to carry into execution what he had 
 determined to do the following day, when, for that purpose, callin 
 upon his friend Master Nicholas the barber, they proceede 
 together to Don Quixote’s house. 
 
28 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 -) 
 
 CALA? DE Riawvie 
 
 Of the grand and diverting scrutiny made by the priest and the barber, 
 in the library of our ingenious gentleman. 
 
 Long and heavy was the sleep of Don Quixote ; meanwhile, the 
 priest having asked the niece for the key of the chamber containing 
 the books, those authors of the mischief, which she delivered with 
 a very good will, they entered, attended by the housekeeper, and 
 found above a hundred large volumes, well bound, besides a great 
 number of smaller size. No sooner did the housekeeper see them, 
 than she ran out of the room in great haste, and immediately 
 returned with a pot of holy water and a bunch of hyssop, saying, 
 ‘‘Signor Licentiate, take this, and sprinkle the room, lest some 
 enchanter of the many these books abound with, should enchant 
 us, aS a punishment for our intention to banish them out of the 
 world.” The priest smiled at the housekeeper’s simplicity, and 
 ordered the barber to reach him the books, one by one, that they 
 might see what they treated of ; as they might perhaps find some 
 that deserved not to be chastised by fire. ‘‘ No,” said the niece, 
 ‘there is no reason why any of them should be spared, for they 
 have all been mischief-makers : so let them all be thrown out of the 
 window into the court-yard ; and having made a pile of them, set 
 fire to it; or else make a bonfire of them in the back-yard, where 
 the smoke will offend nobody.” The housekeeper said the same ; 
 so eagerly did they both thirst for the death of those innocents. 
 But the priest would not consent to it; without first reading the 
 titles at least. 
 
 The first that Master Nicholas put into his hands was Amadis de 
 Gaul, in four parts; and the priest said, ‘‘ There seems to be some 
 mystery in this, for I have heard say that this was the first book of 
 chivalry printed in Spain, and that all the rest had their foundation 
 and rise from it; I think, therefore, as head of so pernicious a sect, 
 we ought to condemn him to the fire without mercy.” ‘Not so,” 
 said the barber ; ‘‘for I have heard also that it is the best of all the 
 books of this kind; therefore, as being unequalled in its way, it 
 ought to be spared.” ‘‘ You are right,” said the priest, ‘‘and for 
 that reason its life is granted for the present. Let us see that other 
 next to him.” ‘‘It is,” said the barber, ‘‘the Adventures of Es- 
 plandian, the legitimate son of Amadis de Gaul.” ‘‘ Verily,” said 
 the priest, ‘‘ the goodness of the father shall avail the son nothing ; 
 take him, mistress housekeeper; open that casement, and throw 
 him into the yard, and let him make a beginning to the pile for the 
 intended bonfire.” The housekeeper did so with much satisfaction, 
 and good Esplandian was sent flying into the yard, there to wait 
 with patience for the fire with which he was threatened.  ‘‘ Pro- 
 ceed,” said the priest. ‘‘The next,” said the barber, ‘‘is Amadis of 
 Greece: yea, and all these on this side, I believe, are of the lineage 
 of Amadis.” ‘Then into the yard with them all!” quoth the 
 
THE DESTRUCTION OF HIS LIBRARY. 27 
 
 priest; “‘for rather than not burn Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the 
 shepherd Darinel with his eclogues, and the perplexities of the 
 author, I would burn the father who begot me, were 1 to meet him 
 in the shape of a knight-errant.” ‘‘ Of the same opinion am IJ,” said 
 the barber. ‘‘ And I too,” added the niece. ‘‘ Well, then,” said the 
 housekeeper, ‘‘away with them all into the yard.” They handed 
 them to her; and, as they were numerous, to save herself the trouble 
 of the stairs, she threw them all out of the window. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ‘‘What tun of an author is that?” said the priest. ‘‘ This,” an- 
 swered the barber, ‘“‘is Don Olivante de Laura.” ‘‘The author of 
 that book,” said the priest, ‘‘was the same who composed the Gar- 
 den of Flowers; and in good truth I know not which of the two 
 books is the truest, or rather the least lying ; I can only say that 
 this goes to the yard for its arrogance and absurdity.” ‘‘ This that 
 follows is Florismarte of Hyrcania,” said the barber. ‘‘ What ! is 
 Signor Florismarte there?” replied the priest; ‘‘now, by my faith, 
 he shall soon make his appearance in the yard, notwithstanding his 
 strange birth and chimerical adventures ; for the harshness and dry- 
 ness of his style will admit of no excuse. To the yard with him, 
 
28 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and this other, mistress housekeeper.” ‘‘ With all my heart, dear 
 sir,” answered she ; and with much joy executed what she was com 
 
 manded. ‘‘ Here is the knight Platir,” said the barber. ‘‘ That,” 
 said the priest, ‘‘is an ancient book, and I find nothing in him de- 
 serving pardon: without more words, let him be sent. after the 
 rest ;’”” which was accordingly done. They opened another book, - 
 and found it entitled the Knight of the Cross. ‘‘So religious a 
 title,’ quoth the priest, ‘‘might, one would think, atone for the 
 ignorance of the author ; but it is a common saying, ‘the devil lurks 
 behind the cross ;’ so to the fire with bim.” The barber, taking down 
 another book, said, ‘‘ This is the mirror of chivalry.” ‘‘Oh! J know 
 his worship very well,” quoth the priest. ‘‘Here comes Signor 
 Reynaldos de Montalvan, with his friends and companions, greater 
 thieves than Cacus; and the Twelve Peers, with the faithful his- 
 toriographer, Turzpin. However I am only for condemning them to 
 perpetual banishment, because they contain some things of the 
 EASE Mateo Boyardo; from whom the Christian poet Ludovico 
 Ariosto spun his web; and, even to him, if I find him here uttering 
 any other language than his own, I will show no respect; but if he 
 speaks ir his own tongue, I will put him upon my head.” ‘‘I have 
 him in Italian,” said the barber, ‘‘but I do not understand him.” 
 ‘‘ Neither is it any great matter, whether you understand him or 
 not,” answered the priest; ‘‘and we would willingly have exeused 
 the good captain from bringing him into Spain and making him a 
 Castilian ; for he has deprived him of a great deal of his native value ; 
 which, indeed, is the misfortune of all those who undertake the 
 trxuslation of poetry into other languages; for, with all their care 
 and. skill, they can never bring them on a level with the original 
 production. In short, I sentence this, and all other books that 
 shall be found treating of French matters, to be thrown aside, and 
 deposited in some dry vault, until we can deliberate more maturely 
 ‘what is to be done with them; excepting, however, Bernardo del 
 Carpio, and another, called Roncesvalles, which, if they fall into my 
 hands, shall pass into those of the housekeeper, and thence into the 
 fire, without any remission.” The barber confirmed the sentence, 
 and accounted it well and rightly determined, knowing that the 
 priest was so good a Christian, and so much a friend to truth, that . 
 
 e would not utter a falsehood for all the world. 
 
 Then, opening another book, he saw it was Palmerin de Oliva, and 
 next to that another, called Palmerin of England ; on espying which, 
 the Licentiate said, ‘‘ Let this Oliva be torn to pieces, and so effec- 
 tually burnt that not so much as the ashes may remain;. but let 
 Palmerin of England be preserved and kept, as an unique produc- 
 tion ; and such another case be made for it as that which Alexander 
 found among the spoils of Darius, and appropriated to preserve the 
 works of the poet. Homer. This book, neighbour, is estimable upon 
 two accounts ; the one, that it is very good of itself ; and the other, 
 because there is a tradition that it was written by an ingenious king 
 of Portugal. All the adventures of the castle of Miraguarda are 
 excellent, and contrived with much art; the dialogue courtly and 
 glear ; and all the characters preserved with great judgment and 
 
THE DESTRUCTION oF HIS LIBRARY. 29 
 
 propriety. Therefore, Master Nicholas, saving your better judg- 
 ment, let this and Amadis de Gaul be exempted from the fire, and 
 let all the rest perish without any further inquiry.” ‘‘ Not so, 
 friend,” replied the barber; ‘‘for this which I have here is the re- 
 nowned Don Belianis.” The priest replied, ‘‘This, and the second, 
 third, and fourth parts want a little rhubarb to purge away their 
 excess of bile: besides, we must remove all that relates to the castle 
 of Fame, and other absurdities of greater consequence; for which 
 let sentence of transportation be passed upon them, and, according 
 as they show signs of amendment, they shall be treated with mercy 
 or justice. In the meantime, neighbour, give them room in your 
 house ; but let them not be read.” ‘‘ With all my heart,” quoth the. 
 barber ; and without tiring himself any farther in turning over books 
 of chivalry, bid the housekeeper take all the great ones and throw 
 them into the yard. This was not spoken to the stupid or deaf, but 
 to one who had a greater mind to be burning them than weaving 
 the finest and largest web; and therefore, laying hold of seven or 
 eight at once, she tossed them out at the window. 
 
 But, in taking so many together, one fell at the barber’s feet, 
 who had a mind to see what it was, and found it to be the History 
 of the renowned knight, Tirante the White. ‘‘ Heaven save me !” 
 Sea the priest, with a loud voice, ‘‘is Tirante the White there ? 
 
 ive him to me, neighbour; for in him I shall have a treasure of 
 delight, and a mine of entertainment. Here we have Don Kyrie- 
 _ Eleison of Montalvan, a valorous knight, and his brother Thomas of 
 Montalvan, with the knight Fonseca, and the combat which the 
 valiant Tirante fought with the bull-dog, and the witticisms of the 
 damsel Plazerdemivida, and madam the Empress in love with her 
 squire Hypolito. Verily, neighbour, in its way it is the best book 
 in the world ; here the knights eat and sleep and die in their beds, 
 and make their wills before their deaths ; with several things which 
 are not to be found in any other books of this kind. Notwith- 
 standing this, I tell you, the author deserved, for writing so many 
 foolish things seriously, to be sent to the galleys for the whole of 
 his life; carry it home and read it, and you will find all I say of 
 him to be true.” ‘*I will do so,” answered the barber; ‘‘ but 
 what shall we do with these small volumes that remain?” 
 *Those,” said the priest, ‘‘are probably not books of chivalry, 
 but of poetry.” Then opening one he found it was the Diana of 
 George de Montemayor, and concluding that all the others were of 
 the same kind, he sa‘d, ‘‘ These do not deserve to be burnt like the 
 rest, for they cannot do the mischief that those of chivalry have 
 done ; they are-works of genius and fancy, and do injury to none.” 
 **O, sir,” said the niece, ‘‘ pray order them to be burnt with the 
 rest ; for should my uncle be cured of this distemper of chivalry he 
 may possibly, by reading such books, take it into his head to turn 
 shepherd, and wander through the woods and fields singing and 
 playing on a pipe; and what would be still worse, turn poet, 
 which, they say, is an incurable and contagious disease.” ‘‘ The 
 damsel says true,’’ quoth the priest, ‘‘and it will not be amiss to 
 remove this stumbling-block out of our friend’s way. And since we 
 
80 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 begin with the Diana of Montemayor, my opinion is that it should 
 not be burnt, but that all that part should be expunged which 
 treats of the sage Felicia and of the enchanted fountain, and also 
 most of the longer poems; leaving him the prose, and also the 
 honour of being first in that kind of writing.” ‘‘The next that 
 appears,” said the barber, ‘‘is the Diana called the second, by Sal- 
 mantino; and another of the same name, whose author is Gil Polo.” 
 ‘‘The Salmantinian,” answered the priest, ‘‘may accompany and 
 increase the number of the condemned—to the yard with him ; 
 but let that of Gil Polo be preserved as if it were written by 
 Apollo himself. Proceed, friend, and let us despatch, for it grows 
 late.” 
 
 “This,” said the barber, opening another, ‘‘is the Ten Books 
 of the Fortune of Love, composed by Antonio de lo Frasso, a Sar- 
 dinian poet.” ‘‘By the holy orders I have received!” said the 
 priest, ‘‘since Apollo was Apollo, the muses muses, and the poets 
 poets, so humorous and so whimsical a book as this was never 
 written ; it is the best and the most’extraordinary of the kind that 
 ever appeared in the world; and he who has not read it may be 
 assured that he has never read anything of taste ; give it me here, 
 neighbour, for I am better pleased at finding it than if I had been 
 presented with a cassock of Florence satin.” He laid it aside with 
 great satisfaction, and the barber proceeded, saying, ‘‘ These which 
 follow are the Shepherd of Iberia, the Nymphs of Enares, and the 
 Cure of Jealousy.” ‘‘Then you have only to deliver them up to 
 the secular arm of the housekeeper,” said the priest, ‘‘and ask me 
 not why, for in that case we should never have done.” ‘‘The next 
 is the Shepherd of Filida.” ‘‘ He is no shepherd,” said the priest, 
 ‘*but an ingenious courtier ; let him be preserved and laid up as a 
 precious jewel.” ‘‘This bulky volume here,” said the barber, ‘‘is 
 entitled the Treasure of Divers Poems.” ‘‘ Had they been fewer,” 
 replied the priest, ‘‘they would have been more esteemed ; it is 
 necessary that this book should be weeded and cleared of some low 
 things interspersed among its sublimities ; let it be preserved, both 
 because the author is my friend, and out of respect to other more 
 heroic and exalted productions of his pen.” ‘‘'I'kis,” pursued the 
 barber, ‘‘is El] Cancionero of Lopez Maldonado.” ‘‘The author of 
 that book,” replied the priest, ‘‘is also a great friend of mine; his 
 verses, when sung by himself, excite much admiration ; indeed, 
 such is the sweetness of his voice in singing them that they are 
 perfectly enchanting. He is a little too prolix in his eclogues; but 
 there can never be too much of what is really good; let it be pre- 
 served with the select.” 
 
 ‘But what book is that next to it?” ‘‘The Galatea of Michael 
 de Cervantes,” said the barber. ‘‘That Cervantes has been an 
 intimate friend of mine these many years, and I know that he 
 is more versed in misfortunes than in poetry. There is a good 
 vein of invention in this book, which proposes something, though 
 nothing is concluded ; we must wait for the second part, which 
 he has promised; perhaps, on his amendment, he may obtain 
 that entire pardon which is now denied him; in the meantime, 
 
 7 | 
 
THE DESTRUCTION OF HIS LIBRARY. 3B1 
 
 neighbour, keep him a recluse in your chamber.” ‘‘ With all my 
 heart,” answered the barber ; ‘‘now here comes three together, the 
 Araucana of Don Alonso de Ercilla, the Austriada of Juan Rufo, a 
 magistrate of Cordova, and the Monserrato of Christoval de Virges, 
 a poet of Valencia.” ‘‘'These three books,” said the priest, ‘‘are 
 the best that are written in heroic verse in the Castilian tongue, and 
 may stand in competition with the most renowned works of Italy. 
 Let them be preserved as the best productions of the Spanish 
 muse.” The priest grew tired of looking over so many books, and 
 therefore, without examination, proposed that all the rest should be 
 burned ; but the barber, having already opened one called the Tears 
 of Angelica, ‘‘I should have shed tears myself,” said the priest, on 
 hearing the name, ‘‘had I ordered that book to be burnt ; for its 
 author was one of:the most celebrated poets, not only of Spain, but 
 of the whole world ; his translations from Ovid are admirable.” 
 
 CHAPTER VIL. 
 Of.the second sally of our good knight Don le de la Mancha. 
 
 On a sudden, while they were thus employed, Don Quixote began 
 to call aloud, saying, ‘‘ Here, here, valorous knights! Here You 
 must exert the force of your powerful arms; for the courtiers begin 
 to get the advantage in the tournament.” Allgusieag oy at once 
 to the place whence this noisy exclamation proceeded, the scrutiny 
 was suddenly interrupted ; and therefore it is believed that to the 
 fire, unseen and unheard, went the Carolea, and Leon of Spain, 
 with the Acts of the Emperor, composed by Don Lewis de Avila, 
 which, without doubt, must have been amongst those that were 
 left ; and perhaps, had the priest seen them, they might not have 
 undergone so rigorous a sentence. On entering Don Quixote’s 
 chamber, they found him already out of bed, and continuing his 
 outcries and ravings, with his drawn sword laying furiously 
 about him, back-stroke and fore-stroke, and as broad awake as if 
 he had never been asleep. They closed in with him, and by main 
 force conveyed him again to his bed, where, after he was a little 
 composed, he said, turning himself to the priest, ‘‘ Certainly, my 
 lord archbishop Turpin, it is a great disgrace to us, who call our- 
 selves the twelve peers, to let the knights-courtiers carry off 
 the palm without more opposition, after we, the adventurers, 
 have gained the prize on the three preceding days.” ‘‘Say no 
 more, good sir,” said the priest ; ‘‘it may be Heaven’s will to 
 change our fortune, and what is lost to-day may be won to-morrow ; 
 mind your health for the present, for I think you must needs be 
 extremely fatigued, if not sorely wounded.” ‘* Wounded I am 
 not,” said Don Quixote; ‘but bruised and battered most certainly, 
 for Don Roldan, has pounded me with the trunk of an oak; and 
 all out of mere envy, because he sees I am the sole rival of his 
 prowess. But let me never more be called Rinaldo of Montauban 
 
32 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 if, as soon as I can rise from this bed, he pay not dearly for it in 
 spite of all his enchantments, In the meantime, give me some food, 
 for that is what I am now most in need of, and leave me to the care 
 of avenging myself.” They complied with his request, and gave him 
 something to eat ; he then fell fast asleep again, leaving them in 
 astonishment at his madness. 
 
 The same night the housekeeper set fire to, and burnt, all the 
 books that were in the yard, and in the house. Some must have — 
 perished that deserved to be treasured up in perpetual archives : 
 but their destiny, or the indolence of the scrutineer, forbade it ; 
 and in them was fulfilled the saying, that ‘‘the just sometimes 
 suffer for the unjust.” One of the remedies which the priest and 
 the barber prescribed at that time for their friend’s malady, was to 
 wall up the chamber which had contained his books, hoping that, 
 when the cause was removed, the effect might cease ; and that they 
 should pretend that an enchanter had carried room and all away. 
 This was speedily executed; and, two days after, when Don 
 Quixote left his bed, the first thing that occurred to him was to 
 visit his books ; and, not finding the room, he went up and down 
 looking for it ; when, coming to the former situation of the door, 
 he felt with his hands, and stared about on all sides, without 
 speaking a word for some time ; at length he asked the house- 
 keeper where the chamber was in which he kept his books. She, 
 who was already well tutored what to answer, said to him, 
 ‘¢ What room, or what nothing, does your worship look for? there 
 is neither room nor books in this house.” ‘‘An enchanter,” said 
 his niece, ‘‘came one night upon a cloud, after the day of your 
 departure, and, alighting from a serpent on which he rode, entered 
 the room: what he did there, I know not, but, after some little 
 time, out he came, flying through the roof, and left the house full 
 of smoke ; and when we went to see what he had been doing, we 
 saw neither books nor room; only we very well remember, both I 
 and mistress housekeeper here, that when the wicked old thief 
 went away, he said with a loud voice, that from a secret enmity he 
 bore to the owner of those books and of the room, he had done a 
 mischief in this house which would soon be manifest: he told us 
 also, that he was called the sage Munniaton.” ‘‘ Freston he meant 
 to say,” quoth Don Quixote. ‘‘I know not,” answered the house- 
 keeper, ‘‘ whether his name be Freston or Friton; all I know is, 
 that it ended in ton.” ‘‘It doth so,” replied Don Quixote. ‘‘ He 
 is a sage enchanter, a great enemy of mine, and bears me malice, 
 because by his skill and learning he knows that, in-process of time, 
 I shall engage in single combat with a knight whom he favours, 
 and shall vanquish him in spite of his protection. On this account 
 he endeavours, as much as he can, to molest me: but let him know 
 from me, that he cannot withstand or avoid what is decreed by 
 Heaven.” ‘‘Who doubts of that ?” said the niece ; ‘‘ but, dear uncle, 
 what have you to do with these broils ? Would it not be better to 
 stay quietly at home, and not ramble about the world seeking for 
 better bread than wheaten ; without considering that many go out 
 for wool and return shorn?” ‘‘O niece,” answered Don Quixote, 
 
 a” 
 
rer 
 
 HE SEEKS A SQUIRE. OD 
 
 **how little dost thou know of the matter! Before they shall 
 shear me I will pluck and tear off the beards of all those who dare 
 think of touching the tip of a single hair of mine.” Neither of 
 them would make any further reply ; for they saw his choler began 
 to rise. Fifteen days he remained at home, very tranquil, dis- 
 covering no symptoms of an inclination to repeat his late frolics ; 
 during: which time, much pleasant conversation passed between him 
 and his two neighbours, the priest and the barber: he always 
 
 
 
 
 
 He searched everywhere for the door. 
 
 affirming that the world stood in need of nothing so much as 
 knights-errant, and the revival of chivalry. The priest sometimes 
 contradicted him, and at other times aquiesced ; for, had he not 
 been thus cautious, there would have been no means left to bring 
 him to reason. 
 
 In the meantime, Don Quixote tampered with a labourer, a 
 neighbour of his, and an honest man (if such an epithet can be 
 ‘given to one that is poor), but shallow-brained ; in short, he said 
 
 € 
 
84 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 so much, used so many arguments, and made so many promises, 
 that the poor fellow resolved to sally out with him, and serve him 
 in the capacity of a squire. Among other things, Don Quixote told 
 him that he ought to be very glad to accompany him, for such an 
 adventure might some time or the other occur, that, by one stroke, 
 an island might be won, where he might leave him governor. With 
 this and other promises, Sancho Panza (for that was the labourer’s 
 name) left his wife and children, and engaged himself as squire to 
 his neighbour. Don Quixote now set about raising money; and, by 
 selling one thing, pawning another, and losing by all, he collected 
 a tolerable sum. He titted himself likewise with a buckler, which 
 he borrowed of a friend, and patching up his broken helmet in the 
 best manner he could, he acquainted his squire Sancho of the day 
 and hour he intended to set out, that he might provide himself 
 with what he thought would be most needful. Above all, he 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 charged him not to forget a wallet ; which Sancho assured him he 
 would not neglect ; he said also that he thought of taking an ass 
 with him, as he had a very good one, and he was not used to 
 travel much on foot. With regard to the ass, Don Quixote paused 
 a little; endeavouring to recollect whether any knight-errant had 
 ever carried a squire mounted on ass-back ; but no instance of the 
 kind occurred to his memory. However, he consented that he 
 should take his ass, resolving to accommodate him more honourably 
 the earliest opportunity, by dismounting the first discourteous 
 knight he should meet. He provided himself also with shirts, and 
 other things, conformably to the advice given him by the inn- - 
 keeper. 
 All this bemg accomplished, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, 
 without taking leave, the one of his wife and children, or the other 
 _ of his housekeeper and niece, one night sallied out of the village un- ; 
 
 ‘ if 
 t 
 a 
 
 “a 
 
 4 
 
SETS OUT ON A SECOND EXPEDITION. 85 
 
 porns and they travelled so hard, that by break of day they 
 elieved themselves secure, even if search were made after them. 
 Sancho Panza proceeded upon his ass, like a patriarch, with his 
 wallet and leathern bottle, and with a vehement desire to find him- 
 self governor of the island which his master had promised him. 
 Don Quixote happened to take the same route as on his first expe- 
 dition, over the plain of Montiel, which he passed with less incon- 
 venience than before ; for it was early in the morning, and the rays 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 pokl 
 
 Le 
 
 
 
 of the sun, darting on them horizontally, did not annoy them. 
 Sancho Panza now said to his master, ‘‘I beseech your worship, 
 good sir knight-errant, not to forget your promise concerning that 
 same island, for I shall know how to govern it, be it ever so large.” 
 To which Don Quixote dnswered, ‘‘Thou must know, friend 
 Sancho Panza, that it was a custom much in use among the knights- 
 errant of old to make their squires governors of the islands or 
 kingdoms they conquered ; and I am determined that so laudable 
 
86 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ' a custom shall not be lost through my neglect ; on tbe contrary, I 
 resolve to out-do them in it: for they, sometimes, and perhaps — 
 most times, waited tilltheir. squires were grown old ; and“when 
 they were worn out in their service, and had endured many bad 
 days and worse nights, they conferred on them some title, such as 
 count, or at least marquis, of some valley or province, of more or 
 less account ; but if you live, and I live, before six days have 
 passed, I may probably win such a kingdom as may have others 
 depending on it, just fit for thee to be crowned king of one of them. 
 And do not think this any extraordinary matter ; for things fall 
 out to knights by such unforeseen and unexpected ways, that I may 
 easily give thee more than I promise.” ‘‘Sothen,” answered Sancho 
 Panza, ‘‘if I were a king by some of those miracles your worship 
 mentions, Joan Gutierrez, my duck, would come to be a queen, and 
 my children infantas!” ‘‘Who doubts it?” answered Don Quixote. 
 “J doubt it,” replied Sancho Panza; ‘‘for I am verily persuaded that 
 if kingdoms were to rain down upon the earth, none of them would 
 sit well upon the head of Mary Gutierrez; for you must know, sir, 
 she is not worth two farthings fora queen. ‘The title of countess 
 would sit better upon her, with the help of Heaven and good 
 friends.” ‘* Recommend her to God, Sancho,” answered Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘and he will do what is best for her; but do thou have a 
 care not to debase thy mind so low as to content thyself with being 
 less than a viceroy.” ‘‘Sir, I will not,” answered Sancho ; 
 
 ‘especially having so great a man for my master as your worship, 
 who will know how to give me whatever is most fitting for me, and 
 what I am best able to bear.” 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Of the valorous Don Quixote’s success in the dreadful and never- 
 before-imagined adventure of the windmills; with other events 
 worthy co be recorded. 
 
 Engaged in this discourse, they came in sight of thirty or forty 
 windmills, which are in that plain; and as soon as Don Quixote 
 espied them, he said to his squire, ‘‘ Fortune disposes our affairs 
 better than we ourselves could have desired; look yonder, friend 
 Sancho Panza, where thou mayest discover somewhat more than 
 thirty monstrous giants, whom I intend to encounter and slay ; and 
 with their spoils we will begin to enrich ourselves; for it is lawful 
 war, and doing God good service to remove so wicked a generation 
 from off the face of the earth.” ‘‘ What giants?” said Sancho 
 Panza. ‘‘ Those thou seest yonder,” answered his master, ‘‘with — 
 their long arms ; for some are wont to have them almost of the 
 length of two leagues.” _“ Look, sir,” answered Sancho, ‘‘those* 
 which appear yonder are not giants, but windmills ; and what seem 
 to be arms are the sails, which, whirled about by the wind, make 
 the millstone go.” ‘ It is very evident,” answered Don Quixote, 
 
 ee 
 

 
 HIS LUCKLESS ADVENTURE AGAINST THE WINDMILL. 87 
 
 _ “that thou art not versed in the business of adventures ; they are 
 giants; and if thou art afraid, get thee aside and pray, whilst I 
 engage with them in fierce and unequal combat.” So saying, he 
 clapped spurs to his steed, notwithstanding the cries his squire sent 
 after him, assurmg him that they were certainly windmills, and 
 not giants. But he was so fully possessed that they were giants, 
 that he neither heard the outcries of his squire Sancho, nor yet 
 discerned what they were, though he was very near them, but 
 went on crying out aloud, ‘‘ Fly not, ye cowards and vile caitiffs ; 
 for it is a single knight who assaults you.” The wind now risinga 
 little, the great sails began to move; upon which Don Quixote called 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 out, ‘‘ Although ye should have more arms than the giant Briareus, 
 ye shall pay for it.” : 
 
 Then recommending himself devoutly to his lady Dulcinea, 
 beseeching her to succour him in the present danger, being well 
 covered with his buckler, Ind setting his lance in the rest, he 
 rushed on as fast as Rozinante could gallop, and attacked the first 
 mill before him; when, running his lance into the sail, the wind 
 whirled it about with so much violence that it broke the lance to 
 shivers, dragging horse and rider after it, and tumbling them over 
 and over on the plain, in very evil plight. Sancho Panza hastened 
 to his assistance as fast as his as3 could carry him; and when he 
 
38 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 came up to his master, he found him unable to stir, so violent was 
 the blow which he and Rozinante had received in their fall.” ‘* Did 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 SSS 
 <== —<——<$— 
 | £2 BH 
 
 
 
 not I warn you,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ to have a care of what you did, 
 for that they were nothing but windmills? And nobody could mis- 
 take them, but one that had the like in his head.” ‘‘ Peace, friend 
 
HE CONTINUES HIS JOURNEY. 39 
 
 Sancho,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘for matters of war are, of all 
 others, most subject to continual change. Now I verily believe, and 
 it is most certainly the fact, that the sage Freston, who stole away 
 my chamber and books, has metamorphosed these giants into wind- 
 mills, on purpose to deprive me of the glory of vanquishing them, 
 so great is the enmity he bears me! But his wicked arts will 
 finally avail but little against the goodness of my sword.” ‘‘God 
 grant it!” answered Sancho Panza; then helping him to rise, he 
 mounted him again upon his steed, which was almost disjointed. 
 Conversing upon the late adventure, they followed the road tha 
 led to the pass of Lapice ; because there, Don Quixote said, they could 
 not fail to meet with many and various adventures, as it was much 
 frequented. He was, however, concerned at the loss of his lance; 
 and, speaking of it to his squire, he said, ‘‘I remember to have 
 read that a certain Spanish knight, called Diego Perez de Vargas, 
 having broken his sword in fight, tore off a huge branch or limb 
 from an oak, and performed such wonders with it that day, and 
 dashed out the brains of so many Moors, that he was surnamed 
 Machuca (the bruiser); and, from that day forward, he and his 
 descendants bore the names of Vargas and Machuca, I now speak 
 of this because from the first oak we meet, I mean to tear a limb, 
 at least as good as that; with which I purpose and resolve to per- 
 form such feats that thou shalt deem thyself most fortunate in having 
 been thought worthy to behold them, and to be an eye-witness of 
 things which will scarcely be credited.” ‘‘ Heaven’s will be done !” 
 quoth Sancho, ‘‘I believe all just as you say, sir. But pray set 
 yourself upright in your saddle; for you seem to me to ride side- 
 ling, owing, perhaps, to the bruises received by your fall.” ‘It 
 is certainly so,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘and if I do not complain of 
 pain, it is because knights-errant are not allowed to complain of 
 any wound whatever, even though their entrails should issue from 
 it.” ‘‘If so, I have nothing more to say,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘but I 
 should be glad to hear your worship complain when anything ails 
 you. As for myself, I must complain of the least pain I feel, unless 
 this business of not complaining extend also to the squires of 
 knights-errant.” Don Quixote could not forbear smiling at the 
 simplicity of his squire, and told him he might complain whenever, 
 and as much as he pleased, either with or without cause, having 
 never yet read anything to the contrary in the laws of chivalry. 
 Sancho put him in mind that it was time to dine. His master 
 answered that at present he had no need of food, but that he might 
 eat whenever he thought proper. With this license, Sancho ad- 
 justed himself as well as he could upon his beast; and taking out 
 the contents of his wallet, he jogged on behind his master, very 
 leisurely, eating, and ever and anon raising the bottle to his mouth, 
 with so much relish that the best-fed victualler of Malaga might 
 have envied him. And whilgyt he went on in this manner, repeat- 
 ing his draughts, he thought no more of the promises his master 
 had made him; nor did he think it any toil, but rather a recreation, 
 to go in quest of adventures, however perilous they might be. In 
 fine, they passed that night under the shelter of some trees ; and from 
 
40 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 one of them the knight tore a withered branch, to serve him in some 
 sort asa lance, after fixing upon it the iron head of the one that had 
 been broken. All that night Don Quixoteslept not, but ruminated on 
 his lady Dulcinea ; conformably to the practice of knights-errant, 
 who, as their histories told him, were wont to pass many succes- 
 sive nights in woods and deserts, without closing their eyes, indulg- 
 ing the sweet remembrances of their mistresses. Not so did Sancho 
 spend the night; for, his stomach being full, and not of succory- 
 water, he made but one sleep of it; and had not his master roused 
 him, neither the beams of the sun, that darted full in his face, nor 
 the melody of the birds which, in great numbers, cheerfully saluted 
 the approach of the new day, could have awaked him. At his up- 
 rising he applied again to his bottle, and found it much hghter than 
 the evening before ; which grieved him to the heart, for he did not 
 think they were in the way soon to remedy that defect. Don 
 Quixote would not yet break his fast, resolving, as we have said, 
 still to subsist upon savoury remembrances. 
 
 They now turned again into the road they had entered upon the 
 day before, leading to the pass of Lapice, which they discovered 
 about three in the afternoon. ‘‘ Here, friend Sancho,” said Don 
 Quixote, upon seeing it, ‘‘ we may plunge our arms up to the elbows 
 in what are termed adventures. But attend to this caution, that 
 even shouldst thou see me in the greatest peril in the world, thou 
 must not lay hand to thy sword to defend me, unless thou perceivest 
 that my assailants are vulgar and low people; in that case thou 
 mayest assist me; but should they be knights, it is in nowise agree- 
 able to the laws of chivalry that thou shouldst interfere, until thou 
 art thyself dubbed a knight.” ‘‘ Your worship,” answered Sancho, 
 ‘‘shall be obeyed most punctually therein, and the rather as I am 
 naturally very peaceable, and an enemy to thrusting myself into 
 brawls and squabbles; but for all that, as to what regards the 
 defence of my own person, I shall make no great account of those 
 same laws, since both divine and human law allows every man to 
 defend himself against whoever would wrong him.” ‘‘That I 
 grant,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘but with respect to giving me 
 aid against knights, thou must refrain and keep within bounds thy 
 natural impetuosity.” ‘‘I say, I will do so,” answered Sancho ; 
 ‘and I will observe this precept as religiously as the Lord’s day.” 
 
 As they were thus discoursing, there appeared on the road two 
 monks of the order of St Benedict, mounted upon dromedaries ; for 
 the mules whereon they rode were not much less. They wore tra- 
 velling masks, and carried umbrellas. Behind them came a coach, 
 accompanied by four or five men on horseback, and two muleteers on 
 foot. Within the coach, as it afterwards appeared, was a Biscayan 
 lady on her way to join her husband at Seville, who was there 
 
 waiting to embark for India, where he was appointed to a very 
 honourable post. The monks were not in her company, but were 
 only travelling the same road. Scarcely had Don Quixote espied 
 them, when he said to his squire, ‘‘ Hither I am deceived, or this 
 will prove the most famous adventure that ever happened ; for 
 those black figures that appear yonder must undoubtedly be en- 
 
THE ENCOUNTER WITH THE MONKS. 41 
 
 chanters, who are carrying off in that coach some princess whom 
 they have stolen ; which wrong Iam bound to use my utmost en- 
 deavours to redress.” ‘‘'This may prove a worse business than the 
 windmills,” said Sancho; ‘‘pray, sir, take notice that those are 
 Benedictine monks, and the coach must belong to some travellers. 
 Hearken to my advice, sir; have a care what you do, and let not 
 _ the devil deceive you.” ‘‘I have already told thee, Sancho,” an- 
 swered Don Quixote, ‘‘ that thou knowest little concerning adven- 
 tures; what I say is true, as thou wilt presently see.” So saying, 
 he advanced forward, and planted himself in the midst of the high- 
 way, by which the monks were to pass; and when they were so 
 near that he supposed they could hear what he said, he cried out 
 with a loud voice, ‘‘ Diabolical and monstrous race! Hither in- 
 stantly release the high-born princesses whom ye are carrying away 
 perforce in that coach, or prepare for instant death, as the just 
 chastisement of your wicked deeds.” The monks stopped their 
 mules and stood amazed, as much at the figure of Don Quixote as 
 at his expressions; to which they answered, ‘‘Signor cavalier, we 
 are neither diabolical nor monstrous, but monks of the Benedictine 
 order, travelling on our own business, and entirely ignorant whether 
 any princesses are carried away in that coach by force or not.” 
 **No fair speeches to me, for I know ye, treacherous scoundrels !” 
 and without waiting forarep!y, he clapped spurs to Rozinante, and, 
 with his lance couched, ran at the foremost monk with such fury 
 and resolution that, if he had not slid down from his mule, he 
 would certainly have been thrown to the ground, and wounded, 
 too, if not killed outright. The second monk, on observing how 
 his comrade was treated, clapped spurs to the sides of his good 
 mule, and began to scour along the plain, lighter than the wind itself. 
 
 Sancho Panza, seeing the monk on the ground, leaped nimbly 
 from his ass, and running up to him, began to disrobe him. While 
 he was thus employed, the two lacqueys came up, and asked him 
 why he was stripping their master. Sancho told them that they 
 were his lawful perquisites, being the spoils of the battle which his 
 lord, Don Quixote, had just won. The lacqueys, who did not under- 
 stand the jest, nor what was meant by spoils or battles, seeing that 
 Don Quixote was at a distance, speaking with those in the coach, 
 fell upon. Sancho, threw him down, and, besides leaving him not a 
 hair in his beard, gave him a hearty kicking, and left him stretched 
 on the ground, deprived of sense and motion. Without losing a 
 moment, the monk now got upon his mule again, trembling, terri- 
 fied, and pale as death ; and was no sooner mounted than he spurred 
 after his companion, who stood at some distance to observe the issue 
 of this strange encounter; but, being unwilling to wait, they pur- 
 sued their way, crossing themselves oftener than if a demon had been 
 at their heels. Inthe meantime, Don Quixote, asit hath been already 
 mentioned, addressing the lady in the coach, ‘‘ Your beauteous lady- 
 ship may now,” said he, ‘‘ dispose of your person as pleaseth you 
 best; for the pride of your ravishers lies humbled in the dust, over- 
 thrown by my invincible arm; and that you may be at no trouble 
 to learn the name of your deliverer, know that Iam called Don 
 
42, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Quixote de la Mancha, knight-errant and adventurer, and captive 
 to the peerless and beauteous Dulcinea del Toboso; and in requital 
 of the benefit you have received at my hands, all I desire is, that 
 you would return to Toboso, and, in my name, present yourselves 
 before that lady, and tell her what I have done to obtain your 
 liberty.” 
 
 All that Don Quixote said was overheard by a certain squire who 
 accompanied the coach, a Biscayan, who, finding he would not let 
 it proceed, but talked of their immediately returning to Toboso, 
 flew at Don Quixote, and taking hold of his lance, addressed him, 
 in bad Castilian and worse Biscayan, after this manner, ‘‘ Cavalier, 
 begone! Iswear, if thou dost not quit the coach, thou forfeitest 
 thy life, as I am a Biscayan.” Don Quixote understood him 
 very well, and with great calmness answered, ‘‘If thou wert a 
 gentleman, as thou art not, I would before now have chastised thy 
 folly and presumption, thou pitiful slave.” ‘‘I am no gentleman !” 
 said the Biscayan; ‘‘I swear thou liest, as Iam a Christian; if 
 thou wilt. throw away thy lance, and draw thy sword, thou shalt 
 see how soon the cat will get into the water :* Biscayan by land, 
 gentleman by sea, and thou lest! Now what hast thou to say?” 
 ‘*Thou shalt see that presently, as said Agrages,” answered Don 
 Quixote; then, throwing down his lance, he drew his sword, 
 grasped his buckler, and set upon the Biscayan with a resolution 
 to take his life. The Biscayan, seeing him come on in that man- 
 ner, would fain have alighted, knowing that his mule, a wretched 
 hackney, was not to be trusted, but he had only time to draw his 
 sword. Fortunately for him, he was so near the coach as to be 
 able to snatch from it a cushion, that served him for a shield; 
 whereupon, they immediately fell to, as if they had been mortal 
 enemies. The rest of the company would have made peace between 
 them, but it was impossible; for the Biscayan swore, in his jargon, 
 that if they would not let him finish the combat, he would murder 
 his mistress, or whoever attempted to prevent him. The lady of 
 the coach, amazed and affrighted at what she saw, ordered the 
 coachman to remove a little out of the way, and sat at a distance, 
 beholding the fierce conflict ; in the progress of which the Biscayan 
 gave Don Quixote so mighty a stroke on one of his shoulders, and 
 _ above his buckler, that, had it not been for his armour, he had 
 
 cleft him down to the girdle. Don Quixote, feeling the weight of 
 that unmeasurable blow, cried out aloud, saying, ‘‘O lady of my 
 soul! Dulcinea, flower of all beauty! succour this thy knight, who, 
 to satisfy thy great goodness, exposes himself to this perilous extre- 
 mity!” This invocation, the drawing his sword, the covering him- 
 self well with his buckler, and rushing with fury on the Biscayan, 
 was the work of an instant—resolving to venture all on the fortune 
 of a single blow. The Biscayan perceiving his determination, re- 
 solved to do the same, and therefore waited for him, covering him- 
 
 *“ To carry the cat to the water,” is a saying applied to one who is victorious in 
 any contest; andit is taken from a game in which two cats are tied together by the 
 tail, then carried near a pit or well (having the water between them), and the cat 
 which first pulls the other in is declared conqueror. 
 
HIS MIGHTY COMBAT. 43 
 
 self well with his cushion; but he was unable to turn his mule 
 either to the right or the left, for, being already jaded, and unac- 
 . customed to such sport, the creature would not move a step. 
 
 Don Quixote, as we before said, now advanced towards the wary 
 Biscayan with his uplifted sword, fully determined to cleave him 
 asunder ; and the Biscayan awaited him, with his sword also raised, 
 and guarded by his cushion. All the bystanders were in fearful 
 suspense as to the event of those prodigious blows with which they 
 threatened each other ; and the lady of the coach and her attendants 
 were making a thousand vows and promises of offerings, to all the 
 images and places of devotion in Spain, that God might deliver 
 them and their squire from this great peril. But the misfortune is, 
 that the author of this history, at that very crisis, leaves the com- 
 bat unfinished, pleading in excuse, that he could find no more 
 written of the exploits of Don Quixote than what he has already 
 related. It is true, indeed, that the second undertaker of this work 
 could not believe that so curious a history should have been con- 
 signed to oblivion ; or that the wits of La Mancha should have go 
 little curiosity as not to preserve in their archives, or cabinets, 
 some memorials of this famous knight; and, under that persuasion, 
 he did not despair of finding the conclusion of this delectable 
 history ; which actually came to pass, in the manner that shall be 
 faithfully recounted in the following chapter. 
 
 Hook Secona, 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Wherein is concluded the stupendous battle between the gallant Biscayan 
 and the valiant Manchegan. 2% 
 
 Now let it not be forgotten, that in the preceding part of this 
 history, we left the valiant Biscayan and the renowned Don 
 Quixote with their naked swords raised on high, ready to discharge 
 two such furious and cleaving strokes, as must, if they had lighted 
 full, at least have divided the combatants from head to heel, and 
 split them asunder like a pomegranate ; but at that critical moment 
 this relishing history stopped short, and was left imperfect, without 
 having any notice from the author of where the remainder might be 
 found. This grieved me extremely; and the pleasure afforded by 
 the little I had read gave place to mortification, when I considered 
 the uncertainty there was of ever finding the portion that appeared 
 to me yet wanting of this delightful story. It seemed impossible, 
 and contrary to all praise-worthy custom, that so accomplished a 
 
44 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 knight should have no sage to record his unparalleled exploits ; 
 for none of those knights-errant who travelled in quest of adven- 
 tures were ever without them ; each having one or two sages, made 
 as it were on purpose, not only to record their actions, but to 
 describe their most minute and trifling thoughts, however secret. 
 Surely, then, a knight of such worth could not be so unfortunate as 
 to want that with which Platir, and others like him, abounded. 
 Hence I could not be induced to believe that so gallant a history 
 had been left maimed and imperfect; and I blamed the malignity 
 of Time—that devourer and consumer of all things—for having 
 either concealed or destroyed it. On the other hand, recollecting 
 that some of his books were of so recent a date as the ‘‘Cure for 
 Jealousy,” and the ‘‘ Nymphs and Shepherds of Henares,” I thought 
 his story also might be modern; and, if not yet written, might 
 still be remembered by the people of his village, and those of the 
 neighbouring places. This idea impressed me deeply, and made me 
 anxious to be truly informed of the whole life and wonderful 
 actions of our renowned Spaniard, Don Quixote de la Mancha, the 
 light and mirror of Manchegan chivalry! the first who, in our age, 
 an: in these calamitous times, took upon him the toil and exercise 
 of arms-errant, to redress wrongs, succour widows, and relieve 
 those damsels who, with whip and palfrey, rambled up and down 
 from mountain to mountain, and from valley to valley, like the 
 damsels in days of yore, who never slept under a roof till they went 
 to the grave, at the age of fourscore. Now I say, upon these, and 
 many other accounts, our gallant Don Quixote is worthy of 
 immortal memory and praise. Nor ought some share to be denied 
 even to me, for the labour and pains I have taken to discover the 
 end of this delectable history ; though I am very sensible that, if 
 fortune had not befriended me, the world would have still been 
 without that diversion and pleasure, which, for nearly two hours, an 
 attentive reader of. it cannot fail to enjoy. Now the manner of 
 finding it was this :— 
 
 As I was walking one day on the Exchange of Toledo, a boy 
 offered for sale some bundles of old papers to a mercer; and as | 
 am fond of reading, though it be only tattered papers thrown about 
 the streets, led by this natural inclination, I took a parcel of those 
 the boy was selling, and perceived them to be written in Arabic. 
 But not understanding it myself, although I knew the letters, I 
 immediately looked about for some Moorish rabbi who could read 
 them to me; nor wasit difficult to find such an interpreter ; for had 
 I sought one to explain some more ancient and better language, | 
 should have found him there. In fine, my good fortune presented 
 one to me, to whom I communicated my desire, and putting the 
 book into his hands, he opened it towards the middle, and, having 
 read a little, began to laugh. I asked him what he smiled at, and 
 he said that ‘‘it was at something which he found written in the 
 margin, by way of annotation.” I desired him to say what it was, 
 and, still laughing, he told me that there was written on the 
 margin as follows :—‘‘ This Dulcinea del Toboso, so oftenmentioned 
 in his history, was said to have been the best hand at salting pork 
 
DISCOVERY OF DON QUIXOTE’S HISTORY. 45 
 
 of any woman in all La Mancha.” When I heard the name of 
 Dulcinea del Toboso, I stood amazed and confounded ; for it imme- 
 diately occurred to me that those bundles of paper might contain 
 
 _ the history of Don Quixote. 
 
 With this idea, I pressed him to read the beginning, which he 
 did, and rendering extempore the Arabic into Castilian, said that 
 it began thus :—‘‘ The history of Don Quixote dela Mancha, written 
 by Cid Hamete Ben Engeli, Arabian historiographer.” Much dis- 
 
 cretion was necessary to dissemble the joy I felt at hearing the 
 
 title of the book ; and, snatching the other part out of the mercer’s 
 hands, I bought the whole bundle of papers of the boy for half-a- 
 real, who, if he had been cunning, and had perceived how eager I 
 was to have them, might well have promised himself, and really 
 carried off, more than six reals by the bargain. I retired imme- 
 diately with the Morisco, through the cloister of the great church, 
 and requested him to translate for me those papers which treated of 
 Don Quixote, into the Castilian tongue, without omitting or 
 adding anything, offering him in payment whatever he should 
 demand. He was satisfied with fifty pounds of raisins and two 
 bushels of wheat, and promised to translate them faithfully and 
 expeditiously. But in order to facilitate the business, and also to 
 make sure of so valuable a prize, I took him home to my own house, 
 where, in little more than six weeks, he translated the whole, 
 exactly as will be found in the following pages. 
 
 In the first sheet was portrayed, in the most lively manner, 
 Don Quixote’s combat with the Biscayan, in the attitude already 
 described: their swords raised, the one covered with his buckler, 
 
 _ the other with his cushion, and the Biscayan mule so correctly to 
 
 the life, that you might discover it to be a hackney jade at the 
 distance of a bowshot. The Biscayan had a label at his feet, on 
 which was written ‘‘Don Sancho de Azpetia;” which, without 
 doubt, must have been his name; and at the feet of Rozinante was 
 another, on which was written ‘‘Don Quixote.” Rozinante was 
 admirably delineated: so long and lank, so lean and feeble, with 
 so sharp a backbone, and so like one ina galloping consumption, 
 that you might see plainly with what judgment and propriety the 
 name of Rozinante had been given him. Close by him stood Sancho 
 Panza, holding his ass by the halter; at whose feet was another 
 scroll, whereon was written ‘‘Sancho Zancas,” and not without 
 reason, if he was really, as the painting represented him, paunch- 
 bellied, short of stature, and spindle-shanked ; which, doubtless, 
 gave him the names of Panza and Zancas, for the history calls him 
 by each of these surnames. There were some other more minute 
 particulars observable ; but they are all of little importance, and con- 
 tribute nothing to the faithful narration of the history ; thoughnone 
 are to be despised, if true. But if any objection be alleged against 
 the truth of this history, it can only be, that the author was an 
 Arabian, those of that nation being not a little addicted to lying ; 
 though, as they are so much our enemies, it may be conjectured 
 that he rather fell short of, than exceeded the bounds of truth. 
 And, in fact, so it seems to have done; for when he might, and 
 
46 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ought to have launched out in the praises of so excellent a knight, 
 it appears, as if he had been careful to pass over them in silence; 
 an evil act and worse design, for historians ought to be precise, 
 faithful, and unprejudiced ; and neither interest nor fear, hatred nor 
 affection, should make them swerve from the way of truth, whose 
 mother is history, the rival of time, the depository of great actions, 
 witness of the past, example of the present, and monitor to the 
 future. In this history you will certainly find the most entertain- 
 ing things imaginable; and if wanting in anything, it must, with- 
 out question, be owing to its infidel author, and not to any defect 
 in the subject. In short, the second part, according to the transla- 
 tion, began in this manner :— 
 
 The trenchant blades of the two valorous and enraged combat- 
 ants, being brandished aloft, seemed to stand threatening heaven 
 and earth, and the deep abyss; such was the courage and gallantry 
 of their deportment. The first who discharged his blow was the 
 choleric Biscayan, which fell with such force and fury, that if the 
 edge of his sword had not turned aslant by the way, that single 
 blow had been enough to have put an end to this cruel conflict, and 
 to all the adventures of our knight. But good fortune, preserving 
 him for greater things, so turned his adversary’s sword, that, though 
 alighting on the left shoulder, it did him no other hurt than to 
 disarm that side, carrying off, by the way, a great part of his helmet, 
 with half an ear; all which, with hideous ruin, fell to the ground, 
 leaving him in a piteous plight. 
 
 But who is he that can worthily describe the rage that entered 
 into the breast of our Manchegan, at seeing himself thus treated! 
 Let it suffice, that it was such, that, raising himself afresh in his 
 stirrups, and grasping his sword faster in both hands, he discharged 
 it with such fury upon the Biscayan, directly over the cushion, and 
 upon his head, which was unprotected, that, as if a mountain had 
 fallen upon him, the blood began to gush out of his nostrils, his 
 mouth, and his ears; and he seemed as if he was just falling from 
 his mule; which, doubtless, he must have done, had not he laid 
 fast hold of his neck; but, notwithstanding that, he lost his 
 stirrups, and then let go his hold; while the mule, frightened at 
 the terrible stroke; began to run about the field, and, at two or 
 three plunges, laid her master flat on the ground. Don Quixote 
 stood looking on with great calmness, and seeing him fall, he leapt 
 from his horse with much agility, ran up to him, and clapping the 
 point of his sword to his eyes, bid him yield, or he would cut off 
 his head. The Biscayan was so stunned that he could not answer 
 a word; and it would have gone hard with him (so blinded with 
 rage was Don Quixote), had not the ladies of the coach, who, till 
 now, had been witnessing the combat in great dismay, approached 
 him, and earnestly entreated that he would do them the great 
 kindness and favour to spare the life .of their squire. Don Quixote 
 answered, with much solemnity and gravity, ‘‘Assuredly, fair 
 ladies, [ am most willing to grant you your request, but it must be 
 upon a certain condition and compact; which 1s, that this knight 
 shall promise to repair to the town of Toboso, and present himself 
 
CONVERSATION WITH SANCHO. AT 
 
 from me, before the peerless Donna Dulcinea, that she may dispose 
 of him according to her pleasure.” The terrified and disconsolate 
 lady, without considering what Don Quixote required, or inquiring 
 who Dulcinea was, promised him that her squire should perform 
 whatever he commanded. ‘‘ Then, on the faith of this promise,” 
 said Don Quixote, ‘‘I will do him no further hurt, though he well 
 deserves it at my hands.” 
 
 Oe A Ply Re X, 
 
 Of the pleasant discourse which Don Quixote had with his good squire 
 Sancho Panza. 
 
 Before this time, Sancho Panza had got upon his legs, somewhat 
 roughly handled by the servants of the monks, and stood an atten- 
 tive spectator during the combat of his master, Don Quixote ; be- 
 seeching God, in his heart, that He would be pleased to give him 
 the victory, and that he might hereby win some island, of which he 
 might make him governor, according to his promise. Now, seeing 
 the conflict at an end, and that his master was ready to mount 
 again upon Rozinante, he came up to hold his stirrup; but before 
 he had mounted, fell upon his knees before him, then, taking hold 
 of his hand, and kissing it, said to him, ‘‘ Be pleased, my lord Don 
 Quixote, to bestow upon me the government of that island which 
 you have won in this dreadful battle; for, be it ever so big, I feel 
 in myself ability sufficient to govern it as well as the best that ever 
 governed island in the world.” ‘To which Don Quixote answered, 
 ** Consider, brother Sancho, that this adventure, and others of this 
 nature, are not adventures of islands, but of cross-ways, in which 
 nothing is to be gained but a broken head, or the loss of an ear. 
 Have patience; for adventures will offer, whereby I may not only 
 make thee a governor, but something yet greater.” Sancho re- 
 turned him abundance of thanks, and, kissing his hand again, and 
 the skirt of his armour, he helped him to get upon Rozinante ; then, 
 mounting his ass, he followed his master, who, going off at a round 
 pace, without taking his leave, or speaking to those in the coach, 
 immediately entered into an adjoining wood. 
 
 Sancho followed him as fast as his beast could trot; but Rozin- 
 ante made such speed that, seeing himself left behind, he was forced 
 to call aloud to his master to stay for him. Don Quixote did so, 
 checking Rozinante by the bridle, until his weary squire overtook 
 him; who, as soon as he came near, said to him, ‘‘ Methinks, sir, 
 it would not be amiss to retire to some church; for considering in 
 what condition you have left your adversary, I should not wonder 
 if they give notice of the fact to the holy brotherhood, who may 
 seize us; and, in faith, if they do, before we get out of their clutches 
 we may chance to sweat for it” ‘‘ Peace,” quoth Don Quixote ; 
 ‘<for where hast thou ever seen or heard of a knight-errant having 
 been brought before a court of justice, however numerous the homi- 
 
48 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 cides he may have committed?” ‘‘I know nothing of your Ome- 
 cils,” answered Sancho; ‘‘nor in my life ever cared about them: 
 only this I know, that the holy brotherhood have something to say 
 to those who fight in the fields; and as to the other matter, I shall 
 have nothing to do with it.” ‘‘Set thy heart at rest, friend,” an- 
 swered Don Quixote; ‘‘ for I would deliver thee out of the hands of 
 the Chaldeans, much more out of those of the holy brotherhood. 
 But tell me, on thy life, hast thou ever seen a more valorous knight 
 than I upon the whole face of the‘earth? Hast thou read in history 
 of any one who has, or ever had, more spirit in attacking, more 
 breath in holding out, more dexterity in wounding, or more address 
 in overthrowing?” ‘‘The truth is,” answered Sancho, ‘‘that I 
 never read any history at all; for I can neither read nor write: but 
 what I dare affirm is, that I have never served a bolder master than 
 your worship, in all the days of my life ; and pray God we may not 
 be called to an account for this boldness, where I just now said. 
 What I beg of your worship is, that you would let your wound be 
 dressed, for a great deal of blood comes from that ear; and I have 
 some lint, and a little white ointment, here in my wallet.” ‘* All 
 this would have been needless,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ had I re- 
 collected to make a vial of the balsam of Fierabras; for with one 
 single drop of that, we might have saved both time and medicine.” 
 ‘‘ What vial, and what balsam is that?” said Sancho Panza. ‘‘ It 
 is a balsam,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ the receipt of which I hold 
 in memory; and he who possesses it need not fear death, nor ap- 
 prehend that any wound will be fatal: therefore, when I shall have 
 made it, and given it to thy care, all thou wilt have to do, when 
 thou seest me in some battle cleft asunder (as it frequently hap- 
 pens), is to take up fair and softly that part of my body which 
 shall fall to the ground, and with the greatest nicety, before the 
 blood is congealed, place it upon the other half that shall remain in 
 the saddle, taking especial care to make them tally exactly. Then 
 shalt thou give me two draughts only of the balsam aforesaid, and 
 instantly thou wilt see me become sounder than an apple.” ‘‘ If 
 this be so,” said Sancho, ‘‘I renounce from henceforward the 
 government of the promised island; and only desire, in payment of 
 my many and good services, that your worship will give me the 
 receipt of this extraordinary liquor; for I dare say it will anywhere 
 fetch more than two reals an ounce; and I want no more to pass 
 this life with credit and comfort. But I should be glad to know 
 whether the making of it will cost much?” ‘For less than three 
 reals thou mayest make nine pints,” answered Don Quixote. 
 «¢ Sinner that I am!” exclaimed Sancho, ‘‘ why does your worship 
 delay making it?” ‘‘ Peace, friend,” answered Don Qnixote; ‘‘ for 
 I intend to teach thee greater secrets, and to do thee greater kind- 
 nesses: but at present, let us set about the cure, for my ear pains 
 me more than I could wish.” 
 
 Sancho took some lint and ointment out of his wallet; but 
 when Don Quixote perceived that his helmet was broken, he was 
 ready to run stark mad; and laying his hand on his sword, and 
 raising his eyes to heaven he said, ‘‘I swear, by all that is con- 
 
CONVERSATION WITH SANCHO. 49 
 
 tained in the four holy evangelists, to lead the life that the great 
 marquis of Mantua led, when he vowed to revenge the death of his 
 nephew Valdovinos ; which was, not to eat bread on a table-cloth, 
 nor again go home, and other things, which, though I do not now 
 remember, I consider as here expressed, until I have taken entire 
 vengeance on him who hath done me this outrage!” Sancho, hear- 
 ing this, said to him, ‘‘ Pray consider, Signor Don Quixote, that if 
 the knight has performed what was enjoined upon him, namely, to 
 go and present himself before my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he will 
 then have done his duty, and deserves no new punishment unless 
 he commit a new crime.” ‘‘Thou hast spoken and remarked very 
 justly,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘and I annul the oath, so far as 
 concerns the taking a fresh revenge; but I make it and confirm it 
 anew, as to leading the life I have mentioned, until I shall take by 
 force, from some knight, another helmet, equally good. And think 
 not, Sancho, that Iam making a smoke of straw; for I well know 
 whose example I shall follow; since precisely the same thing hap- 
 pened with regard to Mambrino’s helmet, which cost Sacripante so 
 dear.” ‘‘I wish your worship would forget such oaths,” said 
 Sancho, ‘‘for they are very hurtful to the health, and prejudicial 
 to the conscience. Besides, pray tell me, if perchance for many 
 days we should not light on a man armed with a helmet, what must 
 we do then? Must the oath be kept, in spite of so many diffi- 
 culties and inconveniences, such as, sleeping in your clothes, and not_ 
 sleeping in any inhabited place, and a thousand other penances con- 
 tained in the oath of that mad old fellow the marquis of Mantua, 
 which your worship would now revive? Consider, that none of 
 _ these roads are frequented by armed men, but carriers and carters ; 
 who, so far from wearing helmets, perhaps never so much as heard 
 of them in all their lives.” ‘‘Thou art mistaken in this,” said Don 
 Quixote ; ‘‘for before we shall have passed two hours in these cross- 
 _ ways, we shall have seen more armed men than came to the siege of 
 Albraca, to carry off Angelica the Fair,” ‘‘ Well, then, be it so,” 
 quoth Sancho; ‘‘and Heaven grant us good success, and that we 
 may speedily get this island, which costs me so dear; no matter, 
 then, how soon I die.” ‘‘I have already told thee, Sancho, to give 
 thyself no concern upon that account; for, if an island cannot be 
 had, there is the kingdom of Denmark, or that of Sobradisa, which 
 will fit thee like a ring to the finger. Besides, as they are upon 
 terra firma, thou shouldst prefer them. But let us leave this to its 
 own time, and see if thou hast anything for us to eat in thy wallet ; 
 we will then go in quest of some castle, where we may lodge this 
 night, and make the balsam that I told thee of ; for I declare that 
 my ear pains me exceedingly.” ‘‘I have here an onion and a piece of 
 cheese ; and I know not how many crusts of bread,” said Sancho ; 
 “but they are not eatables fit for so valiant a knight as your wor- 
 ship.” ‘‘ How little dost thou understand of this matter!” an- 
 swered Don Quixote. ‘‘I tell thee, Sancho, that it is honourable in 
 knights-errant not to eat once in a month; and, if they do taste 
 food, it must be what first offers : and this thou wouldst have known 
 badst thou read as many histories as I have done; for, though I 
 D 
 
50 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 have perused many, I never yet found in them any account of 
 knights-errant taking food, unless it were by chance, and at certain 
 sumptuous banquets prepared expressly for them; the rest of their 
 days they lived, as it were, upon smelling. And though it is to be 
 presumed they could not subsist without eating and satisfying all 
 other wants—as, in fact, they were men—yet, since they passed 
 most part of their lives in wandering through forests and deserts, 
 and without a cook, their usual diet must have consisted of rustic 
 viands, such as those which thou hast now offered me. Therefore, 
 friend Sancho, let not that trouble thee which gives me pleasure ; 
 nor endeavour to make a new world, or to throw knight-errantry off 
 its hinges.”* ‘‘ Pardon me, sir,” said Sancho ; ‘‘for, as I can neither 
 read nor write, as I told you before, I am entirely unacquainted 
 with the rules of the knightly profession: but henceforward, I will 
 furnish my wallet with all sorts of dried fruits for your worship, 
 who area knight; and for myself, who am none, I will supply it 
 with poultry, and other things of more substance.” ‘‘I do not say, 
 Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘that knights-errant are obliged to 
 eat nothing but the dried fruits thou hast mentioned, but that such 
 was their ordinary sustenance, together with certain herbs they 
 found in the fields, which were to them well known, as they are 
 also to me.” ‘‘It is a good thing to know these same herbs,” 
 answered Sancho; ‘‘for I am inclined to think we shall one day 
 have occasion to make use of that knowledge.” 
 
 He now brought out what provisions he had, and they ate to- 
 gether in a very peaceable and friendly manner. But being desirous 
 to seek out some place wherein to rest that night, they soon finished 
 their poor and dry meal, and then made what haste they could to 
 reach some village before night; but both the sun and their hopes 
 failed them near the huts of some goatherds. They determined, 
 therefore, to take up their lodging with them ; but if Sancho was 
 grieved that they could not reach a village, his master was as much 
 rejoiced to lie in the open air, conceiving, that every time this 
 befel him, he was performing an act which confirmed his title to 
 chivalry. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 Of what befel Don Quixote with the goatherds. 
 
 No one could be more kindly received than was Don Quixote by 
 the goatherds ; and Sancho having accommodated Rozinante and his 
 ass in the best manner he was able, pursued the odour emitted by 
 certain pieces of goat’s flesh that were boiling in a kettle on a fire ; 
 and, though he would willingly at that instant have tried whether 
 they were ready to be transferred from the kettle to the stomach, 
 he forbore doing so, as the goatherds themselves took them off the 
 fire, and, spreading some sheepskins on the ground, very speedily 
 
THEY MEET SOME GOATHERDS. 51 
 
 served up their rural mess, and, with much cordiality, invited them 
 both to partake of it. Six of them that belonged to the fold seated 
 themselves round the skins, having first, with rustic compliments, 
 requested Don Quixote to seat himself upon a trough with the bot- 
 tom upwards, placed on purpose for him. . Don Quixote sat down, 
 and Sancho remained standing to serve the cup, which was made of 
 horn. His master, seeing him standing, said to him, ‘“‘That thou 
 mayest see the intrinsic worth of knight-errantry, and how speedily 
 those who exercise any ministry whatsoever belonging to 1t may 
 attain honour and estimation in the world, it is my will that thou 
 be seated here by my side, in company with these good people, and 
 become one and the same thing with me, who am thy master and 
 natural lord ; that thou eat from off my plate, and drink of the same 
 cup from which I drink ; for the same may be said of knight-errantry 
 which is said of love, that it makes all things equal.” ‘‘I give youa 
 great many thanks, sir,” said Sancho: ‘‘ but let me tell your worship 
 that, provided I have victuals enough, I can eat as well, or better 
 standing, and alone, than if I were seated close by an emperor. 
 And further, to tell you the truth, what I eat in a corner, without 
 compliments and ceremonies, though it were nothing but bread and 
 an onion, relishes better than turkeys at other men’s tables, where 
 I am forced to chew leisurely, drink little, wipe my mouth often, 
 neither sneeze nor cough when I have a mind, nor do other things 
 which may be done when alone and at liberty. So that, good sir, 
 let these honours which your worship is pleased to confer upon me, 
 as a servant and adherent of knight-errantry (being squire to your 
 worship) be exchanged for something of more use and profit to me ; 
 for though I place them to account, as received in full, I renounce 
 
 , them from this time forward to the end of the world.” ‘*‘ Notwith- 
 
 standing this,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘thou shalt sit down ;” and 
 pulling him by the arm, he forced him to sit down next him. The 
 goatherds did not understand this jargon of squires and knights- 
 errant, and therefore only ate, held their peace, and stared at their 
 guests, who, with much satisfaction and appetite, swallowed down 
 pieces as large as their fists. The service of flesh being finished, 
 they spread upon the skins a great quantity of acorns, together with 
 half a cheese, harder than if it had been made of mortar. The horn, 
 in the meantime, stood not idle; for it went round so often, now full, 
 now empty, like the bucket of a well, that they presently emptied 
 one of the two wine-bags that hung in view. After Don Quixote 
 had satisfied his hunger, he took up a handful of acorns, and 
 ping on them attentively, gave utterance to expressions like 
 
 ese :— 
 
 ‘‘Happy times, and happy ages, were those which the ancients 
 _ termed the Golden Age ! not because gold, so prized in this our iron 
 age, was to be obtained, in that fortunate period, without toil; but 
 because they who then lived were ignorant of those two words, 
 Mine and Thine. In that blessed age, all things were in common; 
 to provide their ordinary sustenance, no other labour was necessary 
 than to raise their hands and take it from the sturdy oaks, which 
 stood liberally inviting them to taste their sweet and relishing fruit. 
 
52, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 The limpid fountains and running streams offered them, in magni- 
 ficent abundance, their delicious and transparent waters. In the 
 clefts of rocks, and in hollow trees, the industrious and provident 
 bees formed their commonwealths, offering to every hand, without 
 interest, the fertile produce of their most delicious toil. The stately 
 cork trees, impelled by their own courtesy alone, divested them- 
 selves of their light and expanded bark, with which men began to 
 cover their houses, supported by rough poles, only as a defence 
 against the inclemency of the heavens. All then was peace, all 
 amity, all concord. The heavy coulter of the crooked plough had 
 not yet dared to force open and search into the tender bowels of our 
 first mother, who, unconstrained, offered from every part of her 
 fertile and spacious bosom, whatever might feed, sustain, and 
 delight those, her children, by whom she was then possessed. 
 Then did the simple and beauteous young shepherdesses trip from 
 dale to dale, and from hill to hill, their tresses sometimes plaited, 
 sometimes loosely flowing, with no more clothing than was neces- 
 sary; nor were their ornaments like those now in fashion, to which 
 a value is given by the Tyrian purple and the silk so many ways 
 martyred ; but adorned with green dock leaves and ivy interwoven, 
 
 erhaps they appeared as splendidly and elegantly dressed as court- 
 ies: with all those rare and foreign inventions which idle curios- 
 ity hath taught them. Then were the amorous conceptions of the 
 soul clothed in simple and sincere expressions, in the same way and 
 manner they were conceived, without seeking artificial phrases to 
 enhance their value. Nor had fraud, deceit, and malice intermixed 
 with truth and plain dealing, Justice maintained her proper 
 bounds, undisturbed, and unassailed by favour and interest, which 
 now so much depreciate, molest, and persecute her. Law was not 
 yet left to the interpretation of the judge; for then there was 
 neither cause nor judge. Maidens and modesty, as I said before, 
 went about alone, without fear of danger from the unbridled free- 
 dom of others. But now, in these detestable ages of ours, no damsel 
 is secure, though she were hidden and enclosed in another labyrinth 
 like thateof Crete. Therefore, as times became worse and wicked- 
 ness increased, to defend maidens, to protect widows, and to relieve 
 orphans and persons distressed, the order of knight-errantry was 
 instituted. Of this order am I, brother goatherds, whom I thank 
 for the good cheer and kind reception ye have given me and my 
 squire ; for though, by the law of nature, every one living is bound 
 to favour knights-errant, yet as ye have received and regaled me 
 without being aware of this obligation, it is but reasonable that I 
 should return you my warmest acknowledgments.” 
 
 Our knight made this Jong harangue (which might well have 
 been spared), because the acorns they had put before him reminded 
 him of the golden age, and led him to make that unprofitable dis- 
 course to the goatherds, who, in astonishment, listened to him, 
 without saying a word. Sancho also was silent, devouring the 
 acorns, and making frequent visits to the second wine-bag, which 
 was hanging upon a cork-tree, in order to keep the wine cool. 
 
 — Don Quixote spent more time in talking than in eating, and, 
 
 = 
 
THE GOATHERD’S SONG. 58 
 
 supper being over, one of the goatherds said, ‘‘ That your worship, 
 signor knight-errant, may the more truly say that we entertain you 
 with a ready good-will, one of our comrades, who will soon be here, 
 shall sing for your pleasure and amusement. He is a very intelli- 
 gent lad and deeply enaroured ; above all, he can read and write, 
 and play upon the rebeck as well as heart can desire.” The goat- 
 herd had scarcely said this when the sound of the rebeck reached 
 their ears, and, presently after, came the musician, who was a 
 youth of an agreeable mien, about two-and-twenty years of age. 
 His comrades asked him if he had supped; and he having answeied 
 in the affirmative, one of them said, ‘‘If so, Antonio, you may let 
 us have the pleasure of hearing you sing a little, that this gentle- 
 man, our guest, may see, that even here, among woods and moun- 
 tains, there are some who are skilled in music. We have told him 
 of your great abilities, and wish you to show them, and prove the 
 (truth of what we have said ; and therefore I entreat you to sit down, 
 and sing the ballad of your love, which your uncle, the curate, com- 
 posed for you, and which was so well liked in our village.” ‘‘With 
 all my heart,” replied the youth ; and without further entreaty, he 
 sat down upon the trunk of an old oak, and, after tuning his rebeck, 
 he began to sing in a most agreeable manner, as follows : 
 
 ANTONIO. 
 
 “Yes, lovely nymph, thou art my prize; 
 L boast the conquest of thy heart, 
 Though nor the tongue, nor speaking eyes, 
 Have yet reveal’d the latent smart. 
 
 Thy wit and sense assure my fate, 
 
 In them my love’s success I see; 
 Nor can he be unfortunate 
 
 Who dares avow his flame for thee. 
 
 Yet sometimes hast thou frown’d, alas! 
 And given my hopes a cruel shock ; 
 Then did thy soul seem form’d of brass, 
 
 Thy snowy bosom of the rock. 
 
 But in the midst of thy disdain, 
 Thy sharp reproaches, cold delays, 
 
 Hope from behind, to ease my pain, 
 The border of her robe displays. 
 
 Ah! lovely maid! in equal scale 
 Weigh well thy shepherd’s truth and love, 
 Which ne’er, but with his breath, can fail, 
 Which neither frowns nor smiles can move. 
 
 If love, as shepherds wont to say, 
 Be gentleness and courtesy, 
 
 So courteous is Olalia, 
 My passion will rewarded be. 
 
54 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 And if obsequious duty paid, 
 The grateful heart can never move, 
 Mine sure, my fair, may well persuade 
 A due return, and claim thy love. 
 
 For, to seem pleasing in thy sight, 
 
 I dress myself with studious care, 
 And, in my best apparel dight, 
 
 My Sunday clothes on Monday wear. 
 
 And shepherds say I’m not to blame, 
 For cleanly dress and spruce attire 
 
 Preserve alive love’s flickering flame, 
 And gently fan the dying fire. 
 
 To please my fair, in mazy ring 
 
 I joined the dance, and sportive play; 
 And oft beneath thy window sing, 
 
 When first the cock proclaims the day. 
 
 With rapture on each charm I dwell, 
 And daily spread thy beauty’s fame 
 
 And still my tongue thy praise shall tell, - 
 Though envy swell, or malice blame. 
 
 Teresa of the Berrocal, 
 
 When once I praised you, said in spite, 
 Your mistress you an angel call, 
 
 But a mere ape is your delight. 
 
 Thanks to the bugle’s artful glare, 
 And all the graces counterfeit ; 
 
 Thanks to the false and curled hair, 
 Which wary Love himself might cheat. 
 
 I swore ‘twas false; and said she lied ; 
 At that her anger fiercely rose; 
 
 I box’d the clown that took her side, 
 And how I box’d my fairest knows. 
 
 The church hath silken chords, that tie 
 Consenting hearts in mutual bands: 
 If thou, my fair, its yoke wilt try, 
 Thy swain its 1eady captive stands. 
 
 If not, by all the saints I swear 
 
 On these bleak mountains still to dwell, 
 Nor ever quit my toilsome care, 
 
 But for the cloister and the cell.” 
 
 Here ended the goatherd’s song, and Don Quixote requested him 
 to sing something else; but Sancho Panza was of another mind, 
 being more disposed to sleep than to hear ballads; he therefore 
 said to his master, ‘Sir, you had better consider where you are to 
 rest to-night; for the labour which these honest men undergo all 
 
STORY RELATED BY A GOATHERD, 55 
 
 day will not suffer them to pass the night in singing.” ‘I 
 understand thee, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘for it is very 
 evident that visits to the wine-bag require rather to be paid with 
 sleep than music.” ‘‘It relished well with us all,” answered 
 Sancho. ‘‘I do not deny it,” replied Don Quixote; ‘‘lay thyself 
 down where thou wilt, but it is more becoming those of my pro- 
 fession to watch than to sleep. However, it would not be amiss, 
 Sancho, if thou wouldst dress this ear again; for it pains me more 
 than it ought.” Sancho did as he was desired; and one of the 
 goatherds seeing the wound, bade him not be concerned about it, 
 for he would apply such a remedy as should quickly heal it; then 
 taking some rosemary-leaves, which abounded in that place, he 
 chewed them and mixed with them a little salt, and, laying them 
 to the ear, bound them on very fast, assuring him that no other 
 salve would be necessary, which indeed proved to be true. 
 
 CHAP DER Pb 
 What a certain goatherd related to those who were with Don Quizote. 
 
 Soon after this there arrived another young lad, laden with pro- 
 visions from the village. ‘‘ Comrades,” said he, ‘‘do you know 
 what is passing in the village?” ‘‘ How should we know?” an- 
 swered one of them. ‘‘ Know, then,” continued the youth, ‘that 
 the famous shepherd and scholar, Chrysostom, died this morning, 
 and itis rumoured that it was for the love of that wild girl Marcela, 
 daughter of William the rich; she who rambles about these woods 
 and fields in the dress of a shepherdess.”  ‘‘ For Marcela, say 
 you?” quothone. ‘‘For her, Isay,” answered the goatherd: ‘‘and 
 the best of it is, he has ordered in his will that they should bury 
 him in the fields, like a Moor, at the foot of the rock, by the cork- 
 tree fountain, which, according to report, and, as they say, he 
 himself declared, was the very place where he first saw her. He 
 ordered also other things, so extravagant that the clergy say they 
 must not be performed ; nor is it fit that they should, for they seem 
 to be heathenish. But his great friend Ambrosio, the student, who 
 accompanied him, dressed also like a shepherd, declares that the 
 whole of what Chrysostom enjoined shall be executed; and upon 
 this the village is all in an uproar; but by what I can learn, they 
 will at last do what Ambrosio and all his friends require ; and to- 
 morrow they come to inter him, with great solemnity, in the place 
 I mentioned; and, in my opinion, it will be a sight well worth 
 seeing ; at least I shall not fail to go, although I were certain of 
 not returning to-morrow to the village.” ‘‘ We will do the same,” 
 answered the goatherds; ‘‘and let us cast lots who shall stay be- 
 hind, to look after the goats.” ‘‘You say well, Pedro,” quoth 
 another ; ‘‘but it will be needless to make use of this expedient, for 
 I will remain for you all; and do not attribute this to self-denial 
 or want of curiosity in me, but to the thorn which stuck into my 
 
56 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 foot the other day, and hinders me from walking.” ‘‘We thank 
 you, nevertheless,” answered Pedro. 
 
 Don Quixote requested Pedro to give him some account of the 
 deceased man and the shepherdess. To which Pedro answered, 
 ‘‘that all he knew was, that the deceased was a wealthy gentleman, 
 and inhabitant of a village situate among these mountains, who had 
 studied many years at Salamanca ; at the end of which time he re- 
 turned home, with the character of a very learned and well-read 
 person ; particularly, it was said, he understood the science of the 
 stars, and what the sun and moon are doing in the sky ; for he told 
 us punctually the clipse of the sun and moon.” ‘‘ Friend,” quoth 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘the obscuration of these two luminaries is called an 
 eclipse, and not a clipse.” But Pedro, not regarding niceties, went 
 on with his story, saying, ‘‘ He also foretold when the year would 
 be plentiful or starel.” <‘‘Sterile, you would say, friend,” quoth 
 Don Quixote. ‘‘Sterile or starel,” answered Pedro, ‘‘ comes all to 
 the same thing. And, as I was saying, his father and friends, who 
 gave credit to his words, became very rich thereby; for they 
 followed his advice in everything. This year he would say, Sow 
 barley, and not wheat; in this you may sow vetches, and not bar- 
 ley; the next year there will be plenty of oil; the three following, 
 there will not be a drop.” ‘‘ This science they call astrology,” said 
 Don Quixote. ‘‘I know not how it is called,” replied Pedro, ‘‘ but 
 [ know that he knew all this, and more too. In short, not many 
 months after he came from Salamanca, on a certain day he appeared 
 dressed like a shepherd, with his crook and sheepskin jacket, having 
 thrown aside his scholar’s gown; and with an intimate friend of his, 
 called Ambrosio, who had been his fellow student, and who now put 
 on likewise the apparel of ashepherd. I forgot to tell you how the 
 deceased Chrysostom was a great man at making verses; insomuch 
 that he made the carols for Christmas eve, and the religious plays for 
 Corpus Christi, which the boys of the village represented ; and every- 
 body said they were most excellent. When the people of the village 
 saw the two scholars so suddenly habited like shepherds, they were 
 amazed, and could not get at the cause that induced them to make 
 that strange alteration in their dress. About this time the father 
 of Chrysostom died, and he inherited a large estate, in lands and 
 goods, flocks, herds, and money, of all which the youth remained 
 absolute master; and, indeed, he deserved it all, for he was a very 
 good companion, a charitable man, and a friend to those who were 
 good, and had a face like any blessing. Afterwards it came to be 
 known that he changed his habit for no other purpose but that he 
 might wander about these desert places after that shepherdess 
 Marcela, with whom, as our lad told you, he was in love. And I 
 will now tell you (for it is fit you should know) who this young 
 ‘slut is; for, perhaps, and even without a perhaps, you may never 
 have heard the like in all the days of your life, though you were as 
 old as Sarna.” ‘‘Sarah, you mean,” replied Don Quixote, not 
 being able to endure the goatherd’s mistaking words. ‘‘Sarna will 
 do,” answered Pedro; ‘‘and, sir, if you must at every turn be cor- 
 recting my words, we shall not have done this twelvemonth.” 
 
‘ THE SHEPHERD'S STORY. 57 
 “Pardon me, friend,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘and go on with your 
 story, for J will interrupt you no more.” 
 
 ‘“*T say then, dear sir, of my soul,” quoth the goatherd, ‘‘that in 
 our village, there was a farmer still richer than the father of Chry- 
 sostom called William, on whom Providence bestowed, besides 
 great wealth, a daughter, whose mother, the most respected woman 
 in all our country, died in giving her birth—I think I see her now, 
 with that goodly presence, looking as if she had the sun on the one 
 side of her and the moon on the other ; and, above all, she was a 
 notable housewife, and a friend to the poor, for which I believe her 
 soul is at this very momentin heaven. Her husband, William, died 
 for grief at the death of so good a wife, leaving his daughter Mar- 
 cela, young and rich, under the care of an uncle, a priest, and the 
 eurate of our village. The girl grew up with so much beauty, that 
 it put us in mind of her mother, who had a great share, yet it was 
 thought that the daughter would surpass her; and so it fell out, for 
 when she came to be fourteen or fifteen years of age, nobody beheld 
 her without blessing God for making her so handsome, and most 
 men were in love with, and distracted for her. Her uncle kept her 
 both carefully and close ; nevertheless the fame of her extraordinary 
 beauty so spread itself, that, partly for her person, partly for her 
 great riches, her uncle was applied to, solicited, and importuned, not 
 only by those of our own village, but by many others, and those of 
 the better sort, too, for several leagues round, to dispose of her in 
 marriage. But he, who, to do him justice, is a good Christian, 
 though he was desirous of disposing of her as soon as she was mar- 
 riageable, yet would not do it without her consent. Not that he 
 had an eye to any advantage he might make of the girl’s estate by 
 deferring her marriage; and, in good truth, this has been told in 
 praise of the good priest in more companies than one in our village. 
 For I would have you to know, sir-knight, that in these little 
 places, everything is talked of, and everything censured. And, 
 take my word for it, that a clergyman, especially in country towns, 
 must be over and above good who makes all his parishioners speak 
 well of him.” 
 
 “That is true,” said Don Quixote ; ‘‘ but proceed, for the story 
 is excellent, and you, honest Pedro, tell it with a good grace.” 
 ‘‘May the grace of the Lord never fail me! which is most to the 
 purpose. And you must further know,” quoth Pedro, ‘that, 
 though the uncle made these proposals known to his niece, and 
 acquainted her with the qualities of each one in particular, of the 
 many that sought her hand, advising her also to marry and choose 
 to her liking, her only answer was, that she was not so disposed 
 at present, and that, being so young, she did not feel herself able 
 to bear the burden of matrimony. Her uncle, satisfied with 
 these seemingly just excuses, ceased to importune her, and waited 
 till she was grown a little older, when she would know how to 
 choose a companion to her taste. For, said he—and he said well— 
 parents ought not to settle their children against their will. But, 
 behold! when we least thought of it, on a certain day the coy Mar- 
 cela appears a shepherdess, and, without the consent of her uncle, 
 
58 . ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and against the entreaties of all the neighbours, would needs go 
 into the fields, with the other country lasses, and tend her own 
 flock. And now that she appeared in public, and her beauty was 
 exposed to all beholders, it is impossible to tell you how many 
 wealthy youths, gentlemen, and farmers, have taken the shepherd’s 
 dress, and wander about these plains, making their suits to her. 
 One of whom, as you have already been told, was the deceased ; and 
 he, it is said, rather adored than loved her. But think not that, 
 although Marcella has given herself up to this free and unconfined 
 way of life, and with so little, or rather no reserve, she has given 
 the least colour of suspicion to the prejudice of her modesty and 
 discretion—no—rather, so great and strict is the watch she keeps, 
 that of all those who serve and solicit her, no one has boasted, or can 
 boast with truth, that she has given him the least hope of obtain- 
 ing his wishes. For though she does not fly or shun the company 
 and conversation of the shepherds, but treats them in a courteous 
 and friendly manner, yet, when any one of them ventures to dis- 
 cover his intention, she casts him from her as out of a stone-bow. 
 And by this sort of behaviour she does more mischief in this coun- 
 try than if she carried the plague about with her ; for her affability 
 and beauty win the hearts of those who converse with her, and 
 incline them to serve and love her; but her disdain and frank deal- 
 ing drive them to despair; and so they kuow not what to say to 
 her, and can only exclaim against her, calling her cruel and ungrate- 
 ful, with such other titles as plainly denote her character; and, 
 were you to abide here, sir, awhile, you would hear those moun- 
 tains and valleys resound with the complaints of those rejected 
 wretches that yet follow her. There is a place not far hence, where 
 about two dozen of tall beeches gruw, and not one of them is without 
 the name of Marcela written and engraved on its smooth bark ; 
 over some of them is carved a crown, as if the lover would more 
 clearly express that Marcela deserves and wears the crown of all 
 human beauty. Here sighs one shepherd; there complains another ; 
 here are heard amorous sonnets, there despairing ditties. One will 
 pass all the hours of the night seated at the foot of some rock or 
 tree, where, without having closed his weeping eyes, wrapt up and lost 
 in thought, the sun finds him in the morning ; whilst another, giving 
 no truce to his sighs, lies stretched on the burning sand in the 
 midst of the most sultry noonday heat of summer, sending up his 
 complaints to all-pitying Heaven. In the meantime, the beautiful 
 Marcela, free and unconcerned, triumphs over them all. We, who 
 know her, wait with impatience to see how all this. will end, and 
 who is to be the happy man that shall subdue so intractable a dis- 
 position, and possess so incomparable a beauty. As all that I have 
 related is certain truth, I can more readily believe what our com- 
 panion told us concerning the cause of Chrysostom’s death; and 
 therefore I advise you, sir, not to fail being to-morrow at his fune- 
 
 ral, which will be very well worth seeing, for Chrysostom has a 
 
 great many friends; and it is not half-a-league hence to the place of 
 interment appointed by himself.” 
 id, wilkerigunly. be there,” said Don Quixote, ‘Cand I thank you 
 “ ~ ; 
 
 * 
 
 : 
 i 
 
 = 
 
THE SHEPHERD’S STORY. 59 
 
 for the pleasure you have given me by the recital of so entertaining 
 a story.” ‘‘O,” replied the goatherd, ‘‘I do not yet know half the 
 adventures of Marcela’s lovers; but to-morrow, perhaps, we shall 
 meet by the way with some shepherd who may tell us more; at 
 present, it will not be amiss for you to go and sleep under some 
 roof, for the cold dew of the night may do harm to your wound, 
 though the salve I have put to it is such that you need not fear any 
 trouble from it.” Sancho Panza, who, for his part, had wished 
 this long-winded tale of the goatherd at an end, pressed his master 
 to lay himself down to sleep in Pedro’s hut. He did so, and passed 
 the rest of the night thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in imitation of 
 the lovers of Marcela. Sancho took up his lodging between 
 Rozinante and his ass, where he slept, not like a discarded lover, 
 but like a man who had been grievously kicked. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 The conclusion of the story of the shepherdess Marcela, with cther 
 incidents, 
 
 Morning had scarcely dawned through the balconies of the east, 
 when five of the six goatherds got up and went to awake Don Quixote, 
 whom they asked whether he continued in his resolution of going 
 to see the famous interment of Chrysostom ; for, if so, they would 
 bear him company. Don Quixote, who desired nothing more, 
 arose ard ordered Sancho to saddle and pannel immediately, which 
 be did with great expedition ; and, with the same despatch, they 
 all set out on their journey. 
 
 They had not gone a quarter of a league, when, upon crossing a 
 pathway, they saw six shepherds advancing towards them, clad in 
 jackets of black sheepskin, with garlands of cypress and bitter 
 rosemary on their heads, each of them having in his hand a thick 
 holly club. There came also with them two gentlemen on horse- 
 back, well equipped for travelling, who were attended by three 
 lacqueys on foot. When the two parties met, they courteously 
 saluted each other, and finding upon inquiry that all were proceed- 
 ing to the place of burial, they continued their journey together. 
 
 One of the horsemen, addressing his companion, said, ‘‘I think, 
 Signor Vivaldo, we shall not repent having stayed to see this 
 famous interment ; for, without doubt, it will be an extraordinary 
 sight, according to the strange accounts these shepherds have given 
 us of the deceased shepherd and murdering shepherdess.” ‘I 
 think so, too,” answered Vivaldo; ‘‘and so far from regretting the 
 delay of one day, I would stay four to see it.” Don Quixote asked 
 them what they had heard of Marcela and Chrysostom? The 
 traveller saidthey had met those shepherds early in the morning, 
 and that, observing their mournful apparel, they had inquired the 
 cause, and were informed of it by one of them, who told them of 
 the beauty and singularity ofa certain shepherdess, called Marcela, 
 
 . 
 
 a . 
 
60 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and the loves of many that wooed her; with the death of Chrysos- 
 tom, to whose burial they were going. In fine, he related all that 
 Pedro had told Don Quixote. 
 
 This discourse ceased, and another began, by Vivaldo asking 
 Don Quixote what might be the reason that induced him to go 
 armed, in that manner, through a country so peaceable? To which 
 Don Quixote answered, ‘‘ The profession I follow will not allow or 
 suffer me to go ‘in any other manner. Revels, banquets, and 
 repose were invented for effeminate courtiers ; but toil, disquietude, 
 and arms alone were designed for those whom the world calls 
 knights-errant, of which number I, though unworthy, am the 
 least.” As soon as they heard this, they all perceived his 
 derangement; but in order to discover the nature of his madness, 
 Vivaldo asked him what he meant by knights-errant. ‘‘ Have you 
 not read, sir,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘the annals and histories of 
 England, wherein are recorded the famous exploits of King Arthur, 
 whom, in our Castilian tongue, we perpetually call King Artus? of 
 whom there exists an ancient tradition, universally received over 
 the whole kingdom of Great Britain, that he did not die, but that, 
 by magic art, he was transformed into a raven; and that, in process 
 of time, he shall reign again, and recover his kingdom and sceptre; 
 for which reason it cannot be proved that, from that time to this, 
 any Englishman hath killed a raven. Now, in this good king’s 
 time was instituted that renowned order of chivalry, entitled the 
 Knights of the Round Table, in whose annals is related the story 
 of Sir Lancelot of the Lake and the Queen Ginebra ; that honour- 
 able duenna Quintaniona being their mediatrix and confidante: 
 whence originated that well-known ballad, so much admired here 
 in Spain, ‘Never was knight by ladies so well served as was Sir 
 Lancelot when he came from Britain :’ with the rest of that sweet 
 and charming account of his exploits. Now, from that time, the 
 order of chivalry has been extending and spreading itself through 
 many and divers parts of the world: and among those of the pro- 
 fession distinguished and renowned for heroic deeds was the 
 valiant Amadis de Gaul, with all his sons and grandsons, to the 
 fifth generation: the valorous Felixmarte of Hyrcania; and the 
 never-enough-to-be-praised Tirante the White: nay, even almost 
 in our own times, we have seen, heard, and conversed with the 
 invincible and valorous knight Don Belianis of Greece. This, 
 gentlemen, it is to be a knight-errant ; and the order of chivalry is 
 what I have described. To this order, as I said before, I, though a 
 sinner, have devoted myself ; and the same which ‘those knights 
 profess, do I profess also: therefore am I travelling through these 
 solitudes and deserts in quest of adventures, with a determined 
 resolution to oppose my arm and my person to the most perilous 
 that fortune may present, in aid of the weak and oppressed.” 
 
 By this discourse the travellers were fully convinced of the dis- 
 ordered state of Don Quixote’s mind; and the species of insanity 
 with which they perceived him to be affected struck them with the 
 same surprise, that all felt upon first discovering it. Vivaldo, who 
 was a man of discernment, and withal of a gay disposition, to en- 
 
 - 
 
DUTIES OF A KNIGHT-ERRANT. 61 
 
 liven the remainder of their journey to the funeral, resolved to give. 
 him an opportunity of pursuing his extravagant discourse. He 
 therefore said to him, ‘‘ In my opinion, sir knight-errant, you have 
 engaged in one of the most austere professions upon earth; more 
 rigid even than that of the Carthusian monks.” ‘‘ That order of 
 monks may be as rigid,” answered Don Qxixote; ‘‘ but that it is 
 equally necessary to the world I am much inclined to doubt ; for, 
 to say the truth, the soldier who executes his captain’s orders does 
 no less than the captain himself, who gives him the orders. I 
 would say that the religious order, in peace and tranquillity, 
 implore Heaven for the good of the world; but we soldiers and 
 knights really execute what they pray for, defending it with the 
 strength of our arms and the edge of our swords; not under covert, 
 but in open field ; exposed to the intolerable beams of the summer’s 
 sun, and the chilling frosts of winter. Thus we are Heaven’s minis- 
 ters upon earth, and the arms by which God executes His justice. 
 And as the affairs of war, and those appertaining to it, cannot be 
 put in execution without toil, pain, and labour, so they who profess 
 it must unquestionably endure more than those who, in peace and 
 repose, are employed in praying to Heaven to assist them, and who 
 can do but little for themselves. I mean not to say, nor do I enter- 
 tain such a thought, that the state of the knight-errant is as good 
 as that vt the religious recluse: I would only infer, from what I 
 suffer, that it is, doubtless, more laborious, more bastinadoed, more 
 hungry and thirsty, more wretched, more ragged, and more filthy : 
 for there is no doubt but that the knights-errant of old suffered 
 much in the course of their iives; if some of them were raised to 
 empires by the valour of their arms, in good truth they paid dearly 
 for it in blood and sweat: and, after all, had they been without the 
 assistance of enchanters and sages, their hopes would have been 
 frustrated and their wishes unattained.” 
 
 ‘J am of the same opinion,” replied the traveller: ‘‘ but one 
 thing, among many others which appear to me to be censurable in 
 knights-errant, is, that when they are prepared to engage in some 
 great and perilous adventure, to the manifest hazard of their lives, 
 at the moment of attack they never think of commending them- 
 selves to God, as every Christian is bound to do at such a crisis, 
 but rather commend themselves to their mistresses, and that with 
 as much fervour and devotion as if they were really their god: a 
 thing which, to me, savours of paganism.” ‘‘Signor,” answered 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘this can by no means be otherwise ; and the knight- 
 errant who should act in any other manner would digress much 
 from his duty: for it is a received maxim and custom in chivalry, 
 that the knight-errant, who, on the point of engaging in some great 
 feat of arms, has his lady before him, must turn his eyes fondly and 
 amorously towards her, as if imploring her favour and protection in 
 the hazardous enterprise that awaits him; and, even if nobody hear 
 him, he must pronounce some words between his teeth, by which he 
 commends himself to her with his whole heart: and of this we have 
 innumerable examples in. history. Nor is it thence to be inferred 
 that they neglect commending themselves to God: for there is time 
 
62 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and opportunity enough to do it in the course of the action.” ‘*‘ Not- 
 withstanding all that,” replied the traveller, ‘<I have one scruple still 
 remaining; for I have often read that words rising between two 
 knights-errant, and choler beginning to kindle in them both, they 
 turn their horses round, and, taking a large compass about the field, 
 immediately encounter at full speed; and, in the midst of their 
 career, commend themselves to their mistresses: what commonly 
 happens in the encounter is, that one of them tumbles back over his 
 horse’s crupper pierced through and through by his adversary’s 
 lance; and if the other had not laid hold of his horse’s mane he must 
 have fallen to the ground ;—now I cannot imagine what leisure the 
 deceased had to commend himself to God, in the course of so ex- 
 peditious a work. Better had it been if the words he spent in com. 
 mending himself to his lady, in the midst of the career, had been 
 employed as the duties of a Christian require ; particularly as I im- 
 agine that all knights-errant have not ladies to commend themselves 
 to, because they are not allin love.” ‘‘That cannot be,” answered 
 Don Quixote: ‘‘I say there cannot be a knight-errant without a 
 mistress; for it is as essential and as natural for them to be en- 
 amoured as for the sky to have stars: and, most certainly, no his- 
 tory exists in which a knight-errant is to be found without a lady- 
 love ; for, from the very circumstance of his being without, he would 
 not be acknowledged as a legitimate knight, but one who had en- 
 tered the fortress of chivalry, not by the gate, but over the pales, 
 like a thief and robber.” ‘‘ Nevertheless,” said the traveller, ‘‘ if 
 I am not mistaken, I remember having read that Don Galaor, 
 brother to the valorous Amadis de Gaul, never had a particular 
 mistress, to whom he might commend himself: notwithstanding 
 which, he was no less esteemed, and was a very valiant and famous 
 knight.” To which our Don Quixote answered, ‘‘ Signor, one swal- 
 low makes not a summer. Moreover, I know that Don Galaor was 
 in secret very deeply enamoured, besides the general love that he 
 entertained towards all whom he thought handsome: a propensity 
 natural to him, and which he was unable to control. But, in short, 
 it is well ascertained that there was one whom he had made mis- 
 tress of his devotion, and to whom he often commended himself, 
 but very secretly; for upon this quality of secrecy he especially 
 valued himself.” 
 
 ‘Tf it is essential that every knight-errant be a lover,” said the 
 traveller, ‘‘it may well be presumed that you are yourself one, 
 being of the profession ; and if you do not pique yourself upon the 
 same secrecy as Don Galaor, I earnestly entreat you, in the name of 
 all this good company, and in my own, to tell us the name, sountry, 
 quality, and beauty of your mistress, who cannot but account her- 
 self happy that all the world should know that she is loved and 
 served by so worthy a knight.” Here Don Quixote breathed a deep 
 sigh, and said, ‘‘I cannot positively affirm whether that sweet 
 enemy of mine is pleased or not that the world should know 1 am her 
 servant: I can only say in answer to what you so very courteously 
 inquire of me, that her name is Dulcinea; her country Toboso, 
 a town of La Mancha; her quality at least that of a princess, since 
 
 x] 
 ' 
 
LINEAGE OF DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO. 63 
 
 she is my queen and sovereign lady ; her beauty more than human, 
 since in her all the impossible and chimerical attributes of beauty 
 which the poets ascribe to their mistresses are realised: for her hair 
 is gold, her forehead the Elysian field, her eyebrows rainbows, her 
 eyes suns, her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her neck 
 alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her whiteness snow ; 
 and her whole person without parallel.” 
 
 ‘*We would fain know,” replied Vivaldo, ‘‘her lineage, race, 
 and family.” To which Don Quixote answered, ‘‘She is not of 
 the ancient Roman Curtii, Caii, or the Scipios, nor of the modern 
 Colonnas or Ursinis; nor of the Moncadas and Requesenes of Cata- 
 lonia; neither is she of the Rebellas and Villanovas of Valentia; 
 the Palafoxes, Nuzas, Rocabertes, Corellas, Lunas, Alagones, 
 Urreas, Fozes, and Gurreas of Arragon; the Cerdas, Manriques, 
 Mendozas, and Guzmans of Castile; the Alencastros, Pallas, and 
 Meneses of Portugal; but she is of those of Toboso de la Mancha; 
 a lineage, though modern, is yet such as may give a noble begin- 
 ning to the most illustrious families of future ages: and in this let 
 no one contradict me, unless it be on the conditions that Zerbino 
 fixed under the arms of Orlando, where it is said :— 
 
 That knight alone those arms shall move, 
 Who dares Orlando’s prowess prove.’” 
 
 “Although mine be of the Cachopines of Laredo,” replied the 
 traveller, ‘‘I dare not compare it with that of Toboso de la 
 Mancha; though, to say the truth, no such appellation hath till 
 now ever reached my ears.” ‘‘Is it possible you should never 
 have heard it!” exclaimed Don Quixote. All the party had 
 listened with great attention to this dialogue; and even the 
 goatherds and shepherds perceived the excessive distraction of our 
 knight. Sancho Panza alone believed all that his master said to 
 be true, knowing who he was, and having been acquainted with 
 him from childhood; but he had some doubts as to that part which 
 concerned the fair Dulcinea del Toboso; never having heard of such 
 a name, or such a princess, although he lived so near Toboso. 
 
 Thus conversing, they proceeded on, when they discerned, 
 through a cleft between two high mountains, about twenty shep- 
 herds coming down, all clad in jerkins of black wool, and crowned 
 with garlands, some of which, as appeared afterwards, were of yew, 
 and some of cypress. Six of them carried a bier, covered with 
 various flowers and boughs. Upon which one of the goatherds said, 
 *‘Those who come yonder are bearing the corpse of Chrysostom ; 
 and at the foot of yonder mountain is the place where he desired to 
 be interred.” They made haste therefore to reach them; which 
 they did just as the bier was set down on the ground; and four of 
 them, with sharp pick-axes, were making the grave by the side of a 
 hard rock. After mutual salutations, Don Quixote and his com- 
 pany went to take a view of the bier; upon which they saw a dead 
 
 ody, strewed’ with flowers, in the dress of a shepherd, apparently 
 about thirty years of age ; and though dead, it was evident that his 
 countenance had been beautiful and his figure elegant. Several 
 
 ” 
 
64 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 books, and a great number of papers, some open and some folded, 
 lay round him on the bier. All that were present, spectators as 
 well as those who were opening the. grave, kept a marvellous 
 silence, until one of those who had borne the deceased, said to 
 
 _ another, ‘‘ Observe carefully, Ambrosio, whether this be the place 
 which Chrysostom mentioned, since you wish to be so exact in 
 executing his will.” ‘‘It is here,” answered Ambrosio; ‘‘for in 
 this very place my unhappy friend often told me of his woe. Here 
 it was, he told me, that he first beheld that mortal enemy of the 
 human race; here it was that he declared to her his no less honour- 
 able than ardent passion; here it was that Marcela finally 
 undeceived and treated him with such disdain that she put an end 
 to the tragedy of his miserable life; and here, in memory of so many 
 misfortunes, he desired to be deposited in the bowels of eternal 
 oblivion.” 
 
 Then addressing himself to Don Quixote and the travellers, he 
 thus continued, ‘‘This body, sirs, which you are regarding with 
 compassionate eyes, was the receptacle of a soul upon which 
 Heaven had bestowed an infinite portion of its treasures: this is the 
 body of Chrysostom, who was a man of rare genius, matchless 
 courtesy, and unbounded kindness; he was a phcenix in friendship, 
 magnificent without ostentation, grave without arrogance, cheerful 
 without meanness; in short, the first of all that was good, the 
 second to none in all that was unfortunate. He loved, and was 
 abhorred ; he adored, and was scorned ; he courted a savage; he 
 solicited a statue; he pursued the wind; he called aloud to the 
 desert ; he was the slave of ingratitude, whose recompense was to 
 leave him, in the middle of his career of life, a prey to death, 
 inflicted by a certain shepherdess, whom he endeavoured to render 
 immortal in the memories of men ; as these papers you are looking 
 at would sufficiently demonstrate, had he not ordered me to com- 
 mit them to the flames at the same time that his body was deposited 
 in the earth.” ‘‘ You would then be more rigorous and cruel to 
 them,” said Vivaldo, ‘‘than their master himself; for it is neither 
 just nor wise to fulfil the will of him who commands what is utterly 
 unreasonable. Augustus Cesar deemed it wrong to consent to the 
 execution of what the divine Mantuan commanded in his will; 
 therefore, Signor Ambrosio, although you commit your friend’s 
 body to the earth, do not commit his writings also to oblivion ; and 
 if he has ordained like a man aggrieved, do not you fulfil lke one 
 without discretion ; but rather preserve these papers, in order that 
 
 the cruelty of Marcela may be still remembered, and serve for an 
 Le] example to those who shail live in times to come, that they may 
 “\ avoid falling down the like precipices; for I am acquainted, as well 
 as my companions here, with the story of this your enamoured and 
 despairing friend; we know also your friendship and the occasion of 
 
 his death, and what he ordered on his death-bed; from which 
 lamentable history we may conclude how great has been the cruelty 
 
 of Marcela, the love of Chrysostom, and the sincerity of your 
 friendship; and also learn the end of those who run headlong in 
 
 the path that delirious passion presents to their view. Last night. 
 
CHRYSOSTOM’S SONG. 65 
 
 we heard of Chrysostom’s death, and that he was to be interred in 
 _ this place; led, therefore, by curiosity and compassion, we turned 
 out of our way, and determined to behold with our eyes what had 
 interested us so much in the recital; and, in return for our pity, 
 and our desire to give aid, had it been possible, we beseech you, 
 oh wise Ambrosio—at least I request it on my own behalf—that 
 you will not burn the papers, but allow me to take some of them.” 
 Then, without waiting for the shepherd’s reply, he stretched out 
 his hand and took some of those that were nearest to him; upon 
 which Ambrosio said, ‘‘ Out of civility, signor, I will consent to 
 your keeping those you have taken ; but if you expect that I shall 
 forbear burning those that remain, you are deceived.” Vivaldo, 
 desirous of seeing what the papers contained, immediately opened 
 one of them, and found that it was entitled, ‘<The Song of Despair.” 
 Ambrosio, hearing it, said, ‘‘This is the last thing which the 
 unhappy man wrote; and that all present may conceive, signor, to 
 what a state of misery he was reduced, read it aloud ; for you will 
 have time enough while they are digging the grave.” ‘That I 
 will do, with all my heart,” said Vivaldo ; and, as all the by- 
 standers had the same desire, they assembled around him, and he 
 read in an audible voice as follows :— 
 
 LO igs buco AB ced a C0 AY 
 
 Wherein are rehearsed the despairing verses of the deceased shepherd, 
 with other unexpected events. 
 
 GHRYSOSTOM’S SONG. 
 
 i 
 Since, cruel maid, you force me to proclaim 
 From clime to clime the triumph of your scorn, 
 Let hell itself inspire my tortur’d breast 
 With mournful numbers, and untune my voice; 
 Whilst the sad pieces of my broken heart 
 Mix with the doleful accents of my tongue, 
 ., At once to tell my griefs and thy exploits. 
 
 om, Hear, then, and listen with attentive ear— 
 Not to harmonious sounds, but echoing groans, 
 Fetch’d from the bottom of my lab’ring breast, 
 To ease, in spite of thee, my raging smart. 
 
 WU 
 The lion’s roar, the howl of midnight wolves, 
 The scaly serpent’s hiss, the raven’s croak, 
 The burst of fighting winds that vex the main, 
 The widow'd owl and turtle’s plaintive moan, 
 With all the din of hell’s infernal crew, 
 From my grieved soul forth issue in one sound— 
 Leaving my senses all confused and lost. 
 For ah! no common Janguage can express 
 The cruel pains that torture my sad heart. 
 
66 
 
 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ITI. 
 Yet let not Echo bear the mournful sounds 
 To where old Tagus rolls his yellow sands, 
 Or Betis, crown’d with olives, pours his flood 
 But here, ’midst rocks and precipices deep, 
 Or to obscure and silent vales removed, 
 On shores by human footsteps never trod, 
 Where the gay sun ne’er lifts his radiant orb, 
 Or with th’ envenom’d face of savage beasts, 
 That range the howling wilderness for food, 
 Will I proclaim the story of my woes— 
 
 Poor privilege of grief !—whilst echoes hoarse 
 
 Catch the sad tale, and spread it round the world. 
 
 UN 
 
 Disdain gives death; suspicions, true or false, 
 O’erturn the impatient mind: with surer stroke 
 Fell jealousy destroys; the pangs of absence 
 
 No lover can support; nor firmest hope 
 
 Can dissipate the dread of cold neglect ; 
 
 Yet I, strange fate! though jealous, though disdain’d, 
 Absent, and sure of cold neglect, still live. 
 
 And ’midst the various torments I endure, 
 
 No ray of hope e’er darted on my soul 
 
 Nor would I hope; rather in deep despair 
 
 Will I sit down, and brooding o’er my griefs, 
 Vow everla-ting absence from her sight. 
 
 Wis 
 
 Can hope and fear at once the soul possess, 
 Or hope subsist with surer cause of fear ? 
 Shall I, to shut out frightful jealousy, 
 
 Close my sad eycs, when every pang I feel 
 Presents the hideous phantom to my view; 
 What wretch so credulous but must embrace 
 Distrust with open arms, when he beholds 
 Disdain avow’d, suspicions realised, 
 
 And truth itself converted to a lie? 
 
 O, cruel tyrant of the realm of love, 
 
 Fierce Jealousy, arm with a sword this hand, 
 Or thou, Disdain, a twisted cord bestow. 
 
 Wie 
 
 Let me not blame my fate; but, dying, think 
 
 The man most blest who loves, the soul most free 
 That love has most enthrall’d. Still to my thoughts 
 Let fancy paint the tyrant of my heart 
 
 Beauteous in mind as face, and in myself 
 
 Still let me find the source of her disdain 
 
 Content to suffer, since imperial Love 
 
 By lovers’ woes maintains his sovereign state. 
 With this persuasion, and the fatal noose, 
 
 I hasten to the doom her scorn demands, 
 
 And, dying, offer up my breathless corse, 
 Uncrown’d with garlands, to the whistling winds. 
 
. CHRYSOSTOM’S SONG. 67 
 
 VIi. 
 O thou, whose unrelenting rigour’s force, 
 First drove me to despair, and now to death, 
 When the sad fate of my untimely fall, 
 Shall reach thy ear, though it deserve a sigh, 
 Veil not the heav’n of those bright eyes in grief, 
 Nor drop one pitying tear, to tell the world 
 At length my death has triumphed o’er thy scorn; 
 But dress thy face in smiles, and celebrate, 
 With laughter and each circumstance of joy, 
 The festival of my disastrous end. 
 Ah! need I bid thee smile? too well I know 
 My death’s thy utmost glory and thy pride. 
 
 VIIL. 
 Come, all ye phantoms of the dark abyss: 
 Bring, Tantalus, thy unextinguished thirst, 
 And, Sisyphus, thy still returning stone; 
 Come, Tityus, with the vulture at thy heart ; 
 And thou, Ixion, bring thy giddy wheel; 
 Nor let the toiling sisters stay behind. 
 Pour your united griefs into this breast, 
 And in low murmurs sing sad obsequies 
 (If a despairing wretch such rites may claim) 
 O’er my cold limb, deny’d a winding-sheet, 
 And let the triple porter of the shades, 
 The sister furies, and chimeras dire, 
 With notes of woe the mournful chorus join. 
 Such funeral pomp alone befits the wretch 
 By beauty sent untimely to the grave. 
 
 IX: 
 And thou, my song, sad child of my despair, 
 Complain no more; but, since my wretched fate 
 Improves her happier lot who gave thee birth, 
 Be all thy sorrows buried in my tomb. 
 
 Chrysostom’s song was much approved by those who heard it ; 
 but he who read it said, it did not seem to agree with the account 
 he had heard of the reserve and goodness of Marcela; for Chrysos- 
 tom complains in it of jealousy, suspicion, and absence, all to the 
 prejudice of her credit and good name. Ambrosio, being well 
 acquainted with the most! hidden thoughts of his friend, said, in 
 reply, ‘‘To satisfy you, signor, on this point, I must inform you 
 that, when my unhappy friend wrote this song, he was absent from 
 Marcela, from whom he had voluntarily banished himself, to try 
 whether absence would have upon him its ordinary effect; and as 
 an absent lover is disturbed by every shadow, so was Chrysostom 
 tormented with causeless jealousy and suspicions; thus the truth of 
 all which fame reports of Marcela’s goodness remains unimpeached ; 
 and, excepting that she is cruel, somewhat arrogant, and very dis- 
 dainful, envy itself neither ought nor can charge her with any de- 
 fect.” ‘You are right,” answered Vivaldo; who, as he was going 
 to read another of the papers he had saved from the fire, was inter- 
 rupted by a wonderful vision (for such it seemed), that suddenly 
 
68 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 presented itself to their sight; for, on the top of the rock under 
 which they were digging the grave, appeared the shepherdess herself, 
 so beautiful that her beauty even surpassed the fame of it. Those 
 who had never seen her until that time beheld her in silence and 
 admiration ; and those who had been accustomed to the sight of 
 her were now surprised at her appearance. But as soon as Am- 
 brosio had espied her, he said, with indignation, ‘‘Comest thou, O 
 fierce basilisk of these mountains, to see whether the wounds of 
 this wretch, whom thy cruelty has deprived of life, will bleed 
 afresh at thy appearance? or comest thou to triumph in the cruel. 
 exploits of thy inhuman disposition—which from that eminence 
 thou beholdest, as the merciless Nero gazed on the flames of 
 burning Rome? or insolently to trample on this unhappy corse, as 
 did the impious daughter on that of her father Tarquin?* Tell us 
 quickly for what thou comest, or what thou wouldst have; for 
 since I know that Chryrostom while living never disobeyed thee, I 
 will take care that all those who call themselves his friends shall 
 obey thee, although he is now no more.” 
 
 ‘“T come not, O Ambrosio, for any of those purposes you have 
 mentioned,” answered Marcela, ‘‘but to vindicate myself, and to 
 declare how unreasonable are those who blame me for their own 
 sufferings, or for the death of Chrysostom ; and therefore I entreat 
 you all to hear me with attention ; for I need not spend much time, 
 nor use many words to convince persons of sense. Heaven, as you 
 say, made me handsome, and to such a degree that my beauty im- 
 pels you involuntarily to love me ; and, in return for this passion, 
 you pretend that I am bound to love you. I know, by the under- 
 standing which God has given me, that whatever is beautiful is 
 amiable ; but I cannot conceive that the object beloved for its 
 beauty is obliged to return love for love. Besides, it may happen 
 that the lover is a deformed and ugly person; and being on that 
 account an object of disgust, it would seem inconsistent to say 
 because I love you for your beauty, you must love me although I 
 am ugly. But supposing beauty to be equal, it does not follow 
 that inclinations should be mutual; for all beauty does not inspire 
 Jove; some please the sight without captivating the affections. If 
 all beauties were to enamour and captivate, the hearts of mankind 
 would be in a continual state of perplexity and confusion, without 
 knowing where to fix; for beautiful objects being infinite, the senti- 
 ment they inspire must also be infinite. And I have heard say, true 
 love cannot be divided, and must be voluntary and unconstrained. If 
 so, why would you have me yield my heart by compulsion, urged 
 only because you say you love me? For, pray tell me, if Heaven, 
 instead of giving me beauty had made me unsightly, would it have 
 been just in me to have complained that you did not love me? Be- 
 sides, you must consider that the beauty I possess is not my own 
 choice; but, such as it is, Heaven bestowed it freely, unsolicited by 
 me; and, as the viper does not deserve blame for her sting, though 
 she kills with it, because it is given her by nature, as little do I 
 
 * It should have been Servius Tullus, who was father of Tullia, not Targuin.— 
 (Tit, Liv. Lib. T. c. 46.) 
 
MARCELA’S VINDICATION. 69 
 
 deserve reprehension for being handsome ; for beauty, in a modest 
 woman, is lke fire or a sharp sword at a distance; neither doth the 
 one burn, nor the other wound, those that come not too near them. 
 Honour and virtue are ornaments of the soul, without which the 
 body, though it be really beautiful, ought not to be thought so. I 
 was born free, and, that I might live free, I chose the solitude of 
 these fields. The trees on these mountains are my companions ; 
 the clear waters of these brooks are my mirrors; to the trees and 
 the waters I devote my meditations and my beauty. Iam fire at 
 a distance, and a sword afar off. Those whom my person has 
 enamoured, my words have undeceived; and, if love be nourished 
 by hopes, as I gave none to Chrysostom, nor gratified those of any 
 one else, surely it may be said that his own obstinacy, rather than 
 my cruelty, destroyed him. If it be objected to me that his inten- 
 tions were honourable, and that, therefore, I ought to have com- 
 plied with them, I answer, that when, in this very place where his 
 grave is now digging, he made known to me his favourable senti- 
 ments, [ told him that it was my resolution to live in perpetual 
 solitude, and that the earth alone should enjoy the fruit of my 
 seclusion and the spoils of my beauty; and if he, notwithstanding 
 all this frankness, would obstinately persevere against hope, and 
 sail against the wind, is it surprising that he should be over- 
 whelmed in the gulf of his own folly? If I had held him in sus- 
 pense, I had been false; if I had complied with him, I had acted 
 contrary to my better purposes and resolutions. He persisted, 
 although undeceived; he despaired, without being hated. Con- 
 sider, now, whether it be reasonable to lay the blame of his suffer- 
 ings upon me. Let him who is deceived complain; let him to 
 whom faith is broken despair; let him whom [ shall encourage 
 presume; and let him vaunt whom [I shall admit; but let me not 
 be called cruel or murderous by those whom I never promise, 
 deceive, encourage, nor admit. Heaven has not yet ordained that 
 I should love by destiny ; and from loving by choice I desire to be 
 excused. Let every one of those who solicit me, profit by this 
 general declaration ; and be it understood henceforward, that if any 
 one dies for me, he dies not through jealousy or disdain; for she 
 who loves none can make none, jealous, and sincerity ought not to 
 pass for disdain. Let him who calls me savage and a basilisk shun 
 me as a mischievous and evil thing; let him who calls me ungrate- 
 ful not serve me ; him who thinks me cruel not follow me; for this 
 savage, this basilisk, this ungrateful, this cruel thing, will never 
 either seek, serve, orfollowthem. If Chrysostom’s impatience and 
 presumptuous passion killed him, why should my modest conduct 
 and reserve be blamed? I possess, as you all know, wealth of my 
 own, and do not covet more. My condition is free, and I am not 
 inclined to subject myself to restraint. I neither love nor hate 
 anybody. JI neither deceive this man, nor lay snares for that. I 
 neither cajole one, nor divert myself with another. The modest con- 
 versation of the shepherdesses of these villages, and the care of my 
 goats, are my entertainment. My desires are bounded within these 
 mountains, and if my thoughts extend beyond them, it 1s to con- 
 
70 ADVENTURES Ur VON QUIXOTE. 
 
 template the beauty of heaven—steps by which the soul ascends to 
 its original abode.” Here she ceased, and, without waiting for a 
 reply, retired into the most inaccessible part of the neighbouring 
 mountain, leaving all who were present equally surprised at her 
 beauty and good sense. 
 
 Some of those whom her bright eyes had wounded, heedless of 
 her express declaration, seemed inclined to follow her ; which Don 
 Quixote perceiving, and thinking it a proper occasion to employ his 
 chivalry in the relief of distressed damsels, he laid his hand on the 
 hilt of his sword, and in a loud voice said, ‘‘ Let no person, what- 
 ever be his rank or condition, presume to follow the beautiful 
 Marcela, on pain of incurring my furious indignation. She has 
 demonstrated, by clear and satisfactory arguments, how little she 
 deserves censure on account of Chrysostom’s death, and how averse 
 she is to encourage any of her lovers; for which reason, instead of 
 being followed and persecuted, she ought to be honoured and 
 esteemed by all good men in the world, for being the only woman 
 in it whose intentions are so virtuous.” Now, whether it was 
 owing to the menaces of Don Quixote, or to the request of Am- 
 brosio, that they would finish the last offices due to his friend, none 
 of the shepherds departed, until, the grave being made and the 
 papers burnt, the body of Chrysostom was interred, not without 
 many tears from the spectators. They closed the sepulchre witha 
 large fragment of a rock, until a tombstone was finished, which 
 Ambrosio said it was his intention to provide, and to inscribe upon 
 it the following epitaph :— 
 
 ‘*The body of a wretched swain, 
 Kill’d by a cruel maid’s disdain, 
 In this cold bed neglected lies, 
 He lived, fond, hapless youth! to prove 
 Tl’ inhuman tyranny of love, 
 Eixerted in Marcela’s eyes.” 
 
 Then they strewed abundance of flowers and boughs on the 
 grave, and, after expressions of condolence to his friend Ambrosio, 
 they took their leave of him. Vivaldo and his companion did the 
 same; and Don Quixote bade adieu to his hosts and the travellers, 
 who entreated him to accompany them to Seville, being a place so 
 favourable for adventures, that in every street and turning they: 
 were to be met with in greater abundance than in any other place. 
 Don Quixote thanked them for their information and courtesy, but 
 said that neither his inclination nor duty would admit of his going 
 to Seville, until he had cleared all those mountains of the robbers 
 and assassius with which they were said to be infested. The 
 travellers, hearing his good resolutions, would not importune him 
 further; but, taking leave of him, pursued their journey, during 
 which the history of Marcela and Chrysostom, as well as the 
 phrenzy of Don Quixote, supplied them with subjects of conversation. 
 The knight on his part, resolved to go in quest of the shepherdess, 
 Marcela, to make her an offer of his services; but things took a dif- | 
 ferent course, as will be related in the progress of this true history. 
 
ADVENTURE WITH TH® CARRIERS. 71 
 
 Hook Third 
 
 GHA P TE Rix. 
 
 Wherein is related the unfortunate adventure which befell Don Quixote, 
 in meeting with certain unmerciful Yanguesians.* 
 
 Leave having been taken, as the sage Cid Hamet Benengeli 
 relates, by Don Quixote, of all those who were present at Chry- 
 sostom’s funeral, he and his squire entered the same wood into 
 which they had seen the shepherdess Marcela enter. And having 
 ranged through it for above two hours in search of her without 
 success, they stopped in a meadow full of fresh grass, near which 
 ran a pleasant and refreshing brook ; insomuch that it invited and 
 compelled them to pass there the sultry hours of mid-day which 
 now became very oppressive. Don Quixote and Sancho alighted, 
 and, leaving the ass and Rozinante at large to feed upon the 
 abundant grass, they ransacked the wallet; and, without any _ 
 ceremony, in friendly and social wise, master and man shared what 
 it contained. Sancho had taken no care to fetter Rozinante. But 
 fortune so ordered it, that there were grazing in the same valley a 
 number of Galician mares, belonging to certain Yanguesian carriers, 
 whose custom it is to pass the noon, with their drove, in places 
 where there is grass and water, and that where Don Quixote then 
 reposed, suited their purpose. Now it so happened that Rozinante 
 conceived a wish to seek their society, ‘and without asking his 
 master’s leave, departed to indulge in his inclination. But they 
 received him with their heels and their teeth in such a manner 
 that in a little time his girths broke, and he lost his saddle. But 
 what must have affected him more sensibly was, that the carriers, - 
 having witnessed his intrusion, set upon him with their pack-staves, 
 and so belaboured him that they laid him along on the ground in a 
 wretched plight. 
 
 By this time the knight and squire, having seen the drubbing of 
 Rosinante, came up in great haste, and Don Quixote said, ‘‘By 
 what I see, friend Sancho, these are no knights, but low people of 
 a scoundrel race. I tell thee this, because thou art on that account 
 justified in assisting me to take ample revenge for the outrage they 
 
 ave done to Rozinante before our eyes.” ‘‘ What revenge can we 
 take,” answered Sancho, ‘‘since they are above twenty, and we no 
 more than two, and perhaps but one and a-half?” ‘‘I am equal 
 to a hundred !” replied Don Quixote; and without saying more, he 
 ‘aid his hands on his sword, and flew at the Yanguesians; and 
 Sancho did the same, incited by the example of his master. At the 
 first blow, Don Quixote gave one of them a terrible wound on the 
 
 * Carriers of Galicia, and inhabitants of the district of Yanguas in the Rioja. 
 
72 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 shoulder, through a leatherndoublet. The Yanguesians, seeing them- 
 selves assaulted in this manner by two men only, seized their staves, 
 and, surrounding them, began to dispense their blows with great vehe- 
 mence and animosity ; and true it is that at the second blow they 
 brought Sancho to the ground. The same fate befell Don Quixote 
 —his courage and dexterity availing him nothing; and, as fate 
 would have it, he just fell at Rozinante’s feet, who had not yet 
 been able to rise. Whence we may learn how unmercifully pack- 
 staves will bruise, when put into rustic and wrathful hands. The 
 Yanguesians, perceiving the mischief they had done, loaded their 
 beasts with all speed, and pursued their journey, leaving the two 
 adventurers in evil plight. 
 
 The first who came to his senses was Sancho Panza, who, finding 
 himself close to his master, with a feeble and plaintive voice cried, 
 ‘*Signor Don Quixote! ah, Signor Don Quixote!” ‘‘ What wouldst 
 thou, brother Sancho?” answered the knight, in the same feeble 
 and lamentable tone. ‘‘I could wish, if it were possible,” said 
 Sancho Panza, ‘‘ your worship would give me two draughts of that 
 drink of Feo Blass, if you have it here at hand. Perhaps it may 
 do as well for broken bones as it does for wounds.” ‘‘ Unhappy I, 
 that we have it not!” answered Don Quixote. ‘‘ But I swear to 
 thee, Sancho Panza, on the faith of a knight-errant, that, before 
 two days pass (if fortune decree not otherwise), I will have it in 
 my possession, or my hands shall fail me much.” ‘‘ But in how 
 many days,” said the squire, ‘‘does your worship think we shall 
 recover the use of our feet?” ‘For my part,” answered the bat- 
 tered knight, Don Quixote, ‘‘I cannot ascertain the precise term ; 
 but I alone am to blame, for having laid hand on my sword against 
 men who are not knights like myself ; and, therefore, I believe the 
 God of battles has permitted this chastisement to fall upon me, as 
 a punishment for having transgressed the laws of chivalry. On 
 this account, brother Sancho, it is requisite thou shouldst be fore- 
 warned of what I shall now tell thee; for it highly concerns the 
 welfare of us both: and it is this, that when we are insulted by 
 low people of this kind, do not stay till I take up my sword against 
 them, for I will by no means do it; but do thou draw thy sword, 
 and chastise them to thy satisfaction. If any knights shall come 
 up to their assistance, I shall then know how to defend thee, and 
 offend them with all my might: for thou hast already had a thou- 
 sand proofs how far the valour of this strong arm of mine extends ;” 
 —s0 arrogant was the poor gentleman become by his victory over 
 the valiant Biscayan ! 
 
 But Sancho Panza did not so entirely approve his master’s in- 
 structions as to forbear, saying, in reply, ‘‘Sir, I am a peaceable, 
 tame, quiet man, and can forgive any injury whatsoever; for I 
 have a wife and children to maintain and bring up; so that, give 
 me leave to tell your worship by way of hint, since it is not for me 
 to command, that I will upon no account draw my sword, either 
 against peasant or against knight ; and that, from this time forward, 
 in the presence of God, I forgive all injuries any one has done, or 
 shall do me, or that any person is now doing, or may hereafter do 
 
HIS LUCKLESS PLIGHT. 73 
 
 me, whether he be high or low, rich or poor, gentle or simple, 
 without excepting any state or condition whatever.” Upon which 
 his master said, ‘‘ I wish I had breath to talk a little at my ease, 
 and that the pain I feel in this rib would cease long enough for me 
 to convince thee, Panza, of thy error. Hark ye, sinner, should the 
 gale of fortune, now so adverse, change in our favour, filling the 
 sails of our desires, so that we may securely and without opposition 
 make the port of some one of those islands which I have promised 
 thee, what would become of thee, if, when I had gained it, and 
 made thee lord thereof, thou shouldst render all ineffectual by not 
 being a knight, nor desiring to be one, and by having neither valour 
 nor resolution to revenge the injuries done thee, or to defend thy 
 dominions? For thou must know, that in kingdoms and provinces 
 newly conquered, the minds of the natives are at no time so quiet, 
 nor so much in the interest of their new master, but there is still 
 ground to fear that they will endeavour to effect a change of things, 
 and once more, as they call it, try their fortune: therefore the new 
 possessor ought to have understanding to know how to conduct 
 himself, and courage to act offensively and defensively, on every 
 occasion.” ‘‘ In this that hath now befallen us,” answered Sancho, 
 ‘*T wish I had been furnished with that understanding and valour 
 your lordship speaks of ; but I swear on the faith of a poor man, I 
 am at this time more fit for plaisters than discourses. Try, sir, 
 whether you are able to rise, and we will help up Rozinante, though 
 he does not deserve it, for he was the principal cause of all this 
 mauling. I never believed the like of Rozinante. But it is a true 
 saying, that ‘much time is necessary to know people thoroughly ;’ 
 and that ‘we are sure of nothing in this life.’ Who could have 
 thought, that after such swinging lashes as you gave that luckless 
 adventurer, there should come post, as it were, in pursuit of you, this 
 vast tempest of cudgel-strokes, which has discharged itself upon 
 our shoulders?” ‘Thine, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘should, 
 one would think, be used to such storms; but mine, that were 
 brought up between muslins and cambrics, must of course be more 
 sensible to the pain of this unfortunate encounter. And were it 
 not that I imagine—why do I say imagine?—did I not know for 
 certain, that all these inconveniencies are inseparably annexed to 
 the profession of arms, I would suffer myself to die here, out of 
 pure vexation.” ‘Since these mishaps,” said the squire, ‘‘are the 
 natural fruits and harvest of chivalry, pray tell me whether they 
 come often, or whether they have their set times in which they 
 happen; for, to my thinking, two such harvests would disable us 
 from ever reaping a third, if God of His infinite mercy does not 
 succour us.” ; 
 ‘Learn, friend Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ that the lives 
 of knights-errant are subject to a thousand perils and disasters : 
 - but at the same time, they are no less near becoming kings and em- 
 perors; as experience hath shown in many and divers knights, with 
 whose histories I am perfectly acquainted. I could tell thee now, 
 if this pain would allow me, of some, who, by the strength of their 
 arm alone, have mounted to the exalted ranks I have mentioned ; 
 
74. ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 yet these very men were, before and after, involved in sundry 
 calamities and misfortunes. The valorous Amadis de Gaul, for 
 instance, saw himself in the power of his mortal enemy, Archelaus 
 the enchanter, of whom it is positively affirmed, that when he had 
 him prisoner, he tied him to a pillar in his court yard, and gave him 
 above two hundred lashes with his horse’s bridle. There 1s, more- 
 over, a private author of no small credit, who tells us that the 
 ‘knight of the sun, being caught by a trap-door, which sunk under 
 his feet, in a certain castle, found himself at the bottom of a deep 
 dungeon under ground, bound hand and foot; where they ad- 
 ministered to him one of those things called a clyster, of snow- 
 water and sand, that almost despatched him; and had he not been 
 succoured in that great distress by a certain sage, his particular 
 friend, it would have gone hard with the poor knight.’ So that I 
 may well submit to suffer among so many worthy persons, who en- 
 dured much greater affronts than those we have now experienced : 
 for I would have thee know, Sancho, that wounds given with in- 
 struments that are accidentally in the hand are no affront; thus it 
 is expressly written in the law of combat, that if a shoemaker strike 
 a person with the last he has in his hand, though it be really of 
 wood, it will not therefore be said that the person thus beaten with 
 it was cudgelled. I say this, that thou mayest not think, though 
 we are bruised in this scuffle, we are disgraced: for the arms those 
 ‘men carried, and with which they assailed us, were no other than 
 their staves; and none of them, as I remember, had either tuck, 
 sword, or dagger.” ‘‘ They gave me no leisure,” answered Sancho, 
 ‘‘to observe so narrowly; for scarcely had I laid hand on my 
 weapon, than my shoulders were crossed with their saplings, in 
 such a manner that they deprived my eyes of sight, and my feet of 
 strength, laying me where I now lie; and where I am not so much 
 concerned about whether the business of the thrashing be an affront 
 or not, as I am at the pain of the blows, which will leave as deep 
 an impression on my memory as on my shoulders.” ‘‘ Notwith- 
 standing this, I tell thee, brother Panza,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ that 
 there is no remembrance which time does not obliterate, nor pain 
 which death does not terminate.” ‘‘ But what greater misfortune 
 can there be,” replied Panza, ‘‘than that which waits for time to 
 cure and for death to end? If this mischance of ours were of that 
 sort which might be cured with a couple of plaisters, it would not 
 be altogether so bad; but, for aught I see, all the plaisters of an 
 hospital will not be sufficient to set us to rights again.” 
 
 ‘‘Have done with this, and gather strength out of weakness, 
 Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘for so I purpose to do; and let us see 
 how Rozinante does; for it seems to me that not the least part of 
 our misfortune has fallen to the share of this pooranimal.” ‘‘'That 
 is not at all strange,” answered Sancho, ‘‘since he also belongs to 
 a knight-errant ; but what I wonder at, is, that my ass should come 
 off scot-free, where we have paid so dear.”  ‘‘ Fortune always 
 leaves some door open in misfortune, to admit a remedy,” said Don 
 Quixote ; ‘‘this I say, because thy beast may now supply the want 
 of Rozinante; by carrying me hence to some castle, where [ may be 
 
HIS LUCKLESS PLIGHT. 75 
 
 cured of my wounds. Nor do I account it dishonourable to be so 
 mounted ; for I remember to have read that the good old Silenus, 
 governor and tutor of the merry god of laughter, when he made his 
 entry into the city of the hundred gates, was mounted, much to 
 his satisfaction, on a most beautiful ass.” ‘‘It is likely he rode as 
 your worship says,” answered Sancho, ‘‘ but there is a main differ- 
 ence between riding and lying athwart, like a sack of rubbish.” 
 **The wounds received in battle,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ rather give 
 honour than take it away; therefore, friend Panza, answer me no 
 more, but as I said before, raise me up as well as thou canst, and 
 place me as it may best please thee upon thy ass, that we may get 
 hence before night overtakes us in the uninhabited place.” ‘Yet 
 I have heard your worship say,” quoth Panza, ‘‘ that it is usual for 
 knights-errant to sleep on heaths and deserts most part of the year, 
 and therein think themselves very fortunate.” ‘‘ That is,” said Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘ when they cannot do otherwise, or are in love; and so 
 true is this, that there have been knights who, unknown to their 
 mistresses, have exposed themselves for two vears together upon 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 rocks to the sun and the shade, and to the inclemencies of heaven. 
 One of these was Amadis, when, calling himself Beltenebros, he 
 took up his lodging on the Poor Rock—whether for eight years or 
 eight months I know not, for I am not perfect in his history; it is 
 sufficient that there he was, doing penance, for I know not what 
 displeasure manifested towards him by the lady Oriana. But let 
 us leave this, Sancho, and hasten before such another misfortune 
 happens to thy beast as hath befallen Rozinante.” ‘‘That would 
 be misery, indeed,” quoth Sancho ; and sending forth forty alases, 
 and sixty sighs, and a hundred and twenty curses on those who had 
 brought him into that situation, he endeavoured to raise himself, 
 but stopped half-way, bent like a Turkish bow, being wholly unable 
 to stand upright ; notwithstanding this, he managed to saddle his 
 ass, who had also taken advantage of that day’s excessive liberty, to 
 go a little astray. He then heaved up Rozinante, who, had hea 
 tongue wherewithal to complain, most certainly would not have 
 been outdone either by Sancho or his master. Sancho at length | 
 settled Don Quixote upon the ass, and taking hold of the © 
 halter of Dapple, Rozinante following, he led the way, now 
 
76 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 faster, now slower, towards the place where he thought the high- 
 road might lie; and had scarcely gone a short league, when fortune, 
 that was conducting his affairs from good to better, discovered to 
 him the road, where he also espied an inn; which, to his sorrow, and 
 Don Quixote’s joy, must needs be a castle. Sancho positively 
 maintained it was an inn, and his master that it was a castle; and 
 the dispute lasted so long that they arrived there before it was 
 determined ; and Sancho, without further expostulation, entered it, 
 with his string of cattle. 
 
 CAA sD Ee Rie kaWal. 
 
 Of what happened to Don Quixote in the inn which he imagined to be 
 a castle, 
 
 Looking at Don Quixote laid across the ass, the innkeeper 
 inquired of Sancho what ailed him? Sancho answered him that it 
 was nothing but a fall from the rock, by which his ribs were some- 
 what bruised. The innkeeper had a wife of a disposition uncommon 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 The Hostess and her daughter. 
 
 among those of the like occupation ; for she was naturally charitable, 
 and felt for the misfortunes of her neighbours; so much, that she 
 immediately prepared to relieve Don Quixote, and made her 
 * daughter, a very comely young maiden, assist in the cure of her 
 guest. There was also a servant at the inn, an Asturian wench, 
 
HIS WOUNDS ARE DRESSED. 77 
 
 broad-faced, flat-headed, with a little nose, one eye squinting, and 
 the other not much better. It is true, the elegance of her form 
 made amends for other defects. She was not seven hands high, and 
 her shoulders, which burdened her a little too much, made her 
 look down to the ground more than she would willingly have done. 
 This agreeable lass now assisted the damsel to prepare for Don 
 Quixote a very sorry bed in a garret, which gave evident tokens 
 of having formerly served many yearsas a hay-loft. In this room 
 lodged also a carrier, whose bed was at a little distance from that 
 of our knight ; and though it was composed of pannels, and other 
 trappings of his mules, it had much the advantage over that of Don 
 Quixote, which consisted of four not very smooth boards, upon two 
 unequal tressels, and a mattress no thicker than a quilt, and full of 
 knobs, which, from their hardness, might have been taken for 
 pebbles, had not the wool appeared through some fractures ; with 
 two sheets like the leather of an old target, and a rug, the threads 
 of which you might count if you chose, without losing one of the 
 number. 
 
 In this wretched bed was Don Quixote laid; after which the 
 hostess and her daughter plaistered him from head to foot; Mari- 
 tornes (for so the Asturian wench was called) at the same time 
 holding the light. And as the hostess was thus employed, -per- 
 ceiving Don Quixote to be mauled in every part, she said that his 
 bruises seemed the effect of hard drubbing, rather than of a fall. 
 ‘* Not a drubbing,” said Sancho; ‘‘ but the knobs and sharp points 
 of the rock, every one of which has left its mark: and, now I think 
 of it,” added he, ‘‘ pray, contrive to spare a morsel of that tow, as 
 somebody may find it useful—indeed, I suspect that my sides would 
 be glad of a little of it.” ‘‘ What, you have had a fall too, have 
 you?” said the hostess. ‘‘ No,” replied Sancho, ‘‘not a fall, but a 
 fright, on seeing my master tumble, which so affected my whole 
 body that I feel as if I had received a thousand blows myself.” 
 ‘‘That may very well be,” said the damsel; ‘‘for I have often 
 dreamed that I was falling down from some high tower, and could 
 never come to the ground; and when I awoke, I found myself as 
 much bruised and battered as if I had really fallen.” ‘‘ But here 
 is the point, mistress,” answered Sancho Panza, ‘‘ that I, without 
 dreaming at all, and more awake than I am now, find myself with 
 almost as many bruises as my master Don Quixote.” ‘‘ What do 
 say is the name of this gentleman?” quoth the Asturian. ‘‘ Don 
 Quixote de la Mancha,” answered Sancho Panza: ‘‘he is a knight- 
 errant, and one of the best and most valiant that has been seen for 
 this long time in the world.” ‘‘ What is a knight-errant?” said 
 the wench. ‘‘ Are you such a novice as not to know that?” an- 
 swered Sancho Panza. ‘‘ You must know, then, that a knight- 
 errant is a thing that, in two words, is cudgelled and made an 
 emperor; to-day he is the most unfortunate wretch in the world: 
 and to-morrow will have two or three crowns of kingdoms to give 
 to his squire.” ‘‘ How comes it then to pass that you, being squire 
 to this worthy gentlemen,” said the hostess, ‘‘ have not yet, as 1t 
 seems, got so much asan earldom?” ‘‘It is early days yet,” an- 
 
78 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 swered Sancho, ‘‘ for it is but a month since we set out in quest of 
 adventures, and hitherto we have met with none that deserve the 
 name, And sometimes we look for one thing, and find another. 
 But the truth is, if my master Don Quixote recovers of this wound 
 or fall, and I am not disabled thereby, I would not truck my hopes 
 for the best title in Spain.” 
 
 To all this conversation Don Quixote had listened very atten- 
 tively ; and now, raising himself up in the bed as well as he could, 
 and taking the hand of his hostess, he said to her, ‘‘ Believe me, 
 beauteous lady, you may esteem yourself fortunate in having en- 
 tertained me in this your castle, being such a person that, if I say 
 little of myself, it is because, as the proverb declares, self-praise 
 depreciates ; but my squire will inform you wholam. I only say 
 that I shall retain the service you have done me eternally engraven 
 on my memory, and be grateful to you as long as my life shall 
 endure. And had it pleased the high heavens that love had not 
 held me so enthralled and subject to its laws, and to the eyes of 
 that beautiful ingrate whose name I silently pronounce, those of 
 this lovely virgin had become enslavers of my liberty.” 
 
 The hostess, her daughter, and the good Maritornes, stood con- 
 founded at this harangue of our knight-errant, which they under- 
 stood just as much as if he had spoken Greek, although they 
 guessed that it all tended to compliments and offers of service; and 
 not being accustomed to such kind of language, they gazed at him 
 with surprise, and thought him another sort of man than those 
 now in fashion ; and, after thanking him, in their inn-like phrase, 
 for his offers, they left him. The Asturian Maritornes doctored 
 Sancho, who stood in no less need of plaisters than his master. 
 
 Don Quixote’s hard, scanty, beggarly, crazy bed, stood first in 
 the middle of the cock-loft; and close by it Sancho had placed his 
 own, which consisted only of a rush mat, and a rug that seemed to 
 be rather of beaten hemp than of wool. Next to the squire stood 
 that of the carrier, made up, as hath been said, of pannels, and the 
 whole furniture of two of his best mules ; for he possessed twelve 
 in number, sleek, fat, and stately—being one of the richest carriers 
 of Arevalo, according to the author of this history, who makes par- 
 ticular mention of this carrier, for he knew him well; nay, some go 
 so far as to say he was related to him. Besides, Cid Hamet Benen- 
 geli was a very minute and very accurate historian in all things ; 
 and this is very evident from the circumstances already related, 
 which, though apparently mean and trivial, he would not pass over 
 unnoticed. ‘This may serve as an example to those grave historians 
 who relate facts so briefly and succinctly that we have scarcely a 
 taste of them; omitting, either through neglect, malice, or ignor- 
 ance, things the most pithy and substantial. A thousand blessings 
 upon the author of Tablante, of Ricamonte, and on him who wrote 
 the exploits of the count de Tomilas! With what punctuality do 
 they describe everything! 
 
 Sancho, already plaistered, was in bed; and, though he endea- 
 voured to sleep, the pain of his ribs would not allow him ; and Don 
 Quixote, from the same cause, kept his eyes wide open as those of 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS CONFLICT. 79 
 
 a hare. The whole inn was in profound silence, and contained no 
 other light than what proceeded from a lamp which hung in the 
 middle of the entry. This marvellous stillness, and the thoughts of 
 our knight, which incessantly recurred to those adventures so com- 
 mon in the annals of chivalry, brought to his imagination one of 
 the strangest whims that can well be conceived; for he imagined 
 that he was now in some famous castle, and that the daughter of 
 its lord, captivated by his fine appearance, had become enamoured 
 of him. Then, taking all this chimera, formed by himself for 
 reality, he began to feel some alarm, reflecting on the dangerous 
 trial to which his fidelity was on the point of bemg exposed; but 
 resolved in his heart not to commit disloyalty against his lady Dul- 
 cinea del Toboso, though Queen Ginebra herself, with the lady 
 Quintaniana, should present themselves before him. 
 
 Whilst his thoughts were occupied by these extravagancies, the 
 carrier, who had visited his mules and given them their second 
 course, ascended to the garret to lay himself down on his pannels ; 
 but scarcely had he passed the threshold, when Don Quixote heard 
 him, and sitting up in his bed, in spite of plaisters and the pains of 
 his ribs, stretched out his hand, and caught hold of him by the 
 wrist. The carrier attempted to free his hand, but Don Qnixote 
 grasped him the more firmly ; when the carrier, not liking the jest, 
 lifted up his arm, and discharged so terrible a blow on the lan- 
 thorn jaws of the enamoured knight, that his mouth was bathed in 
 blood ; and not content with this, he mounted upon his ribs, and 
 paced them somewhat above a trot from one end to the other. The 
 _ bed, which was crazy, and its foundations none of the strongest, 
 being unable to bear the additional weight of the carrier, came down 
 to the ground, with such a crash that the innkeeper awoke; and 
 lighting a candle, went to the place where he had heard the bustle. 
 The innkeeper entered, calling out, which only added to the con- 
 fusion, for the carrier having stumbled over Sancho, the honest 
 squire began to lay about him on every side. And so, as the pro- 
 verb says, the cat to the rat, the rat to the rope, and the rope to the 
 post: the carrier belaboured Sancho, Sancho the carrier, and the 
 innkeeper both; all redoubling their blows without intermission : 
 and the best of it was, the landlord’s candle went out; when, being 
 left in the dark, they indiscriminately thrashed each other, and 
 with so little mercy that every blow left its mark. 
 
 It happened that there lodged that night at the inn, an officer 
 belonging to the holy brotherhood of Toledo; who, hearing the 
 strange noise of the scuffle, seized his wand and the tin-box which 
 held his commission, and entered the room in the dark, calling 
 out, ‘‘Forbear, in the name of justice; forbear, in the name of 
 the holy brotherhood.” And the first he encountered was the 
 battered Don Quixote, who lay senseless on his demolished bed, 
 stretched upon his back: and, laying hold of his beard as he was 
 groping about, he cried out repeatedly, ‘‘I charge you to aid and 
 assist me;” but finding that the person whom he held was motion- 
 less, he concluded that he was dead, and that the people in the 
 room were his murderers. Upon which he raised his voice still 
 
80 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 louder, crying, ‘‘Shut the inn door, and let none escape ; for here 
 ig a man murdered!” These words startled them all, and the con- 
 flict instantly ceased. The landlord withdrew to his chamber, and 
 the carrier to his pannels; the unfortunate Don Quixote and Sancho 
 alone were incapable of moving. ‘The officer now let go the beard 
 of Don Quixote, and in order to search after and secure the 
 delinquents, he went out for a light, but could find none; for the 
 innkeeper had purposely extinguished the lamp when he retired 
 to his chamber ; and therefore he was obliged to have recourse to 
 the chimney, where, after much time and trouble, he lighted 
 another lamp. 
 
 CSH AP DE Eh xX vel 
 
 Wherein are continued the innumerable disasters that befel the brave 
 Don Quixote and his good squire Sancho Panza, in the inn which 
 he unhappily took for a castle. 
 
 Don Quixote by this time had come to himself, and in the same 
 dolorous tone in which the day before he had ‘called to his squire when 
 he lay extended in the valley of pack-staves, he now again called to 
 him, saying, ‘‘Sancho, friend, art thou asleep? art thou asleep, - 
 friend Sancho?” ‘‘How should I sleep? woe is me!” answered 
 Sancho, full of trouble and vexation; ‘‘for I think a legion of de- 
 mons have been with me to-night.” ‘‘ Well mayst thou believe so,” 
 answered Don Quixote; ‘‘for either I know nothing, or this castle 
 is enchanted. Listen to me, Sancho,—but what I am now going 
 to disclose thou must swear to keep secret until after my death.” 
 ‘Yes, I swear,” answered Sancho. ‘‘I require this,” said Don 
 Quixote; ‘‘ because I would not injure the reputation of any one.” 
 **T tell you I do swear,” replied Sancho; ‘‘ and will keep it secret 
 until your worship’s death, and Heaven grant I may discover it to- 
 morrow.” ‘‘Have I done thee so much evil, Sancho,” answered 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘that thou shouldst wish for my decease so very 
 soon?” ‘It is not for that,” answered Sancho; ‘‘ but I am an 
 enemy to holding things long, and would not have them rot in my 
 keeping.” ‘Be it for what it will,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘I con- 
 fide in thy love and courtesy, and therefore I inform thee that this 
 night a most extraordinary adventure has befallen me; and, to tell 
 it briefly, thou must know, that a little while since Iwas visited by 
 the daughter of the lord of this castle, who is the most accomplished 
 and beautiful damsel to be found over a great part of the habitable 
 earth. How could I describe the graces of her person, the spright- 
 liness of her wit, and the many other hidden charms which, from 
 the respect I owe to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, I shall pass over 
 undescribed! All that I am permitted to say is, that Heaven, 
 jealous of the great happiness that fortune had put in my possession, 
 or, what is more probable, this castle being enchanted, just_as we 
 were engaged in most sweet conversation, an invisible hand, affixed 
 
ADVENTURE WITH THE ENCHANTED MOOR. 81 
 
 to the arm of some monstrous giant, gave me so violent a blow that 
 my mouth was bathed in blood, and afterwards so bruised me that 
 T am now in a worse state than that wherein the fury of the carriers 
 left us yesterday, owing to the indiscretion of Rozinante. Whence 
 I conjecture that the treasure of this damsel’s beauty is guarded by 
 some enchanted Moor, and therefore not to be approached by me.” 
 ‘* Nor by me neither,” answered Sancho; ‘for more than four hun- 
 dred Moors have buffeted me in such a manner that the basting of 
 the pack-staves was tarts and cheese-cakes to it. But tell me, pray, 
 sir, call you this an excellent and rare adventure, which has left us 
 in such a pickle? Not that it was quite so bad with your worship. 
 As for me, what had I but the heaviest blows that I hope [ shall 
 ever feelin all my life? Woe is me, and the mother that bore me! 
 for I am no knight-errant, nor ever mean to be one; yet, of all our 
 mishaps, the greater part still falls to my share.” “‘*What, hast 
 thou likewise been beaten?” said Don Quixote. ‘Have not I told 
 you so? Evil befall my lineage!” quoth Sancho. ‘Console thy- 
 self, friend,” said Don Quixote ; ‘‘for I will now make that precious 
 balsam which will cure us in the twinkling of an eye.” At this 
 moment the officer, having lighted his lamp, entered to examine 
 the person whom he conceived to have been murdered ; and Sancho, 
 seeing him enter in his shirt, with a nightcap on his head, a lamp 
 in his hand, and a countenance far from well-favoured, asked his 
 master if it was the enchanted Moor coming to finish the correction 
 he had bestowed upon them. ‘It cannot be the Moor,” answered 
 Don Quixote; ‘‘for the énchanted suffer not themselves to be 
 visible.” ‘‘If they do not choose to be seen, they will be felt,” 
 said Sancho, ‘‘witness my shoulders.” ‘‘Mine might speak, too,” 
 answered Don Quixote. ‘‘But this is not sufficient evidence to 
 convince us that he whom we see is the enchanted Moor.” 
 
 The officer, finding them communing in go calm a manner, stood 
 in astonishment: although it is true that Don Quixote still lay flat 
 mm his back, unable to stir from bruises and plaisters. The officer 
 vpproached him, and said, ‘‘ Well, my good fellow, how are you?” 
 ‘‘I would speak more respectfully,” answered Don Quixote, ‘were 
 [in your place. Is it the fashion of this country, blockhead, thus 
 
 o address knights-errant?” The officer, not disposed to bear this 
 anguage from one of so scurvy an aspect, lifted up his lamp, and 
 ashed it, with all its contents, at the head of Don Quixote, and 
 yhen made his retreat in the dark. ‘‘ Surely,” quoth Sancho Panza, 
 ‘this must be the enchanted Moor; and he reserves the treasure 
 or others, and for us only fisty-cutfs and lamp-shots.” ‘It iseven 
 o,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘and it is to no purpose to regard 
 hese affairs of enchantments, or to be out of humour or angry with 
 hem; for, being invisible, and mere phantoms, all endeavours to 
 eek revenge would be fruitless. Rise, Sancho, if thou canst, and 
 all the governor of this fortress, and procure me some oil, wine, 
 lt, and rosemary, to make the healing balsam; for in truth I 
 tant it much at this time, as the wound this phantom has given 
 » pleeds very fast.” beth 
 ncho got up with aching bones; and as he was proceeding’in 
 F 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
82 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the dark towards the landlord’s chamber, he met the officer, who 
 was watching the movements of his enemy, and said to him, ‘ Sir, 
 whoever you are, do us the favour and kindness to help us toa 
 little rosemary, oil, salt, and wine; for they are wanted to cure 
 one of the best knights-errant in the world, who hes there, sorely 
 wounded by the hands of the enchanted Moor who is in this inn.” 
 The officer, hearing this, took him for a maniac; and, as the day 
 now began to dawn, he opened the inn door, and calling the host, 
 told him what Sancho wanted. The innkeeper furnished him with 
 what he desired, and Sancho carried them to Don Quixote, who lay 
 with his hands on his head, complaining of the pain caused by the 
 lamp, which, however, had done him no other hurt than raising a 
 couple of tolerably large tumours; what he took for blood being 
 only moisture, occasioned by the pelting of the storm which had 
 just blown over. In fine, he took his simples, and made a compound 
 of them, mixing them together, and boiling them some time, until 
 he thought the wixture had arrived at the exact point. He then 
 asked for a vial to hold it; but, as there was no such thing in the 
 inn, he resolved to put it in a cruse, or tin oil-flask, of which the 
 host made hima present. This being done, he pronounced over 
 the cruse above four-score paternosters, and as many ave-marias, 
 salves, and credos, accompanying every word with a cross, by way 
 of benediction, all which was performed in the presence of Sancho, 
 of the innkeeper, and the officer. As for the carrier, he had gone 
 soberly about the business of tending his mules. Having completed 
 the operation, Don Quixote resolved to make trial immediately of 
 the virtue of that precious balsam; and therefore drank about a 
 pint and a half of what remained in the pot wherein it was boiled, 
 after the cruse was filled; and scarcely had he swallowed the po- 
 tion when it was rejected, and followed by so violent a retching that 
 nothing was left on his stomach. ‘To the pain and exertion of the 
 vomit, a copious prespiration succeeding, he desired to be covered 
 up warm, and left alone. They did so, and he continued asleep 
 above three hours, when he awoke and found himself greatly re- 
 lieved in his body, and his battered and bruised members so much 
 restored that he considered himself as perfectly recovered, and was 
 thoroughly persuaded that he was in possession of the true balsam 
 of Fierabras; and consequently, with such a remedy, he might 
 thenceforward encounter, without fear, all dangers, battles, and 
 conflicts, however hazardous. 
 
 Sancho Panza, who likewise took his master’s amendment for a 
 miracle, desired he would give him what remained in the pot, which 
 was no small quantity. This request being granted, he took it in 
 both hands, and, with good faith and better will, swallowed down 
 very little less than his master had done. Now the case was, that 
 poor Sancho’s stomach was not so delicate as that of his master ;_ 
 and, therefore, before he could reject it, he endured such pangs 
 and loathings, with such cold sweats and faintings, that he verily 
 thought his last hour was come; and finding himself so afflicted 
 and tormented, he cursed the balsam, and the thief that had given 
 it him. Don Quixote, seeing him in that condition, said, ‘‘I believe, 
 
PAYMENT DEMANDED BY THE HOST. 83 
 
 Sancho, that all this mischief hath befallen thee because thou art 
 not dubbed a knight: for I am of opinion this liqour can do good 
 only to those who are of that order.” ‘‘ If your worship knew that,” 
 replied Sancho, ‘‘ evil betide me and all my generation! why did 
 you suffer me to drink it?” By this time the beverage commenced 
 its operation, and the poor squire was relieved so many ways, and 
 with so much precipitation, and sweated and sweated again, with 
 such faintings and shivering-fits, that not only himself, but all pre- 
 sent thought he was expiring. This hurricane lasted nearly two 
 hours; and left him, not sound like his master, but so exhausted 
 and shattered that he was unable to stand. Don Quixote, feeling, 
 as we said before, quite renovated, was moved to take his departure 
 immediately in quest of adventures, thinking that by every moment’s 
 delay he was depriving the world of his aid and protection; and 
 more especially as he felt secure and contident in the virtues of his 
 balsam. Thus stimulated, he saddled Rozinante with his own 
 _hands, and pannelled the ass of his squire, whom he also helped to 
 dress, and afterwards to mount. He then mounted himself, and, 
 having observed a pike in a corner of the inn-yard, he took posses- 
 sion of it to serve him fora lance. All the people in the inn, above 
 twenty in number, stood gazing at him; and, among the rest, the 
 
 host’s daughter, while he on his part removed not his eyes from | 
 
 her, and ever and anon sent forth a sigh which seemed torn from 
 the bottom of his bowels: all believing it to proceed from pain in 
 his ribs, at least those who, the night before, had seen how he was 
 plaistered. 
 
 Being now both mounted, and at the door of the inn, he called to 
 the host, and, in a grave and solemn tone of voice, said to him :— 
 ‘‘ Many and great are the favours, signor governor, which in this 
 your castle I have received, and I am bound to be grateful to you 
 all the days of my life. If I can make you some compensation, by 
 taking vengeance on any proud miscreant who hath insulted you, 
 know that the duty of my profession is no other than to strengthen 
 the weak, to revenge the injured, and to chastise the perfidious. 
 Consider, and if your memory recalls anything of this nature to re- 
 commend to me, you need only declare it; for I promise you, by 
 the order of knighthood I have received, to procure you satisfaction 
 and amends to your heart’s desire!” The host answered with the 
 same gravity, ‘‘ Sir knight, I have no need of your worship’s aveng- 
 ing any wrong for me; I know how to take the proper revenge 
 when any injury is done me; all I desire of your worship is to pay 
 me for what you have had in the inn, as well for the straw and 
 barley for your two beasts, as for your supper and lodging.” ‘‘ What! 
 is this an inn?” exclaimed Don Quixote. ‘‘ Aye, and a very credit- 
 able one,” answered the host. ‘‘ Hitherto, then, I have been in an 
 error,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ for in truth I took it for a castle ; 
 but since it is indeed no castle, but an inn, all that you have now to 
 do is to excuse the payment; for I cannot act contrary to the law 
 of knights-errant, of whom I certainly know (having hitherto read 
 nothing to the contrary) that they never paid for lodging, or any- 
 thing else, in the inns where they reposed; because every accom- 
 
 » 
 
84 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 modation is legally and justly due to them in return for the insuf- 
 ferable hardships they endure while in quest of adventures, by night 
 and by day, in winter and in summer, on foot and on horseback, 
 with thirst and with hunger, with heat and with cold; subject to 
 all the inclemences of heaven, and to all the inconveniences upon 
 earth.” ‘‘I see little tomy purpose in all this,” answered the host, 
 ‘‘pay me what is my due, and let me have none of your stories and 
 knight-errantries; all I want is to get my own.” ‘‘Thou art a 
 blockhead, and a pitiful innkeeper,” answered Don Quixote; so 
 clapping spurs to Rozinante, and brandishing his lance, he sallied 
 out of the inn without opposition, and never turning to see whether 
 his squire followed him, was soon a good way off. 
 
 The host, seeing him going without paying, ran to seize Sancho 
 Panza, who said, that since his master would not pay, neither 
 would he pay ; for, being squire to a knight-errant, the same rule 
 and reason held as good for him as for his master. The innkeeper, 
 irritated on hearing this, threatened, if he did not pay him, he 
 should repent his obstinacy. Sancho swore by the order of chi- 
 valry, which his master had received, that he would not pay a 
 single farthing, though it should cost him his life; for the laud- 
 able and ancient usage of knights-errant should not be lost for him, 
 nor should the squires of future knights have cause to reproach him 
 for not maintaining so just a right. 
 
 Poor Sancho’s ill-luck would have it that among the people in 
 the inn there were four cloth-workers of Segovia, three needle- 
 makers from the fountain of Cordova, and two neighbours from the 
 market-place of Seville, all merry, good-humoured, frolicsome 
 fellows, who, instigated and moved, as it appeared, by the self- 
 same spirit, came up to Sancho, and having dismounted him, one of 
 them produced a blanket from the landlord’s bed, into which he 
 was immediately thrown; but perceiving that the ceiling was too 
 low, they determined to execute their purpose in the yard, which 
 was bounded upwards only by the sky. Thither Sancho was 
 carried ; and, being placed in the middle of the blanket, they began 
 to toss him aloft, and divert themselves with him, as with a dog at 
 Shrovetide. The cries which the poor blanketed squire sent forth 
 were so many and so loud that they reached his master’s ears; 
 who, stopping to listen attentively, believed that some new adven- 
 ture was at hand, until he plaimly recognized the voice of his 
 squire; then turning the reins, he gallopped back to the inn-door, 
 and finding it closed, he rode round in search of some other en- 
 trance; but had no sooner reached the yard-wall, which was of con- 
 siderable height, when he perceived the wicked sport they were mak- 
 ing with bis squire. He saw him ascend and descend through the 
 air, with so much grace and agility, thatif hisindignation had suffered 
 him, he certainly would have laughed outright. He made an effort 
 to climb from his horse to the top of the wall ; but was so maimed and 
 bruised that he was unable to do so; and therefore, standing on his 
 horse’s back, he proceeded to vent his rage, by uttering so many re- 
 proaches and invectives against those who were tossing Sancho, 
 that it is impossible to commit them to writing. But they sus: _ 
 
 : 
 * 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Sancho being placed in the middle of the blanket, they 
 began to toss 
 
 ham 
 
 aloft, and divert themselves with him. p. 84 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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SANCHO PANZA TOSSED IN A BLANKET. 85 
 
 pended neither their laughter nor their labour; nor did the flying 
 Sancho cease to pour forth lamentations, mingled now with 
 threats, now with entreaties; yet all were of no avail, and they 
 desisted at last only from pure fatigue. They then brought him | 
 his ass, and, wrapping him in his cloak, mounted him thereon. The 
 compassionate Maritornes, seeing him so exhausted, bethought of 
 helping him to a jug of water, and that it might be the cooler she 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 fetched it from the well. Sancho took it, and as he was lifting it 
 to his mouth, stopped on hearing the voice of his master, who 
 called to him, aloud, saying, ‘‘Son Sancho, drink not water; do 
 not drink it, son; it will kill thee; behold here the most holy 
 balsam (showing him the cruse of liquor), two drops of which will 
 infallibly restore thee.” At these words, Sancho, turning his eyes 
 ; askance, said in a louder voice, ‘‘ Perhaps you have forgot, sir, that 
 
 [ 
 
86 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
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 my inside, after last night’s work. Keep your liquor and let me 
 alone.” He then instantly began to drink; but at the first sip, 
 
DISCOURSE WITH SANCHO PANZA. 87 
 
 finding it was water, he could proceed no further, and he besought 
 Maritornes to bring him some wine, which she did willingly, and 
 paid for it with her own money; for it is indeed said of her, that 
 although in that station, she had some faint traces of a Christian. 
 When Sancho had ceased drinking, he clapped heels to his ass, and 
 the inn-gate being thrown wide open, out he went, satisfied that he 
 had paid nothing, and carried his point, though at the expense of his 
 ~usual pledge, namely his back. The landlord, it is true, retained his 
 wallets in payment of what was due to him; but Sancho never 
 missed them in the hurry of his departure. The inn-keeper would 
 have fastened the door well after him as soon ag he saw him out ; 
 but that the blanketers would not let him, being persons of that 
 sort, that, though Don Quixote had really been one of the Knights 
 of the Round Table, they would not have cared two farthings for 
 hin. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 The discourse which Sancho Panza held with his master Don Quixote, 
 with other adventures worth relating. 
 
 Sancho came up to his master, so faint and dispirited that he 
 was not able to urge his ass forward. Don Quixote, perceiving him 
 in that condition, said, ‘‘ Honest Sancho, that castle, or inn, [ am 
 now convinced, is enchanted; for they who so cruelly sported 
 with thee, what could they be but phantoms and inhabitants of 
 another world? And I am confirmed in this, from having found, 
 that when I stood at the wall of the yard, beholding the acts of 
 your sad tragedy, I could not possibly get over it, nor even 
 leave Rozinante; so that they must certainly have held me 
 enchanted ; for I swear to thee, by the faith of what I am, that 
 if IT could have got over to them, I would have avenged thee in 
 such a manner as would have made those poltroons and assassins 
 remember the jest as long as they lived, even though I would have 
 thereby transgressed the laws of chivalry ; for, as I have often told 
 thee, they do not allow a knight to lay hand on his sword against . 
 any one who is not so, unless it be in defence of his own life and 
 person, and in cases of urgent and extreme necessity.” ‘‘ And I 
 too,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ would have revenged myself if I had been 
 able, knight or no knight, but I could not; though in my opinion, 
 they who diverted themselves at my expense were no hobgoblins, 
 but men of flesh and bones, as we are; and each of them, as I 
 heard while they were tossing me, had his proper name: one was 
 called Pedro Martinez, another Tenorio Hernandez; and the land- 
 lord’s name is John Palomeque, the left-handed: so that, sir, as to 
 your not being able to leap over the wall, nor even to leave your 
 horse, the fault lay not in enchantment, but in something else. And 
 what I gather clearly from all this is, that these adventures we arée- 
 
88 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 in quest of will, in the long run, bring us into so many misadven- 
 tures that we shall not know which is our right foot. So that, in 
 my poor opinion, the better and surer way would be to return to 
 » our village, now that it is reaping-time, and look after our busi- 
 ness ; nor go rambling from Ceca to Mecca, and out of the frying- 
 pan into the fire.” 
 
 “* How little dost thou know, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, 
 ‘‘of what appertains to chivalry! Peace, and have patience, for 
 the day will come when thine eyes shall witness how honourable 
 a thing it is to follow this profession: for tell me what greater 
 satisfaction can the world afford, or what pleasure can be compared 
 with that of winning a battle, and triumphing over an adversary? 
 Undoubtedly none.” ‘‘It may be so,” answered Sancho, ‘‘ though 
 I do not know it. I only know that, since we have been knights- 
 errant, or since you have been one, sir (for I have no right to 
 reckon myself of that honourable number), we have never won any 
 battle, except that of the Biscainer; and even there your worship 
 came off with half an ear and half a helmet; and from that day to 
 this we have had nothing but drubbings upon drubbings, cuffs 
 upon cuffs, with my blanket-tossing into the bargain, and that by 
 
 ersons enchanted, on whom I cannot revenge myself, and thereby 
 eee what that pleasure of overcoming an enemy is, which your 
 worship talks of.” ‘‘That is what troubles me, and ought to 
 trouble thee, also, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘ but hence- 
 forward I will endeavour to have ready at hand a sword made with 
 such art that no kind of enchantment can touch him that wears it ; 
 aud perhaps fortune may put me in possession of that of Amadis, 
 when he called himself ‘ Knight of the burning sword,’ which was 
 one of the best weapons that ever was worn by knight: for, beside 
 the virtue aforesaid, it cut like a razor; and no armour, however 
 strong or enchanted, could withstand it.” ‘‘Such is my luck,” 
 
 uoth Sancho, ‘‘that though this were so, and your worship should 
 
 nd such a sword, it would be of service only to those who are 
 dubbed knights,—like the balsam: as for the poor squires, they 
 may sing sorrow.” ‘‘Fear not, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; 
 ‘¢ Heaven will deal more kindly by thee.” 
 
 The knight and his squire went on conferring thus together, 
 when Don Quixote, perceived in the road on which they were tra- 
 velling, a great and thick cloud of dust coming towards them ; upon 
 which he turned to Sancho, and said, ‘‘ This is the day, O Sancho, 
 that shall manifest the good that fortune hath in store for me. 
 This is the day, I say, on which shall be proved, as at all times, 
 the valour of my arm; and on which I shall perform ‘exploits that 
 will be recorded and written in the book of fame, and there remain 
 to all succeeding ages. Seest thou that cloud of dust, Sancho? 
 It is raised by a prodigious araiy of divers and innumerable nations, 
 who are on the march this way.” ‘‘If so, there must be two 
 _armies,” said Sancho; ‘‘for here, on this side, arises just such an- 
 other cloud of dust.” Don Quixote turned, and seeing that it really 
 was so, he rejoiced exceedingly, taking it for granted they were two 
 armies coming to engage in the midst of that spacious plain, for at 
 
DESCRIPTION OF THE TWO ARMIES. 89 
 
 all hours and moments his imagination was full of the battles, en- 
 chantments, adventures, extravagances, and challenges detailed in 
 his favourite books; and in every thought, word, and action, he re- - 
 verted to them. Now the cloud of dust he saw was raised by two 
 great flocks of sheep going the same road from different parts, and, 
 as the dust concealed them until they came near, and Don Quixote 
 affirmed so positively that they were armies, Sancho began to believe 
 it, and said, ‘‘Sir, what then must we do?” ‘‘What?” replied Dor 
 Quixote, ‘‘favour and assist the weaker side! Thou must know, 
 Sancho, that the army which marches towards us in front is led and 
 commanded by the great emperor Alifanfaron, lord of the great is- 
 land of Taprobana: this other, which marches behind us, is that of 
 his enemy, the king of the Garamantes, Pentapolin of the naked 
 arm, for he always enters into battle with his right arm bare.” 
 ‘*But why do these two princes bear one another so much ill-will?” 
 demanded Sancho. ‘‘They hate one another,” answered Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘ because this Alifanfaron is a furious pagan, in love with 
 the daughter of Pentapolin, who is a most beautiful and superlatively 
 graceful lady, and also a Christian ; but her father will not give her 
 in marriage to the pagan king, unless he will first renounce the re- 
 ligion of his false prophet Mahomet, and turn Christian.” ‘‘ By my 
 beard,” said Sancho, ‘‘ Pentapolin is in the right’; and I am resolved 
 to assist him to the utmost of my power.” ‘‘'Therein thou wilt do 
 thy duty, Sancho,” said Don Quixote: ‘‘for in order to engage in 
 such contests it is not necessary to be dubbed a knight.” ‘‘ I easily 
 comprehend that,” answered Sancho. ‘‘ But where shall we dispose 
 of this ass, that we may be sure to find him when the fray is over ? for 
 I believe it was never yet the fashion to go to battle on a beast of this 
 kind.” ‘‘ Thou art in the right,” said Don Quixote ; ‘‘and thou mayest 
 let him take his chance, whether he be lost or not: for we shan. have 
 such choice of horses after the victory, that Rozinante himself will run 
 arisk of being exchanged. But listen with attention whilst I give thee 
 an account of the principal knights in the two approaching armies ; 
 and, that thou mayest observe them the better, let us retire to that 
 rising ground, whence both armies may be distinctly seen. They 
 did so, and placed themselves for that purpose on a hillock, from 
 which the two flocks, which Don Quixote mistook for armies, might 
 easily have been discerned, had not their view been obstructed by 
 the clouds of dust. Seeing, however, in his imagination what did 
 not exist, he began, with a loud voice, to say, ‘‘The knight thou 
 seest yonder with the gilded armour, who bears on his shield a lion, 
 crowned, couchant at a damsel’s feet, is the valorous Laurcalco, 
 lord of the silver bridge. The other, with the armour flowered 
 with gold, who bears three crowns argent, in a field azure, is the 
 formidable Micocolembo, grand duke of Quiracia. The third, with 
 gigantic limbs, who marches on his right, is the undaunted Branda- 
 barbaran of Boliche, lord of the three Arabias. He is armed with a 
 serpent’s skin, and bears instead of a shield, a gate, which fame says 
 is one of those belonging to the temple which Samson pulled down 
 when with his death he avenged himself upon his enemies. But 
 turn thine eyes on this other side, and there thou wilt see, in front 
 
90 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 of this other army, the ever victorious and never vanquished Tim- 
 onel de Carcajona, prince of the New Biscay, who comes clad in ar- 
 mour quartered azure, vert, argent, and or; bearing in his shield a 
 cat or, in a field gules, with a scroll inscribed MIAU, being the be- 
 ginning of his mistress’s name; who, it is reported, is the peerless 
 Miaulina, daughter of Alphenniquen, duke of Algrave. That 
 other, who burdens and oppresses the back of yon powerful steed, 
 whose armour is as white as snow, and his shield also white, 
 without any device, he is a new knight, by birth a Frenchman, 
 called Peter Papin, lord of the baronies of Utrique. The other 
 whom thou seest, with his armed heels pricking the flanks of that 
 fleet pie-bald courser, and his armour of pure azure, is the mighty 
 duke of Nerbia, Espartafilardo of the wood, whose device is an 
 asparagus-bed, with this motto, in Castilian, ‘ Rastrea mi suerte,’ 
 ‘Thus drags my fortune.’” 
 
 In this manner he went on naming sundry knights of each 
 squadron, as his fancy dictated, and giving to each their arms, 
 colours, devices, and mottoes extempore; and, without pausing, he 
 continued thus :—‘‘ That squadron in the front is formed and com- 
 posed of people of different nations. Here stand those who drink 
 the sweet waters of the famous Xanthus; the mountaineers, who 
 tread the Massilian fields; those who sift the pure and fine gold 
 dust of Arabia Felix; those who dwell among the famous and re- 
 freshing banks of the clear Thermodon; those who drain, by divers 
 and sundry ways, the golden veins of Pactolus; the Numidians, un- 
 
 faithful in their promises; the Persians, famous for bows and ar- — 
 
 rows; the Parthians and Medes, who fight flying; the Arabians, 
 perpetually changing their habitations; the Scythians, as cruel as 
 fair; the broad-lpped Ethiopians; and an infinity of other nations, 
 whose countenances I see and know, although I cannot recollect 
 their names. In that other squadron come those who drink the 
 crystal streams of olive-bearing Betis ; those who brighten and polish 
 their faces with the liquor of the ever rich and golden Tagus; those 
 who enjoy the beneficial waters of the divine Genil; those who 
 tread the Tartesian fields, abounding in pasture; those who recreate 
 themselves in the Elysian meads of Xereza; the rich Manchegans, 
 crowned with yellow ears of corn; those clad in iron, the antique 
 remains of the Gothic race ; those who bathe themselves in Pisuerga, 
 famous for the gentleness of its current; those who feed their flocks 
 
 on the spacious pastures of the winding Guadiana, celebrated for 
 
 its hidden source ; those who shiver on the cold brow of the woody 
 Pyreneus, and the snowy tops of lofty Appeninus; in a word, all 
 that Europe contains and includes.” 
 
 Good lack, how many provinces did he name! how many ; 
 
 nations did he enumerate! giving to each, with wonderful readi- 
 ness, ite peculiar attributes. Sancho Panza stood confounded at his 
 discourse, without speaking a word; and now and then he turned 
 
 his head about, to see whether he could discover the knights and 
 giants his master named. But seeing none, he said, ‘‘ Sir, the never — 
 aman, or giant, or knight, of all you have named, can I see any- _ 
 
 where; perhaps all may be enchantment, like last night’s goblins.” 
 
HIS WONDERFUL ENCOUNTER. 91 
 
 ** How sayest thou, Sancho?” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ hearest thou 
 not the neighing of the steeds, the sound of the trumpets, and the 
 rattling of the drums?” ‘‘T hear nothing,” answered Sancho, ‘but 
 the bleating of sheep and lambs ;” and so it was; for now the two 
 flocks were come very near them. ‘‘ Thy fears, Sancho,” said Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘ prevent thee from hearing or seeing aright; for one effect 
 of fear is to disturb the senses, and make things not to appear what 
 they really are; and if thou art so much afraid, retire and leave me 
 alone; for with my single arm I shall ensure victory to that side 
 which I favour with my assistance ;” then, clapping spurs to Rozi- 
 nante, and setting his lance in rest, he darted down the hillock like 
 lightning. Sancho cried out to him, ‘‘ Hold, Signor Don Quixote, 
 come back! They are lambs and sheep you are going to encounter ! 
 Pray come back. Woe to the father that begot me! What mad- 
 ness is this? Look, there is neither giant nor knight, nor cats, nor 
 arms, nor shields quartered nor entire, nor true azures, sinner that 
 Tam! what are you doing?” Notwithstanding all this, Don Quixote 
 turned not again, but still went on, crying aloud, ‘‘ Ho! knights, 
 you that follow and fight under the banner of the valiant Emperor 
 Pentapolin of the naked arm, follow me all, and you shall see with 
 how much ease I revenge him on his enemy Alifanfaron of Tapro- 
 bana.” With these words, he rushed into the midst of the squad- 
 ron of sheep, and began to attack them with his lance as coura- 
 geously and intrepidly as if in good earnest he was engaging his 
 mortal enemies. The shepherds and herdsmen who came with the 
 flocks called out to him to desist; but, seeing it was to no purpose, 
 they unbuckled their slings, and began to salute his ears with a 
 shower of stones. Don Quixote cared not for the stones; but, gal- 
 lopping about on all sides, cried out, ‘‘ Where art thou, proud Ali- 
 fanfaron? Present thyself before me, I am a single knight, desir- 
 ous to prove thy valour hand to hand, and to punish thee with the 
 loss of life, for the wrong thou dost to the valiant Pentapolin Gara- 
 manta.” At that instant a large stone struck him, with such vio- 
 lence on the side that it buried a couple of ribs in his body; inso- 
 much that he believed himself either slain or sorely wounded; and 
 therefore, remembering his balsam, he pulled out the cruse, and 
 applying it to his mouth, began to swallow some of the liquor ; but 
 before he could take what he thought sufficient, another of those 
 almonds hit him fall on the hand, and dashed the cruse to pieces ; 
 carrying off three or four of his teeth by the way, and grievously 
 bruising two of his fingers. Such was the first blow, and such the 
 second, that the poor knight fell from his horse to the ground. The 
 shepherds ran to him, and verily believed they had killed him; 
 whereupon, in all haste, they collected their flock, took up their 
 dead, which were about seven, and marched off without further 
 inquiry. 
 
 All this while Sancho stood upon the hillock, beholding his mas- 
 ter’s extravagances ; tearing his beard, and cursing the unfortunate 
 hour and moment that ever he knew him. But seeing him fallen 
 to the ground, and the shepherds gone off, he descended from the 
 hillock, and, running to him, found him in a very ill plight, 
 
92 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 though not quite bereaved of sense; and said to him, ‘‘ Did I not beg 
 you, Signor Don Quixote, to come back; for those you went to 
 attack were a flock of sheep, and not an army of men?” ‘‘ How 
 easily,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘can that thief of an enchanter, my 
 enemy, transform things or make them invisible! Thou must know, 
 Sancho, that it is a very easy matter for such men to give things 
 what semblance they please ; and this malignant persecutor of mine, 
 envious of the glory that he saw I should acquire in this battle, has 
 transformed the hostile squadrons into flocks of sheep. However, 
 do one thing, Sancho, for my sake, to undeceive thyself and see the 
 truth of what I tell thee; mount thy ass, and follow them fairly 
 and softly, and thou wilt find that, when they are got a little 
 further off, they will return to their first form, and, ceasing to be 
 sheep, will become men, proper and tall, as I described them at first. 
 But do not go now; for I want thy assistance; and come and see 
 how many of my teeth are deficient ; for it seems to me I have not 
 one left in my head.” Sancho came so close to him that he almost 
 thrust his eyes into his mouth; and being precisely at the time that 
 the balsam began to work in Don Quixote’s stomach, the contents 
 thereof were at that instant discharged, with as much violence as 
 if shot out of a demi-culverin, directly upon the beard of the com- 
 passionate squire. ‘‘ Blessed Virgin!” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ What has 
 
 efallen me? This poor sinner must be mortally wounded, since 
 he vomits blood at the mouth.” But reflecting a little, he found 
 by the colour, savour, and smell, that it was not blood, but the bal- 
 sam he had seen him drink; and so great was the loathing he then 
 felt, that his stomach turned, and he vomited up his very entrails 
 upon his master, so that they were both in a precious pickle. 
 Sancho ran to his ass, to take something out of his wallets to 
 cleanse himself and cure his master; but not finding them, he was 
 very near running distracted. He cursed himself again, and re- 
 solved in his mind to leave his master, and return home, although 
 he should lose his wages for the time past, and his hopes of the pro- 
 mised island. 
 
 Don Quixote now raised himself up, and placing his left hand on his 
 mouth, to prevent the remainder of his teeth from falling out, with — 
 the other he laid hold on Rozinante’s bridle, who had not stirred 
 from his master’s side, such was his fidelity, and went towards his 
 squire, who stood leaning with his breast upon the ass, and his 
 cheek reclining upon his hand, in the posture of a man overwhelmed 
 with thought. Don Quixote seeing him thus, and to all appearance so 
 melancholy, said to him, ‘‘ Know, Sancho, that one man is no more 
 than another, only inasmuch as he does more than another. All 
 these storms that we have encountered are signs that the weather 
 will soon clear up, and things will go smoothly ; for it is impossible _ 
 that either evil or good should be durable; and hence it follows, 
 that the evil having lasted long, the good cannot be far off. So 
 do not afflict thyself for the mischances that befall me, since thou 
 hast no share in them.” ‘‘How no share in them?” answered . 
 Sancho; ‘‘peradventure he they tossed in a blanket yesterday was 
 not my father’s son; and the wallets I have lost to-day, with all 
 
 x 
 _* Se 
 
HIS GREAT LOSS. ; 93 
 
 my moveables, belong to somebody else?” ‘‘ What, are the wallets 
 lost?” quoth Don Quixote. ‘‘ Yes, they are,” answered Sancho, 
 ‘Then we have nothing to eat to-day,” replied Don Quixote. ‘‘It 
 would be so,” answered Sancho, ‘‘if those fields did not produce 
 those herbs which your worship says you know, and with which 
 unlucky knights-errant, like your worship, are used to supply such 
 wants.” ‘‘ Nevertheless,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ at this time I would 
 rather have a slice of bread and a couple of heads of salt pilchards 
 than all the herbs described by Dioscorides, though commented on 
 by Doctor Laguna himself.” ‘‘ But, good Sancho, get upon thy ass, and 
 follow me; for God, who provides for all, will not desert us; more 
 especially, being engaged, as we are, in His service; since He ne- 
 glects neither the gnats of the air, the worms of the earth, nor the 
 spawn of the waters ; and so merciful is He, that He maketh His 
 sun to shine upon the good and the bad, and causeth the rain to 
 fall upon the just and the unjust.” ‘‘ Your worship,” said Sancho, 
 .‘* would make a better preacher than a knight-errant.” ‘‘Sancho,” 
 said Don Quixote, ‘‘ the knowledge of knights-errant must be uni- 
 versal; there have been knights-errant, in times past, who would 
 make sermons or harangues on the king’s highway, as successfully 
 as if they had taken their degrees in the University of Paris; 
 whence it may be inferred that the lance never blunted the pen, 
 nor the pen the lance.” ‘‘ Well! be it as your worship says,” 
 answered Sancho; ‘‘ but let us begone hence, and endeavour to get 
 a lodging to-night, and pray Heaven it be where there are neither 
 blankets nor blanket -heavers, nor hobgoblins nor enchanted 
 Moors.” 
 
 ‘‘Pray to God, my son,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘and lead me 
 whither thou wilt; for this time I leave our lodging to thy choice ; 
 but reach hither thy hand, and feel how many teeth are wanting 
 on the right side of my upper jaw, for there I feel the pain.” 
 Sancho put his finger into his mouth, and feeling about, said, 
 *‘ How many teeth had your worship on this side?” ‘‘ Four,” an- 
 swered Don Quixote, ‘‘ besides the eye-tooth, all perfect and 
 sound.” ‘* Think well what you say, sir,” answered Sancho, ‘I 
 say four, if not five,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘for in my whole 
 life I never had a tooth drawn, nor have I lost one by rheum nor 
 decay.” ‘‘ Well, then,” said Sancho, ‘‘on this lower side your wor- 
 ship has got two teeth and a-half; and in the upper, neither half 
 nor whole, all is as smooth and even as the palm of my hand.” 
 ** Unfortunate that [ am!” said Don Quixote, hearing these sad 
 tidings from his squire; ‘‘I had rather they had torn off an arm, 
 provided it were not the sword arm; for thou must know, Sancho, 
 that a mouth without teeth is like a mill without a stone; and 
 that a diamond is not so precious as a tooth. But to all this we, 
 who profess the strict order of chivalry, are liable. Mount, friend 
 ‘Sancho, and lead on; for I will follow thee at what pace thou 
 wilt.” Sancho did so, and proceeded in a direction in which he 
 thought it probable they might find a lodging, without going out of 
 the high road, which in that part was much frequented. As they 
 slowly pursued their way, for the pain of Don Quixote’s jaws gave 
 
94 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 him no ease, nor inclination to make haste, Sancho, wishing to 
 amuse and divert him, began to converse, and said among other 
 things what will be found in the following chapter. 
 
 — 
 
 CHAP Al Eee lk, 
 
 ns Of the sage discourse that passed between Sancho and his master, and 
 the succeeding adventure of the dead body; with other famous 
 occurrences. 
 
 ‘Tt is my opinion, sir, that all the misfortunes which have be- 
 fallen us of late are doubtless in punishment of the sin committed 
 “by your worship against your own order of knighthood, in neglect- 
 ing to perform the oath you took, not to eat bread on a tablecloth, 
 with all the rest that you swore, until you had taken away the hel- 
 met of Malandrino—or how do you call the Moor, for I do not well 
 remember?” ‘‘Sancho, thou art in the right,” said Don Quixote, 
 ‘*but, to confess the truth, it had wholly escaped my memory ; 
 and rely upon it, the affair of the blanket happened to thee as a 
 punishment for not having reminded me sooner ; but I will make 
 compensation, for in the order of chivalry there are ways of com- 
 pelinding for everything.” ‘*‘Why, did I swear anything?” said 
 ancho. ‘‘That thou hast not sworn avails thee nothing,” replied 
 Don Quixote; ‘‘it is enough that | know thou art not free from the 
 guilt of an accessary ; and, at all events, it will not be amiss to pro- 
 vide ourselves a remedy.” ‘‘If that be the case,” said Sancho, 
 “‘take care, sir, you do not forget this, too, as you did the oath; 
 perhaps the goblins may again take a fancy to divert themselves 
 with me, or with your worship, if they find you so obstinate.” 
 While they were thus discoursing, night overtook them, and they 
 were still in the high road without having found any place of recep- 
 tion ; and the worst of it was they were famished with hunger, for 
 with their-wallets they had lost their whole larder of provisions, 
 and to complete their misfortunes an adventure now befell them 
 which appeared indeed to be truly an adventure. The night came 
 on rather dark ; notwithstanding which they proceeded, as Sancho 
 hoped that being on the king’s highway, they might very probably 
 find an inn within a league or two. Thus situated, the night dark, 
 the squire hungry, and the master well disposed to eat, they saw, 
 advancing towards them, on the same road, a great number of 
 lights, resembling so many moving stars. Sancho stood aghast at 
 the sight of them, nor was Don Quixote unmoved. The one 
 checked his ass and the other his horse, and both stood looking 
 before them with eager attention. They perceived that the lights 
 were advancing towards them, and that, as they approached nearer 
 they appeared larger. Sancho trembled like quicksilver at the 
 sight, and Don Quixote’s hair bristled upon his head, but, some- 
 what recovering himself, he exclaimed, ‘‘Sancho, this must bea | 
 most perilous adventure, wherein it will be necessary for me to ex- * 
 
THE WONDERFUL VISION. 95 
 
 ert my whole might and valour.” ‘‘ Woe is me!” answered Sancho, 
 ‘should this prove to be an adventure of goblins, as to me 1t seems 
 to be, where shall I find ribs to endure?” ‘‘Whatsoever phantoms . 
 they may be,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘I will not suffer them to touch 
 a thread of thy garment, for if they sported with thee before, it 
 was because I could not get over the wall ; but we are now upon even 
 ground, where I can brandish my sword at pleasure.” ‘‘ But, if 
 they should enchant and benumb you, as they did then,” quoth 
 Sancho, ‘‘ what matters it whether we are in the open field or not?” 
 ‘Notwithstanding that,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘I beseech thee, 
 Sancho, to be of good courage ; for experience shall give thee suf- 
 ficient proof of mine.” ‘‘I will, if it please God,” answered Sancho ; 
 and, retiring a little on one side of the road, and again endeavouring 
 to discover what these walking lights might be, they soon after _ 
 perceived a great many persons clothed in white. This dreadful 
 spectacle completely annihilated the courage of Sancho, whose 
 teeth began to chatter, as if seized with a quartan ague; and his 
 trembling and chattering increased as more of it appeared in view ; 
 for now they discovered about twenty persons in white robes, all 
 on horseback, with lighted torches in their hands; behind them 
 came a litter covered with black, which was followed by six per- 
 sons in deep mourning; the mules on which they were mounted 
 being covered likewise with black, down to their heels; for that 
 they were mules, and not horses, was evident by the slowness of 
 their pace. Those robed in white were muttering to themselves in 
 a low plaintive tone. 
 
 This strange vision, at such an hour, and in a place so uninhabited 
 might well strike terror into Sancho’s heart, and even into that of 
 his master; and so it would have done had he been any other than 
 Don Quixote. As for Sancho, his whole stock of courage was now 
 exhausted. But it was otherwise with his master, whose lively 
 imagination instantly suggested to him that this must be truly a 
 chivalrous adventure. He conceived that the litter was a bier, 
 whereon was carried some knight, sorely wounded or slain, whose 
 revenge was reserved for him alone: he, therefore, without delay, 
 couched his spear, seated himself tirm in his saddle, and with grace 
 and spirit advanced into the middle of the road by which the pro- 
 cession must pass ; and when they were near, he raised his voice, and 
 said, ‘‘ Ho! knights, whoever ye are, halt, and give me an account 
 to whom ye belong ; whence ye come, whither ye are going, and what 
 it is ye carry upon that bier; for in all appearance either ye have 
 done some injury to others, or others to you; and it is expedient and 
 necessary that I be informed of it, either to chastise ye for the evil 
 ye have done, or to revenge ye of wrongs sustained.” ‘‘ We are in 
 
 aste,” answered one in the procession ; ‘‘ the innisa great way off ; 
 and we cannot stay to give so long an account as you require :” 
 then, spurring his mule, he passed forward. Don Quixote, highly” 
 resenting this answer, laid hold of his bridle, and said, ‘‘ Stand, 
 and with more civility give me the account I demand; otherwise I 
 challenge ye all to battle.’ The mule was timid, and started se 
 much upon his touching the bridle, that, rising on her hind legs, 
 
96 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 she threw her rider over the crupper to the ground. A lacquey that 
 eame on foot, seeing the man in white fall, began to revile Don 
 Quixote, whose choler being now raised, he couched his spear, and, 
 immediately attacking one of the mourners, laid him on the ground 
 grievously wounded; then turning about to the rest, it was worth 
 seeing with what agility he attacked and defeated them: and it 
 seemed as if wings at that instant had sprung on Rozinante—so 
 lightly and swiftly he moved! All the white-robed people, being 
 timorous and unarmed, soon quitted the skirmish, and ran over the 
 plain with their lighted torches, looking like so many masqueraders 
 on a carnival or festival night. The mourners were so wrapped up 
 and muffled in their long robes, that they could make no exertion: 
 so that Don Quixote, with entire safety, assailed them all, and 
 sorely against their will obliged them to quit the field; for they 
 thought him no man, but a demon broke loose upon them to seize 
 the dead body they were conveying in the litter. 
 
 All this Sancho beheld with admiration at his master’s intrepidity, 
 and said to himself, ‘‘This master of mine is certainly as valiant 
 and magnanimous as he pretends to be.”” A burning torch lay upon 
 the ground, near the first whom the mule had overthrown, by the 
 light of which Don Quixote espied him, and going up to him, placed 
 the point of his spear to his throat, commanding him to surrender on 
 pain of death, to which the fallen man answered, ‘‘ I am surrendered 
 enough already, since I cannot stir; for one of my legs is broken. 
 I beseech you, sir, if you are Christian gentleman, do not kill me: 
 you would commit a great sacrilege ; for I am a licentiate, and have 
 taken the lesser orders.” ‘‘Who, then,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ brought 
 you hither, being an ecclesiastic?” ‘‘ Who, sir?” replied the fallen 
 man; ‘‘my evil fortune.” ‘A worse fate now threatens you,” said 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘unless you reply satisfactorily to all my first ques- 
 tions.” ‘* Your worship shall soon be satisfied,” answered the 
 licentiate ; ‘‘and therefore you must know, sir, that though I told 
 you before I was licentiate, I am in fact only a bachelor of arts, 
 and my name is Alonzo Lopez. I ama native of Alcovendas, and 
 came from the city cf Baeza, with eleven more ecclesiastics, the 
 same who fled with the torches; we were attending the corpse in 
 that litter to the city of Segovia. It is that of a gentleman who 
 died in Baeza, where he was deposited till now, that, as I said before, 
 we are carrying his bones to their place of burial in Segovia, where 
 he was born.” ‘‘And who killed him?” demanded Don Quixote. 
 ‘*God,” replied the bachelor, ‘‘by means of a pestilential fever.” 
 ‘*Then,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘our Lord hath saved me the labour 
 of revenging his death, in case he had been slain by any other hand. 
 But since he fell by the hand of Heaven, there is nothing expected 
 from us but patience, for just the same must I have done had it 
 been His pleasure to pronounce the fatal sentence upon me. It is 
 proper that your reverence should know that I am a knight of La 
 Mancha, Don Quixote by name: and that it is my office and pro- 
 fession to go over the world, righting wrongs and redressing griev- 
 ances.” ‘I do not understand your way of righting wrongs,” said | 
 the bachelor: ‘‘for from right you have set me wrong, having 
 
THE KNIGHT OF THE SORROWFUL FIGURE. 97 
 
 broken my leg, which will never be right again whilst I live; and 
 the grievance you have redressed for me is to leave me so aggrieved 
 that I shall never be otherwise; and to me it was a most unlucky 
 adventureto meet you, who dre seeking adventures.” ‘‘ All things,” 
 answered Don Quixote, ‘‘do not fall out the same way: the mis- 
 chief, master bachelor Alonzo Lopez, was occasioned by your com- 
 ing, as you did, by night, arrayed in those surplices, with lighted 
 torches, chanting, and clad in doleful weeds, so that you really re- 
 sembled something evil of the other world. I was therefore bound 
 to perform my duty, by attacking you; which I certainly should 
 have done although you had really been devils as I imagined.” 
 ** Since my fate ordained it so,” said the bachelor, ‘‘I beseech you, 
 Signor knight-errant, who have done me such arrant mischief, to 
 help me to get from under this mule, for my legis held fast between 
 the stirrup and the saddle.” ‘<I might have continued talking until 
 to-morrow,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘ why did you delay acquainting 
 me with your embarrassment?” He then called out to Sancho 
 Panza to assist; but he did not choose to obey, being employed in 
 ransacking a sumpter-mule, which those pious men had brought 
 with them, well stored with eatables. Sancho made a bag of his 
 cloak, and having crammed into it as much as it would hold, he 
 loaded his beast ; after which he attended to his master’s call, and 
 helped to disengage the bachelor from the oppression of his mule ; 
 and, having mounted him and given him the torch, Don Quixote 
 bade him follow the track of his companions, and beg their pardon, 
 in his name, for the injury which he could not avoid doing them. 
 Sancho likewise said, ‘‘ If perchance those gentlemen would know 
 who is the champion that routed them, it is the famous Don Quixcte 
 de la Mancha, otherwise called ‘the knight of the sorrowful figure.’” 
 
 The bachelor being gone, Don Quixote asked Sancho what induced 
 him to call him ‘‘the knight of the sorrowful figure,” at that time 
 more than at any other. ‘‘{ will tell you,” answered Sancho; ‘‘it 
 is because I have been viewing you by the light of the torch, which 
 that unfortunate man carried ; and, in truth, your worship at present 
 very nearly makes the most woful figure I have ever seen ; which 
 must be owing, I suppose, either to the fatigue of this combat, or 
 the want of your teeth.” ‘It is owing to neither,” replied Don 
 - Quixote ; “‘ but the sage, who has the charge of writing the history 
 of my achievements, has deemed it proper for me to assume an 
 appellation, like the knights of old; one of whom called himself 
 ‘the knight of the burning sword ;’ another, ‘of the unicorn ;’ this, 
 ‘of the damsels ;’ that, ‘of the phceenix;’ another, ‘the knight of 
 the griffin ;’ and another, ‘the knight of death ;’ and by those names 
 and ensigns they were known over the whole surface of the earth. 
 And, therefore, I say that the sage I just now mentioned, has put 
 It into my thoughts and into my mouth, to call me ‘the knight of 
 the sorrowful figure,’ as I purpose to call myself from this day for- 
 ward ; and that this name may fit me the better, I determine, when 
 an opportunity offers, to have a most sorrowful figure painted on 
 my shield.” ‘‘ You need not spend time and money in setting this 
 figure made,” said Sancho; ‘your worship need only show your 
 
 G 
 
98 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 own, and, without any other image or shield, they will immediately 
 call you ‘him of the sorrowful figure ;? and be assured I tell you 
 the truth; for I promise you, sir (mind, I speak in jest), that 
 hunger, and the loss of your grinders, makes you look so ruefully, 
 that, as I said before, the sorrowful picture may very well be 
 spared.” 
 
 Don Quixote smiled at Sancho’s pleasantry; nevertheless, he 
 resolved to call himself by that name, and to have his shield or 
 buckler painted accordingly, and he said, ‘‘I conceive, Sancho, 
 that I am liable to excommunication for having laid violent hands 
 on holy things, ‘Juxta illud, Siquis suadente diabolo,’ &.; although 
 I know I did not lay my hands, but my spear upon them. Besides, 
 I did not know that I was engaging with priests, or things belong- 
 ing to the church, which I reverence and adore, like a good 
 Catholic and faithful Christian as I am, but with phantoms and 
 spectres of the other world. And, even were it otherwise, I per- 
 fectly remember what befell the Cid Ruy Diaz, when he broke the 
 chair of that king’s ambassador, in the presence of his holiness the 
 pope, for which he was excommunicated; yet honest Roderigo de 
 
 ivar passed that day for an honourable and courageous knight.” 
 
 The bachelor having departed, as hath been said, Don Quixote 
 wished to examine whether the corpse in the hearse consisted only 
 of bones or not; but Sancho would not consent, saying, ‘‘Sir, your 
 worship has finished this perilous adventure at less expense than any 
 I have seen ; and though these folks are conquered and defeated, they 
 may chance to reflect that they were beaten by one man, and, being 
 ashamed thereat, may recover themselves, and return in quest of 
 us, and then we may have enough to do. The ass is properly fur- 
 nished ; the mountain is near ; hunger presses ; and we have nothing 
 to do but decently to march off; and, as the saying is, ‘To the 
 grave with the dead, and the living to the bread ;’” and, driving on 
 his ass before him, he entreated his master to follow; who, think- 
 ing Sancho in the right, followed without replying. They had not 
 gone far between two hills, when they found themselves in a retired 
 and spacious valley, where they alighted. Sancho disburdened his 
 beast; and, extended on the green grass, with hunger for sauce, 
 they despatched their breakfast, dinner, afternoon’s luncheon, and 
 supper, all at once; regaling their palates with more than one cold 
 mess, Which the ecclesiastics who attended the deceased (such 
 gontlemen seldom failing in a provident attention to themselves) — 
 had brought with them on the sumpter-mule. But there was 
 another misfortune, which Sancho accounted the worst of all; 
 namely, they had no wine, nor even water, to drink; and were, 
 moreover, parched with thirst. Sancho, however, perceiving the 
 meadow they were in to be covered with green and fresh grass, said 
 —what will be related in the following chapter. 
 
SANCHO PANZA’S TERROR. “99 
 
 CHAPTER XxX. 
 
 Of the unparalleled adventure achieved by the renowned Don Quixote 
 with less hazard than any was ever achieved by the most famous 
 knight in the world. 
 
 ‘*T¢ is impossible, sir, but there must be some fountain or brook 
 near, to make these herbs so fresh, and, therefore, if we go a little 
 farther on, we may meet with something to quench the terrible 
 thirst that afflicts us, and which is more painful than hunger 
 itself.” Don Quixote approved the counsel, and taking Rozinante 
 by the bridle, and Sancho his ass by the halter (after he had placed 
 upon him the relics of the supper), they began to march forward 
 through the meadow, feeling their way; for the night was so dark, 
 they could see nothing. But they had not gone two hundred paces 
 when a great noise of water reached their ears, like that of some 
 mighty cascade pouring down from a vast and steep rock. The 
 sound rejoiced them exceedingly, and, stopping to listen whence it 
 came, they heard on a sudden another dreadful noise, which abated 
 the pleasure occasioned by that of the water; especially in Sancho, 
 who was naturally faint-hearted. Isay, they hearda dreadful din of 
 irons or rattling chains, accompanied with mighty strokes, repeated 
 in regular time and measure; which, together with the furious 
 noise of the water, would have struck terror into any other heart 
 but that of Don Quixote. The night, as we have before said, was 
 dark ; and they chanced to enter a grove of tall trees, whose leaves, 
 agitated by the breeze, caused a kind of rustling noise, not loud, 
 though fearful; so that the solitude, the situation, the darkness, and 
 the sound of rushing water, with the agitated leaves, all concurred to 
 produce surprise and horror, especially when they found that 
 neither the blows ceased, nor the wind slept, nor the morning 
 approached ; and, in addition to all this, was their total ignorance 
 of the place where they were in. But Don Quixote, supported by 
 his intrepid heart, leaped upon Rozinante, and bracing on his 
 buckler, brandished his spear, and said, ‘“‘ Friend Sancho, know 
 that, by the will of Heaven, I was born in this age of iron to revive 
 in it that of gold, or, as it is usually termed, ‘the golden age.’ I 
 am he for whom dangers, great exploits, valorous achievements, are 
 reserved: T am he, I say again, who am destined to revive the 
 order of the Round Table; that of the twelve peers of France, and 
 the nine worthies ; and to obliterate the memory of the Platirs, the 
 Tablantes, Olivantes, and Tirantes, ‘knights of the sun,’ and the 
 Belianises, with the whole tribe of the famous knights-errant of times 
 past; performing, in this age such stupendous deeds and feats of arms 
 as are sufficient to obscure the brightest ever achieved by them. 
 Trusty and loyal squire, observe the darkness of this night, its 
 strange silence, the confused sound of these trees, the fearful noise 
 of the water which we came hither in search of, and which, one 
 would think, precipitated itself headlong from the high mountains 
 
100 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 of the moon; that incessant striking and clashing which wounds our 
 ears ; all these together, and even each separately, are sufficient to 
 infuse terror, fear, and amazement into the breast of Mars himself ; 
 how much more into that of one unaccustomed to such adventures ! 
 Yet all I have described serves but to rouse and awaken my 
 courage, and my heart already bounds within my breast with 
 eager desire to encounter this adventure, however difficult it may 
 appear. Therefore, tighten Rozinante’s girth, and God be with 
 thee! Stay for me here three days, and no more; if I return not in 
 that time, thou mayest go back to our village; and thence, tc 
 oblige me, repair to Toboso, and inform my incomparable lady 
 Dulcinea, that her enthralled knight died in attempting things that 
 might have made him worthy to be styled hers.” 
 
 When Sancho heard these words of his master, he dissolved into 
 tears, and said, ‘‘ Sir, I cannot think why your worship should en- 
 counter this fearful adventure. It is now night, and nobody sees 
 us. We may easily turn aside, and get out of danger, though we 
 should not drink these three days; and, being unseen, we cannot 
 be taxed with cowardice. Besides, I have heard the curate of our 
 village, whom your worship knows very well, say in the pulpit that 
 ‘he who seeketh danger perisheth therein :’ so that it is not good 
 to tempt God by undertaking so extravagant an exploit, whence 
 there is no escaping but by a miracle. Let it suffice that Heaven 
 saved you from being tossed in a blanket, as I was, and brought 
 you off victorious, safe, and sound, from among so many enemies 
 as accompanied the dead man. And if all this be not sufficient to 
 soften your stony heart, let this assurance move you, that scarcely 
 shall your worship be departed hence, when I, for very fear, shall 
 give up my soul to whosoever shall be pleased totakeit. I left my 
 country, and forsook my wife and children, to follow and serve 
 your worship, believing I should be the better and not the worse 
 for it: but, as covetousness bursts the bag, so hath it rent my 
 hopes; for when they were most alive, and I was just expecting to 
 obtain that unlucky island, which you have so often promised me, 
 I find myself, in lieu thereof, ready. to be abandoned by your wor- 
 ship in a place remote from everything human. Dear sir, do not 
 be so cruel to me: and if your worship will not wholly give up this 
 
 enterprise, at least defer it till daybreak, which, by what I learned ~ 
 
 when a shepherd, cannot be above three hours; for the muzzle of 
 the north-bear is at the top of the head, and makes midnight in 
 the line of the left arm.” ‘‘ How canst thou, Sancho,” said Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘see where this line is made, or where this muzzle or top 
 of the head may be, since the night is so dark that not a star 
 appears in the whole sky?” ‘‘True,” said Sancho; ‘‘but fear 
 has many eyes, and sees things beneath the earth, much more 
 . above the sky; besides, it is reasonable to suppose that it does not 
 
 - want much of daybreak.” ‘* Want what it may,” answered Dow | 
 
 Quixote, ‘‘it shall never be said of me now, nor at any time, 
 that tears or entreaties could dissuade me from performing the 
 duty of a knight ! therefore I pray thee, Sancho, be silent ; for God, 
 who has inspired me with courage to attempt this unparalleled and 
 
 | 
 
 
 
SANCHO PANZA’S STRATAGEM. 101 
 
 fearful adventure, will not fail to watch over my safety, and com- 
 fort thee in thy sadness. All thou hast to do is to girt Rozinante 
 well, and remain here: for I will quickly return, alive or dead.” 
 
 Sancho, now seeing his master’s final resolution, and how little 
 his tears, prayers, and counsel availed, determined to have recourse 
 to stratagem, and compel him, if possible, to wait until day ; there- 
 fore, while he was tightening the horse’s girths, softly and unper- 
 ceived with his halter he tied Rozinante’s hinder feet together, so 
 that, when Don Quixote would fain have departed, the horse could 
 move only by jumps. Sancho, perceiving the success of his con- 
 trivance, said, ‘‘ Ah, sir! behold how Heaven, moved by my tears 
 and prayers, has ordained that Rozinante should be unable to stir; 
 and if you will obstinately persist to spur him, you will but provoke 
 fortune, and, as they say, ‘kick against the pricks.’” This.made 
 Don Quixote quite desperate, and the more he spurred his horse, 
 the less he could move him; he therefore thought it best to be 
 quiet, and wait until day appeared, or until Rozinante could pro- 
 ceed, never suspecting the artifice of Sancho, whom he thus ad- 
 dressed, ‘‘Since so it is, Sancho, that Rozinante cannot move, I 
 consent to wait until the dawn smiles, although I weep in the 
 interval.” ‘‘ You need not weep,” answered Sancho, ‘for I will 
 entertain you until day by telling you stories, if you had not 
 rather alight and compose yourself to sleep a little upon the green 
 grass, aS knights-errant are wont to do, so that you may be less 
 weary when the day and hour comes for engaging in that terrible 
 adventure you wait for.” ‘‘To whom dost thou talk of alighting 
 or sleeping?” said Don Quixote: ‘‘am I one of those knights who 
 _ take repose in time of danger? Sleep thou, who wert born to 
 sleep, or do what thou wilt: I shall act as becomes my profession.” 
 ‘‘Pray, good sir, be not angry,” answered Sancho, ‘‘I did not 
 mean to offend you:” and, coming close to him, he laid hold of the 
 saddle before and behind, and thus stood embracing his master’s 
 left thigh, without daring to stir from him a finger’s breadth, so 
 much was he afraid of the blows which still continued to sound in 
 regular succession. Don Quixote bade him tell some story for his 
 entertainment, as he had promised: Sancho replied that he would, 
 if his dread of the noise would permit him. ‘‘I will endeavour,” 
 said he, ‘‘in spite of it, to tell a story, which, if I can hit upon it, 
 and it slips not through my fingers, is the best of all stories; and I 
 beg your worship to be attentive, for now I begin :— 
 
 ‘* What hath been, hath been; the good that shall befall be for 
 us all, and evil to him that evil seeks. And pray, sir, take notice 
 that the beginning which the ancients gave to their tales was not 
 just what they pleased, but rather some sentence of Cato Zonzori- 
 nus, the Roman, who says, ‘And evil be to him that evil seeks ;’ 
 which fits the present purpose, like a ring to your finger, signifying 
 that your worship should be quiet, and not go about searching after 
 evil, but rather that we turn aside into some other road; for we- 
 are under no obligation to continue in this, where we are overtaken 
 by so many fears.” ‘‘ Proceed with thy tale, Sancho,” said Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘and leave to my care the road we are to follow.” ‘‘Isay, 
 
102 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 then,” continued Sancho, ‘‘that in a village in Estramadura, 
 there was a shepherd—I mean a goatherd; which shepherd, or 
 goatherd, as my story says, was called Lope Ruiz; and this Lope 
 Ruiz was in love with a shepherdess called Torralva; which shep- 
 herdess called Torralva was daughter to a rich herdsman, and this 
 rich herdsman—” ‘‘If this be thy manner of telling a story, 
 Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ repeating everything thou hast to 
 say, thou wilt not have done these two days: tell it concisely, and 
 like a man of sense, or else say no more.” ‘‘J tell it in the same 
 manner that they tell all stories in my country,” answered Sancho ; 
 ‘‘and J cannot tell it otherwise, nor ought your worship to require 
 me to make new customs.” ‘‘ Tell it as thou wilt, then,” said 
 Don Quixote ; ‘“since it is the will of fate that I must hear thee, 
 go on.’ 
 
 ‘¢ And so, sir,” continued Sancho, ‘‘as I said before, this shep- 
 herd was in love with the shepherdess Torralva, who was a jolly, 
 strapping wench, somewhat scornful, and somewhat masculine: for 
 she had certain small whiskers; and methinks I see her now.” 
 ‘What, didst thou know her?” said Don Quixote. ‘‘I did not 
 know her,” answered Sancho; ‘‘ but he who told me this story 
 said it was so certain and true, that I might, when I told it to 
 another, affirm and swear that I had seen it all. And so, in pro- 
 cess of time, it came about, that the love which the shepherd bore 
 to the shepherdess, turned into mortal hatred; and the cause, ac- 
 cording to evil tongues, was a certain quantity of little jealousies 
 she gave him, so as to exceed all bounds: and so much did he hate 
 her thenceforward, that, to shun the sight of her, he chose to ab- 
 sent himself from that country, and go where his eyes should never 
 more behold her. Torralva, who found herself disdained by Lope, 
 then began to love him better than ever she had loved him before.” 
 **It is a disposition natural in women,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ to 
 slight those who love them, and love those who hate them :—go 
 on, Sancho.” 
 
 ‘*TIt fell out,” proceeded Sancho, ‘‘that the shepherd put his 
 design into execution; and collecting together his goats, went over 
 the plains of Estramadura, in order to pass over the kingdom of 
 Portugal. Upon which, Torralva went after him, and followed him 
 at a distance, on foot and bare-legged, with a pilgrim’s staff in her 
 hand, and a wallet about her neck, in which she carried, as is re- 
 ported, a piece of looking-glass, the remains of a comb, and a kind of 
 small gallipot of paint forthe face. But whatever she carried (for I 
 shall not now set myself to vouch what it was), I only tell you that, 
 as they say, the shepherd came with his flock to pass the river 
 Guadiana, which at that time was swollen, and had almost over- 
 flowed its banks ; and on the side he came to there was neither boat 
 nor anybody to ferry him or his flock over to the other side, which 
 grieved him mightily ; for he saw that Torralva was at his heels, 
 _and would give him much disturbance by her entreaties and tears. 
 He therefore looked about him, until he espied a fisherman with a 
 _ boat near him, but so small that it could hold only one person and 
 one goat ; however, he spoke to him, and agreed to carry over him- 
 
SANCHO PANZA’S STORY. 108 
 
 self and his three hundred goats. The fisherman got into the boat, 
 and carried over a goat ; he returned, and carried over another ; he 
 came back again, and again carried over another. Pray, sir, keep 
 an account of the goats that the fisherman is carrying over; for if 
 you lose count of a single goat, the story ends, and it will be im- 
 ossible to tell a word more of it. JI go on then, and say that the 
 anding-place on the opposite side was covered with mud, and slip- 
 pery, and the fisherman was a great while coming and going. How- 
 ever, he returned for another goat, and another, another.” ‘‘Sup- 
 pose them ali carried over,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘and do not be 
 going and coming in this manner; or thou wilt not have finished 
 carrying them over in a twelvemonth.” ‘‘ How many have passed 
 already?” said Sancho. ‘‘ How should I know?” answered Don 
 Quixote. ‘‘See there now! did I not tell thee to keep an exact 
 account? There is an end of the story; I can go no further.” 
 ‘* How can this be?” answered Don Quixote. ‘‘Is it so essential 
 to the story to know the exact number of goats that passed over, 
 that, if one error be made, the story can proceed no further?” 
 *“No, sir, by no means,” answered Sancho, ‘‘for when I desired 
 your worship to tell me how many goats had passed, and you an- 
 swered you did not know, at that very instant all that I had to say 
 fled out of my memory ; and, in faith, 1t was very edifying and satis- 
 factory.” ‘‘So then,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘the story is at an end ?” 
 ‘‘ As sure as my mother is,” quoth Sancho. ‘“‘ Verily,” answered 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘ thou hast told one of the rarest tales, fables, or his- 
 tories imaginable ; and thy mode of relating and concluding it is 
 such as never was, nor ever will be, equalled ; although I expected 
 no less from thy good sense ; however, I do not wonder at it, for 
 this incessant din may have disturbed thy understanding.” ‘ All 
 that may be,” answered Sancho, ‘‘ but, as to my story, I know 
 there’s no more to be told ; for it ends just where the error begins 
 in the account of carrying over the goats.” * ‘‘ Let it end where it 
 will,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘and let us see whether Rozinante can 
 stir himself.”” And he clapped spurs to him, and again the animal 
 
 jumped, and then stood stock still ; so effectually was he fettered. 
 In this position they passed the night; and when Sancho per- 
 ceived the dawn of morning, with much caution he unbound Rozi- 
 nante, who, on being set at liberty, though naturally not over 
 mettlesome, seemed to feel himself alive, and began to paw the 
 ground ; but as for curvetting (begging his pardon) he knew nothing 
 about it. Don Quixote, perceiving that Rozinante began to be 
 active, took it for a good omen, and a signal that he should forth- 
 with attempt the tremendous adventure. The dawn now making 
 the surrounding objects visible, Don Quixote perceived he was be- 
 neath some tall chestnut-trees, which afforded a gloomy shade ; but 
 the cause of that striking, which yet continued, he was unable to 
 discover ; therefore, without further delay, he made Rozinante feel 
 the spur, and again taking leave of Sancho, commanded him to wait 
 * This tale was not the invention of Cervantes; for, though altered and improved 
 
 by him, the idea is taken from the “Cento Novelle Antiche,” which are given at 
 the end of the ‘“‘ Cento Novelle Scelte,” published at Venice, in the year 1571. 
 
104 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE.. 
 
 there three days at the farthest, as he had said before, and that if 
 he returned not by that time. he might conclude that it was God’s 
 will that he should end his days in that perilous adventure. He 
 again also repeated the embassy and message he was to carry to his 
 lady Dulcinea ; and as to what concerned the reward of his service, 
 he told him that he need be under no concern, since, before his 
 departure from his village, he had made his will, wherein he would 
 find himself satisfied regarding his wages, in proportion to the time 
 he had served; but, if God should bring him off safe and sound 
 from the impending danger, he might reckon himself infallibly 
 secure of the promised island. Sancho wept afresh at hearing again 
 the moving expressions of his good master, and resolved not to 
 leave him to the last moment and termination of this affair. The 
 author of this history concludes, from the tears and this honourable 
 resolution of Sancho Panza, that he must have been well born, and 
 at least an old Castilian. His master was somewhat moved by it; 
 not that he betrayed any weakness ; on the contrary, dissembling as 
 well as he could, he advanced towards the place whence the noise 
 of the water and of the strokes seemed to proceed. Sancho followed 
 him on foot, leading his ass—that constant companion of his for- 
 tunes, good or bad. And having proceeded some distance among 
 those shady chestnut-trees, they came to a little green meadow, 
 bounded by some steep rocks, down which a mighty torrent preci- 
 pitated itself. At the foot of these rocks were several wretched 
 huts, that seemed more lke ruins than habitable dwellings; and it 
 was from them, they now discovered, that the fearful din pro< 
 ceeded. Rozinante was startled at the noise, but Don Quixote, 
 after quieting him, went slowly on towards the huts, recommend: 
 ing himself devoutly to his lady, and beseeching her to favour 
 him in so terrific an enterprise; and by the way he also besought 
 God not to forget him. Sancho kept close to his side, stretching 
 out his neck, and looking between Rozinante’s legs, to see if he could 
 _ discover the cause of his terrors. In this manner they advanced 
 about a hundred yards farther, when, on doubling a point, the true 
 and undoubted cause of that horrible noise which had held them all 
 night in such suspense, appeared plain and exposed to view. It 
 was (kind reader, take it- not in dudgeon !) six fulling-hammers, 
 whose alternate strokes produced that hideous sound. . Don Quixote, 
 on beholding them, was struck dumb, and was in the utmost con- 
 fusion. Sancho, looked at him, and saw he hung down his head 
 upon his breast, with manifest indications of beg abashed. Don 
 Quixote Jooked also at Sancho, and seemg his cheeks swollen, 
 and his mouth full of laughter, betraying evident signs of being 
 ready to explode, notwithstanding his vexation, he could not for- 
 bear laughing himself at the sight of his squire, who, thus encour- 
 aged by his master, broke forth in so violent a manner that he was 
 forced to: apply both hands to his sides, to secure himself from 
 bursting. Four times he ceased, and four times the fit returned, 
 with the same impetuosity as at first. Upon which, Don Quixote 
 now wished him at the end of the earth, especially when he heard 
 him say, ironically, ‘‘ Thou must know, friend Sancho, that I was 
 
= THE FULLING MILLS. 105 
 
 born by the will of Heaven, in this our age of iron, to'revive in it 
 the golden, or that of gold. Iam he for whom are reserved dan- 
 gers, great exploits, and valorous achievements !” And so he went 
 on, repeating many of the expressions which Don Quixote used upon 
 first hearing those dreadful sounds. Don Quixote, perceiving that 
 Sancho made a jest of him, was so enraged that he lifted up his lance, 
 and discharged two such blows on him, that had he received them 
 on his head, instead of his shoulders, the knight would have acquitted 
 himself of the payment of his wages, unless it were to his heirs. 
 Sancho, finding he paid so dearly for his jokes, and fearing lest his 
 master should proceed further, with much humility said, ‘‘ Pray, 
 sir, be pacified ; as heaven is my hope, I did but jest.” ‘‘ Though 
 thou mayest jest, I do not,” answered Don Quixote. ‘‘Come 
 hither, merry sir, what thinkest thou? Suppose these mill-ham- 
 mers had really been some perilous adventure, have I not given 
 proof of the courage requisite to undertake and achieve it? Am I 
 obliged, being a knight, as I am, to distinguish sounds, and know 
 which are, or are not, those of a fulling-mill, more especially if 
 (which is indeed the truth), I had never seen any fulling-mills in 
 my life, as thou hast—a pitiful rustic as thou art, who wert born 
 and bred amongst them ; but let these six fulling-hammers be trans- 
 formed into six giants, and let them beard me one by one, or all to- 
 gether, and if I do not set them all on their heads, then make what 
 jest thou wilt of me.” ‘‘Itis enough, good sir,” replied Sancho ; 
 **t confess I have been a little too jocose: but pray tell me, now 
 that there is peace between us, as God shall bring you out of all 
 the adventures that shall happen to you safe and sound, as He has 
 brought you out of this, was it not a thing to be laughed at, and 
 worth telling, what a fearful taking we were in last night—I mean, 
 that [was in—for I know your worship is a stranger to fear?” ‘‘I 
 do not deny,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ that what has befallen us 
 nay be risible, but it is not proper to be repeated ; for all persons 
 have not the sense to see things in the right point of view.” ‘‘But,” 
 answered Sancho, ‘‘ your worship knew how to point your lance 
 aright when you pointed it at my head, and hit me on the shoulders ; 
 thanks be to Heaven, and to my own agility, in slipping aside. 
 But let that pass ; it will out in the bucking ; for I have heard 
 say, ‘he loves thee well who makes thee weep :’ and, besides, your 
 people of condition, when they have given a servant a hard word, 
 presently give him some old hose, though what is usually given 
 after a beating, I cannot tell, unless it be that your knights-errant, 
 after bastinadoes, bestow islands, or kingdoms on terra firma.” 
 “The die may so run,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘that all thou hast 
 said may come to pass : excuse what is done, since thou art consi- 
 derate ; for know that first impulses are not under man’s control ; 
 and, that thou mayest abstain from talking too much with me 
 henceforth, I apprise thee of one thing, that in all the books of chi- 
 valry I ever read, numerous as they are, I recollect no example of 
 a squire who conversed so much with his master as thou dost with 
 thine. And really I account it a great fault, both in thee and in my- 
 self; in thee, because thou payest me so little respect; in me, that 
 
106 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 I do not make myself respected more. There was Gandalin, squire 
 to Amadis de Gaul, earl of the Firm Island, of whom we read that 
 he always spoke to his master cap in hand, his head inclined and 
 body bent, in the Turkish fashion. What shall we say of Gasabel, 
 squire to Don Galaor, who was so silent, that to illustrate the ex- 
 cellence of his marvellous taciturnity, his name is mentioned but 
 once in all that great and faithful history ?. From what I have said, 
 thou mayest infer, Sancho, that there ought to be a difference be- 
 tween master and man, between lord and lacquey, and between 
 knight and squire; so that, from this day forward, we must be 
 treated with more respect ; for, howsoever thou mayest excite my 
 anger, ‘it will go ill with the pitcher.’ The favours and benefits I 
 promised thee will come in due time ; and if they do not come, the 
 wages, at least, thou wilt not lose.” ‘‘ Your worship says very 
 well,” quoth Sancho ; ‘‘ but I would fain know (if perchance the 
 time of the favours should not come, and it should be necessary to 
 have recourse to the article of the wages) how much might the 
 squire of a knight-errant get in those times? and whether they 
 agreed by the month or by the day, like labourers?” ‘‘I do not 
 believe,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ that those squires were retained 
 at stated wages, but they relied on courtesy ; and if I have ap- 
 pointed thee any, in the will I left sealed at home, it was in case 
 of accidents ; for I know not yet how chivalry may succeed in these 
 calamitous times, and I would not have my soul suffer in the other 
 world for trifles ; for I would have thee know, Sancho, that there 
 is no state more perilous than that of adventurers.” ‘‘ It is so, in 
 truth,” said Sancho, ‘‘ since the noise of the hammers of a fulling- 
 mill were sufficient to disturb and discompose the heart of so valor- 
 ous a knight as your worship. But you may depend upon it that 
 henceforward I shall not open my lips to make merry with your 
 worship’s concerns, but shall honour you as my master and natural 
 lord.” ‘‘By so doing,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘thy days shall be 
 long in the land; for next to our parents we are bound to respect 
 our masters.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Winen treats of the grand adventure and rich prize of Mambrino’s 
 helmet, with other things which befell our invincible knight. 
 
 About this time it began to rain a little, and Sancho proposed 
 entering the fulling-mills; but Don Quixote had conceived such an_ 
 abhorrence of them for the late jest, that he would by no means go 
 in: turning, therefore, to the right hand, they struck into another 
 road, like that they had travelled through the day before. Soon 
 after, Don Quixote discovered a man on horseback, who had on his 
 head something which glittered as if it had been of gold ; and scarcely 
 had he seen it when, turning to Sancho, he said, ‘‘ [ am of opinion, 
 Sancho, there is no proverb but what is true, because they are all 
 sentences drawn from experience itself, the mother of all the 
 
MAMBRINO’S HELMET. 107 
 
 sciences ; especially that which says, ‘Where one door is shut an- 
 other is opened.’ I say this because, if fortune last night shut the 
 door against what we sought, deceiving us with the fulling-mills, it 
 now opens wide another, for a better and more decided adventure ; 
 in which, if I am deceived, the fault will be mine, without imput- 
 ing it to my ignorance of fulling-mills, or to the darkness of night. 
 This I say because, if I mistake not, there comes one towards us 
 who carries on his head Mambrino’s helmet, concerning which thou 
 mayest remember I swore the oath.” ‘‘Take care, sir, what you 
 say, and more what you do,” said Sancho ; ‘‘for I would not wish 
 for other fulling-mills to finish the milling and mashing our 
 senses.” ‘What has a helmet to do with fulling-mills?” replied 
 Don Quixote. ‘‘I know not,” answered Sancho ; ‘‘ but in faith, if 
 I might talk as much as I used to do, perhaps I could give such 
 reasons that your worship would see you are mistaken in what you 
 say.” ‘‘ Howcan I be mistaken in what I say, scrupulous traitor ?” 
 said Don Quixote. ‘‘Tell me, seest thou not yon knight coming 
 towards us on a dapple-grey steed, with a helmet of gold on his 
 head?” ‘*What I see and perceive,” answered Sancho, ‘‘is only 
 aman on a grey ass like mine, with something on his head that 
 glitters.” ‘*Why, that is Mambrino’s helmet,” said Don Quixote ; 
 ‘‘retire, and leave me alone‘to deal with him, and thou shalt see 
 how, in order to save time, I shall conclude this adventure without 
 speaking a word, and the helmet Ihave so much desired remain my 
 own.” ‘I shall take care to get out of the way,” replied Sancho ; 
 **but Heaven grant, I say again, it may not prove another fulling-mill 
 adventure.” ‘‘I have already told thee, Sancho, not to mention those 
 fulling-mills, nor even think of them,” said Don Quixote: ‘if thou 
 dost—I say no more, but I vow to mill thy soul for thee !” Sancho 
 held his peace, fearing lest his master should perform his vow, 
 which had struck him all of a heap. 
 
 Now the truth of the matter, concerning the helmet, the steed, 
 and the knight which Don Quixote saw, was this. ‘There were 
 two villages in that neighbourhood, one of them so small that it 
 had neither shop nor barber, but the other adjoining to it had 
 both; therefore the barber of the larger served also the less, 
 wherein one customer now wanted to be let blood, and another to 
 be shaved ; to perform which, the barber was now on his way, 
 carrying with him his brass basin; and it so happened that while 
 _ upon the road it began to rain, and to save his hat, which was a 
 new one, he clapped the basin on his head, which being lately 
 scoured was seen glittering at the distance of half a league; and he 
 rode on a grey ass, as Sancho had affirmed. Thus Don Quixote 
 took the barber for a knight, his ass for a dapple-grey steed, and 
 his basin for a golden helmet; for whatever he saw was quickly 
 adapted to his knightly extravagances: and when the poor knight 
 drew near, without staying to reason the case with him, he ad- 
 vanced at Rozinante’s best speed, and couched his lance, intending 
 to run him through and through: but, when close upon him, with- 
 out checking the fury of his career, he cried out, ‘‘ Defend thyself, 
 _ caitiff ! or instantly surrender what is justly my due.” The bar- 
 
~108 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ber, so unexpectedly seeing this phantom advancing upon him, had 
 no other way to avoid the thrust of the lance than to sip down 
 from the ass: and no sooner had he touched the ground than, leap- 
 ing up nimbler than a roebuck, he scampered over the plain with 
 such speed that the wind could not overtake him. The basin he 
 left on the ground; with which Don Quixote was satisfied, observ- 
 ing that the pagan had acted discreetly, and in imitation of the 
 beaver, which, when closely pursued by the hunters, tears off with 
 his teeth that which it knows by instinct to be the object of pursuit. 
 He ordered Sancho to take up the helmet ; who, holding it in his 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 hand, said, ‘‘ The basin is a special one, and is well worth a piece 
 of eight, if it is worth a farthing.” He then gave it to his master, — 
 who immediately placed it upon his head, turning it round in search 
 of the vizor; but not finding it, he said, ‘‘ Doubtless the pagan for — 
 whom this famous helmet was originally forged, must have had a 
 rodigious head—the worst of it is that one half is wanting.” 
 hen Sancho heard the basin called a helmet, he could not forbear | 
 laughing ; which, however, he instantly checked on recollecting 
 his master’s late choler. ‘‘What dost thou laugh at, Sancho?” 
 said Don Quixote. ‘‘I am laughing,” answered he, ‘‘to think 
 
HIS IDEA OF MAMBRINO’S HELMET. 109., 
 
 what a huge head the pagan had who owned that helmet, which is;’ 
 for all the world, just like a barber’s basin.” ‘‘ Knowest thon, 
 Sancho, what I conceive to be the case? This famous piece, this 
 enchanted helmet, by some strange accident must have fallen into 
 the possession of one who, ignorant of its true value as a helmet, 
 and seeing it to be of the purest gold, hath inconsiderately melted 
 down the one-half for lucre’s sake, and of the other half made this, 
 which, as thou sayest, doth indeed look like a barber’s basin: but 
 to me, who know what it really is, its transformation is of no im- 
 portance, for I will have it so repaired in the first town where there 
 is a smith, that it shall not be surpassed, nor even equalled, by that 
 which the god of smiths himself made and forged for the god of 
 battles. In the meantime I will wear it as I best can, for some- 
 thing is better than nothing; and it will be sufficient to defend me 
 from stones.” ‘‘It will so,” said Sancho, ‘‘if they do not throw © 
 them with slings, as they did in the battle of the two armies, when 
 they crossed your worship’s chaps, and broke the cruse of that 
 most blessed hquor which made me vomit up my inside.” ‘‘ The 
 loss of that balsam gives me no conéern,”’ said Don Quixote; ‘‘ for 
 knowest thou, Sancho, I have the recipe by heart.” ‘‘So have I, 
 too,” answered Sancho; ‘‘ but if ever I make or try it again while 
 { live, may I be fixed and rooted to this place. Besides, I do not 
 intend to put myself in the way of requiring it; for I mean to keep 
 myself, with all my five senses, from being wounded, or from 
 wounding anybody. As to being tossed again in a blanket, I say 
 nothing ; for it is difficult to prevent such mishaps; and if they do 
 come, there is nothing to be done but wink, hold one’s breath, and 
 submit to go whither fortune and the blanket shall please.” ‘‘'Thou 
 art no good Christian, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘since thou 
 dost not forget an injury once done thee: but know it is inherent 
 in generous and noble minds to disregard trifles. What leg of thine 
 is lamed, or what rib or head broken, that thou canst not forget 
 that jest?—for, properly considered, it was a mere jest and pas- 
 time ; otherwise, I should long ago have returned thither, and done 
 more mischief in revenging thy quarrel than the Greeks did for the 
 rape of Helen, who, had she lived in these times, or my Dulcinea 
 -in those, would never have been so famous for beauty as she is!” 
 and here he heaved a sigh, and sent it to the clouds. °‘*‘ Let it pass, 
 then, for a jest,” said Sancho, ‘‘since it is not likely to be revenged © 
 in earnest! but I know of what kind the jests and the earnests 
 were; and I know also they will no more slip out of my memory 
 than off my shoulders. But, setting this aside, tell me, sir, what 
 shall we do with this dapple-grey steed which looks so much like a 
 grey ass, and which that caitiff, whom your worship overthrew, has 
 left behind here, to shift for itself? for, by his scouting off so 
 _ hastily, he does not think of ever returning for him; and, by my 
 beard, the beast is a special one.” ‘It is not my custom,” said 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘to plunder those whom I overcome, nor is it the 
 ‘usage of chivalry to take from the vanquished their horses, and 
 leave them on foot, unless the victor had lost his own in the con- 
 flict ; in such a case it is lawful to take that of the enemy, as fairly 
 
110 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ed 
 won in battle. Therefore, Sancho, leave this horse, or ass, or 
 whatever thou wilt have it to be; for when we are gone, his owner 
 will return for him.” ‘‘It were best for me to take him,” replied 
 Sancho, ‘‘ or at least to exchange him for mine, which, methinks, 
 is not so good. Verily, the laws of chivalry are very strict if they 
 do not even allow the swooping of one ass for another; but I would 
 fain know whether I might exchange furniture, if I were so in- 
 clined.” ‘‘I am not very clear as.to that point,” answered Don 
 Quixote; ‘‘and, being a doubtful case, until better information can 
 be had, I think thou mayest make the exchange, if thou art in ex- 
 treme want of them.” ‘‘So extreme,” replied Sancho, ‘‘that I 
 could not want them more if they were for my own proper person.” 
 Thus authorized, he proceeded to an exchange of caparisons, and 
 made his own beast three parts in four the better for his new furni- 
 ture. This done, they breakfasted on the remains of the plunder 
 from the sumpter-mule, and drank of the water belonging to the 
 fulling-mills, but without turning their faces towards them—such 
 was the abhorrence in which they were held, because of the effect 
 they had produced. Being thus refreshed and comforted, both in 
 body and mind, they mounted; and, without determining upon 
 what road to follow, according to the custom of knights-errant, 
 they went on as Rozinante’s will directed, which was a guide to his 
 master, and also to Dapple, who always followed, in love and good- 
 fellowship, wherever he led the way. They soon, however, turned 
 into the great road, which they followed at a venture, without 
 forming any plan. 
 
 As they were thus sauntering on, Sancho said to his master, 
 ‘¢ Sir, will your worship be pleased to indulge me the liberty of a 
 word or two; for since you imposed on me that barsh command of 
 silence, sundry things have been rotting in my breast, and I have 
 one just now at my tongue’s end that I would not, for anything, 
 should miscarry.” ‘‘ Speak, then,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘and be 
 brief in thy discourse ; for what is prolix cannot be pleasing.” ‘I 
 say then, sir,” answered Sancho, ‘‘that for some days past I have 
 been considering how little is gained by wandering about in quest 
 of those adventures your worship is seeking through these deserts 
 and crossways, where, though you should overcome and achieve » 
 the most perilous, there is nobody to see or know anything of them ; 
 so that they must remain in perpetual oblivion, to the prejudice of 
 your worship’s intention and their deserts. And therefore I think 
 it would be more advisable for us, with submission to your better 
 judgment, to serve some emperor or other great prince engaged in 
 war, in whose service your worship may display your valour, great 
 strength, and superior understanding ; which, being perceived by the 
 lord we serve, he must, of course, reward each of us according to his 
 merit ; nor can you there fail of meeting with somebody to put your 
 worship’s exploits in writing, as a perpetual memorial—I say no- © 
 thing of my own, because they must not exceed the squirely limits ; 
 though, I dare say, if it be the custom in chivalry to pen the deeds 
 of squires, mine will not be forgotten.” 
 
 ‘‘ Thou sayest not amiss, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ but, 
 
PLEASURES OF KNIGHT-ERRANTRY. 111 
 
 previous to this, it is necessary for a knight-errant to wander about 
 the world seeking adventures by way of probation; where, by his 
 achievements, he may acquire such fame and renown, that when 
 he comes to the court of some great monarch, he shall be already 
 known by his works ; and scarcely shall the boys see him enter the 
 gates of the city, when they all follow and surround him, crying 
 aloud, This is the ‘knight of the sun,’ or of ‘ the serpent,’ or of any 
 device under which he may have achieved great exploits. ‘ This is 
 he,’ they will say, ‘who overthrew the huge giant Brocabruno, of 
 mighty force, in single combat; he who disenchanted the great 
 Mameluke of Persia from the long enchantment which held him 
 confined almost nine hundred years;’ and thus, from mouth to 
 mouth, they shall go on blazoning his deeds. At length, attracted 
 by the bustle made by the inhabitants, young and old, the king of 
 
 _ that country shall appear at the windows of his royal palace; and, 
 
 as soon as he espies the knight, whom he will recognise by his 
 armour, or by the device on his shield, he will of course say, ‘ Ho, 
 there! Go forth, my knights, all that are at court, to receive the 
 flower of chivalry, who is approaching.’ At which command they 
 all shall go forth, and the king himself, descending half-way down 
 the great staircase, shall receive him with a close embrace, saluting 
 
 ‘and kissing him; then, taking him by the hand, he shall conduct 
 
 him to the apartment of the queen, where the knight shall find her 
 with the infanta, her daughter, who is so beautiful and accomplished 
 a damsel that her equal cannot easily be found in any part of the 
 known world! It immediately follows that she casts her eyes on 
 the knight, and he his eyes upon hers, each appearing to the other 
 something rather divine than human; and, without knowing how, 
 or which way, they remain entangled in the inextricable net of love, 
 and are in great perplexity of mind, not knowing how to converse 
 and discover their ardent affection to each other. He will then, 
 no doubt, be conducted to some quarter of the palace richly fur- 
 nished, where, having taken off his armour, they will clothe him in 
 arich scarlet mantle; and if he looked well in armour, he must 
 look still better in ermine. Night being arrived, he shall sup with 
 the king, queen, and infanta; when he shall never take his eyes off 
 the princess, viewing her by stealth, and she will do the same by 
 him, with equal caution; for, as I said before, she is a very dis- 
 creet damsel. The tables being removed, there shall enter un- 
 expectedly at the hall door a little ill-favoured dwarf, followed 
 by a beautiful matron between two giants, with the proposal of a 
 certain adventure, so contrived by a most ancient sage that he who 
 shall accomplish it shall be esteemed the best knight in the world. 
 The king shall immediately command all who are present to prove 
 their skill, and none shall be able to accomplish it but the stranger 
 knight, to the great advantage of his fame; at which the infanta 
 will be delighted, and esteem herself happy in having placed her 
 
 _ thoughts on so exalted an object. Fortunately it happens that this 
 
 king, or prince, or whatever he be, is carrying on a bloody war with 
 another monarch as powerful as himself; and the stranger knight, 
 after having been a few days at court, requests his majesty’s per- 
 
112 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 mission to serve him in that war. The king shall readily grant his 
 request, and the knight shall most courteously kiss his royal hands 
 for the favour done him. On that night he shall take leave of his 
 lady, the infanta, at theiron rails of a garden adjoining to her apart- 
 ment, through which he has already conversed with her several 
 times, by the mediation of a female confidante in whom the in- 
 fanta greatly trusted. He sighs, she swoons ; the damsel runs for 
 cold water, and is very uneasy at the approach of the morning light, 
 and would by no means her lady should be discovered, for the sake 
 of her lady’s honour. ‘The infanta at length comes to herself, and 
 gives her snowy hands to the knight through the rails, who kisses 
 them a thousand and a thousand times over, bedewing them with 
 his tears. They concert together how to communicate to each other 
 their good or ill fortune, and the princess entreats him to be absent 
 as short a time as possible ; which he promises with many oaths ; 
 again he kisses her hands, and they part with so much emotion that 
 he is nearly deprived of life. Thence he repairs to his chamber, 
 throws himself on his bed, and cannot sleep for grief at the sepa- 
 ration. He rises early in the morning, and goes to take leave of 
 the king, queen, and infanta. Having taken his leave of the two 
 former, he is told the princess is indisposed and cannot admit of a 
 visit. The knight thinks it is for grief at his departure; his heart 
 is pierced, and he is very near giving manifest indications of his 
 passion, The damsel confidante is present and observes what 
 passes ; she informs her lady, who receives the account with tears, 
 and tells her that her chief concern is that she knows not the name 
 nor country of her knight, and whether he be of royal descent or 
 not; the damsel assures her he is, since so much courtesy, polite- 
 ness, and valour, as her knight is endowed with, cannot exisé but in 
 a royal and exalted subject. The afflicted princess is then comforted, 
 and endeavours to compose herself, that she may not give her parents: 
 cause for suspicion ; and two days after she again appears in public. 
 The knight is now gone to the war; he fights, and vanquishes the 
 king’s enemy; takes many cities; wins several battles; returns to 
 court; sees his lady at the usual place of interview ; and it is agreed 
 that he shall demand her in marriage of her father, in recompense 
 for his services. The king does not consent to give her to him, 
 not knowing who he is; notwithstanding which, either by carrying 
 her off, or by some other means, the infanta becomes his spouse ; 
 and her father afterwards finds it to be a piece of the greatest good 
 fortune, having ascertained that the knight is son to a valorous 
 king, of I know not what kingdom, nor is it, perhaps, to be found 
 in the map. The father dies; the infanta mherits; and, in two 
 words, the knight becomes a king. Then immediately follows the 
 rewarding of his squire, and all those who assisted in his elevation 
 to so exalted a state. He marries his squire to one of the infanta’s 
 maids of honour, who is, doubtless, the very confidante of his— 
 attachment, and daughter to one of the chief dukes.” “ 
 ‘<' This is what I would be at, and a clear stage,” quoth Sancho;” — 
 *‘this I stick to, for every tittle of this must’ happen precisely to 
 your worship, being called ‘the knight of the sorrowful figure ’” 
 
HIS BRILLIANT PROSPECTS. 1138 
 
 ‘¢ Doubt it not, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘for, by those very 
 means and those very steps which I have recounted, knights-errant 
 do rise, and have risen, to be knights and emperors. All that 
 remains to be done is to look out and find what king of the Chris- 
 tians or of the pagans is at war, and hasa beautiful daughter—but 
 there is time enough to think of this; for, as I told thee, we must 
 procure renown elsewhere before we repair to court. Besides, there 
 is yet another difficulty; for, if a king were found who is at war, 
 and has a handsome daughter, and I had acquired incredible fame 
 throughout the whole universe, I do not see how it can be made 
 appear that I am of the lineage of kings, or even second cousin to an 
 emperor: for the king will not give me his daughter to wife until 
 he is first very well assured that I am such, however my renowned 
 actions might deserve it. Through this defect, therefore, I am 
 afraid I shall lose that which my arm has richly deserved. It is 
 true, indeed, I am a gentleman of an ancient family, possessed of 
 property, and a title to the Revenge of the five hundred Sueldos ; * 
 and perhaps the sage who writes my history may throw such light 
 upon my kindred and genealogy that I may be found the fifth or 
 sixth in descent froma king, For thou must know, Sancho, that 
 there are two kinds of lineages in the world. Some there are who 
 derive their pedigree from princes and monarchs, whom time has 
 gradually reduced until they have ended in a point, like a pyramid; 
 others have had a low origin, and have risen by degrees, until they 
 have become great lords. So that the difference is, that some have 
 been what they now are not, and others are now what they were 
 
 ~not before; and who knows but I may be one of the former, and 
 that, upon examination, my origin may be found to have been great 
 and glorious ; with which the king, my future father-in-law, ought 
 to be satisfied; and, if he should not be satisfied, the infanta is to be 
 so in love with me, that, in spite of her father, she is to receive me 
 for her lord and husband, even though she knew me to be the son 
 of a water-carrier ; and, in case she should not, thenis the time to 
 take her away by force, and convey her whither I please; there to 
 remain until time or death put a period to the displeasure of her 
 parents.” 
 
 ‘* Here,” said Sancho, ‘‘comes in properly what some naughty 
 people say, ‘Never stand begging for that which you have the 
 power to take ;’ though this other is nearer to the purpose, ‘A leap 
 from a hedge is better than the prayer of a bishop.’ I say this, 
 because, if my lord the king, your worship’s father-in-law, should 
 not vouchsafe to yield unto you my lady the infanta, there is no 
 more to be done, as your worship says, but to steal and carry her 
 off. But, the mischief is, that, while peace is making, and before 
 you can enjoy the kingdom quietly, the poor squire may go whistle 
 for his reward; unless the go-between damsel, who is to be his . 
 
 a? * “ The Spaniards of old paid a tribute of five hundred sueldos, or pieces of coin, 
 0 the Moors, until they were delivered from this imposition by the gallantry of the 
 gentlemen, or people of rank; from which exploit a Castilian of family used to 
 express the nobility and worth of his extraction by saying he was ‘ of the revenge of 
 the sueldos.’ ”—Smolieit. : 
 H 
 
114 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 wife, goes off with the infanta, and he shares his misfortune with 
 her, until it shall please Heaven to ordain otherwise; for I believe 
 his master may immediately give her to him for his lawful spouse.” 
 ‘*On that thou mayest rely,” said Don Quixote. ‘‘ Since it is so,” 
 answered Sancho, ‘‘ we have only to commend ourselves to God, 
 and let things take their course.” ‘‘ Heaven grant it,” answered 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘as I desire, and thou needest, and let him be 
 wretched who thinks himself so.” ‘‘ Let him,” said Sancho; ‘‘ for I 
 am an old Christian, and that is enough to qualify me to be an earl.” 
 ‘* Ay, and more than enough,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘and even if 
 thou wert not so, it would be immaterial; for I, being a king, can 
 easily bestow nobility.on thee, without either purchase or service 
 on thy part; and, in creating thee an earl, thou art a gentleman, of 
 course. And, say what they will, in good faith, they must style 
 thee ‘your lordship,’ however unwillingly.” ‘*Do you think,” 
 quoth Sancho, ‘‘I should not know how to give authority to the 
 indignity?” ‘‘ Dignity, you should say, and not indignity,” said 
 his master. ‘‘So let it be,” answered Sancho Panza. ‘‘I say, I 
 should do well enough with it; for I assure you I was once beadle 
 for a company, and the beadle’s gown became me so well that I had 
 a presence fit to be warden of the same company; what, then, will 
 it be when I am arrayed in a duke’s robe, all shining with gold and 
 pearls, like a foreign count? I am of opinion folks will come a 
 hundred leagues to see me.” ‘‘Thou wilt make a goodly appear- 
 ance, indeed,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘but it will be necessary to 
 trim thy beard a little oftener; for it is so rough and matted, that, 
 if thou shavest not every other day at least, what thou art will be 
 seen at the distance of a bow-shot.” ‘‘ Why,” said Sancho, ‘‘it is 
 but taking a barber into the house, and giving him a salary; and, 
 if there be occasion, I will make him follow me like a gentleman of 
 the horse to a grandee.” ‘‘ How camest thou to know,” demanded 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘ that grandees have their gentlemen of the horse to 
 follow them?” ‘JT will tell you,” said Sancho: ‘‘some years ago, I 
 was near the court for a month, and I often saw a very little 
 gentleman riding about, who, they said, was a very great lord; and 
 behind him, I noticed a man on horseback, turning about as: he 
 turned, so that one would have thought he had been his tail. I 
 asked why that man did not ride by the side of the other, but kept 
 always behind him? They answered me that it was his gentleman 
 of the horse, and that it was the custom for noblemen to be 
 followed by them; and, from that day to this, I have never for- 
 gotten it.” ‘Thou art in the right,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘and in 
 the same manner thou mayest carry about thy barber; for all 
 customs do not arise together, nor were they invented at once; and 
 thou mayest be the first earl who carried about his barber after 
 him: and indeed it is a higher trust to dress the beard than to 
 saddle a horse.” ‘‘Leave the business of the barber to me,” said 
 Sancho; ‘‘and let it be your worship’s care to become a king, and — 
 to make me an earl.” ‘‘So it shail be,” answered Don Quixote; 
 and, raising his eyes, he saw—what will be told in the following 
 chapter. 
 
- MEETS A CHAIN OF GALLEY SLAVES. 115 
 
 CH ASP Ty ERX TT: ee 
 
 How Don Quixote set at liberty several unfortunate persons, who, 
 much against their will, were being conveyed where they had 
 no wish to go. . 
 
 Cid Hamet Ben Engeli, the Arabian and Manchegan author, 
 relates in this most grave, lofty, accurate, delightful, and ingenious 
 history, that, after the conversation which passed between the 
 famous Don Quixote de la Mancha and Sancho Panza, his squire, 
 given at the end of the foregoing chapter, Don Quixote raised his 
 eyes, and saw approaching in the same road about a dozen men on 
 foot, strung like beads, by the necks in a great iron chain, and all 
 handcuffed. There came also with them two men on horseback, 
 
 
 
 and two on foot; those on horseback were armed with firelocks, 
 and those on foot with pikes and swords. As soon as Sancho 
 Panza saw them, he said, ‘‘ This is a chain of galley-slaves, persons 
 forced by the king to serve in the galleys.” ‘‘How! forced, do 
 you say?” quoth Don Quixote; ‘is it possible the king should 
 force anybody!” ‘I said not so,” answered Sancho; ‘ but that 
 they were persons who, for their crimes, are condemned by law to 
 the galleys, where they are forced to serve the king.” ‘‘In truth, 
 then,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘ these people are conveyed by force, 
 and not voluntarily?” ‘So itis,” said Sancho. ‘‘ Then,” said his 
 master, ‘‘ here the execution of my office begins, which is to defeat 
 violence, and to succour and relieve the wretched.” ‘‘ Consider, 
 sir,” quoth Sancho, ‘that justice—which is the king himself—does 
 no violence to such persons ; he only punishes them for their crimes.” . 
 By this time the chain of galley-slaves had reached them, and 
 Don Quixote in most courteous terms desired the guard to be 
 Sree to inform him of the cause, or causes. for which they con- 
 ucted those persons in that manner. One of the guards on horse- 
 _ back answered that they were slaves belonging to his majesty, and 
 
(116 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 on their ways to the galleys; which was all he had to say, nor was 
 there anything more to know. ‘‘ Nevertheless,” replied Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘I should be glad to be informed, by each of them in- 
 dividually, of the cause of his misfortune.” To this he added suck 
 courteous expressions, entreating the information he desired, that 
 the other horseman said, ‘‘ Though we have here the record and 
 certificate of each of these worthies, this is no time to produce and 
 read them. Draw near, sir, and make your inquiry of themselves : 
 they may inform you, if they please; and no doubt they will, for 
 they are such as take a pleasure in acting and relating rogueries.”’ 
 With this leave, which Don Quixote would have taken, had it not 
 been given, he went up to them, and demanded of the first for what 
 offence he marched in such evil plight? He answered that it was 
 for being in love. ‘‘ For that alone,” replied Don Quixote; ‘‘if 
 people are sent to the galleys for being in love, I might long since 
 have been rowing in them myself.” ‘‘ It was not such love as your 
 worship imagines,” said the galley-slave. ‘‘ Mine was a strong 
 affection for a basket of fine linen, which I embraced so closely, 
 that, if justice had not taken it from me by force, I should not 
 have parted from it by my own good-will even to this present day. 
 I was taken in the fact, so there was no opportunity for the tor- 
 ture: the process was short; they accommodated my shoulders 
 with a hundred lashes, and as a further kindness, have sent me for 
 three years to the Gurapas, and there is an end of it.” ‘‘ What are 
 the Gurapas?” quoth Don Quixote. ‘‘ The Gurapas are galleys,” an- 
 swered the convict, who was a young man about twenty-four years 
 of age, born, as he said, at Piedrahita. Don Quixote put the same 
 question to the second, who returned no answer, he was so melan- 
 choly and dejected; but the first answered for him, and said, 
 ‘‘This gentleman goes for being a canary-bird—I mean, for being a 
 musician and a singer.” ‘‘ How so,” replied Don Quixote; ‘‘ are 
 men sent to the galleys for being musicians and singers?” ‘‘ Yes 
 sir,” replied the slave ; ‘‘ for there is nothing worse than to sing in 
 an agony.” ‘‘ Nay,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘I have heard say, ‘Who 
 sings in grief, procures relief.’” ‘‘ This is the very reverse,” said _ 
 the slave ; ‘‘for here, he who sings once, weeps all his life after.” 
 “‘T do not understand that,” said Don Quixote. One of the guards 
 said to him, ‘‘ Signor cavalier, to sing in agony means, in the cant 
 of these rogues, to confess upon the rack. This offender was put 
 to the torture, and confessed his crime, which was that of a Quat- 
 rero, that is, a stealer of cattle; and because he confessed, he is 
 sentenced for six years to the galleys, besides two hundred lashes 
 he has already received on the shoulders, He is always pensive 
 and sad, because all the other rogues abuse, vilify, flout, and despise 
 him for confessing, and not having had the courage to say No; for, 
 _say they, No does not contain more letters than Aye; and think it 
 lucky, when it so happens that a man’s life or death depends upon 
 his own tongue, and not upon proofs and witnesses; and, for my 
 part, I think they are in the right.” ‘‘ And soI think,” answered 
 Den Quixote: who, passing on to the third, interrogated him as he 
 had done the others. He answered very readily, and with much in- 
 
» 
 
 THE GALLEY SLAVES ACCOUNT OF THEMSELVES. 117 
 
 difference, ‘‘ I am also going to their ladyships the Gurapas for five 
 years, merely for want of ten ducats.” ‘‘I will give twenty with al} 
 my heart,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘to redeem you from this misery.” 
 **That,” said the convict, ‘‘is like having money at sea, where, 
 though dying with hunger, nothing can be bought with it. I say 
 this, because if I had been possessed in time of those twenty ducats 
 you now offer me, I would have so greased the clerk’s penand sharp- 
 ened my advocate’s wit, that I would have been this day upon the 
 market place of Zocodover, in Toledo ; and not upon this road, coupled 
 and dragged like a hound: but patience, and—that is enough.” 
 Behind these came a man about thirty years of age, of a goodly 
 aspect, only that his eyes looked at each other. He was bound 
 somewhat differently from the rest, for he had a chain to his leg. 
 so long that it was fastened round his middle, and two collars about 
 his neck, one of which was fastened to the chain, and the other, 
 called a keep-friend, or friend’s foot, had two straight irons which 
 came down from it to his waist, at the end of which were fixed two 
 manacles, wherein his hands were secured with a huge padlock ; 
 insomuch that he could neither lift his hands to his mouth, nor 
 bend down his head to his hands. Don Quixote asked why this 
 man was fettered so much more than the rest. The guard answered, 
 because he alone had committed more crimes than all the rest to- 
 gether; and that he was so bold and desperate a villain, that al- 
 though shackled in that manner, they were not secure of him, but 
 were still afraid he would make his escape. ‘‘ What kind of vil- 
 lanies has he committed,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ that have deserved 
 no greater punishment than being sent to the galleys?” ‘‘ He goes 
 for ten years,” said the guard, ‘‘ which is a kind of civil death. 
 You need only to be told that this honest gentleman is the famous 
 Gines de Passamonte, alias Ginesillo de Parapilla.” ‘‘ Fair and 
 softly, signor commissary,” interrupted the slave: ‘‘let us not now 
 be spinning out names and surnames. Gines is my name, and not 
 Ginesillo ; and Passamonte is the name of my family, and not Para- 
 pilla, as you say. Let every one turn himself round, and look at 
 home, and he will find enough to do.” ‘‘ Speak with less insolence, 
 sir thief-above-measure,” replied the commissary, ‘‘ unless you 
 would oblige me to silence you to your sorrow.” ‘* You may see,” 
 answered the slave, ‘‘that man goeth as God pleaseth: but some- 
 body may learn one day whether my name is Ginesillo de Parapilla, 
 or no,” ‘* Are you not so called, lying rascal ?” said the the guard. 
 ‘‘ Yes,” answered Gines; ‘‘ but I will make them cease calling me 
 so, or I will tlay them where I care not at present to say. Signor 
 cavalier,” continued he, ‘‘if you have anything to give us, let us 
 have it now, and Heaven be with you, for you tire us with inquir- 
 ing so much after other men’s lives. If you would know mine, I 
 am Gines de Passamonte, whose life is written by these very fingers.” 
 ‘* He says true,” said the commissary ; ‘‘ for he himself has written 
 his own history as well as heart could wish, and has left the book 
 in prison, pawned for two hundred reals.” ‘‘ Ay, and I intend to 
 redeem it,” said Gines, ‘‘if it lay for two hundred ducats.” ‘‘ What! 
 is it so good?” said Don Quixote. ‘‘So good,” answered Gines, 
 
118 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ‘that woe be to Lazarillo de Tormes, and to all that have written 
 or shall write in that way. What I can aflirm is, that it relates 
 truths, and truth so ingenious and entertaining that no fiction 
 can equal them.” ‘‘ What is the title of your book?” demanded 
 Don Quixote. ‘‘ The Life of Gines de Passamonte,” replied Gines 
 himself. <‘‘ And is it finished ?” quoth Don Quixote. ‘‘ How can 
 it be finished,” answered he, ‘‘since my life is not yet finished ? 
 What is written relates everything from my cradle to the moment 
 of being sent this last time to the galleys.” ‘* Then you have been 
 there before ?” said Don Quixote. ‘‘ Four years, the other time,” 
 replied Gines, ‘‘to serve God and the king; and I know already 
 the relish of the biscuit and the lash: nor does it grieve me much 
 to go to them again, since I shall there have an opportunity of finish- 
 ing my book; for I have a great many things to say, and in the 
 galleys of Spain there is leisure enough; though I shall not want 
 much for what I have to write, because I have it by heart.” ‘‘You 
 seem to be an ingenious fellow,” said Don Quixote. ‘‘ And an un- 
 fortunate one,” answered Gines; ‘‘ but misfortunes always perse- 
 cute genius.” ‘‘Persecute villany,” said the commissary. ‘‘ I 
 have already desired you, signor commissary,” answered Passa- 
 monte, ‘‘ to go fair and softly ; for your superiors did not give you 
 that staff to misuse us poor wretches here, but to contluct us 
 whither his Majesty commands. Now by the hfe of ——. I say no 
 more ; but the spots which were contracted in the inn may perhaps 
 one day come out in the bucking ; and let every one hold his tongue, 
 live well, and speak better. Now let us march on, for we have 
 had enough of this.” 
 
 The commissary lifted up his staff to strike Passamonte, in 
 return for his threats; but Don Quixote interposed, and desired 
 that he would not ill-treat him, since it was but fair that he who 
 had his hands so tied up should have his tongue a little at liberty. 
 Then turning about to the whole string, he said, ‘‘ From all ye 
 have told me, dearest brethren! I clearly gather that, although it 
 be only the punishment of your crimes, you do not much relish 
 what you are to suffer, and that you go to it with ill-will, and 
 much against your inclination; and that, probably, the pusillan- 
 imity of him who was put to the torture, this man’s want of money, 
 and the other’s want of friends, and, in short, the biassed sentence 
 of the judge, may have been the cause of your not meeting with 
 that justice to which you have a right. Now, this being the case, 
 as I am strongly persuaded it is, my mind prompts, and even com- 
 pels me to manifest in you the purpose for which Heaven cast me 
 into the world, and ordained me to profess the order of chivalry, 
 which I do profess, and the vow I thereby made to succour the 
 needy, and those oppressed by the powerful. Conscious, however, 
 that it is the part of prudence not to do by force that which may 
 be done by fair means, I will entreat these gentlemen, your guard 
 and the commissary, that they will be pleased to loose and let you ~ 
 g° in peace, since there are people enough to serve the king from 
 
 etter motives; for it seems to mea hard case to make slaves of 
 those whom God and nature made free. Besides, gentlemen 
 
 
 
RELEASES THE GALLEY SLAVES. 119 
 
 guards,” added Don Quixote, ‘‘ these poor men have committed no 
 offence against you: let every one answer for his sins in the other 
 world: there is a God in heaven who fails not to chastise the 
 wicked, and to reward the good; neither doth it become honour- 
 able men to be the executioners of others, when they have no 
 interest in the matter. J request this of ‘you in a calm and gentle 
 manner, that I may have cause to thank you for your compliance ; 
 but, if you do it not willingly, this lance and this sword, with the 
 
 
 
 
 
 vigour of my arm, shall compel you to it.” ‘‘This is pleasant 
 fooling,” answered the commissary. ‘‘An admirable conceit he 
 has hit upon at last! He would have us let the king’s prisoners 
 go—as if we had authority to set them free, or he to command us 
 to doit! Go on your way, signor, and adjust the basin on your 
 noddle, and do not go feeling about for three legs to a cat.” ‘* You 
 are a cat, and a rat, and a rascal to boot !” answered Don Quixote; 
 and thereupon, with a word and a blow, he attacked him so sud- 
 
120 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 denly, that, before he could stand upon his defence, he threw him 
 to the ground, much wounded with a thrust of the lance; and it 
 happened, luckily for Don Quixote, that this was one of the two whe 
 carried firelocks. The rest of the guards were astonished and con- 
 founded at the unexpected encounter; but, recovering themselves, 
 he on horseback drew his sword, and those on foot took their jave- 
 lins, and advanced upon Don Quixote, who waited for them with 
 much calmness; and doubtless it had gone ill with him if the galley- 
 slaves had not seized the opportunity now offered to them of re- 
 covering their liberty, by breaking the chain by which they were 
 linked together. The confusion was such, that the guards, now 
 endeavouring to prevent the slaves from getting loose, and now 
 engaging with Don Quixote, did nothing to any purpose. Sancho, 
 for his part, assisted in releasing Gines de Passamonte, who was 
 the first that leaped free and unfettered upon the plain; and, 
 attacking the fallen commissary, he took away his sword and his 
 n, which, by levelling first at one and then at another, without 
 ischarging it, he cleared the field of all the guard, who fled no less 
 from Passamonte’s gun than from the shower of stones which the 
 slaves, now at liberty, poured upon them. 
 
 Sancho was much grieved at what had happened, from an appre- 
 hension that the fugitives would give notice of the fact to the holy 
 brotherhood, who, upon ring of bell, would sally out in quest of the 
 delinquents. These fears he communicated to his master, and 
 begged of him to be gone immediately, and take shelter among the 
 trees and rocks of the neighbouring mountain. ‘It is well,” said 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘ but I know what is the first expedient to be done.” 
 Then, having called all the slaves together, who were in disorder, 
 after having stripped the commissary, they gathered around him to 
 know his pleasure, when he thus addressed them, ‘‘To be grate- 
 ful for benefits received is natural to persons well born; and one of 
 the sins which most offendeth God is ingratitude. This I say, 
 gentlemen, because you already know, by manifest experience, the 
 benefit you have received at my hands; in return for which, it is 
 my desire that, bearing with you this chain, which I have taken 
 from your necks, you immediately go to the city of Toboso, and 
 there present yourselves before the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and 
 tell her that her knight of the sorrowful figure sends you to pre- 
 sent his service to her; and recount to her every circumstance of 
 this memorable adventure, to the point of restoring you to your 
 wished-for liberty ; this done, you may go wherever good fortune 
 may lead you.” 
 
 Gines de Passamonte answered for them all, and said, ‘‘ What 
 your worship commands us, noble sir, and our deliverer, is of all 
 impossibilities the most impossible to be complied with; for we 
 dare not be seen together on the road, but must go separate, each 
 man by himself, and endeavour to hide ourselves in the very bowels 
 of the earth from the holy brotherhood, who will doubtless be out in 
 quest of us. What your worship may and ought to do is to change 
 this service and duty to the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso into a cer- 
 tain number of Ave Marias and Credos, which we will say for your 
 
“e 
 
 GINES DE PASSAMONTE. 121 
 worship’s success ; and this is what we may do, by day or by night, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 7 i 
 \ . 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 My 
 
 ire y 
 ny ye . - lh 
 hy fh Mi H i hill 4 
 
 L), if) 
 | 
 
 ie Hi a ~~ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Gines de Passamonte. 
 
 flying or reposing, in peace or in war; but to think that we will 
 
122 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 now return to our chains, and put ourselves on our way to Toboso, 
 is to imagine it already night, whereas it is not yet ten o’clock in 
 the morning ; and to expect this from us is to expect pears from an 
 elm-tree.” ‘‘I vow, then !” quoth Don Quixote, in a rage, ‘‘ Don 
 Ginesillo de Parapilla, or whatever you call yourself, that you alone 
 shall go with your tail between your legs, and the whole chain 
 upon your back !” Passamonte, who was not over passive, seeing 
 himself thus treated, and being aware that Don Quixote, from what 
 he had just done, was not in his right senses, gave a signal to his 
 comrades, upon which they all retired a few paces, and then began 
 to rain such a shower of stones upon Don Quixote, that he could 
 not contrive to cover himself with his buckler ; and poor Rozinante 
 cared no more for the spur than if he had been made of brass. 
 
 Sancho got behind his ass, and thereby sheltered himself from the 
 hailstorm that poured upon them both. Don Quixote could not 
 screen himself sufficiently to avoid I know not how many stones 
 that came against him with such force that they brought him to the 
 grovnd; when one of them instantly fell upon him, and, taking the 
 basin from off his head, gave him three or four blows with it over 
 the shoulders, and then struck it as often against the ground, 
 whereby he almost broke it to pieces; they stripped him of a jacket 
 he wore over his armour, and would have taken his trousers too, if 
 the greaves had not hindered them. They took Sancho’s cloak, 
 leaving him stripped; and after dividing the spoils of the battle, 
 they made the best of their way off, each taking a different course ; 
 more solicitous to escape the holy brotherhood, than to drag their 
 chain to Toboso, and present. themselves before the Lady 
 Dulcinea. 
 
 The ass and Rozinante, Sancho and Don Quixote, remained by 
 themselves; the ass hanging his head, and pensive, and now and 
 then shaking his ears, thinking that the storm of stones was not yet 
 over, and still whizzing about his head ; Rozinante, having been 
 brought to the ground, lay stretched by his master’s side; Sancho 
 stripped, and troubled with apprehensions of the holy brotherhood ; 
 and Don Quixote much chagrined at being so maltreated by those 
 on whom he had conferred so great a benefit. 
 
 CHAP T E.R tax 211 
 
 Of what befell the renowned Don Quixote in the Sierra Morena,* being 
 one of the most uncommon adventures related in this faithful 
 history. 
 
 Don Quixote, finding himself thus ill-requited, said to his squire : 
 —‘‘ Sancho, I have always heard it said, that to do good to the 
 
 * A mountain, or rather chain of mountains, dividing the kingdom of Castile 
 from the province of Andalusia. 
 
RETIRES TO THE SIERRA MORENA. 128 
 
 vulgar is to throw water into the sea. Had I believed what you 
 said to me, I might have prevented this trouble ; but it is done—I 
 must have patience, and henceforth take warning.” ‘‘ Your wor- 
 ship will as much take warning,” answered Sancho, ‘‘as I am a 
 Turk; but since you say, that if you had believed me, the mischief 
 would have been prevented, believe me now, and you will avoid 
 what is still worse ; for, let me tell you, there is no putting off the 
 holy brotherhood with chivalries; they do not care two farthings 
 for all the knights-errant in the world; and I fancy already that I 
 hear their arrows whizzing about my ears.” ‘‘ Thou art naturally 
 a coward, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ but, that thou mayest not 
 say that I am obstinate, and that I never do what thou advisest, I 
 will for once take thy counsel, and retire from that fury of which 
 thou art so much in fear ; but upon this one condition—that, neither 
 living nor dying, thou shalt ever say that I retired and withdrew 
 myself from this peril out of fear, but that I did it out of mere 
 compliance with thy entreaties. If thou sayest otherwise, it is a 
 lie; and, from this time to that, and from that time to this, I tell 
 thee thou lest, and wilt le, every time thou shalt either say or 
 think it. Reply not, for the bare thought of withdrawing and 
 retreating from any danger, and especially from this, which seems 
 to carry some appearance of danger with it, inclines me to remain 
 here and expect alone not that holy brotherhood only, of whom 
 thou speakest, but the brothers of the twelve tribes of Israel, and 
 the seven Maccabees, and Castor and Pollux, and even all the 
 brothers and brotherhoods in the world.” ‘‘ Sir,” answered Sancho, 
 ‘‘retreating is not running away, nor is staying wisdom when the 
 danger overbalances the hope; and it is the part of wise men to 
 secure themselves to-day for to-morrow, and not to venture all upon 
 one throw. And know that, although I am but a clown and a 
 peasant, I yet have some smattering of what is called good con- 
 duct; therefore repent not of having taken my advice, but get upon 
 Rozinante if you can, if not I will assist you, and follow me; for 
 my noddle tells me that for the present we have more need of heels 
 than hands.” Don Quixote mounted without replying a word 
 more; and, Sancho leading the way upon his ass, they entered 
 on one side of the Sierra Morena, which was near; and it was 
 Sancho’s intention to pass through it, and get out at Viso or 
 Almodovar del Campo, and there hide themselves for some days 
 among those craggy rocks, in case the holy brotherhood should 
 come in search of them. He was encouraged to this, by finding 
 that the provisions carried by his ass had escaped safe from the 
 skirmish with the galley-slaves, which he looked upon as a mir- 
 acle, considering what the slaves took away, and how narrowly 
 they searched. 
 
 That night they got into the heart of the Sierra Morena, where 
 Sancho thought it would be well to pass the remainder of the night, 
 if not some days; or at least as long as their provisions lasted. 
 Accordingly there they took up their lodging, under the shelter of 
 rocks overgrown with cork-trees. But destiny, which, according 
 to the opinion of those who have not the light of the true faith, 
 
124 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 guides and disposes all things its own way, so ordered it that Gines 
 -de Passamonte, the famous cheat and robber (whom the valour and 
 phrenzy of Don Quixote had delivered from the chain), being justly 
 afraid of the holy brotherhood, took it into his head to hide himself 
 among those very mountains; and in the very place where, by the 
 same impulse, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza had taken refuge; 
 arriving just in time to distinguish who they were, although they 
 had fallen asleep. Now, as the wicked are always ungrateful, and 
 necessity urges desperate measures, and present conveniences over- 
 balances every consideration of the future, Gines, who had neither 
 gratitude nor good-nature, resolved to steal Sancho Panza’s ass ; 
 not caring for Rozinante, as a thing neither pawnable nor saleable. 
 Sancho Panza slept; the varlet stole his ass; and before dawn of 
 day was too far off to be recovered. 
 
 Aurora issued forth, giving joy to the earth, but grief to Sancho 
 Panza, who, when he missed his Dapple, began to utter the most 
 doleful lamentations, insomuch that Don Quixote awakened at his 
 cries, and heard him say, ‘‘O child of my bowels, born in my 
 house, the joy of my children, the entertainment of my wife, the 
 envy of my neighbours, the relief of my burdens, lastly, the half 
 of my maintenance !—for with the six and twenty maravedis which 
 I have earned every day by thy means, have I half supported my 
 family!” Don Quixote, on learning the cause of these lamentations, 
 comforted Sancho in the best manner he could, and desired him to 
 have patience, promising to give him a bill of exchange for three 
 asses out of five which he had left at home. Sancho, comforted by 
 this promise, wiped away his tears, moderated his sighs, and thanked 
 his master for the kindness he showed him. 
 
 Don Quixote’s heart gladdened upon enterimg among the moun- 
 tains, being the kind of situation he thought likely to furnish those 
 adventures he was in quest of. They recalled to his memory the 
 marvellous events which had befallen knights-errant in such soli: 
 tudes and deserts. He went on meditating on these things, and 
 his mind was so absorbed in them that he thought of nothing else. 
 Nor had Sancho any other concern, now that he thought himself 
 out of danger, than to appease his hunger with what remained of 
 the clerical spoils; and thus sitting sideways, as women do, upon 
 his beast,* he jogged after his master, appeasing his hunger while 
 emptying the bag; and while so employed he would not have 
 Bren, two maravedis for the rarest adventure that could have hap- 
 pened. 
 
 While thus engaged, he raised his eyes, and observed that his 
 master, who had stopped, was endeavouring, with the point of his 
 lance, to raise something that lay upon the ground; upon which he © 
 hastened to assist him, if necessary, and came up to him just as he 
 
 * The reader will observe that there is a discrepancy in the narrative, as Sancho 
 Panza’s ass had been stolen by Gines, and he is here said to be riding on it. The 
 same discrepancy appears subsequently in several places. In the first edition of 
 Don Quixote the contradictions were even more numerous. The author attempted 
 to remove them in the second edition, but incompletely, and the Spaniards have 
 religiously preserved his text. 
 
FINDS A PORTMANTEAU, 125 
 
 had turned over with his lance a saddle-cushion and a portmanteau 
 fastened to it, half, or rather quite rotten and torn, but so heavy 
 that Sancho was forced to alight in order to take itup. His master 
 ordered him to examine it. Sancho very readily obeyed, and 
 although the portmanteau was secured with its chain and padlock, 
 he could see through the chasms what it contained; which was, 
 four fine Holland shirts, and other linen, no less curious than clean ; 
 and, in a handkerchief, he found a quantity of gold crowns, which 
 he no sooner spied than he exclaimed, ‘‘ Blessed be Heaven, which 
 has presented us with one profitable adventure!” And, searching 
 further, he found a little pocket-book, richly bound; which Don 
 Quixote desired to have, bidding him take the money and keep it 
 for himself. Sancho kissed his hands for the favour; and taking 
 the linen out of the portmanteau, he put it in the provender-bag. 
 All this was perceived by Don Quixote, who said, ‘‘ I am of opin- 
 ion, Sancho (nor can it possibly be otherwise), that some traveller 
 must have lost his way in these mountains, and fallen into the 
 hands of robbers, who have killed him, and brought him to this 
 remote part to bury him.” ‘‘ It cannot be so,” answered Sancho ; 
 ‘for had they been robbers, they would not have left this money 
 here.” ‘Thou art in the right,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ and I cannot 
 conjecture what it should be; but stay, let us see whether this 
 pocket-book has anything written in it that may lead toa dis- 
 covery.” He opened it, and the first thing he found was a rough 
 copy of verses, and, being legible, he read aloud, that Sancho might 
 hear it, the following sonnet :— 
 
 Know’st thou, O love, the pangs that I sustain, 
 Or, cruel, dost thou view those pangs unmov'd ? 
 Or has some hidden cause its influence proved, 
 
 By all this sad variety of pain? 
 
 Love is a god, then surely he must know, 
 And, knowing, pity wretchedness like mine; 
 From other hands proceeds the fatal blow— 
 Is then the deed, unpitying Chloe, thine ? 
 
 Ah, no! a form so exquisitely fair, 
 A soul so merciless can ne’er enclose ; 
 From Heaven’s high will my fate resistless flows, 
 And I, submissive, must its vengeance bear, 
 Nought but a miracle my life can save, 
 And snatch its destined victim from the grave. 
 
 ‘* From these verses,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ nothing can be collected, 
 unless from the clue there given you can come at the whole bottom.” 
 “What clue is here?” said Don Quixote. ‘‘I thought,” said 
 Sancho, “‘ your worship made a clue.” ‘‘No, I said Chloe,” 
 answered Don Quixote, ‘‘and, doubtless, that is the name of the 
 lady of whom the author of this sonnet complains; and, in faith, 
 either he is a tolerable poet, or I know but little of the art.” ‘So 
 
126 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 then,” said Sancho, ‘‘ your worship understands making verses 
 too?” ‘Yes, and better than thou thinkest,” answered Don 
 Quixote ; ‘‘and so thou shalt see, when thou bearest a letter to my 
 Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, written in verses from beginning to end ; 
 for know, Sancho, that all, or most of the knights-errant of times 
 past were great poets and great musicians; these two accomplish- 
 ments, or rather graces, being annexed to lovers-errant. True it is 
 that the couplets of former knights have more of passion than 
 elegance in them.” ‘‘ Pray, sir, read on further,” said Sancho; 
 ‘‘perhaps you may find something to satisfy us.” Don Quixote 
 turned over the leaf, and said, ‘‘ This is in prose, and seems to be 
 a letter.” ‘‘A letter of business, sir?” demanded Sancho. ‘‘ By 
 the beginning, it seems rather to be one of love,” answered Don 
 Quixote. ‘‘Then pray, sir, read it aloud,” said Sancho; ‘for I 
 mightily relish these love-matters.” ‘‘ With all my heart,” said 
 Don Quixote; and, reading aloud as Sancho desired, he found it to 
 this effect :— 
 
 ‘Thy broken faith, and my certain misery, drives me to a place 
 whence thou wilt sooner hear the news of my death than the cause 
 of my complaint. Thou hast renounced me, O ungrateful maid, for 
 one of larger possessions, but not of more worth than myself. If 
 virtue were a treasure now in esteem, I should have no reason to 
 envy the good fortune of others, nor to bewail my own wretched- 
 ness. What thy beauty excited, thy conduct has erased; by the 
 former, I thought thee an angel; by the latter, I know thou art a 
 woman. Peace be to thee, fair cause of my disquiet! and may 
 Heaven grant that the perfidy of thy consort remain for ever un- 
 known to thee, that thou mayest not repent of what thou hast done, 
 and afford me that revenge which [ do not desire.” 
 
 The letter being read, Don Quixote said, ‘‘We can gather little 
 more from this, than from the verses. It is evident, however, that 
 the writer of them is some slighted lover.” Then, turning over 
 other parts of the book, he found other verses and letters, some of _ 
 which were legible, and some not; but the purport was the same in 
 all—their sole contents being reproaches, lamentations, suspicions, 
 desires, dislikings, favours, and slights, interspersed with rapturous 
 phrases, and mournful complaints. While Don Quixote was 
 examining the book, Sancho examined the portmanteau, without 
 leaving a corner either in that or in the saddle-cushion which he 
 didnot examine, scrutinise, and look into, or seam which he did not 
 rip, or lock of wool which he did not pick—that nothing might be 
 _ lost from want of diligence, or through carelessness—such was the 
 cupidity excited in him by the discovery of this golden treasure, 
 consisting of more than a hundred crowns! And, although he could 
 find no more, he thought himself abundantly rewarded by those 
 already in his possession, for the tossings in the blanket, the 
 vomitings of the balsam, the benedictions of the pack-staves, 
 the cuffs of the carrier, the loss of the wallet, and the theft of 
 his cloak ; together with all the hunger, thirst, and fatigue he had 
 suffered in his good master’s service. 
 
THE RAGGED KNIGHT. ron 
 
 The knight of the sorrowful figure was extremely desirous to 
 know who was the owner of the portmanteau; for, he concluded 
 from the sonnet and the letter, by the money in gold, and by the 
 fineness of the linen, that it must, doubtless, belong to some lover 
 of condition, whom the disdain and ill-treatment of his mistress 
 had reduced to despair; but, as no information could be expected 
 in that rugged and uninhabitable place, he had only to proceed 
 forward, taking whatever road Rozinante pleased (who invariably 
 gave preference to that which he found the most passable), and 
 still thinking that amongst the rocks he should certainly meet with 
 some strange adventure. 
 
 As he went onwards, impressed with this idea, he espied, on the 
 top of a rising ground not far from him, a man springing from rock 
 to rock with extraordinary agility. He seemed to be almost naked, 
 his beard black and bushy, his hair long and tangled, his legs and 
 feet bare; he had on breeches of sad-coloured velvet, and so ragged 
 as scarcely to cover him; all which particulars, though he passed 
 swiftly by, were observed by the knight. He endeavoured, but in 
 vain, to follow him; for it was not given to Rozinante’s feebleness 
 to make way over those craggy places, especially as he was 
 naturally slow-footed and phlegmatic. Don Quixote immediately 
 conceived that this must be the owner of the saddle-cushion and 
 portmanteau, and resolved, therefore, to go in search of him, even 
 though it should prove a twelvemonth’s labour, in that wild region. 
 He immediately commanded Sancho to cut short over one side of 
 the mountain, while he skirted the other; as they might possibly, 
 by this expedition, find the man who had so suddenly vanished 
 from their sight. ‘‘I cannot do it,” answered Sancho, ‘‘for the 
 moment I offer to stir from your worship, fear is upon me, assault- 
 ing me with a thousand kind of terrors and apparitions; and let 
 this serve to advertise you that henceforward I depart not a 
 finger’s breadth from your presence.” ‘‘Be it so,” said he of the 
 sorrowful figure; ‘‘and I am well pleased that thou shouldst rely 
 upon my courage, which shall never fail thee, though the very soul in 
 thy body should desert thee. Follow me, therefore, step by step, 
 or as thou canst, and make lanterns of thine eyes; we will go round 
 this craggy hill, and, perhaps, we may encounter the man we saw, 
 who, doubtless, is the owner of what we have found.” 'T'o which 
 Sancho replied, ‘‘ It would be much more prudent not to look after 
 him; for, if we should find him, and he, perchance, proves to be the 
 owner of the money, it is plain I must restcx2 it; and, therefore, 
 it would be better, without this unnecessary diligence, to preserve 
 it faithfully, until, by some way less curious and officious, its true 
 owner shall be found; by which time, perhaps, [ may have spent 
 it, and then I am free by law.” ‘‘Therein thou art mistaken, 
 Sancho,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘for, since we have a vehement 
 suspicion of who is the right owner, it is our duty to seek him, and 
 to return it; otherwise that suspicion makes us no less guilty, than 
 if he really were so. Do not then repine, friend Sancho, at this 
 search, considering how much [I shall be relieved by finding him.” 
 Then he pricked Rozinante on, and Sancho followed ; when, having 
 
128 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 gone round part of the mountain, they found a dead mule lying in 
 a brook, saddled and bridled, and half devoured by dogs and crows ; 
 which confirmed them in the opinion that he who fled from them 
 was owner both of the mule and the bundle. 
 
 While they stood looking at the mule, they heard a whistle like 
 that of a shepherd tending his flock ; and presently, on their left, 
 appeared a number of goats, and, behind them, higher up on the 
 mountain, on old man, being the goatherd that kept them. Don 
 Quixote called to him aloud, and beckoned to him to come down to 
 them. He as loudly answered, inquiring what had brought them 
 to that desolate place, seldom or never trodden unless by the feet 
 of goats, wolves, or other beasts that frequented those mountains? 
 Sancho promised, in reply, that if he would come down, they would 
 satisfy him in everything. The goatherd descended, and, coming 
 to the place where Don Quixote stood, he-said, ‘‘ I suppose, gentle- 
 men, you are looking atthe dead mule? In truth, it has now lain 
 there these six months. Pray tell me, have you met with his 
 master hereabouts?” ‘‘ We have met with nothing,” answered Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘ but a saddle-cushion and a small portmanteau, which we 
 found not far hence.” ‘‘I found it too,” answered the goatherd, 
 “‘but would by no means take it up, nor come near it, for fear of 
 some mischief, and of being charged with theft; for the devil is 
 subtle, and lays stumbling-blocks in our way, over which we fall, 
 without knowing how.” ‘‘So say I,” answered Sancho; ‘‘for I 
 also found it, and would not go within a stone’s throw of it; there 
 I left it, and there it may lie for me; for I will not have a dog with 
 a bell.” ‘*Tell me, honest man,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘do you 
 know who is the owner of these goods?” ‘‘What I know,” said 
 the goatherd, ‘‘is, that six months ago, more or less, there came 
 to a shepherd’s hut, about three leagues from this place, a genteel 
 and comely youth, mounted on the very mule which lies dead there, 
 and with the same saddle-cushion and portmanteau that you say 
 you found and touched not. He inquired of us which part of these 
 mountains was the most rude and unfrequented. We told him it 
 was here, where we now are; and so it is, truly, for if you were to 
 go on about half a league further, perhaps you would never find 
 the way out: and I wonder how you could get even hither, since 
 there is no road nor path to lead youtoit. The youth then, I say, 
 hearing our answer, turned about his mule and made towards the 
 part we pointed out, leaving us all pleased with his goodly appear- 
 ance, and wondering at his question and the haste he made to reach 
 the mountain. From that time we saw him not again until some 
 days after, when he issued out upon one of our shepherds, and, 
 without saying a word, struck him and immediately fell upon our 
 sumpter-ass, which he plundered of our bread and cheese, and then 
 fled again to the rocks with wonderful swiftness. Some of us 
 goatherds after this sought for him nearly two days through the 
 most intricate part of these mountains, and at last found him lying 
 in the hollow of a large cork-tree. He came out to us with much 
 gentleness, his garments torn, and his face so disfigured and scorched 
 by the sun, that we should scarcely have known him, but that his 
 
STORY OF THE DISTRESSED LOVER. 129 
 
 clothes, ragged as they were, convinced us he was the person we 
 were in search after. He saluted us courteously, and in few but 
 civil words bade us not be surprised to see him in that condition, 
 which was necessary in order to perform a certain penance enjoined 
 him for his manifold sins. We entreated him to tell us who he 
 was, but could get no more from him. We also desired him to in- 
 form us where he might be found: because, when he stood in need 
 of food, without which he could not subsist, we would willingly 
 bring some to him ; and, if this did not please him, we begged that 
 at least he would come and ask for it, and not take it away from 
 the shepherds by force. He thanked us for our offers, begged 
 _ pardon for his past violence, and promised thenceforth to ask it for 
 God’s sake, without molesting anybody. As to the place of his 
 abode, he said he had no other than that which chance presented 
 him wherever the night overtook him; and he ended his discourse 
 with so many tears, that we who heard him must have been very 
 stones not to have wept with him, considering what he was when 
 we first saw him, and what he now appeared: for, as I before said, 
 he was a very comely and graceful youth, and by his courteous be- 
 haviour showed himself to be well-born; which was evident even 
 to country-people like us. Suddenly he was silent, and, fixing his 
 eyes on the ground, he remained in that posture for a long time, 
 whilst we stood still in suspense, waiting to see what would be the 
 end of his trance; for by his motionless position, and the furious 
 look of his eyes, frowning and biting his lips, we judged that his 
 mad fit was coming on; and indeed our suspicions were quickly 
 confirmed, for he suddenly darted forward, and fell with great fury 
 upon one that stood next him, whom he bit and struck with so 
 much violence, that, if we had not released him, he would have 
 taken away his life. In the midst of his rage he frequently called 
 out, ‘ Ah, traitor Fernando! now shalt thou pay for the wrong thou 
 hast done me; these hands shall tear out that heart, the dark 
 dwelling of deceit and villany!’ and to these added other expres- 
 sions, all pointed at the same Fernando, and charging him with 
 falsehood and treachery. We disengaged our companion from him 
 at last, with no small difficulty ; upon which he suddenly left us, 
 and plunged into a thicket so entangled with bushes and briars 
 that it was impossible to follow him. By this we guessed that his 
 madness returned by fits, and that some person whose name is 
 Fernando must have done him some injury of so grievous a nature 
 as to reduce him to the wretched condition in which he appeared. 
 And in that we have since been confirmed, as he has frequently 
 come out into the road, sometimes begging food of the shepherds, 
 and at other times taking it from them by force: for when the mad 
 fit is upon him, though the shepherds offer it freely, he will not 
 take it without coming to blows; but, when he is in his senses, he 
 asks it with courtesy and receives it with thanks, and even with 
 tears. In truth, gentlemen, I must tell you,” continued the 
 goatherd, ‘‘that yesterday I and four young men, two of them 
 my servants and two my friends, resolved to go in search of hin, 
 and, having found him, either by persuasion or force carry him to 
 I 
 
130 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the town of Almodovar, which is eight leagues off, there to get him 
 cured, if his distemper be curable; or at least to learn who he 1s, 
 and whether he has any relations to whom we may give notice of 
 his misfortune. This, gentlemen, is all I can tell you, in answer 
 to your inquiry; by which you may understand that the owner of 
 the goods you found is the same wretched person who passed you 
 so quickly ;”—for Don Quixote had told him that he had seen a 
 man leaping about the rocks. 
 
 Don Oiieate was surprised at what he heard from the goatherd ; 
 and, being now still more desirous of knowing who the unfortunate 
 madman was, he renewed his determination to search every part of 
 the mountain, leaving neither corner nor cave unexplored until he 
 should find him. But fortune managed better for him than he 
 expected ; for at that very instant the same youth appeared de- 
 scending towards them, and muttering to himself something which 
 was not intelligible. The rags he wore were such as have been 
 described: but, as he drew near, Don Quixote perceived that his 
 buff doublet, though torn to pieces, still retained the perfume of 
 amber, whence he concluded that he could not possibly be of low 
 condition. When the young man came up to them, he saluted 
 them in a harsh and untuned voice, but with a civil air. Don 
 Quixote politely returned the salute, and alighting from Rozinante, 
 with graceful demeanour and address, advanced to embrace him, 
 and held him a considerable time clasped within his arms, as if 
 they had been long acquainted. The other, whom we may truly 
 call the tattered knight of the woeful, as Don Quixote was of the 
 sorrowful, figure, having suffered himself to be embraced, drew 
 back a little, and, laying his hands on Don Quixote’s shoulder, 
 stood contemplating him, as if to ascertain whether he knew him; 
 
 and perhaps no less surprised at the aspect, demeanour, and habili- 
 
 ments of the knight than was Don Quixote at the sight of him. 
 In short, the first who broke silence after this prelude was the 
 *‘ ragged knight;” and what he said shall be told in the next chapter. 
 
 CHA PT ER. XOX LY. 
 A continuation of the adventure in the Sierra Morena. 
 
 The history informs us that great was the attention wherewith 
 Don Quixote listened to the ‘‘ tattered knight” of the mountain, 
 who thus addressed himself to the knight: ‘‘ Assuredly, signor, 
 whoever you are, for I do not know you, I am obliged to you for 
 the courtesy you have manifested towards me; and I wish it were 
 in my power to serve you with more than my goodwill, which is all 
 that my fate allows me to offer in return for your civility.” ‘‘So 
 great 1s my desire to do you service,” answered Don Quixote, 
 *‘that I had determined not to quit these mountains until I found 
 
 ——— 
 
CARDENIO’S STORY. 131 
 
 you, and learned from yourself whether your affliction, which is 
 evident by the strange life you lead, may admit of any remedy, and, 
 if so, make every possible exertion to procure it; and should your 
 misfortune be of such a kind that every avenue to consolation is 
 closed, I intended to join in your moans and lamentations—for 
 sympathy is ever an alleviation to misery ; and if you should think 
 my intention merits any acknowledgment, I beseech you, sir, by 
 the infinite courtesy I see you possess; I conjure you also by what- 
 ever in this life you have loved, or do love most, to tell me who 
 you are, and what has brought you hither, to live and die like a 
 brute beast, amidst these solitudes : an abode, if I may judge from 
 your person and attire, so unsuitable to you. And I swear,” added 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘ by the order of knighthood I have received, though 
 unworthy and a sinner, and by the profession of a knight-errant, if 
 “you gratify me in this, to serve you with all the energy which it is 
 my duty to exert, either in remedying your misfortune, if it admit 
 of remedy, or in assisting you to bewail it, as I have already pro- 
 mised.” The ‘‘ knight of the mountain,” hearing him of ‘‘ the sor- 
 rowiul figure” talk thus, could only gaze upon him, viewing him 
 from head to foot; and, after surveying him again and again, he - 
 said to him, “‘ If you have anything to give me to eat, for Heaven’s 
 sake let me have it; and when [ have eaten I will do all you 
 desire, in return for the good wishes you have expressed towards 
 mre? 
 
 Sancho immediately took from his wallet, and the goatherd from 
 his script, some provisions, wherewith the wretched wanderer sa- 
 tisfied his hunger ; eating what they gave him like a distracted per- 
 son, so ravenously that he made no interval between one mouthful 
 and another, for he rather devoured than ate; and during his re- 
 past neither he nor the by-standers spoke a word. When he had 
 finished, he made signs to them to follow him, which they did ; 
 and having conducted them a short distance to a little green plot, 
 he there laid himself down, and the rest did the same.» When the 
 ‘tattered knight” had composed himself, he said, ‘‘ If you desire, 
 gentlemen, that I should tell you, in few words, the immensity of 
 my misfortunes, you must promise not to interrupt, by questions 
 or otherwise, the thread of my doleful history ; for in the instant 
 you do so, my narrative will break off.”” These words brought to 
 Don Quixote’s memory the tale related by his squire, which, because 
 he had not reckoned the number of goats that had passed the river, 
 remained untinished. ‘‘I give this caution,” said the ragged moun- 
 taineer, ‘‘ because I would pass briefly over the account of my mis- 
 fortunes ; for recalling them to my remembrance only adds to my 
 woe ; and the less I am questioned the sooner shall I have finished 
 my story ; yet will I not omit any material circumstance, as it is 
 my wish entirely to satisfy you.” Don Quixote, in the name of 
 all the rest, promised not to interrupt him, and upon this assur- 
 ance he began in the following manner :— 
 
 _‘*My name is Cardenio ; the place of my birth, one of the best 
 cities of Andalusia ; my family noble ; my parents wealthy ; my 
 wretchedness so great, that it must have been deplored by my pa- 
 
132, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 rents, and felt by my relations, although not to be alleviated by all 
 their wealth: for riches are of little avail in many of the calamities 
 to which mankind are liable. In that city there existed a heaven, 
 wherein love had placed all the joy I could desire; such is the 
 beauty of Lucinda, a damsel as well-born and as rich as myself, 
 though more fortunate, and less constant than my honourable in- 
 tentions deserved. This Lucinda I loved and adored from my child- 
 hood ; and she on her part loved me with that innocent affection 
 proper to her age. Our parents were not unacquainted with our at- 
 tachment, nor was it displeasing to them—foreseeing that it could 
 only end in a union sanctioned, as it were, by the equality of our 
 birth and circumstances. Our love increased with our years, inso- 
 much as Lucinda’s father thought it prudent to restrain my wonted 
 freedom of access to his house ; thus imitating the parents of the 
 unfortunate Thisbe, so celebrated by the poets. This restraint 
 served only to increase the ardour of our affection ; for, though it 
 was in their power to impose silence on our tongues, they could 
 not do the same on our pens, which reveal the secrets of the soul 
 more effectually than even the speech, for the presence of a beloved 
 object often so bewilders and confounds its faculties that the tongue 
 cannot perform its office. Oh heavens, how many a billet-doux did 
 I write to her! What charming, what modest answers did I re- 
 ceive! How many sonnets did I pen! How many love-verses in- 
 dite, in which my soul unfolded all its passion, described its ardour, 
 cherished its remembrances, and indulged its fancy! At length 
 my patience being exhausted, and my soul languishing to see her, 
 [ resolved at once to put into execution what seemed to me the 
 most likely means to obtain my desired and deserved reward ; that 
 was, to demand her of her father for my lawful wife, which I im- 
 mediately did. In reply, he thanked me for the desire I expressed 
 to honour him by an alliance with his family; but that, as my 
 father was living, it belonged more properly to him to make this de- 
 mand; for without his entire concurrence the act would appear se- 
 cret, and unworthy of his Lucinda. I returned him thanks for the 
 kindness of his reception ; his scruples, I thought, were reasonable, 
 and I made sure of my father’s ready acquiescence. I went there- 
 fore directly to him, and upon entering his apartment found him 
 with a letter open in his hand, which he gave me before I spoke a 
 word, saying, ‘ By this letter, you will see, Cardenio, the inclina- 
 tion Duke Ricardo has to do you service.’ Duke Ricardo, gentle- 
 men, as you cannot but know, is a grandee of Spain, whose estate 
 les in the best part of Andalusia. I read the letter, which was so 
 extremely kind, that I thought, even myself, it would be wrong in 
 my father not to comply with its request, which was, that I should 
 be sent immediately to the duke, who was desirous of placing me, 
 not as a man servant, but as a companion to his eldest son; which 
 honour should be accompanied by such preferment as should cor- 
 respond with the estimation in which he held me. I was, never- 
 theless, much perplexed by the letter, and quite confounded when I 
 heard my father say, ‘Two days hence, Cardenio, you shall depart, 
 in compliance with the duke’s desire; and give thanks to God for 
 
CARDENIO’S STORY. 133 
 
 opening you a way to that fortune I know you deserve ;’ to which 
 he added other paternal admonitions. ; 
 
 ‘«The time fixed for my departure came. I conversed the night 
 before with Lucinda, and told her all that had passed ; and also en- 
 treated her father to wait a few days, and not to dispose of her until 
 I knew what Duke Ricardo’s pleasure was with me. He promised 
 me all I desired, and she confirmed it with a thousand vows and a 
 thousand faintings. I arrived, in short, at the residence of Duke 
 Ricardo, who received and treated me with so much kindness that 
 envy soon became active, by possessing his old servants with an 
 opinion that every favour the duke conferred upon me was prejudi- 
 cial to their interest. But the person most pleased at my arrival 
 was a second son of the duke, called Fernando, a sprightly young 
 gentleman, of a gallant, liberal, and amiable disposition ; who in a 
 short time contracted so intimate a friendship with me, that it be- 
 came the subject of general conversation ; and though I was treated 
 with much favour by his elder brother, it was not equal to the 
 kindness and affection of Don Fernande. 
 
 ‘* Now, as unbounded confidence is always the effect of such inti- 
 macy, and my friendship for Don Fernando heing most sincere, he 
 revealed to me all his thoughts, and particularly an affection which 
 he had for a country girl, the daughter of one of his father’s vas- 
 sals. Her parents were rich, and she herself was so beautiful, dis- 
 creet, and modest, that no one could determine in which of these 
 qualities she most excelled. Don Fernando’s passion for this lovely 
 maiden was so excessive that he resolved to promise her marriage. 
 Prompted by friendship, I employed the best arguments I could 
 suggest to divert him from such a purpose ; but finding it was all 
 in vain, I resolved to acquaint his father the duke with the affair. 
 Don Fernando, being artful and shrewd, suspected and feared no 
 less ; knowing that I could not, as a faithful servant, conceal from my 
 lord and master a concern prejudicial to his honour: and therefore, to 
 amuse and deceive me, he said that he knewno better remedy for effac- 
 ing the remembrance of the beauty that had so captivated him than 
 to absent himself for some months: this, he said, might be effected 
 by our going together to my father’s house, under pretence, as he 
 would tell the duke, of purchasing horses in our town, which is 
 remarkable for producing the best in the world. No sooner had he 
 made this proposal, than prompted by my own love, I expressed 
 my approbation of it, as the best that possibly could be devised ; 
 
 “and should have done so, even had it been less plausible, since it 
 afforded me so good an opportunity of seeing my dear Lucinda. 
 Thus influenced, I seconded his design, and desired him to put it in 
 execution without delay; since absence, I assured him, would cer- 
 tainly have its effect in spite of the strongest inclination. The duke 
 consented to his proposal, and ordered me to bear him company. 
 We reached our city, and my father received him according to 
 his quality. I immediately visited Lucinda: my passion revived 
 (though, in truth, it had been neither dead nor asleep), and, un- 
 fortunately for me, I revealed it to Don Fernando; thinking that, 
 by the laws of friendship, nothing should be concealed from him. 
 
184 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 [ expatiated so much on the beauty, grace, and discretion of Lucinda, 
 that my praises excited in him a desire of seeing a damsel endowed 
 with such accomplishments. Unhappily, I consented to gratify him, 
 and showed her to him one night by the light of a taper at a window 
 where we were accustomed to converse together. He beheld her, 
 and every beauty he had hitherto seen was cast in oblivion. He 
 was struck dumb; he lost all sense: he was entranced—in short, he 
 became deeply enamoured, as will appear by the sequel of my un- 
 fortunate story. And the more to inflame his passion, which he 
 concealed from me, he saw by chance a letter which she had written 
 to me, expressing a wish that I would again urge her father’s con- 
 sent to our marriage, in terms so sensible, so modest, and so full of 
 tenderness, that when he had read it he declared to me that he 
 thought in Lucinda alone were united all the beauty, good sense, 
 and excellent qualities which were dispersed and divided among 
 the rest of her sex. True itis, I confess, that although I knew what 
 just cause Don Fernando had to admire Lucinda, I was grieved to 
 hear commendations from his mouth. From that time I began to 
 fear and suspect him; for he was every moment talking of Lucinda, 
 and would begin the subject himself, however abruptly, which 
 awakened in me I know not what jealousy; and though I feared 
 no change in the goodness and fidelity of Lucinda, yet I could not 
 but dread the very thing against which they seemed to secure me. 
 He also constantly importuned me to show him the letters I wrote 
 to Lucinda, as well as her answers, pretending to be extremely de- 
 lighted with both. 
 
 ‘*Now it happened that Lucinda, having desired me to lend her 
 a book of chivalry, of which she was very fond, entitled Amadis de 
 Gaul ” Scarcely had Don Quixote heard him mention a book of 
 chivalry, than he said, ‘‘ Had you told me, sir, at the beginning of 
 your history, that the Lady Lucinda was fond of reading books of 
 chivalry, no more would have been necessary to convince me of the 
 sublimity of her understanding: for it could never have beeit so ex- 
 cellent as you have described it, had she wanted a relish for such | 
 savoury reading ; so that, with respect to me, it is needless to waste 
 
 more words in displaying her beauty, worth, and understanding, 
 _ since, from only knowing her taste, I pronounce her to be the most 
 beautiful and the most ingenious woman in the world. And I wish, 
 sir, that, together with Amadis de Gaul, you had sent her the good 
 Don Rugel of Greece; for I know that the Lady Lucinda will be 
 highly delighted with Daraida and Garaya, and. the wit of the 
 shepherd Darinel; also with those admirable verses of his Bucolics, 
 which he sung and repeated with so much grace, wit, and freedom. 
 But this fault may be amended, and reparation made, as soon as 
 ever you will be pleased, sir, to come with me to our town, where 
 I can furnish you with more than three hundred books that are the 
 delight of my soul, and entertainment of my life. Yet it now oc- 
 curs to me I have not one of them left—thanks to the malice of 
 wicked and envious enchanters! Pardon me, sir, for having broken | 
 my promise by this interruption; but when I hear of matters ap- | 
 pertaining to knights-errant and chivalry, I can as well forbear | 
 
 
 
2 
 
 ABRUPT TERMINATION OF CARDENIO’S STORY, 135 
 
 talking of them as the beams of the sun can cease to give heat, or. 
 those of the moon to moisten. Pray, therefore, excuse me, and 
 proceed ; for that is of most importance to us at present.” 
 
 While Don Quixote was saying all this, Cardenio hung down his 
 head upon his breast, apparently in profound thought ; and although 
 Don Quixote twice desired him to continue his story, he neither 
 lifted up his head, nor answered a word. But after some time he 
 raised it, and said, ‘‘I cannot get it out of my mind, nor can any 
 one persuade me—indeed he must be a blockhead who understands 
 or believes that Queen Madasima wasavirtuouswoman.” ‘‘I swear,” 
 answered Don Quixote, in great wrath, ‘‘it is extreme malice, or 
 rather villany, to say so. Queen Madasima was a very noble lady, 
 and whoever asserts otherwise lies like a very rascal: and I will 
 make him know it, on foot or on horseback, armed or unarmed, by 
 night or by day, or how he pleases.” Cardenio sat looking at him 
 very attentively, and the mad fit being now upon him, he was in 
 no condition to prosecute his story, neither would Don Quixote have 
 heard him, so much was he irritated by what he had heard of 
 Madasima; and strange it was to see him take her part with as 
 much earnestness as if she had been his true and natural mistress— 
 such was the effect of those extravagant books! 
 
 Cardenio being now mad,.and hearing himself called liar and 
 villain with other opprobrious names, did not like the jest; and 
 catching at a stone that lay close by him, he threw it with such 
 violence at Don Quixote’s breast, that it threw him on his back. 
 Sancho Panza, seeing his master treated in this manner, attacked 
 the madman with his clenched fist ; and the ragged knight received 
 him in such sort, that with one blow he laid him at his feet, and 
 then trampled him to his heart’s content. The goatherd, who en- 
 deavoured to defend him, fared little better ; and when the madman 
 had sufficiently vented his fury upon them all, he left them, and 
 quietly retired to his rocky haunts among the mountains. Sancho 
 got up in a rage to find himself so roughly handled, and so unde- 
 servedly withal, and was proceeding to take revenge on the goat- 
 herd, telling him the fault was his, for not having given them warn- 
 ing that this man was subject to these mad fits ; for had they known 
 it they might have been upon their.guard. The goatherd answered 
 that he had given them notice of it, and that, if they had not 
 attended to it, the fault was not his. Sancho Panza replied, the 
 goatherd rejoined ; and the replies and rejoinders ended in taking 
 each other by the beard, and coming to such blows, that, if Don 
 Quixote had not interposed, they would have demolished each 
 other. But Sancho still kept fast hold of the goatherd, and said, 
 ‘* Let me alone, sir knight of the sorrowful figure, for this fellow, 
 being a bumpkin like myself, and not a knight, I may very safely 
 revenge myself by fighting with him hand to hand, like a man ot 
 honour.” ‘ True,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ but.1 know that he is not 
 to blame for what has happened.” Hereupon they were pacified ; 
 and Don Quixote again inquired of the goatherd whether it were 
 possible to find out Cardenio; for he hada vehement desire to learn 
 the end of his story. The goatherd told him, as before, thathe did 
 
136 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 not exactly know his haunts, but that, if he waited some time about 
 that part, he would not fail to meet him, either in or out of his 
 senses. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 “as 
 Which treats of the strange things which befell the valiant knight of La 
 Mancha in the Sierra Morena; and how he imitated the penance 
 of Beltenebros. 
 
 Don Quixote took his leave of the goatherd, and mounting Rozi- 
 nante, commanded Sancho to follow him, which he did very un- 
 willingly. They proceeded slowly on, making their way in the 
 most difficult recesses of the mountain: in the meantime Sancho 
 was dying to converse with his master, but would fain have had 
 him begin the discourse, that he might not disobey his orders. 
 ‘ Being, however, unable to hold out any longer, he said to him, 
 ‘‘ Signor Don Quixote, be pleased to give me your worship’s bless- 
 ing, and my dismission; for I will get home to my wife and chil- 
 dren, with whom I shall at least have the privilege of talking and 
 speaking my mind; for, to desire me to bear your worship company 
 through these solitudes night and day, without suffering me to talk 
 when [ list, is to bury me alive. If fate had ordered it that beasts 
 should talk now, as they did in the days of Guisopete, it would not 
 have been quite so bad, since I might then have communed with my 
 ass as I pleased, and so have forgotten my ill fortune; for it is very 
 hard, and not to be borne with patience, for a man to ramble about 
 all his life in quest of adventures, and to meet with nothing but 
 kicks and cuffs, tossings in a blanket, and bangs with stones, and, 
 with all this, to have his mouth sewed up, not daring to utter 
 what he has in his heart, as if he were dumb.” ‘I understand 
 thee, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘thou art impatient until 
 I take off the embargo [ have laid on thy tongue. Suppose it, then, 
 removed, and thou art permitted to say what thou wilt, upon con- 
 dition that this revocation is to last no longer than whilst we are 
 wandering amidst these rocks.” ‘‘ Be it so,” said Sancho; ‘‘let me 
 talk now. And now, taking the benefit of this licence, I ask, what 
 had your worship to do with standing up so warmly for that same 
 Queen Magimasa, or what’s her name? for, had you let that pass, 
 I verily believe the madman would have gone on with his story, 
 and you would have escaped the thump with the stone, the kicks, 
 and above half-a-dozen buffets.” 
 
 ‘“Tn faith, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘if thou didst but 
 know, as I do, how honourable and how excellent a lady Queen 
 Madasima was, [ am certain thou wouldst acknowledge that 1 had 
 a great deal of patience in forbearing to dash to pieces that mouth 
 out of which such blasphemies issued. The truth of the story is, 
 that Master Elisabat, who is accused of being her lover, was a most 
 prudent man, of sound judgment, and served as tutor and physi- 
 
HIS OPINION OF QUEEN MADASIMA. 137 
 
 cian to the queen; but to suppose that she was his mistress, is an 
 absurdity deserving of severe punishment; and to prove that Car- 
 denio knew not what he spoke, thou mayest remember that, when 
 he said it, he was not in his senses.” ‘‘ That is whatI say,” quoth 
 Sancho, ‘‘and therefore no account should have been made of his 
 words ; for, if good fortune had not befriended your worship, and 
 directed the flint-stone at your breast instead of your head, we had 
 been in a fine condition for standing up in defence of that dear lady ; 
 and Cardenio would have come off unpunished, being insane.” 
 ‘** Against the sane and insane,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘it is the 
 duty of a knight-errant to defend the honour of women, particularly 
 that of a queen of such exalted worth as Queen Madasima, for whom 
 I have a particular affection, on account of her excellent qualities ; 
 for, besides being extremely beautiful, she was very prudent, and 
 very patient in her afflictions, which were numerous; and the 
 counsels and company of Master Elisabat were of great use and 
 comfort to her, enabling her to bear her sufferings with prudence 
 and patience. Hence the ignorant and evil-minded vulgar took 
 occasion to say that he was her lover; and I say again, they 
 lie, and will lie two hundred times more, all who say or think it.” 
 **T neither say nor think so,” answered Sancho. ‘‘ Let those who 
 say it eat the lie, and swallow it with their bread; whether they 
 were guilty or no, they have given account to God before now. I 
 come from my vineyard; I know nothing. I am no friend to in- 
 quiring into other men’s lives; for he that buys and lies shall find 
 the lie Jeft in his purse behind. Besides, I neither win nor lose ; if 
 they were guilty, what is that tome? Many think to find bacon, 
 when there is not so much as a pin to hang it on; but who can 
 hedge in the cuckoo?” ‘‘ What a string of nonsense,” said Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘ what has our subject to do with all these proverbs? 
 Pr’ythee, Sancho, peace; and henceforward attend to thy ass, and 
 forbear any interference with what does not concern thee. Be con- 
 vinced, by thy five senses, that whatever I have done, do, or shall 
 do, is highly reasonable and exactly conformable to the rules of 
 chivalry, which I am better acquainted with than all the knights 
 who ever professed it in the world.” ‘‘Sir,” replied Sancho, ‘‘1s it 
 a good rule of chivalry for us to go wandering through these moun- 
 tains, without either path or road, in quest of a madman who, per- 
 haps when he is found, will be inclined to finish what he began— 
 not his story, but the breaking of your worship’s head and my 
 ribs ?” 
 
 ‘Peace, Sancho, I repeat,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘for know that 
 it is not only the desire of finding the madman that brings me to 
 these parts, but an intention to perform in them an exploit whereby 
 I shall acquire perpetual fame and renown over the face of the whole 
 earth; and it shall be such an one as shall set the seal to make an 
 accomplished knight-errant.” ‘‘ And is this exploit a very danger- 
 ous one?” quoth Sancho. ‘‘ No,” answered the knight, ‘‘although 
 the die may chance to run unfortunately for us, yet the whole will 
 depend upon thy diligence.” ‘‘Upon my diligence!” exclaimed 
 Sancho. ‘‘ Yes,” said Don Quixote, ‘ for if thy return be speedy 
 
138 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 from the place whither I intend to send thee, my pain will soon be 
 over, and my glory forthwith commence; and that thou mayest no 
 longer be in suspense with regard to the tendency of my words, I 
 inform thee, Sancho, that the famous Amadis de Gaul was one of 
 the most perfect of knights-errant—I should not say one, for he 
 was the sole, the principal, the unique—in short, the prince of all 
 his contemporaries. A fig for Don Belianis, and all those who say 
 that he equalled Amadis in anything! for I swear they are mis- 
 taken. I say, moreover, that if a painter would be famous in his 
 art, he must endeavour to copy after the originals of the most ex- 
 cellent masters ; the same rule is also applicable to all the other 
 arts and sciences which adorn the commonwealth; thus, whoever 
 aspires to a reputation for prudence and patience, must imitate 
 Ulysses, in whose person and toils Homer draws a lively picture of 
 those qualities ; soalso Virgil, in the character of Alneas, delineates 
 filial piety, courage, and martial skill, being representations of not 
 what they really were, but of what they ought to be, in order to serve 
 as models of virtue to succeeding generations. Thus was Amadis 
 the polar, the morning star, and the son of all valiant and enam- 
 oured knights, and whom all we, who militate under the banners of 
 love and chivalry, ought to follow. This being the case, friend 
 Sancho, that knight-errant who best imitates him, will be most cer- 
 tain of arriving at pre-eminence in chivalry. And an occasion upon 
 which the knight particularly displayed his prudence, worth, 
 courage, patience, constancy, and love, was his retiring, when dis- 
 dained by the lady Oriana, to do penance on the sterile rock, changing 
 his name to that of Beltenebros—a name most certainly signifi- 
 cant and proper for the life he had voluntarily chosen. Now it is 
 easier for me to imitate him in this than in cleaving giants, behead- 
 ing serpents, slaying dragons, routing armies, shattering fleets, and 
 dissolving enchantments; and, since this place is so well adapted 
 for the purpose, I ought not to neglect the opportunity which is now 
 so commodiously offered to me.” 
 
 ‘What is it your worship really intends to do in so remote a 
 place as this?” demanded Sancho. ‘‘ Have | not told thee?” an- 
 swered Don Quixote, ‘‘ that I design to imitate Amadis, acting here 
 the desperate, raving, and furious lover ; at the same time follow- 
 ing the example of the valiant Don Orlando, when he found some 
 indications that Angelica the Fair had been false to him ; at grief 
 whereof he ran mad, tore up trees by the roots, disturbed the waters 
 of the crystal springs, slew shepherds, destroyed flocks, fired cot- 
 tages, demolished houses, dragged mares along the ground, and 
 committed a hundred thousand other extravagances, worthy of eter- 
 nal record. And although it is not my design to imitate Roldan, 
 or Orlando, or Rotolando (for he is called by all these names), in 
 every point and in all his frantic actions, words, and thoughts, yet 
 I will give as good a sketch as I can of those which I deem most 
 essential. Or I may, perhaps, be content to imitate only Amadis, | 
 who, without committing any mischievous excesses, by tears and 
 lamentations alone attained as much fame as all of them.” ‘It 
 seems to me,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ that the knights who acted in such: 
 
HIS REASONS FOR BEING MAD. 139 
 
 manner were provoked to it, and had a reason for these follies and 
 penances; but pray, what cause has your worship to run mad? 
 What lady has disdained you? or what tokens have you discovered 
 to convince you that the lady Dulcinea del Toboso has been faith- 
 less?” ‘There lies the point,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘and ia 
 this consists the refinement of my plan, A knight-errant who runs 
 mad with just cause deserves no thanks ; but to do so without rea- 
 son is the point; giving my lady to understand what I should per- 
 form in the wet if Ido this in the dry. Besides, I have cause 
 enough given me by so long an absence from my ever-honoured 
 lady Dulcinea del Toboso ; for as thou heardst that shepherd, Am- 
 brosio, say, ‘The absent feel and fear every ill.’ Therefore, friend 
 Sancho, counsel me not to refrain from so rare, so happy, and so 
 unparalleled an imitation. Mad Iam, and mad I must be until thy 
 return with an answer to a letter I intend to send by thee to my 
 lady Dulcinea ; and if it proves such as my fidelity deserves, my 
 madness and my penance will terminate. But if the contrary, I 
 shall be mad indeed; and, being so, shall become insensible to 
 everything ; so that, whatever answer she returns, I shall be re- 
 lieved of the conflict and pain wherein thou leavest me ; forif good, 
 I shall enjoy it in my right senses: if otherwise, I shall be mad, 
 and consequently insensible of my misfortune. 
 
 ** But, tell me, Sancho, hast thou taken care of Mambrino’s hel- 
 met? for I saw thee take it fromthe ground when that ungrateful 
 wretch proved the excellence of its quality, by vainly endeavouring 
 to break it to pieces.” To which Sancho answered, ‘‘ Sir knight 
 of the sorrowful figure, I cannot bear with patience some things 
 your worship says : they are enough to make me think that all you 
 tell me of chivalry, and of winning kingdoms and empires, of be- 
 stowing islands, and doing other favours and mighty things, ac- 
 cording to the custom of knights-errant, must be matter of mere 
 smoke, and all friction or fiction, or how do you callit? For, to 
 hear you say that a barber’s basin is Mambrino’s helmet, and to 
 persist in that error for near about four days, what can one think, 
 but that he who says and affirms such a thing, must be crack- 
 brained? [ have the basin in my wallet, all battered ; and I shall 
 take it home to get it mended, for the use of my beard, if Heaven be 
 so gracious as to restore me one time or other to my wife and 
 children.” ‘‘ Now, I swear by the same oath,” said Don Quixote, 
 ‘that thou hast the shallowest brain that any squire has, or ever 
 had, in the world. Is it possible that, notwithstanding all the time 
 thou hast travelled with me, thou dost not perceive that all affairs 
 in which knights-errant are concerned, appear as chimeras, follies, 
 and extravagances, and seem all done by the rule of contraries? 
 Not that they are in reality so, but because there is a crew of en- 
 chanters always about us, who metamorphose and disguise all our 
 concerns, and turn them according to their own pleasure, or accord- 
 ing as they are inclined to favour or rnin us. Hence it is that the 
 thing which to thee appears a barber’s basin, appears to me the 
 helmet of Mambrino, and to another wiil appear something else ; 
 and it was a singular foresight of the sage, my friend, to make that 
 
140 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 appear to others a basin which really and truly is Mambrino’s hel- 
 met ; because, being of such high value, all the world would persecute 
 me in order to obtain it; but now, thinking it nothing but a bar- 
 ber’s basin, they give themselves no trouble about it, as was evi- 
 ‘dent in him who, after endeavouring to break it, cast it from him, 
 which, in faith, he would never have done had he known what it 
 was. Take care of it, friend; since I must strip off all my armour 
 and remain naked, if I should determine upon imitating Orlando 
 in my penance, instead of Amadis.” 
 
 While they were thus discoursing they arrived at the foot of a 
 high mountain, which stood separated from several cthers that sur- 
 rounded it, as if it had been hewn out from them. Nearits base ran 
 a gentle stream, that watered a verdant and luxuriant vale, 
 adorned with many wide-spreading trees, plants, and wild flowers 
 of various hues. This was the spot in which the knight of the sor- 
 rowful figure chose to perform his penance; and, while contemplat- 
 ing the scene, he thus broke forth in a loud voice, ‘‘ This is the 
 place, O ye heavens! which I select and appoint for bewailing the 
 misfortune in which ye have involved me. This is the spot where 
 my flowing tears shall increase the waters of this crystal stream, 
 and my sighs, continual and deep, shall incessantly move the foli- 
 age of these lofty trees, in testimony and token of the pain my 
 persecuted heart endures. O ye rural deities, whoever ye be, that 
 inhabit these remote deserts, give ear to the complaints of an un- 
 Lappy lover, whom long absence and some pangs of jealousy have 
 driven to bewail himself among these rugged heights, and to com- 
 plain of the cruelty of that ungrateful fair, the utmost extent and 
 ultimate perfection of all human beauty! O ye wood-nymphs and 
 dryads, who are accustomed to inhabit the dark recesses of the 
 mountain groves (so may the nimble satyrs, by whom you are 
 woced in vain, never disturb your sweet repose), assist me to 
 lament my hard fate, or at least be not weary of hearing my groans! 
 O my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, light of my darkness, glory of my 
 pain, the north-star of my travels, and over-ruling planet of my for- 
 tune (so may Heaven listen to all thy petitions), consider, I beseech 
 thee, to what a condition thy absence hath reduced me, and reward 
 me as my fidelity deserves: O ye solitary trees, who henceforth 
 are to be the companions of my retirement, wave gently your 
 branches, to indicate that my presence does not offend you! And, 
 O thou my squire, agreeable companion in my prosperous and ad- 
 verse fortunes, carefully imprint on thy memory what thou shalt 
 see me here perform, that thou mayest recount and recite it to her 
 who is the sole cause of all!” Thus ‘saying, he alighted from 
 Rozinante, and in an instant took off his bridle and saddle, and, 
 clapping him, said to him, ‘‘O steed, as excellent for thy per- 
 formance as unfortunate in thy fate! he gives thee liberty who is 
 himself deprived of it. Go whither thou wilt; for thou hast it 
 written on thy forehead that neither Astolpho’s Hippogriff, nor the 
 famous Frontino, which cost Bradamante so dear, could match thee 
 in speed.” 
 
 Sancho, observing all this, said, ‘‘ Peace be with him who saved 
 
 : 
 
oa 
 HIS MADNESS. 141 
 
 us the trouble of unharnessing Dapple ; for in faith he should have 
 wanted neither slaps nor speeches in his praise. Yet if he were 
 here, 1 would not consent to his being unpannelled, there being no 
 occasion for it, for he had nothing to do with love or despair, any 
 more than I, who was once his master, when it so pleased God. 
 And truly, sir knight of the sorrowful figure, if it be so that iny 
 departure and your madness take place in earnest, it will be well 
 to saddle Rozinante again, that he may supply the loss of my 
 Dapple, and save me time in going and coming; for if I walk, I 
 know not how I shall be able either to go or return, being in truth 
 but a sorry traveller on foot.” ‘‘ Be that as thou wilt,” answered 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘for I do not disapprove thy proposal; and I say 
 thou shalt depart within three days, during which time I intend 
 thee to bear witness of what I do say for her, that thou mayest re- 
 port it accordingly.” ‘‘ What have I more to see,” quoth Sancho, 
 *‘than what I have already seen?” ‘‘ So far, thou art well prepared,” 
 answered Don Quixote; ‘‘ but I have now to rend my garments, 
 scatter my arms about, and dash my head against these rocks ; with 
 other things of the like sort, which will strike thee with admira- 
 tion.” ‘*‘ For the love of Heaven,” said Sancho, ‘‘ beware how you 
 give yourself those blows, for you may chance to touch upon some 
 unlucky point of a rock, that may at once put an end to this new 
 project of penance; and I should think, since your worship is of 
 opinion that knocks of the head are necessary, and that this work 
 cannot be done without them, you might content yourself, since 
 all is a fiction, a counterfeit, and a sham,—I say, you might con- 
 tent yourself with running your head against water, or some soft 
 thing, such as cotton; and leave it to me to tell my lady that you 
 dashed your head against the point of a rock, harder than a 
 diamond.” ‘‘I thank thee for thy good intentions, friend Sancho,” 
 answered Don Quixote; ‘‘ but I would have thee to know, that all 
 these actions of mine are no mockery, but done very much in 
 earnest ; for to act otherwise would be an infraction of the rules of 
 chivalry, which enjoin us to utter no falsehood, on pain of being 
 punished as apostates; and the doing one thing for another is the 
 same as lying: therefore, blows must be real and substantial, 
 without artifice or evasion. However, it will be necessary to 
 leave me some lint for my wounds, since it was the will of fortune 
 that we should lose the balsam.” ‘‘It was worse to lose the ass,” 
 answered Sancho; ‘‘ for with him we lost lint and everything else. 
 And I beseech your worship not to put me in mind of that horrid 
 drench ; for at barely hearing it mentioned, my very soul, as well 
 as my stomach, is turned inside out. As for the three days allowed 
 me for seeing your mad pranks, I beseech you to reckon them as 
 already passed, for I take all for granted, and will tell wonders to 
 my lady. Do you write the letter and despatch me quickly, for I 
 long to come back and release your worship from this purgatory in 
 which I leave you.” ‘Purgatory, dost thou call it, Sancho?” said 
 Don Quixote. ‘Call it rather hell, or worse, if anything can be 
 worse.” ‘*I have heard say,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ ‘ from hell there is 
 no retention.’” ‘I know not,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ what reten- 
 
142 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 tion means.” ‘‘ Retention,” answered Sancho, ‘‘means that he 
 
 who is once in hell never does, nor ever can, get out again. But it 
 will be quite the reverse with your worship, or it shall go hard 
 with my heels, if I have but spurs to enliven Rozinante. Let me 
 but once get to Toboso, and into the presence of my lady Dulcinea, 
 and J will tell her such a story of the foolish, mad things (for they 
 are all no better) which your worship has done, and is still doing, 
 that I shal]l bring her to be as supple as a glove, though I find her 
 harder than a cork-tree; and with her answer, all sweetness and 
 honey, will I return through the air, like a witch, and fetch your 
 worship out of this purgatory, which, though it seems so, is no 
 hell, because, as I said, your worship may hope to get out of it.” 
 
 ‘‘ That is true,” answered the knight of the sorrowful figure— 
 “‘but how shall we contrive to write the letter!” ‘‘ And the ass- 
 colt bill?” added Sancho. ‘‘ Nothing shall be omitted,” said Don 
 Quixote; ‘‘and since we have no paper, we shall do well to write 
 it as the ancients did, on the leaves of trees, or on tablets of wax. 
 though it will be as difficult at present to meet with these as with 
 paper. But, now I recollect, it may be as well, or indeed better, 
 to write it in Cardenio’s pocket-book, and you will take care to 
 get it fairly transcribed upon paper, in the first town you reach 
 where there is a schoolmaster; or, if there be none, any parish- 
 clerk will transcribe it for you: but be sure you give it to no hack- 
 ney-writer of the law; for who is able to read their confounded 
 law-hand?” ‘‘ But what must we do about the signing it with 
 your own hand?” said Sancho. ‘‘ The letters of Amadis were 
 never subscribed,” answered Don Quixote. ‘‘ Very weil,” replied 
 Sancho: ‘‘ but the order for the colts must needs be signed by your- 
 self; for if that be copied, they will say it is a false signature, and 
 I shall be forced to go without the colts.” ‘‘The order shall be 
 signed in the same pocket-book; and at sight of it my niece will 
 make no difficulty in complying with it. As to the love-letter, let 
 it be subscribed thus, ‘ Yours, until death, the Knight of the 
 Sorrowful Figure.’ And it is of little importance whether it be 
 written in another hand; for I remember, Dulcinea can neither 
 write nor read, nor has she ever seen a letter or writing of mine in 
 her whole life; for our loves have always been of the Platonic kind, 
 extending no further than to cast modest glances at each other ; 
 and even those so very rarely that I can truly swear that, during 
 the twelve years that I have loved her more than the light of these 
 eyes, which the earth must one day consume, I have not seen her 
 four times ; and perhaps of these four times she may not have once 
 perceived that I looked upon her—such is the reserve and seclusion 
 in which she is brought up by her father, Lorenzo Corchuelo, and 
 her mother, Aldonza Nogales!” 
 
 ‘‘Hey day!” quoth Sancho, ‘‘what, the daughter of Lorenzo 
 Corchuelo! Is she the lady Dulcinea del T'oboso, otherwise called 
 Aldonza Lorenzo?” ‘‘It is even she,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘and she 
 deserves to be mistress of the universe.” ‘‘I know her well,” 
 quoth Sancho; ‘‘and I can assure you she will pitch the bar with 
 the lustiest swain in the parish. Long live the giver! why she is a 
 
HIS LOVE FOR DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO. 143 
 
 lass of mettle, tall, straight and vigorous, and I warrant can make 
 her part good with any knight-errant that shall have her for a mis- 
 tress. O, the jade, what a pair of lungs and a voice she has! I 
 remember she got out one day upon the bell-tower of the church, 
 to call some young ploughmen who were in a field of her father’s ; 
 and though they were half a league off, they heard her as plainly as 
 if they had stood at the foot of the tower. I say then, sir knight 
 of the sorrowful figure, that you not only may, and ought to, run 
 mad for her, but also you may justly despair and hang yourself ; 
 and nobody that hears it but will say you did extremely well. I 
 would fain be gone, if it is only to see her; for I have not seen her 
 this many a day, and by this time she must needs be altered; for 
 it mightily spoils women’s faces to be always abroad in the field, 
 exposed to the sun and weather. I confess to your worship, Signor 
 Don Quixote, that hitherto I have been hugely mistaken, for I 
 thought for certain that the lady Dulcinea was some great princess, 
 with whom you were in love, or at least some person of such great 
 quality as to deserve the rich presents you have sent her, as well of 
 the Biscainer as of the galley-slaves, and many others, from the 
 victories your worship must have gained before I came to be your 
 squire. But, all things considered, what good can it do the lady 
 Aldonza Lorenzo—I mean the lady Dulcinea del Toboso—to have 
 the vanquished whom your worship sends, or may send, falling 
 upon their knees before her? For perhaps at the time they arrive 
 she may be carding flax, or threshing in the barn, and they may 
 be confounded at the sight of her, and she may laugh and care 
 little for the present.” ‘I have often told thee, Sancho,” said Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘that thou art an eternal babbler, and, though void of 
 wit, thy bluntness often stings. Dulcinea del Toboso deserves as 
 highly as the greatest princess on earth. For of those poets who 
 have celebrated the praises of ladies under fictitious names, many 
 had no such mistresses. Thinkest thou that the Amaryllises, the 
 Phyllises, the Silvias, the Dianas, the Galateas, the Alidas, and 
 the like, famous in books, ballads, barber’s shops, and stage plays, 
 were really ladies of flesh and blood, and beloved by those who 
 celebrated them? Certainly not; they are mostly feigned, to 
 supply subjects for verse, and to make the authors pass for men of 
 gallantry. It is, therefore, sufficient that I think and believe that 
 the good Aldonza Lorenzo is beautiful and chaste; and as to her 
 lineage, it matters not; for no inquiry concerning it is requisite; 
 and to me it is unnecessary, as I regard her as the greatest princess 
 in the world. For thou must know, Sancho, if thou knowest it 
 not already, that two things, above all others, incite to love, 
 namely beauty, and a good name. Now both these are to be found 
 in perfection in Dulcinea ; for in beauty none can be compared to 
 her, and for purity of reputation few can equal her. In fine, I con- 
 ceive she is exactly what I have described, and everything that I 
 can desire, both as to beauty and quality, unequalled by Helen, or 
 by Lucretia, or any other of the famous women of antiquity, whether 
 
 ‘Grecian, Roman, or Goth; and I care not what be said; since, if, 
 
 upon this account, Iam blamed by the ignorant, I shall be acquitted 
 
= 
 
 144 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 by the wise.” ‘‘ Your worship,” replied Sancho, ‘‘is always in the 
 right, and J am an ass—why do I mention an ass?—one should not 
 talk of halters in the house of the hanged. But i am off—give me 
 the letter, sir, and God be with you.” 
 
 Resting on a large stone, Don Quixote took out the pocket-book, 
 and began with much composure to write the letter; and having 
 finished, he told Sancho he would read it to him, that he might 
 have it by heart, least he might perchance lose it by the way; for 
 everything was to be feared from his evil destiny. To which 
 Sancho answered, ‘‘ Write it, sir, two or three times in the book, 
 and give it me, and I will take good care of it; but to suppose that 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 I can carry it in my memory, is a folly; for mine is so bad that I 
 often forget my own name. Your worship, however, may read it 
 to me, I shall be glad to hear it, for it must needs be very much to 
 the purpose.” ‘‘ Listen, then,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘this is what I 
 have written :— : 
 
 ** Don Quixote’s letter to Dulcinea del Toboso. 
 
 ‘High and sovereign lady, | 
 ‘He who is stabbed by the point of absence, and pierced by 
 
 the arrows of love, O sweetest Dulcinea del Toboso, greets thee 
 
 with wishes for that health which he enjoys not himself, If thy 
 beauty despise me, if thy worth favour me not, and if thy disdain 
 
 -@ 
 
Le 
 
 HIS LETTER TO DULCINEA DEL TOROSO. 145 
 
 still pursue me, although inured to suffering, I shall ill support an 
 affliction which is not only severe but lasting. My good squire, 
 Sancho, will tell thee, O ungrateful fair, and most beloved foe, *o 
 what a state I am reduced on thy account. If it be thy pleasun 
 relieve me, I am thine; if not, do what seemeth good to thee; 
 
 by my death I shall at once appease thy cruelty and my own pai 
 sion.—Until death thine, 
 
 ‘THE KNIGHT OF THE SORROWFUL FIGURE.” 
 
 **By the life of my father,” quoth Sancho, after hearing the 
 letter, ‘“‘it is the finest thing I ever heard. Odds boddikins! how 
 choicely your worship expresses whatever you please! and how well 
 you close all with ‘the knight of the sorrowful figure!’ Verily 
 your worship, there is nothing but what you know.” ‘‘The pro- 
 fession which I have embraced,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ requires 
 a knowledge of everything.” ‘‘ Well, then,” said Sancho, ‘‘ pray 
 clap on the other side of the leaf, the order for the three ass-colts, 
 and sign it very plain, that people may know your hand at first 
 sight.” ‘* With all my heart,” said the knight ; and having writ- 
 ten it, he read as follows :— 
 
 “Dear Niece,—At sight of this, my first bill of ass-colts. give 
 order that three out of the five I left at home in your custody, be 
 delivered to Sancho Panza, my squire; which three colts I order to 
 be delivered and paid for the like number received of him here in 
 tale ; and this, with his acquittance, shall be your discharge. Done 
 in the heart of the Sierra Morena, the twenty-second of August, 
 this present year u 
 
 
 
 **It is mighty well,” said Sancho ; ‘‘now you have only to sign 
 it.” ‘It wants no signing,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘I need only put 
 my cipher to it, which is the same thing, and is sufficient not only 
 for three but for three hundred asses.” ‘‘I rely upon your worship,” 
 answered Sancho; ‘‘let me go and saddle Rozinante, and prepare to 
 give me your blessing, for I intend to depart immediately, without 
 staying to see the mad frolics you are about to commit; and I will 
 tell quite enough to satisfy her.” ‘‘ At least, Sancho,” said Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘I wish, nay, it is necessary, and I will have thee see me 
 naked, and perform a dozen or two frantic actions; for I shall des- 
 patch them in less than half-an-hour ; and having seen these with 
 thine own eyes, thou mayest safely swear to those thou shalt add ; 
 for be assured thou wilt not relate so many as [ intend to perform.” 
 **For the love of Heaven, dear sir,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘let me not 
 see your worship naked ; for it will move my pity so much that I 
 shall not be able to forbear weeping; and my head is so bad, after 
 the tears I shed last night for the loss of poor Dapple, that I am in 
 no condition at present to begin new lamentations. So, if your 
 worship will have me an eye-witness to any of your antics, pray do 
 them clothed, and with all speed, and let them be such as will stand 
 you in most stead; though, indeed, there is no need of them—as I 
 said before, it is only delaying my return, with the news your wor- 
 
 K 
 
it 
 
 he 
 146 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. a 
 
 n 
 
 ship so much desires and deserves. So let the lady Dulcinea look 
 to it; for if she does not answer as she should do, I solemnly pro- 
 test I will fetch it out of her stomach by dint of kicks and butfets 
 —for it is a shame that so famous a knight-errant as your worship 
 should run mad, without why or wherefore. I am pretty good at 
 this sport ; she does not know me; if she did, in faith, we should 
 be of one mind.” ‘‘In troth, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ to all 
 appearance thou art mad as myself.” ‘‘ Not so,” answered Sancho, 
 “only a little more choleric. But setting that aside, what has 
 
 ate 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 He cut a couple of capers in the air. 
 
 your worship to eat until my return? Are you to go upon the high- 
 way, to rob the shepherds, like Cardenio?” ‘‘Trouble not thyself 
 about that,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘ for were I otherwise pro-— 
 vided I should eat nothing but the herbs and fruits which here grow 
 wild ; for abstinence and other austerities are essential in this 
 affair.” ‘‘Now I think of it, sir,” said Sancho, ‘‘how shall I be 
 able to find my way back again to this bye-place?” ‘‘ Observe and 
 mark well the spot, and I will endeavour to remain near it ;” said. 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘and will, moreover, ascend some of the highest 
 
 . 
 
ra 
 = 
 x SANCHO SETS OUT ON HIS JOURNEY. 147 
 
 ridges to discover thee upon thy return. But the surest way not to 
 miss me, or lose thyself, will be to cut’ down some of the broom 
 that abounds here, and scatter it here and there, on the way to 
 the plain, to serve as marks and tokens to guide thee on thy re- 
 turn, in imitation of Theseus’ clue to the labyrinth.” 
 
 Sancho Panza followed his counsel; and having provided himself 
 with branches, he begged his master’s blessing, and, not without 
 many tears on both sides, took his leave of him; and mounting 
 upon Rozinante, with especial charge from Don Quixote to regard 
 him as he would his own proper person, he rode towards the plain, 
 strewing the boughs at intervals, as his master directed him. Thus 
 he departed, although Don Quixote still importuned him to stay 
 and see him perform, if it were but a couple of his gambols. He 
 had not gone above a hundred paces when he turned back and said, 
 ** Your worship, sir, said right that, to enable me to swear with a 
 safe conscience, it would be proper I should at least see one of your 
 mad tricks ; though, in plain truth, I have seen enough in seeing 
 you stay here.” ‘‘ Did I not tell thee so?” quoth Don Quixote ; 
 **stay but a moment, Sancho—I will despatch them as quickly as 
 you can say a Credo.” Then stripping off his clothes in all haste, 
 without more ado he cut a couple of capers in the air, and as many” 
 tumbles heels over head. Sancho turned Rozinante about, fully 
 satisfied that he might swear his master was stark mad ; we will 
 therefore leave him pursuing his journey until his return, which 
 was speedy. 
 
 C. HRA PA ER XAXeVT. 
 
 A continuation of the refinements practised by Don Quixote, as a 
 lover, in the Sierra Morena. 
 
 The history then recounting what the knight of the sorrowful 
 figure did when he found himself alone, informs us that, having 
 finished his gambols, half-naked, and perceiving that Sancho was 
 gone, without caring to be witness of any more of his pranks, he 
 mounted the top of a high rock, and there began to deliberate on a 
 subject that he had often considered before, without coming to any 
 resolution; and that was, which of the two was the best and most 
 proper model for his imitation, Orlando in his furious fits, or 
 
 _ Amadis in his melancholy moods ; and thus he argued with him- 
 
 i 
 | 
 } 
 l 
 
 _ self :—If Orlando was as good and valiant a knight as he is univer- 
 
 sally allowed to have been, where is the wonder? since, in fact, he 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 _ was enchanted, and could only be slain by having a needle thrust 
 into the sole of his foot; and therefore he always wore shoes with 
 | seven soles of iron. This contrivance, however, availed him no- 
 
 _ thing against Bernardo del Carpio, who knew the secret, and pressed 
 him to death between his arms in Roncesvalles. But setting aside 
 his valour, let us consider his madness, which was certainly occa- 
 
 
 
 
 
 _sioned by the discovery he nade at the fountain, and by the intel- 
 
 i 
 e 4 
 
148 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. A 
 
 ligence given him by the shepherd that Angelica had proved faith- 
 less. Andif he knew this, it was no wonder that he ran mad. But 
 how can I imitite him in his phrenzy without doing my Dulcinea a 
 wrong, and without a similar cause? 1 should be seized with the 
 same species of phrenzy as that of Orlando Furioso. On the other 
 side, I see that Amadis de Gaul, without losing his senses, or 
 having any raving fits, acquired a reputation equally high as a 
 lover, since, finding himself disdained by the lady Oriana, who 
 commanded him not to appéar in her presence until 1t was her 
 pleasure, he only retired to the sterile rock, accompanied by a her- 
 mit, and there wept abundantly until Heaven succoured him in 
 his great tribulation. Now this being the case, why should I take 
 the pains to strip myself naked, or molest these trees that never 
 did me harm? Or wherefore should I disturb the water of these 
 crystal streams, which are to furnish me with drink when I want 
 it? All honour, then, to the memory of Amadis! and let him be 
 the model of Don Quixote de la Mancha, of whom shall be said, 
 what was said of another, that, if he did not achieve great things, 
 he at least died in attempting them; and though neither rejected 
 nor disdained by my Dulcinea, it is sufficient that I am absent 
 from her. Now then to the work. Come to my memory, ye deeds 
 of Amadis, and instruct me where to begin the task of imitation! It 
 now occurs to me that he prayed much—that will I also do.” Where- 
 upon he strung some large galls of a cork-tree, which served him 
 for a rosary; but he regretted exceedingly that there was no her- 
 mit to hear his confession, and administer consolation to him. He 
 thus passed the time, walking about and writing, and graving on 
 the barks of trees, or tracing in the fine sand, many verses of a 
 plaintive kind, or in praise of his Dulcinea. Among those disco- 
 vered afterwards. only the following were entire and legible.:— 
 
 Ye lofty trees with spreading arms, 
 The pride and shelter of the plain; 
 Ye bumbler shrubs and flow’ry charms, 
 Which here in springing glory reign! 
 If my complaints may pity move, 
 Hear the-gad story of my love, 
 While‘With me here you pass your hours, 
 Should you grow faded with my cares, 
 I'll bribe you with refreshing showers ; 
 You shall be watered with my tears. 
 Distant, though present in idea, . 
 I mourn my absent Dulcinea 
 Del Toboso. 
 
 Love’s truest slave, despairing, chose 
 
 This lonely wild, this desert plain, 
 This silent witness of the woes 
 
 Which he, though guiltless, must sustain 
 Unknowing why these pains he bears, 
 He groans, he raves, and he despairs. 
 
 With ling’ring fires love racks my soul: 
 In vaiu I grieve, in vain lament; 
 
HIS AMOROUS PLAINT. 149 
 
 Like tortur’d fiends { weep, I how, 
 And burn, yet never can repent. 
 Distant, though present in idea, 
 I mourn my absent Dulcinea 
 Del Toboso 
 
 While I through honour’s thorny ways, 
 
 In search of distant glory rove, 
 Malignant fate my toil repays 
 
 With endless woes and hopeless love. 
 Thus I on barren rocks despair, 
 And curse my stars, yet bless my fair 
 
 Love, arm’d with snakes, has left his dart, 
 And now does like a fury rave; 
 
 And scourge and sting on every part, 
 And into madness lash his slave 
 
 Distant, though present in idea, 
 
 I mourn my absent Dulcinea 
 
 Del Toboso. 
 
 The whimsical addition at the end of each stanza occasioned no | 
 small amusement to those who found the verses ; for they concluded 
 that Don Quixote had thought that, unless to the name of ‘‘ Dul- 
 cinea ” be added ‘‘ Del Toboso,” the object of his praise would not 
 be known—and they were right, as he afterwards confessed. He 
 wrote many others, but only these three stanzas could be clearly 
 made out. In such tender and melancholy occupations, sighing, or 
 invoking the sylvan deities, the nymphs of the mountain streams, 
 and the mournful echo, to listen and answer to his moan, he passed 
 his time; and sometimes in gathering herbs to sustain himself 
 until Sancho’s return; who, if he had tarried three weeks instead 
 of three days, ‘‘the knight of the sorrowful figure” would have 
 been so disfigured that he would not have been recognised by his 
 own mother. Here, however, it would be proper to leave him, 
 wrapped up in poetry and grief, to relate what happened to the 
 squire during his embassy. 
 
 As soon as Sancho had gained the high-road, he directed his 
 course immediately to Toboso, and the next day he came within 
 sight of the inn where the misfortune of the blanket had befallen 
 him, and, fancying himself again flying in the air, he felt no dis- 
 pe to enter it, although it was then the hour of dinner, and 
 
 e longed for something warm—all having been cold-treat with 
 him for many days past. This inclination, nevertheless, drew him 
 forcibly towards the inn; and, as he stood doubtful whether or not 
 to enter, two persons came out, who immediately recognised him. 
 ‘**Pray, signor licentiate,” said one to the other, ‘‘is not that 
 Sancho Panza yonder on horseback, who, as our friend’s house- 
 keeper told us, accompanied her master as his squire?” ‘“‘ Truly 
 it is,” said the licentiate; ‘‘and that is our Don Quixote’s horse.” 
 No wonder they knew him so well, for they were the priest and 
 barber of his village, and the very persons who had tried and 
 passed sentence of execution on the mischievous books. Being 
 how certain it was Sancho Panza and Rozinante, and hoping to 
 
 y 
 
 Py 
 
150 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 hear some tidings of Don Quixote, the priest went up to him, and, 
 calling him by his name, ‘‘ Friend Sancho Panza,” said he, ‘‘ where 
 have you left your master?” Sancho immediately knew them, and 
 resolved to conceal the circumstances and place of Don Quixote’s 
 retreat; he therefore told them that his master was very busy in 
 a certain place, about a certain affair of the greatest importance to 
 himself, which he durst not discover for the eyes in his head. ‘‘ No, 
 no, Sancho,” quoth the barber, ‘‘ that story will not pass. If you 
 do not tell us where he is, we shall conclude, as we suspect already, 
 that you have murdered and robbed him, since you come thus upon 
 his horse. See, then, that you produce the owner of that horse, or 
 woe be to you!” ‘‘ There is no reason why you should threaten 
 me,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘for 1am not a man to rob or murder any- 
 body. Let every man’s fate kill him, or God who made him. My 
 master is doing a certain penance much to his liking in the midst 
 of yon mountains.” He then, very freely and without hesitation, 
 related to them in what state he had left him, the adventures that 
 had befallen them, and how he was then carrying a letter to the 
 lady Dulcinea del Toboso—the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo, with 
 whom his master was up to the ears in love. 
 
 They were both astonished at Sancho’s report ; and, though they 
 already knew the nature of Don Quixote’s derangement, yet every 
 fresh instance of it was to them anew source of wonder. They 
 begged Sancho Panza to show them the letter he was carrying to 
 the lady Dulcixea del Toboso. He said it was written in a pocket« 
 book, and that his master had ordered him to get it copied out 
 upon paper at the first town he should arrive at. The priest said, 
 if he would show it to him, he would transcribe it in a very fair 
 character. Sancho Panza put his hand into his bosom to take out 
 the book, but found it not; nor could he have found it had he 
 searched until this time; for it remained with Don Quixote, who 
 had forgotten to give it to him. When Sancho found he had no 
 book, he tuined as pale as death; and, having felt again all over 
 his body in great perturbation, without success, he laid hold of his 
 beard with both hands, and tore away half of it; and then gave 
 himself sundry cufis on the nose and mouth, bathing them all in 
 blood. The priest and barber seeing this, asked him wherefore he 
 treated himself so roughly. ‘‘ Wherefore?” answered Sancho, 
 ‘‘but that I have let shp through my fingers three ass-colts, each 
 of them a castle!” ‘*‘How so?” replied the barber. ‘‘I have lost 
 the pocket-book,” answered Sancho, ‘‘ that contained the letter to 
 Dulcinea, and a bill signed by my master, in which he ordered his 
 niece to deliver to me three colts out of four or five he had at home.” 
 This led him to mention his loss of Dapple; but the priest bid him 
 be of good cheer, telling him that, when he saw his master, he 
 would engage him to renew the order upon paper in a regular way ; 
 for one written in a pocket-book would not be accepted. Sancho 
 was comforted by this assurance, and said that he did not care for | 
 the loss of the letter to Dulcinea, as he could almost say it by 
 heart; so that they might write it down where and when they 
 pleased. ‘‘ Repeat it, then, Sancho,” quoth the barber, ‘‘and we. 
 
SANCHO PANZA’S EXCELLENT MEMORY. 151 
 
 ae 
 will write it afterwards.”” Sancho then began to scratch his head, 
 in order to fetch the letter to his remembrance; now he stood upon 
 one foot, and then upon the other ; sometimes he looked down upon 
 the ground, and sometimes up to the sky: then, after biting off 
 half a nail of one finger, and keeping his hearers long in expectation, 
 he said, ‘‘ At the beginning I believe it said, ‘ High and subterrane 
 lady.’” ‘*No,” said the barber, ‘‘not subterrane, but super- 
 humane, or sovereign lady.” ‘‘Aye, so it was,” said Sancho. 
 “Then, if I donot mistake, it went on, ‘the stabbed, and the 
 waking, and the pierced, kisses your honour’s hands, ungrateful 
 and most regardless fair;’ and then it said I know not what of 
 ‘health and sickness that he sent;’ and so he went on, until at 
 last he ended with ‘thine till death, the knight of the sorrowful 
 figure.’ ”’ 
 
 They were both not a little diverted at Sancho’s excellent 
 memory, and commended it much, desiring him to repeat the letter 
 twice more, that they also might get it by heart, in order to write it 
 down in due time, ‘Thrice Sancho repeated it, and thrice he added 
 three thousand other extravagances; relating to them also many 
 other things concerning his master, but not a word of the blanket. ~ 
 He informed them, likewise, how his lord, upon his return with a 
 kind despatch from his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, was to set about 
 endeavouring to become an emperor, or at least a king (for so it was 
 concerted between them)—a thing that would be very easily done, 
 considering the valour and strength of his arm ; and when this wasac- 
 complished, his master was to marry him (as by that time he should, 
 no doubt, be a widower), and give him to wife one of the empress’s 
 maids of honour, heiress to a large and rich territory on the main- 
 land; for, as to islands, he was quite out of conceit with them. 
 Sancho said all this with so much gravity, ever and anon wiping 
 his nose, that they were amazed at the potency of Don Quixote’s 
 malady, which had borne along with it the senses also of this 
 poor fellow. They would not give themselves the trouble to con- 
 vince him of his folly, as it was of a harmless nature, and afforded 
 them amusement; they therefore told him he should pray for his 
 lord’s health, since it was very possible and very practicable for him, 
 in process of time, to become an emperor, as he said, or at least an 
 archbishop, or something else of equal dignity. To which Sancho 
 answered, ‘‘Gentlemen, if fortune should so order it that my mas- 
 ter should take it into his head not to be an emperor, but an arch- 
 bishop, I would fain know what archbishops-errant usually give to 
 their squires?” ‘‘They usually give them,” answered the priest, 
 “some benefice or cure, or vergership, which brings them in a good 
 penny-rent; besides the perquisites of the altar, usually valued at 
 as much more.” ‘‘ For this it will be necessary,” replied Sancho, 
 “that the squire be unmarried, and that he know, at least, the 
 responses to the mass; and if so, woe is me; for I am married, and 
 do not know my A BC. What will become of me, if my master 
 should have a mind to be an archbishop, and not an emperor, like 
 other knights-errant?” ‘‘ Be not uneasy, friend Sancho,” said the 
 barber, ‘‘for we will admonish and entreat your master, even to 
 
152 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 make it a case of conscience, to become an emperor and not an arch- 
 bishop—indeed, it will suit him better, as he is more of a soldier 
 than a scholar.” ‘‘So I think,” answered Sancho, ‘‘ though I can 
 affirm that he has a head-piece for everything ; but for my part, I will 
 pray Heaven to direct him to that which is best for him, and will 
 enable him to do the most for me.” ‘‘ You talk like a wise man,” 
 said the priest, ‘‘ and a good Christian ; but we must now contrive to 
 relieve your master from this unprofitable penance; and, therefore, 
 let us go in to concert proper measures, and also to get our dinner, 
 which by this time is ready.” Sancho said they might go in, 
 but that he should choose to stay without—he would tell them why 
 another time; he begged them, however, to bring him out some- 
 thing warm to eat, and also some barley for Rozinante. Accord- 
 ingly they left him and entered the inn, and soon after the barber 
 returned to him with some food. 
 
 The curate and barber having deliberated together on the best 
 means of accomplishing their purpose, a device occurred to the 
 priest, exactly fitted to Don Quixote’s humour, and likely to affect 
 what they desired ; which was, that he should perform himself the 
 part of a damsel-errant, and the barber equip himself as her squire ; 
 in which disguise they should repair to Don Quixote ; and the curate 
 presenting himself as an afflicted and distressed lady, should beg a 
 boon of him, which he, as a valorous knight-errant, could not 
 do otherwise than grant ; and this should be a request that he would 
 accompany her whither she should lead him, to redress an injury 
 done her by a discourteous knight; entreating him, at the same 
 time, not to desire her to remove her mask, nor make any further 
 inquiries concerning her, until he had done her justice on that wicked 
 knight. He made no doubt but that Don Quixote would consent 
 to any such terms, and they might thus get him away from that 
 place, and carry him home, where they would endeavour to find 
 some remedy for his extraordinary malady. 
 
 OF ic i.) nad MD x 1 
 
 How the priest and the barber put their design into execution, with 
 other matters worthy to be recited in this history. 
 
 The barber liked the priest’s contrivance so well that they im- 
 mediately began to carry it into execution. They borrowed a petti- 
 coat and head-dress from the landlady, leaving in pawn for them a 
 new cassock belonging to the priest ; and the barber made himself 
 a huge beard of the tail of a pied ox, in which the innkeeper used 
 to hang his comb. The hostess having asked them for what pur- 
 pose they wanted those things, the priest gave her a brief account 
 of Don Quixote’s insanity, and the necessity of that disguise to draw 
 him from his present retreat. The host and hostess immediately 
 conjectured that this was the same person who had once been their 
 guest, the maker of the balsam, and the master of the blanketed 
 
THE PRIEST'S STRATAGEM. 158 
 
 squire ; and they related to the priest what had passed between them, 
 without omitting what Sancho had been so careful to conceal. In 
 the meantime, the landlady equipped the priest to admiration ; she 
 put on hima cloth petticoat, laid thick with stripes of black velvet, 
 each the breadth of a span, all pinked and slashed; and a corset of 
 green velvet, bordered with white satin, which, together with the pet- 
 ticoat, must have been made in the days of King Bamba. The priest 
 would not consent to wear a woman’s head-dress, but put on a little 
 white quilted cap, which he used as a nightcap, and bound one of 
 his garters of black taffeta about his head, and with the other made 
 a kind of veil, which covered his face and beard very well. He 
 then pulled his hat over his face, which was so large that it served 
 him for an umbrella, and wrapping his cloak around him, he got 
 upon his mule sideways, hke a woman. The barber mounted also, 
 with a beard that reached to his girdle, of a colour between sorrel 
 and white, being, as before said, made of the tail of a pied ox. 
 They took leave of all, not excepting the good Maritornes, who pro- 
 mised, though a sinner, to pray over an entire rosary that Heaven 
 might give them good success in so arduous and Christian a busi- 
 ness as that which they had undertaken. 
 
 But scarcely had they got out of the inn, when the curate began 
 to think he had done amiss, and that it was indecent for a priest to 
 be so accoutred, although for so good a purpose; and acquainting 
 the barber with his scruples, he begged him to exchange apparel, as 
 it would better become him to personate the distressed damsel, and 
 he would himself act the squire, as being a less profanation of his 
 dignity; and if he would not consent, he was determined to pro- 
 ceed no farther. They were now joined by Sancho, who was highly 
 diverted at their appearance. The barber consented to the proposed 
 exchange; upon which the priest began to instruct him how to 
 act his part, and what expressions to use to Don Quixote, in 
 order to prevail upon him to accompany them, and leave the place 
 of his penance. ‘The barber assured him, that without his instruc- 
 tions, he would undertake to manage that point toa tittle. The 
 dress, however, he would not put on, until they came near to the 
 place of Don Quixote’s retreat. The priest then adjusted his beard, 
 and they proceeded forward, guided by Sancho Panza, who, on the 
 way, related to them their adventure with the madman whom they 
 had encountered in the mountain; but said not a word about the 
 portmanteau and its contents; for with all his folly and simplicity, 
 the rogue was somewhat covetous. 
 
 The next day they arrived at the place where Sancho had strewed 
 the branches to ascertain the place where he had left his master ; 
 and, upon seeing them, he gave notice that they had entered the 
 mountain pass, and would therefore do well to put on their disguise, 
 if that had any concern with the delivery of his master. They 
 had before told him that their disguise was of the utmost im- 
 eee towards disengaging his master from the miserable life he 
 
 ad chosen; and that he must by no means tell him who they 
 were; and if he should inquire, as no doubt he would, whether he 
 had delivered the letter to his Dulcinea, he should say he had; and 
 
154 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 that she, not being able to read or write, had answered by word of 
 mouth, and commanded the knight, on pain of her displeasure, to 
 repair to her immediately, upon an affair of much importance: for, 
 with this, and what they intended to say themselves, they should 
 certainly reconcile him to a better mode of life, and put him in the 
 way of soon becoming an emperor, or a king; as to an archbishop, 
 he had nothing to fear on that subject. Sancho listened to all 
 this, and imprinted it well on his memory, and gave them many 
 thanks for promising to advise his lord to be an emperor, and not 
 an archbishop; for he was persuaded that, in rewarding their 
 squires, emperors could do more than archbishops-errant. He told 
 them also it would be proper he should go before, to find him, and 
 deliver his lady’s answer: for, perhaps, that alone would be suffi- 
 cient to bring him out of that place, without further trouble. 
 They agreed with Sancho, and determined to wait for his return 
 with intelligence of his master. Sancho entered the mountain pass, 
 and left them in a pleasant spot, refreshed by a streamlet of clear 
 water, and shaded by rocks and overhanging foliage. 
 
 It was in the month of August, when in those parts the heats are 
 violent, and about three o’clock in the afternoon; on which ac- 
 count they found the situation very agreeable, and consented the 
 more readily to wait there till Sancho’s return. While they were 
 reposing in the shade, a voice reached their ears, which, although 
 unaccompanied by any instrument, sounded sweet and melodious. 
 They were much surprised, since that was not a place where they 
 might expect to hear fine singing ; for, although it is common to 
 tell of shepherds with melodious voices, warbling over hills and 
 dales, yet this is rather poetical fancy than plain truth. Besides, 
 the verses they heard were not those of a rustic muse, but of re- 
 fined and courtly invention, as will appear by the following stan- 
 ZaS -— 
 
 What causes all my grief and pain? 
 Cruel disdain. 
 
 What aggravates my misery ? 
 Accursed jealousy. 
 
 How has my soul its patience lost? 
 By tedious absence cross’d, 
 
 Alas! no balsam can be found 
 
 To heal the grief of such a wound. 
 
 When absence, jealousy, and scorn, 
 
 Have left me hopeless and forlorn. 
 
 ‘ 
 
 What in my breast this grief could move # 
 Neglected love. 
 
 What doth my fond desires withstand? 
 Fate’s cruel hand. 
 
 And what confirms my misery ? 
 Heaven’s fixed decree. 
 
 Ah, me! my boding fears portend 
 
 This strange disease my life will end: 
 
 For die I must, when three such foes, 
 
 Heav’n, fate, and love, my bliss oppose. 
 
THE BARBER AND PRIEST MEET CARDENIO. 155 
 
 My peace of mind what can restore ? 
 Death’s welcome hour. 
 
 What gains love’s joys most readily ? 
 Fickle inconstancy. 
 
 Its pains what medicine can assuage? 
 Wild phrenzy’s rage. 
 
 ’ Tis therefore little wisdom, sure, 
 
 For such a grief to seek a cure, 
 
 That knows no better remedy 
 
 Than phrenzy, death, inconstancy 
 
 The hour, the season, the solitude, the voice, and the skill of the 
 singer, all conspired to impress the auditors with wonder and de- 
 light, and they remained for some time motionless, in expectation of 
 hearing more; but finding the silence continue, they resolved to 
 see who it was who had sung so agreeably; and were again de- 
 tained by the same voice, regaling their ears with this sonnet :— 
 
 Friendship. thou hast with nimble flight 
 Exulting gain’d th’ empyreal height, 
 
 In heay’n to dwell, whilst here below 
 Thy semblance reigns in mimic show: 
 From thence to earth, at thy behest, 
 Descends fair peace, celestial guest, 
 Beneath whose veil of shining hue 
 Deceit oft lurks, concealed from view. 
 
 Leave friendship, leave thy heavenly seat, 
 Or strip thy livery off the cheat. 
 
 If still he wears thy borrowed smiles, 
 And still unwary truth beguiles, 
 
 Soon must this dark terrestrial ball 
 
 Into its first confusion fall. 
 
 The song ended with a deep sigh, and they again listenea very 
 attentively, in hopes of hearing more; but the music being changed 
 into sobs and lamentations, they went in search of the unhappy 
 person whose voice was no less excellent than his complaints were 
 mournful. They had not gone far, when, turning the point of a 
 rock, they perceived a man of the same stature and appearance that 
 Sancho had described Cardenio to them. The man expressed no 
 surprise at the sight of them, buté stood still, inclining his head 
 upon his breast, in a pensive posture, without again raising his eyes 
 from the ground. The priest, who was a well-spoken man, being 
 already acquainted with his misfortune, went up to him, and in 
 few but very impressive words, entreated him to forsake that miser- 
 able kind of life, and not hazard so great a misfortune as to lose it 
 in that inhospitable place. Cardenio was then perfectly tranquil, 
 and free from those outrageous fits with which he was so often 
 seized; he likewise appeared to be sensible that the persons who 
 now accosted him were unlike the inhabitants of those mountains ; 
 he was still more surprised to hear them speak of his concerns, and 
 he replied, ‘‘It is very evident to me, gentlemen, whoever you 
 
156 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 are, that Heaven, which succours the good, and often even the 
 wicked, unworthy as I am, sends to me in this solitude, so remote 
 from the commerce of human kind, persons who, representing to 
 me by various and forcible arguments how irrational is my mode of 
 life, endeavour to divert me from it; but not knowing as I do that 
 by flying from this misery I shall be plunged into worse, they 
 doubtless take me for a fool or madman; and no wonder, for I am 
 myself aware that, so intense and so overwhelming is the sense of 
 my misery, I sometimes become like a stone, void of all knowledge 
 and sensation. I know this to be true, by the traces I leave of my 
 frenzy ; but I can only lament in vain, curse my fortune, and seek 
 an excuse for my extravagance, by imparting the cause to all who 
 will listen to me, since none who are acquainted with my situation 
 could fail to pardon my conduct, and compassionate my sufferings. 
 And, gentlemen, if you come with the same intention that others 
 have done, before you proceed any further in your prudent counsel, 
 I beseech you to hear my sad story; for then you will probably 
 spare yourselves the trouble of endeavouring to find consolation for 
 an evil which has no remedy.” 
 
 The two friends being desirous of hearing his own account of 
 himself, entreated him to indulge them, assuring him they would 
 do nothing but what was agreeable to him, either in the way of 
 remedy or advice. The unhappy young man began his melancholy 
 story almost in the same words in which he had related it to Don 
 Quixote and the goatherd some few days before, when, on account 
 of Master Elisabat and Don Quixote’s zeal in defending the honour 
 of knight-errantry, the tale was abruptly suspended; but Cardenio’s 
 sane interval now enabled him to conclude it quietly. On coming 
 to the circumstance of the love-letter, which Don Fernando found 
 between the leaves of the book of Amadis de Gaul, he said he 
 remembered it perfectly well, and that it was as follows :— 
 
 “¢* Hach day I discover in you qualities which raise you in my 
 esteem; and, therefore, if you would put it in my power to dis- 
 charge my obligations to you, without prejudice to my honour, you 
 may easily do it. I have a father who knows you, and has an 
 affection for me; who will never force my inclinations, and will 
 comply with whatever you can justly desire, if you really have that 
 value for me which you profess, and which I trust you have.’ 
 
 “This letter made me resolve to demand Lucinda in marriage, as 
 I have already related, and was one of those which pleased Don 
 Fernando so much. It was this letter also, which made him 
 determine upon my ruin before my design could be effected. I told 
 Don Fernando that Lucinda’s father expected that the proposal 
 should come from mine, but that I durst not mention it to him, 
 lest he should refuse his consent; not that he was ignorant of 
 Lucinda’s exalted merits, which might ennoble any family of Spain, 
 but because I had understood from him that he was desirous I 
 should not marry until it should be seen what Duke Ricardo would 
 do forme. In short, I told him that I had not courage to speak to 
 my father about it, being full of vague apprehensions and sad 
 
CARDENIO’S STORY. 157 
 
 forebodings. In reply to all this, Don Fernando engaged to induce 
 my father to propose me to the father of Lucinda——O ambitious 
 Marius! cruel Catiline! wicked Scylla! crafty Galalon! perfidious 
 Vellido! vindictive Julian! Oh, covetous Judas! Cruel, wicked, 
 and crafty traitor! what injury had been done thee by a poor 
 wretch who so frankly disclosed to thee the secrets of his heart? 
 Wherein had I offended thee? Have I not ever sought the 
 advancement of thy interest and honour? But why do I complain 
 —miserable wretch that [am! For, when the stars are adverse, 
 what is human power! Who could have thought that Don Fer- 
 nando, noble and generous, obliged by my services, and secure of 
 success wherever his inclinations led him, should take such cruel 
 pains to deprive me of my single ewe-lamb! But no more of these 
 unavailing reflections ; I will now resume the broken thread of my 
 sad story. 
 
 ‘Don Fernando, thinking my presence an obstacle to the 
 execution of his treacherous design, resolved to send me to his 
 elder brother for money to pay for six horses which he bought, 
 merely for a pretence to get me out of the way, that he might the 
 more conveniently execute his diabolical purpose. Could I foresee 
 such treachery? Could I even suspect 1t? Surely not; on the 
 contrary, well satisfied with his purchase, I cheerfully consented 
 to depart immediately. That night I had an interview with 
 Lucinda, and told her* what had been agreed upon between Don 
 Fernando and myself, assuring her of my hopes of a successful 
 result. She, equally unsuspicious of Don Fernando, desired me to 
 return speedily, since she believed the completion of our wishes 
 was only deferred until proposals should be made to her father by 
 mine. J know not whence it was, but as she spoke, her eyes 
 filled with tears, and some sudden obstruction in her throat 
 prevented her articulating another word. I was surprised at her 
 unusual emotion, for we generally conversed together with pleasure, 
 unalloyed by tears, sighs, jealousy, suspicion, or alarms—lI, 
 expatiating upon my good fortune in possessing such a mistress ; 
 and she, kindly commending in me what she thought worthy of 
 commendation. We amused each other also by the little concerns 
 of our neighbours and acquaintances; and my presumption never 
 extended further than to seize, by force, one of her snowy hands, 
 and press it to my lips as well as the narrowness of the iron gate 
 between us would permit. But the night preceding the doleful day of 
 my departure, she wept, sighed, and abruptly withdrew, leaving me 
 full of surprise and trepidation at witnessing such uncommon 
 indications of grief and tenderness in my Lucinda. Still I cherished 
 my hopes, and ascribed all to the excess of her tenderness for me, 
 and the sorrow natural in lovers upon separation. I set out upon 
 my journey sad and pensive, my soul full of gloomy thoughts and 
 fears—manifest presages of the sad fate in store for me. 
 
 ‘‘T executed my commission to Don Fernando’s brother, by whom 
 I was well received, but not soon dismissed; for, to my grief, he 
 ordered me to wait eight days, and to keep out of his father’s 
 sight ; because his brother had desired that a certain sum of money 
 
158 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 might be sent to him without the duke’s knowledge. All this was 
 a contrivance of the false Fernando; and I felt disposed to resist 
 the injunction, as it seemed to me impossible to support hfe so 
 many days absent from Lucinda, especially having left her in such 
 a state of dejection. Nevertheless, I did obey, like a good servant, 
 although at the expense of my health. But four days after my 
 arrival, aman came in quest of me, with a letter, which, by the 
 superscription, I knew to be from Lucinda. I opened it with 
 alarm, convinced it must be something extraordinary that had 
 induced her to write. Before I read it, I made some inquiries of 
 the messenger. He told me, that passing accidentally through a 
 street in the town, a very beautiful lady, with tears in her eyes, 
 called to him from a window, and said to him, in great agitation, 
 ‘Friend, if you are a Christian, I beg of you, for the love of 
 Heaven, to carry this letter with all expedition to the place and 
 person to whom it is directed; in so doing, you will perform an act 
 of charity; and to supply you with the necessary expense take what 
 is tied up in this handkerchief ;’ so saying, she threw the hand- 
 kerchief out of the window; which contained a hundred reals, 
 and this gold ring, with the letter I have given you. She saw 
 me take up the letter and the handkerchief, and assure her by 
 signs that 1 would do what she commanded, and she then quitted 
 the window. Finding myself so well paid for the trouble, and 
 knowing by the superscription it was for you, sir; induced more- 
 over by the tears of that beautiful lady, I resolved to trust no other 
 
 erson, but deliver it- with my own hands: and within sixteen 
 
 ours I have performed the journey, which you know is eighteen 
 leagues.’ While the grateful messenger thus spoke, I hung upon 
 his words, my legs trembling so that I could scarcely stand. At 
 length I opened the letter, which contained these words :— 
 
 “‘¢The promise Don Fernando gave you to intercede with your 
 father, he has fulfilled, more for his own gratification than your in- 
 terest. Know, sir, that he has demanded me to wife: and my 
 father, allured by the advantage he thinks Don Fernando possesses 
 over you, has accepted this proposal so eagerly that the marriage is 
 to be solemnised two days hence, and with so much privacy that, 
 except Heaven, a few of our own family are alone to witness it. 
 Conceive my situation ! and think whether you ought not to return. 
 Whether I love you or not, the event will prove. Heaven grant 
 this may come to your hand before mine be compelled to join his 
 who breaks his promised faith !’ 
 
 **T set out immediately, without waiting for any other answer, 
 or the money: for now I plainly saw it was not the purchase of 
 horses, but the indulgence of his pleasure, that had induced Don 
 Fernando to send me to his brother. My rage against Don Fernan- 
 do, and the fear of losing the rich reward of my long service and 
 affection, gave wings to my speed ; and the next day I reached our 
 town, at the moment favourable for an interview with Lucinda. I 
 went privately, having left my mule with the honest man who 
 brought me the letter: and fortune was just then so propitious 
 that [ found Lucinda at the gate, the constant witness of our loves. 
 
CARDENIO’S STORY. 159 
 
 We saw each other—but how! Who is there in the world that 
 can boast of having fathomed, and thoroughly penetrated the in- 
 tricate and ever-changing nature of a woman? Certainly none. 
 As soon as Lucinda saw me, she said, ‘Cardenio, I am in my bridal 
 habit ; they are now waiting for me in the hall; the treacherous 
 Don Fernando and my covetous father, with some others, who shall 
 sooner be witnesses of my death than of my nuptials. Be not af- 
 flicted, my friend; but endeavour to be present at this sacrifice, 
 which, if my arguments cannot avert, I carry a dagger about me, 
 which can oppose a more effectual resistance, by putting an end to 
 my life, and will give you a convincing proof of the affection I have 
 ever borne you.’ I answered with confusion and precipitation, 
 ‘ Let your actions, madam, prove the truth of your words. If you 
 carry a dagger to secure your honour, I carry a sword to defend 
 you, or kill myself, if fortune proves adverse.’ Ido not believe 
 she heard all I said, being hastily called away: for the bridegroom 
 waited for her. Here the night of my sorrow closed in upon me! 
 here set the sun of my happiness! My eyes were clouded in dark- 
 ness, and my brain was disordered. I was irresolute whether to 
 enter her house, and seemed bereaved of the power to move; but, 
 recollecting how important my presence might be on that occasion, 
 I exerted myself, and hastened thither. Being perfectly acquainted 
 with all the avenues, and the whole household engaged, I escaped 
 observation, and concealed myself in the recess of a window in the 
 hall, behind the hangings, where two pieces of tapestry met; 
 whence I could see all that passed. Who can describe the flutter- 
 ings of my heart, and my various sensations, as I stood there? 
 The bridegroom entered the hall, in his usual dress, accompanied 
 by a cousin of Lucinda, and no other person was present, except 
 the servants of the house. Soon after, from a dressing-room, came 
 forth Lucinda, accompanied by her mother and two of her own 
 maids, adorned in the extreme of courtly splendour. The agony 
 and distraction I endured allowed me not to observe the particu- 
 lars of her dress ; I remarked only the colours, which were carna- 
 tion and white, and the precious stones that glittered on every part 
 of her attire: surpassed, however, by the singular beauty of her 
 fair and golden tresses, in the splendour of which the brilliance of 
 her jewels and the blaze of the surrounding lights seemed to be 
 lost. O memory, thou mortal enemy of my repose! wherefore 
 now recall to me the incomparable beauty of that adored enemy of 
 mine! Were it not better, thou cruel faculty! to represent to my 
 imagination her conduct at that period—that, moved by so flagrant 
 an injury, i may strive, if not to avenge it, at least to end this life 
 of pain? Be not weary, gentlemen, of these digressions; for my 
 misfortunes are not such as can be related briefly and methodically, 
 since every circumstance appears to me to be of importance.” The 
 priest assured him that, far from being tired of listening to him, 
 they took great pleasure in his minutest details, which merited no 
 less attention than the principal parts of his story. 
 
 ‘“‘T say then,” continued Cardenio, ‘‘that, being all assembled 
 in the hall, the priest entered, and, having taken them both by the 
 
160 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 hand, in order to perform what is necessary on such occasions, 
 when he came to these words, ‘Will you, signora Lucinda, take 
 signor Don Fernando, who is here present, for your lawful husband, 
 as our holy mother the Church commands?’ I thrust out my head 
 and neck through the tapestry, and with attentive ears and dis- 
 tracted soul awaited Lucinda’s reply, as the sentence of my death, 
 or the confirmation of my life. Oh! that I had then dared to 
 venture forth, and to have cried aloud—‘ Ah, Lucinda, Lucinda! 
 beware what you do; consider what you owe tome! Remember 
 that you are mine, and cannot belong to another. Be assured that 
 in pronouncing Yes, you will instantly destroy me!—Ah, traitor 
 Don Fernando! robber of my glory, death of my life! what is it 
 thou wouldst have? to what dost thou pretend? Reflect, that 
 as a Christian thou canst not accomplish thy purpose; for Lucinda 
 is my wife, and I am her husband.’ Ah, fool that Iam! nowlam 
 absent, I can say what I ought to have said, but did not! Now, 
 that I have suffered myself to be robbed of my soul’s treasure, I 
 am cursing the thief on whom I might have revenged myself, if I 
 had been then as prompt to act as [ am now to complain! I was 
 then a coward and a fool; no wonder, therefore, if I now die 
 ashamed, repentant, and mad. 
 ‘‘ The priest stood expecting Lucinda’s answer, who paused for 
 a long time; and when I thought she would draw forth the dagger 
 in defence of her honour, or make some declaration which might 
 redound to my advantage, I heard her say, in a low and faint voice, 
 ‘IT will.’ Don Fernando said the same, and the ring being put on, 
 they remained tied in an indissoluble band. The bridegroom ap- 
 roached to embrace his bride ; and she, laying her hand on her 
 eart, fainted in the arms of her mother. Imagine my condition 
 after that fatal Yes, by which my hopes were frustrated, Lucinda’s 
 vows and promises broken, and | for ever deprived of all chance of 
 happiness. Iwas totally confounded—I thought myself aban- 
 doned by heaven and earth; the air denying me breath for my 
 sighs, and the water moisture for my tears; fire alone supplied me 
 with rage and jealousy. On Lucinda’s fainting, all were in confu- 
 sion, and her mother unlacing her bosom to give her air, discovered 
 in it a folded paper, which Don Fernando instantly seized, and 
 read it by one of the flambeaux, after which, he sat himself down 
 in a chair, apparently full of thought, and without attending to 
 the exertions made to recover his bride. 
 ‘*During this general consternation, I departed, indifferent whe- 
 ther I was seen or not ; but determined, if seen, to act so desperate 
 a part that all the world should know the just indignation of my 
 breast, by the chastisement of the false Don Fernando, and of that 
 fickle, though swooning traitress. But my fate, to reserve me for 
 greater evils, if greater can possibly exist, ordained that at that 
 juncture I had the use of my understanding, which has since 
 failed me; and instead of seizing the opportunity to revenge 
 myself on my cruel enemies, I condemned myself to a more 
 severe fate than I could have inflicted on them ; for what is sud- 
 den death to a protracted life of anguish? In short, I quitted 
 
CARDENIO’S WRETCHED CONDITION. 161 
 
 the house, and returning to the place where I had left the mule, 
 I mounted and rode out of the town, not daring, like another 
 Lot, to look behind me; and when I found myself alone on the 
 plain, concealed by the darkness of the night, the silence invit- 
 ing my lamentations, I gave vent to a thousand execrations on 
 Lucinda and Don Fernando, as if that, alas! would afford me 
 satisfaction for the wrongs I had sustained. I called her cruel, 
 false, and ungrateful; and, above all, mercenary, since the wealth 
 of my enemy had seduced her affections from me. But, amidst 
 all these reproaches, I sought to find excuses for her submission 
 to parents whom she had ever been accustomed implicitly to 
 obey ; especially as they offered her a husband with such power- 
 ful attractions. Then, again, I considered that she need not 
 have been ashamed of avowing her engagement to me, since, 
 had it not been for Don Fernando’s proposals, her parents could 
 not have desired a more suitable connection; and I thought how 
 easily she could have declared herself mine when on the point 
 of giving her hand to my rival. In fine, I concluded that her 
 love had been less than her ambition, and she had thus for- 
 gotten those promises by which she had beguiled her hopes and 
 cherished my passion. 
 
 ‘In the utmost perturbation of mind, I journeyed on the rest of 
 the night, and at daybreak reached these mountains, over which I 
 wandered three days more, without road or path, until I came to aval- 
 ley not far hence ; and inquiring of some shepherds for the most rude 
 and solitary part, they directed me to this place, where [ instantly 
 came, determined to pass here the remainder of my life. Among these 
 crags, my mule fell down dead through weariness and hunger, or, 
 what is more probable, to be relieved of so useless a burden; and 
 thus was I left, extended on the ground, famished and exhausted, 
 neither hoping nor caring for relief. How long I continued in this 
 state, I know not; but at length I got up, without the sensation of 
 hunger, and found near me some goatherds, who had undoubtedly 
 relieved my wants. They told me of the condition in which they 
 found me, and of many wild and extravagant things that I had 
 uttered, clearly proving the derangement of my intellect; and I am 
 conscious that since then I have not been always quite right, but 
 have committed a thousand extravagances, tearing my garments, 
 howling aloud through these solitudes, cursing my fortune, and re- 
 peating in vain the name of my beloved. When my senses return, 
 I find myself so weary and bruised, that I can scarcely move. My 
 usual abode is in the hollow of a cork-tree, large enough to enclose 
 this wretched body. The goatherds charitably supply me with 
 food, laying it on the rocks, and in places where they think I may 
 find it; and even when my senses are disordered, necessity points 
 out my sustenance. At other times, as they have informed me in 
 my lucid intervals, I come into the road, and take from the shep- 
 _ herds by force, those provisions which they would freely give me. 
 Thus I pass my miserable life, waiting until it shall please Heaven 
 to bring it to a period, or erase from my memory the beauty and 
 treachery of Lucinda, and the perfidy of Don Fernando ; otherwise, 
 
 L 
 
162 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Heaven have mercy on me! for I feel no power to change my mode 
 of life. . 
 
 ‘‘This, gentlemen, is my melancholy tale. Trouble not your- 
 selves, I beseech you, to counsel or persuade me; for it will be of no 
 more avail than to prescribe medicines to the patient who rejects 
 them. Iwill have no health without Lucinda; and since she has been 
 
 leased to give herself to another when she was, or ought to have 
 bade: mine, let me have the pleasure of indulging myself in unhap- 
 
 iness, since I might have been happy if I had pleased. She, by 
 ees mutability, would have irretrievably undone me; I, by endea- 
 vouring to destroy myself, would satisfy her will, and I shall stand 
 an example to posterity of having been the only unfortunate person 
 whom the possibility of receiving consolation could not comfort, 
 but plunged in still greater afflictions and misfortunes ; for I verily 
 believe they will not have an end even in death itself.” 
 
 Here Cardenio terminated the long recital of his story, no less full 
 of misfortunes than of love, and just as the priest was. preparing to 
 say something to him, by way of consolation, he was prevented by 
 a voice, which, in mournful accents said what will be related in the 
 fourth book of this history, for at this point the wise and judicious 
 historian Cid Hamet Ben Engeli puts an end to the third, 
 
 bel 
 
 Hook Fonrich. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIIL 
 
 Which treats of the new and agreeable adventure that befell the priest 
 and the barber in the Sierra Morena. 
 
 How happy and fortunate was that age in which the most daring 
 knight, Don Quixote de la Mancha, was ushered into the world! 
 since, in consequence of his honourable resolution to revive the 
 long-neglected and almost extinguished order of knight-errantry, 
 -we are regaled in these our times, so barren of entertainment, not 
 only by his own delightful history, but also by the tales and 
 episodes contained in it, which are scarcely less agreeable, ingenious, 
 and true than the narration itself; the thread of which, being 
 already carded, twisted, and reeled, may now be resumed. 
 
 As narrated in our last chapter, the priest was preparing to say 
 something consolatory to Cardenio, when he was prevented by a 
 voice uttering these mournful accents :— 
 
 ‘‘O heavens! have I then at last found a place which may afford 
 
 a secret grave for this wretched body? Yes—if the silence of this 
 
 rocky desert deceive me not, here I may die in peace. Ah, woe is 
 
 me! Here at least I may freely pour forth my lamentations to- 
 
 # 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL SHEPHERD. 163 
 
 Heaven, and shall be less wretched than among men, from whom J 
 should in vain seek counsel, redress, or consolation.” 
 
 These words being distinctly heard by the curate and his com- 
 panions, they rose up to seek the mourner, who they knew by the 
 voice to be near them; and they had not gone many paces when 
 they spied a youth dressed like a peasant, sitting under an ash-tree 
 at the foot of a rock. They could not at first see his face, as he 
 was stooping to bathe his feet in a rivulet which ran by. They 
 drew near so silently that he did not hear them; and while he con- 
 tinued thus employed they stood in admiration at the beauty and 
 whiteness of his feet, which looked like pure crystal among the 
 pebbles of the brook, and did not seem formed for breaking clods 
 or following the plough, as might have been expected from the 
 apparel of the youth. The curate, who went foremost, made a sign 
 to the others to crouch down and conceal themselves behind some 
 fragments of a rock, whence they might watch his motions. He 
 was clad in a drab-coloured jerkin, girded closely round his body 
 with a piece of white linen; his breeches, gaiters, and his cap, 
 were all of the same colour. His gaiters being now pulled up, ex- 
 olay his legs, which in colour resembled alabaster. After bathing 
 
 is lovely feet he wiped them with a handkerchief, which he drew 
 from under his cap; and in doing this he displayed a face of such 
 exquisite beauty, that Cardenio said to the priest, in a low voice, 
 **Since it is not Lucinda, this can be no human creature.” The 
 youth then took off his cap, and shaking his head, a profusion of 
 hair, that Apollo himself might envy, fell over his shoulders—and 
 betrayed the woman, and the most beautiful one that two of the 
 party had ever beheld. Cardenio declared that Lucinda alone could 
 
 e compared to her. Her long and golden tresses covered not only 
 her shoulders, but nearly her whole body; and her snowy fingers 
 served her fora comb. Her beauty made the three spectators im- 
 
 atient to find out who she was, and they now determined to accost 
 er. The lovely maiden looked up on hearing them approach, and 
 
 with both her hands putting her hair from before her eyes, she 
 
 saw the intruders ; upon which she hastily rose, and snatched up 
 a bundle, apparently of clothes, which lay near her, and without 
 staying to put on her shoes or bind up her hair, she fled with pre- 
 cipitation and alarm; but had scarcely gone six paces, when her 
 tender feet being unable to bear the sharp stones, she fell to the 
 ground. The priest now addressed himself to her, ‘‘Do not fly, 
 madam, I entreat you; for we only desire to serve you; indeed, 
 there is no reason why you should attempt so inconvenient a flight.” 
 Surprised and confounded, she made no reply. The priest then, 
 taking her hand, proceeded to say, ‘‘ Your hair reveals to us, 
 madam, what your habit would conceal; and it is manifest that 
 no slight cause has induced you to disguise your beauty in such 
 
 unworthy attire, and brought you to a solitude like this, where 
 
 | 
 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 
 it has been our good fortune to find you; and I hope, dear madam, 
 or, if you please, dear sir, that you will dismiss every alarm on our 
 account, and give us an opportunity of rendering you some assist- 
 ance,” 
 
 p 
 
164 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 When the priest thus addressed her, the disguised maiden 
 stood like one stupified, her eyes fixed on them, without answering 
 one word—like a country clown when he is suddenly surprised by 
 some new sight. At length, after the priest had said more to the 
 same purpose, she heaved a deep sigh, and breaking silence, said, 
 ‘¢ Since even these retired mountains have failed to conceal me, and 
 my hair has betrayed me, I can no longer attempt to disguise my- 
 self. Indeed, gentlemen, I feel very grateful for your kind offers 
 to serve me, but such is my unfortunate situation that commisera- 
 tion is all I can expect; nevertheless, that I may not suffer in your 
 opinion from the strange circumstances under which you have dis- 
 covered me, I will tell you the cause without reserve, whatever 
 pain it may give me.” She spoke with so much grace, and in so 
 sweet a voice, that they were still more charmed with her, and re- 
 peated their kind offers, and solicitations for her confidence. Hav- 
 ing first modestly put on her stockings and shoes, and gathered up 
 her hair, she seated herself upon a flat stone, her three auditors 
 placing themselves around her; and after some efforts to restrain 
 her tears, she began her story in this manner :— 
 
 ‘‘There is a town in the province of Andalusia, from which a 
 duke takes his title, that makes him a grandee of Spain. This 
 duke has two sons; the elder, heir to his estate, and apparently to 
 his virtues: the younger, heir to I know not what, unless it be to 
 the treachery of Vellido and the deceitfulness of Galalon. My 
 parents are vassals to this nobleman, and are very rich, though of 
 humble birth, otherwise I should not be in this wretched state ; for 
 their want of rank is probably the cause of all my misfortunes. 
 Not, indeed, that there is anything disgraceful in the condition of 
 my family—they are farmers, simple, honest people, and such as 
 are called old rusty Christians,* of that class, which by their wealth 
 and handsome way of living, are by degrees acquiring the name of 
 gentlemen. 
 
 ‘* But what they prized above rank or riches was their daughter, 
 sole heiress of their fortune, and I was always treated by them with 
 the utmost indulgence and affection. I was the light of their eyes, 
 the staff of their old age, and, under Heaven, the sole object of all 
 their hopes. And, as I was mistress of their affections, so was I of 
 all they possessed. To me they intrusted the management of the 
 household: through my hands passed the accounts of all that was 
 sown and reaped: the oil-mills, the wine-presses, the numerous 
 
 herds, flocks, and the bee-hives—everything, in short, was in- 
 
 trusted to my care. I was both steward and mistress, and always 
 performed my duties to their satisfaction. The leisure hours that 
 remained I passed in sewing, spinning, or making lace, and some- 
 times in reading good books, or, if my spirits required the relief of 
 music, I had recourse to my gittern. Such was the life I led in my 
 
 | 
 
 father’s house: and I have not been so particular in describing it out 
 of ostentation, but that you may know how undeservedly I have » 
 
 been cast from that happy state into my present misery. Thus 1 
 
 * That is, original Spaniards, without mixture of Moor or Jew for several genera: | 
 tions; such only being qualified for titles cf L-«—ar, Caen 
 
 et 
 
 
 
 
DOROTHEA’S STORY. 165 
 
 passed my time, constantly occupied and in retirement, seen only, — 
 as IT imagined, by our own servants; for when I went to mass it 
 was early in the morning, accompanied by my mother, and so 
 closely veiled that’ my eyes saw no more ground than the space 
 which my foot covered. Yet the eyes of love, or rather of idleness, 
 which are like those of a lynx, discovered me. Don Fernando, the 
 younger son of the duke, whom I mentioned to you ”— she had no 
 sooner named Don Fernando than Cardenio’s colour changed, and 
 he was so violently agitated that the priest and the barber were 
 afraid that he would be seized with one of those paroxysms of frenzy 
 to which he was subject. But he remained quiet, fixing his eyes 
 attentively on the country-maid, well conjecturing who she was; 
 while she, not observing the emotions of Cardenio, continued her 
 story, saying, ‘‘ No sooner had he seen me, than (as he afterwards 
 declared) he conceived for me a violent affection—but, to shorten 
 the account of my misfortunes, I pass over in silence the devices 
 Don Fernando employed to make his passion known to me. He 
 bribed all our servants; he offered presents to my relations ; every 
 day was a festival in our streets ; and at night nobody could sleep 
 for serenades. Infinite were the billets-doux that came, I knew 
 not how, to my hands, filled with amorous declarations and expres- 
 sions of kindness, containing more promises and oaths than letters. 
 All these efforts I resisted : not that the gallantry and solicitations 
 of Don Fernando were displeasing to me; for I confess that I felt 
 flattered and gratified by the attentions of a gentleman of his high 
 rank ; besides, women are always pleased to be admired. How- 
 ever, [ was supported by a sense of virtue, and the good advice of 
 my parents, who told me that they relied on my virtue and pru- 
 dence, and at the same time begged me to consider the inequality 
 between myself and Don Fernando, and to suspect, whatever he 
 might say to the contrary, that it was his own pleasure, not my 
 happiness, that he had in view; and if I would consent to raise a 
 barrier against his unworthy projects, they would engage immedi- 
 ately to find a suitable match forme. Thus cautioned, I maintained 
 the utmost reserve towards Don Fernando, and never gave him the 
 least encouragement, either by look or word ; but my behaviour only 
 increased his passion—love I cannot call it; for had he truly loved 
 me, you would have been spared this sad tale. 
 
 **Don Fernando, having discovered my parents’ intentions for 
 my security, was determined to defeat them; and one night, as I 
 was in my chamber, the door fast locked, and only my maid present, 
 he suddenly stood before me. Terrified at his unexpected appear- 
 ance, I was deprived of the power of utterance, and, all my strength 
 failing me, he caught me in his arms. The traitor then pleaded by 
 Sighs and tears, and with such an appearance of truth, that I, a 
 poor simple creature, without experience, began to give some credit 
 to him. When I was sufficiently recovered to speak, I exerted my- 
 self, and said to him, ‘Though within your grasp, you have no 
 power over my mind; [ am your vassal—not your slave. Your 
 rank does not give you the privilege to insult me, who have an 
 
 equal claim to self-respect with yourself. 1 despise your riches, 
 
 a 
 
 y,® 
 
 +) 
 
166 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and distrust your words; neither am I to be moved by your sighs 
 and tears. Had I been thus solicited by one who had obtained the 
 sanction of my parents, and honourably demanded my hand, I 
 might have listened to proposals—but to no others than those of a 
 lawful husband.’ 
 
 “© ¢Tf that be all, beautiful Dorothea!’ said the treacherous man, 
 ‘here I pledge to you my hand; and let all-seeing Heaven, and that 
 image of our Lady, witness the agreement !’” 
 
 When Cardenio heard her call herself Dorothea, he was confirmed 
 in hisconjecture; but he would not interrupt the story, being desirous 
 to hear the event of what, in part, he knew already; and he only 
 said, ‘‘ What, madam! is your name Dorothea? I have heard of 
 one of that name whose misfortunes much resembled yours. But 
 proceed ; another time I may tell you things that will equally excite 
 your wonder and compassion.” Dorothea, struck by Cardenio’s 
 words, and his strange and tattered dress, entreated him, if he 
 knew anything of her affairs, to tell her without delay ; for fortune 
 had still left her courage to bear any disaster that might befall her, 
 being certain that nothing could increase her misery. ‘‘1 should 
 be sorry to say anything that would do so, madam,” replied Car- 
 denio; ‘‘nor is it necessary for me to speak at present.” 
 
 Dorothea proceeded :— ‘‘ Don Fernando then took up the holy image 
 and called npon it to witness our espousals: pledging himself, by the 
 most solemn vows, to become my husband, notwithstanding my en- 
 treaties that he would consider the displeasure of his family, and 
 other disadvantages that might result from so unequal an union. 
 All that I urged was of no avail, since it cost him nothing to make 
 promises which he never meant to performs. Being in some degree 
 moved by his perseverance, I began to consider that I should not 
 be the first of lowly birth who had been elevated by her beauty to 
 rank; and that such good fortune should not be lightly rejected. 
 I reflected also that my reputation would infallibly suffer by this 
 visit, in spite of my innocence ; and alas! above all, I was moved 
 by his insinuating manners and tender protestations, which might 
 well have softened a harder heart than mine. I called my maid to 
 bear testimony to his plighted faith—again he repeated the most 
 solemn vows, attesting new saints to hear them, and thus he finally 
 succeeded in becoming a perjured traitor. 
 
 ‘¢On the morning that followed that fatal night, Don Fernando 
 quitted me without reluctance: he assured me, indeed, of his truth 
 and honour, but not with the warmth and vehemence of the pre- 
 ceding night; and at parting he drew a valuable ring from his 
 finger, and put it upon mine. Whatever his sensations might have 
 been, I remained confused and almost distracted. I knew not 
 whether good or harm had befallen me, and was uncertain whether 
 I should chide my maid for her treachery in admitting Don Fer- 
 nando to my chamber. That perfidious man visited me but once 
 more, although access was free to him, as I had become his wife. 
 Months passed away, and in vain I watched for his coming; yet he — 
 was in the town, and every day amusing himself with hunting. © 
 What melancholy days and hours were those to me! for I began to 
 
DOROTHEA’S STORY. 167 
 
 doubt his fidelity. Then my damsel heard those reproofs for her 
 
 presumption which she had before escaped. I long strove to hide 
 my tears, and so to guard my looks that my parents might not see 
 and inquire into the cause of my wretchedness ; but suddenly my 
 forbearance was at an end, with all regard to delicacy and fame, 
 upon the intelligence reaching me that Don Fernando was married, 
 in a neighbouring village, to a beautiful young lady, of some rank 
 and fortune, named Lucinda.”—Cardenio heard the name of Lu- 
 cinda, at first, only with signs of indignation, but soon after a flood 
 pf tears burst from his eyes. Dorothea, however, pursued her story, 
 saying, ‘‘ When this sad news reached my ears, my heart, instead of 
 being chilled by it, was so incensed and inflamed with rage, that I 
 could scarcely forbear rushing into the streets and proclaiming the 
 baseness and treachery I had experienced. But I became more 
 tranquil after forming a project, which I executed the same night. 
 I borrowed this apparel of a shepherd swain in my father’s service, 
 whom I entrusted with my secret, and begged him to attend me in 
 my pursuit of Don Fernando. He assured me it was a rash under- 
 taking ; but finding me resolute, he said he would go with me to 
 the end of the world. Immediately I packed up some of my own 
 clothes, with money and jewels, and at night secretly left the house, 
 attended only by my servant and a thousand anxious thoughts; 
 and travelled on foot to the town where I expected to find my 
 husband ; impatient to arrive, if not in time to prevent his perfidy, 
 to reproach him for it. 
 
 **J inquired where the parents of Lucinda lived; and the first 
 person to whom I addressed myself told me more than I desired to 
 hear. He directed me to the house, and gave me an account of all 
 
 that had happened at the young lady’s marriage. He told me alsa 
 that on the night Don Fernando was married to Lucinda, after she 
 had pronounced the fatal Yes, she fell into a swoon; and the bride- 
 groom, in unclasping her bosom to give her air, found a paper written 
 by herself, in which she affirmed that she could not be wife to Don 
 Fernando, because she was already betrothed to Cardenio (who, as 
 the man told me, was a gentleman of the same town), and that she 
 had pronounced her assent to Don Fernando merely in obedience to 
 her parents. The paper also revealed her intention to kill herself 
 as soon as the ceremony was over, which was confirmed by a poniard 
 they found concealed upon her. Don Fernando was so enraged to 
 find himself thus mocked and slighted, that he seized hold of the 
 same poniard, and would certainly have stabbed her, had he not 
 been prevented by those present ; whereupon he immédiately quitted 
 the place. When Lucinda revived, she confessed to her parents the 
 engagement she had formed with Cardenio, who, it was suspected, 
 had witnessed the ceremony, and had hastened from the city in 
 despair ; for he left a paper expressing his sense of the wrong he had 
 suffered, and declaring his resolution to fly from mankind for ever. 
 
 ‘* All this was publicly known, and the general subject of con- 
 versation : especially when it appeared that Lucinda also was miss- 
 ing from her father’s house—a circumstance that overwhelmed her 
 family with grief, but revived my hopes! for I flattered myself that 
 
168 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Heaven had thus interposed to prevent the completion of Don 
 Fernando’s second marriage, in order to touch his conscience and 
 to restore him to a sense of duty and honour. These illusive hopes 
 enabled me to endure a life which is now become insupportable to 
 me. 
 
 ‘In this situation, undecided what course to take, I heard 
 myself proclaimed by the public crier, offering a great reward for 
 discovering me, and describing my person and dress. It was also 
 reported that I had eloped from my father’s house with the lad that 
 attended me. I was stung to the soul to find how very low I had 
 fallen in public opinion; and, urged by the fear of discovery, I in- 
 stantly left the city, and at night took refuge among these mountains. 
 But it is truly said one evil produces another, and misfortunes never 
 come singly; for my servant, hitherto so faithful, took advantage 
 of this solitary place, and, dismissing all regard either to God or his 
 mistress, began to make love to me; and on my answering him as 
 he deserved, he would have used force, but merciful Heaven favoured 
 me, and endued me with strength to push him down a precipice, 
 where I left him, whether dead or alive I know not, for, in spite of 
 terror and fatigue, I fled from the spot with the utmost speed. 
 After this I engaged myself in the service of a shepherd, and have 
 lived for some months among these wilds, always endeavouring to be 
 abroad, lest I should betray myself. Yet all my care was to no pur- 
 pose, for my master at length discovered that I was not a man, and 
 the same evil thoughts sprang up in his breast that had possessed 
 my servant. Lest I might not find the same means at hand to free 
 myself from violence, I sought for security in flight, and have en- 
 deavoured to hide myself amongst these rocks. Here, with incessant 
 sighs and tears, I implore Heaven to have pity on me, and either 
 alleviate my misery, or put an end to my life in this desert, that no 
 traces may remain of so wretched a creature.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Which treats of the beautiful Dorothea’s discretion, with other very 
 ingenious and entertaining particulars. 
 
 “This, gentlemen,” added Dorothea, ‘‘is my tragical story; 
 think whether the sighs and tears which you have witnessed have 
 not been more than justified. My misfortunes, as you will confess, 
 are incapable of a remedy; and all I desire of you is to advise me 
 how to live without the continual dread of being discovered; for 
 although I am certain of a kind reception from my parents, so over- 
 whelmed am I with shame, that I choose rather to banish myself 
 for ever from their sight, than appear before them the object of such 
 hateful suspicions.” 
 
 Here she was silent, while her blushes and confusion sufficiently 
 manifested the shame and agony of her soul. Her auditors were 
 much affected by her tale, and the curate was just going to address 
 
 
 
CARDENIO’S HOPES. 169 
 
 her, when Cardenio interrupted him, saying, ‘‘ You, madam, then, 
 are the beautiful Dorothea, only daughter of the rich Clenardo?” 
 Dorothea stared at hearing her father named by such a miserable- 
 looking object, and she asked him who he was, since he knew her 
 father. ‘‘I am that hapless Cardenio,” he replied, ‘‘ who suffers 
 from the base author of your misfortunes, reduced, as you now be- 
 hold, to nakedness and misery—deprived even of reason! Yes, 
 Dorothea, I heard that fatal Yes pronounced by Lucinda, and unable 
 to bear my anguish, I fled precipitately from her house. Amidst 
 these mountains I thought to have terminated my wretched exist- 
 ence; but the account you have just given has inspired me with 
 hope that Heaven may still have happiness in store for us. Lucinda 
 has avowed herself to be mine, and therefore cannot wed another ; 
 Don Fernando, being yours, cannot have Lucinda. Let us then, 
 my dear lady, indulge the hope that we may both yet recover our 
 own, since it is not absolutely lost. Indeed, I swear to you, that 
 although f leave it to Heaven to avenge my own injuries, your claims 
 will I assert ; nor will I leave you until I have obliged Don Fernando, 
 either by argument or my sword, to do you justice.” 
 
 Dorothea would have thrown herself at the feet of Cardenio, to 
 express her gratitude to him, had he not prevented her. The licen- 
 tiate, too, commended his generous determination, and entreated them 
 both to accompany him to his village, where they might consult on 
 the most proper measures to be adopted in the present state of their 
 affairs; a proposal to which they thankfully acceded. The barber, 
 who had hitherto been silent, now joined in expressing his good 
 wishes to them; he also briefly related the circumstances which had 
 brought them to that place; and when he mentioned the extra- 
 ordinary insanity of Don Quixote, Cardenio had an indistinct re- 
 collection of having had some altercation with the knight, but 
 could not remember whence it arose. 
 
 They were now interrupted by the voice of Sancho Panza, who, 
 not finding them where he left them, began to call out loudly : they 
 went instantly to meet him, and were eager in their inquiries after 
 Don Quixote. He told them that he had found him naked to his 
 shirt, feeble, wan, and half-dead with hunger, sighing for his lady 
 Dulcinea ; and though he had informed him that it was her express 
 desire that he should leave that place, and repair to Toboso, where 
 she expected him, his answer was, that he positively would not 
 appear before her beauty until he had performed exploits that 
 might render him worthy of her favour; if his master, he added, 
 persisted in that humour, he would run a risk of never becoming 
 an emperor, as in honour bound; nor even an archbishop, which 
 was the least he could be; so they must consider what was to be 
 done to get him away. The licentiate begged him not to give him- 
 self any uneasiness on that account, for they should certainly con- 
 trive to get him out of his present retreat. 
 
 The priest then informed Cardenio and Dorothea of their plan for 
 Don Quixote’s cure, or at least for decoying him to his own house. 
 Upon which Dorothea said she would undertake to act the dis- 
 tressed damsel better than the barber, especially as she had apparel 
 
170 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 with which she could perform it to the life; and they might have 
 reliance upon her, as she had read many works of chivalry, and 
 was well acquainted with the style in which distressed damsels 
 were wont to beg their boons of knights-errant. ‘‘Let us then 
 hasten to put our design into execution,” exclaimed the curate ; 
 ‘‘since fortune seems to favour all our views.” Dorothea immedi- 
 ately took from her bundle a petticoat of very rich stuff, and a 
 mantle of fine green silk; and out of a casket a necklace and other 
 jewels, with which she quickly adorned herself, in such a manner 
 that she had all the appearance of a rich and noble lady. They 
 were charmed with her beauty, grace, and elegance; and agreed 
 that Don Fernando must be a man of little taste, since he could 
 
 a eR ON Gee 5) Dh ahs 
 en Le = J we Si 
 
 
 
 slight so much excellence. But her greatest admirer was Sancho 
 Panza, who thought that in all his life he had never seen so beauti- 
 ful a creature; and he earnestly desired the priest to tell him who 
 this beautiful lady was, and what she was looking for in those 
 parts? ‘This beautiful lady, friend Sancho,” answered the priest, 
 ‘‘is, to say the least of her, heiress, in the direct male line, of the 
 creat kingdom of Micomicon; and she comes in quest of your 
 master, to beg a boon of him, which is, to redress a wrong or in- 
 jury done her by a wicked giant; for it is the fame of your master’s 
 prowess, which is spread over all Guinea, that has brought this 
 princess to seek him.” ‘‘ Now, a happy seeking, and a happy find- 
 
 ing!” quoth Sancho Panza; ‘‘especially if my master is so for- 
 
 i 
 
THE PRINCESS MICOMICONIA. 171 
 
 tunate as to redress that injury, and right that wrong, by killing 
 that rascally giant you mention; and kill him he certainly will, if 
 he encounters him, unless he be a goblin; for my master has no 
 power at all over goblins. But one thing I must again beg of your 
 worship, signor licentiate, and that is, to prevent my master from 
 taking it into his head to be an archbishop, and advise him to 
 marry this princess out of hand ; for then, not being qualified to 
 receive archiepiscopal orders, he will come with ease to his king- 
 dom, and I to the end of my wishes; for I have considered the 
 matter well, and find by my account it will not suit me for my 
 master to be an archbishop, as I am unfit for the church, being a 
 married man; and for me to be now going about to procure dispen- 
 sations for holding church-living, having, as I have, a wife and 
 children, would be an endless piece of work. So that, sir, the 
 whole business rests upon my master’s marrying this lady out of 
 hand—not knowing her grace, I cannot call her by name.” ‘‘ The 
 
 
 
 y) 
 
 Princess Micomiconia is her name,” said the priest; ‘‘for as her 
 kingdom is named Micomicon, of course she must be called so.” 
 ““To be sure,” answered Sancho; ‘‘for I have known many take 
 their title and surname from their birth-place, as Pedro de Alcala, 
 John de Ubeda, Diego de Valladolid; and, for aught I know, it 
 may be the custom in Guinea for queens to take the names of 
 their kingdoms.” ‘‘It is certainly so,” said the priest; ‘‘and as to 
 your master’s marrying this princess, I will promote it to the ut- 
 most of my power.” With which assurance Sancho was no less 
 satisfied than the priest was amazed at his simplicity in thus enter- 
 ing into the extravagant fancies of his master. 
 
 Dorothea having now mounted the priest’s mule, and the barber 
 fitted on the ox-tail beard, they desired Sancho to conduct them to 
 Don Quixote, cautioning him not to say that he knew the licentiate 
 or the barber, since on that depended all his fortune. Neither the 
 priest nor Cardenio would go with them; the latter that he might 
 
172 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 not remind Don Quixote of the dispute which he had had with him; 
 and the priest, because his presence was not then necessary; so 
 the others, therefore, went on before, while they followed slowly 
 on foot. The priest would have instructed Dorothea in her part, 
 but she would not trouble him, assuring him that she would per- 
 form it precisely according to the rules and precepts of chivalry. 
 Having proceeded about three-quarters of a league, they discov- 
 
 
 
 ered Don Quixote in a wild, rocky recess, at that time clothed, 
 but not armed. Dorothea now whipped on her palfrey, attended 
 by the well-bearded squire; and having approached the knight, 
 the squire leaped from his mule to assist his lady, who, lightly dis- 
 mounting, went and threw herself at Don Quixote’s feet, where, in 
 spite of his efforts to raise her, she remained kneeling, as she thus 
 
 addressed him :— ‘ 
 
UNDERTAKES THE PRINCESS’S ADVENTURE. Livia, 
 
 ‘**T will never arise from this place, O valorous and redoubted 
 knight, until your goodness and courtesy vouchsafe me a boon, 
 which will redound to the honour and glory of your person, and to 
 the lasting benefit of the most disconsolate and aggrieved damsel 
 the sun has ever beheld. And if the valour of your puissant arm 
 correspond with the report of your immortal fame, you are bound 
 to protect an unhappy wight, who, attracted by the odour of your 
 renown, is come from distant regions to seek at your hands a 
 remedy for her misfortunes.” 
 
 **It is impossible for me 10 answer you, fair lady,” said Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘ while you remain in that posture.” ‘‘I will not arise, 
 signor,” answered the afflicted damsel, ‘‘ until your courtesy shall 
 vouchsafe the boon I ask.” ‘‘I do vouchsafe and grant it to you,” 
 answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ provided my compliance be of no detri- 
 ment to my king, my country, or to her who keeps the keys of my... 
 heart and liberty.” <‘‘It will not be to the prejudice of either of 
 these, dear sir,” replied the afflicted damsel. Sancho, now ap- 
 proaching his master, whispered softly in his ear, ‘‘ Your worship 
 may very safely grant the boon she asks; for it is a mere trifle— 
 only to kill a great lubberly giant; and she who begs it is. the 
 mighty Princess Micomiconia, queen of the great kingdom of Mi- 
 comicon, in Aithiopia.” ‘‘ Whosoever the lady may be,” answered 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘ I shall act. as my duty and my conscience dictate, in 
 conformity to the rules of my profession ;” then addressing himself 
 to the damsel, he said, ‘‘ Fairest lady, arise, for I vouchsafe you 
 whatever boon you ask.” ‘‘ My request then is,” said the damsel, 
 ‘that your magnanimity will go whither I shall conduct you ; and 
 that you will promise not to engage in any other adventure until 
 you have avenged on me a traitor, who, against all right, human 
 and divine, has usurped my kingdom.” ‘‘I grant your request,” 
 answered Don Quixote; ‘‘and therefore, lady, dispel that melan- 
 choly which oppresses you, and let your fainting hopes recover fresh 
 life and strength ; for, by the help of Heaven, and my powerful arm, 
 you shall soon be restored to your kingdom, and seated on the 
 throne of your ancient and high estate, in despite of all the mis- 
 creants who would oppose it ; and therefore we will imstantly pro- 
 ceed to action, for there is always danger in delay.” The distressed 
 damsel would fain have kissed his hands; but Don Quixote, who 
 was in every respect a most gallant and courteous knight, would by 
 no means consent to it, but, making her arise, embraced her with 
 much politeness and respect, and ordered Sancho to look after 
 Rozinante’s girths, and to assist him to arm. Sancho took down 
 the armour from a tree, where it hung like a trophy; and having 
 got Rozinante ready, quickly armed his master, who then cried, 
 ‘*Let us hasten to succour this great lady.” : 
 
 The barber was still upon his knees, and under much difficulty 
 to. forbear laughing, and keep his beard from falling—an acci- 
 dent which might have occasioned the miscarriage of their ingenious 
 stratagem; but seeing that the boon was already granted, and that 
 Don Quixote prepared to fulfil his engagement, he got up and took 
 his lady by the other hand; when they both assisted to place her 
 
174 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 upon the mule, and then mounted themselves. Sancho alone re- 
 mained on foot, which renewed his grief for the loss of his Dapple ; 
 but he bore it cheerfully ; reflecting that his master was now in the 
 right road, and just upon the point of becoming an emperor ; for 
 he made no doubt but that he was to marry that princess, and be 
 at least king of Micomicon. One thing only troubled him, which 
 was, that his kingdom being in the land of negroes, his subjects 
 would all be blacks; but presently recollecting a special remedy, 
 he said to himself, ‘‘ What care I, if my subjects be blacks ?—what 
 have I to do but to ship them off to Spain, where I may sell them 
 for ready money, with which money I may buy some title or office, 
 on which I may live at ease all the days of my life? See whether 
 I have not brains enough to manage matters, and sell thirty or ten 
 thousand slaves in the turn of a hand! I will make them fly, little 
 and big; and let them be ever so black, I will turn them into white 
 and yellow boys; let me alone to lick my own fingers.” After these 
 reflections, he went on in such good spirits, that he forgot the 
 fatigue of travelling on foot. 
 
 Cardenio and the priest, concealed among the bushes, had ob- 
 served all that passed, and being now desirous to join them, the 
 priest, who had a ready invention, soon hit upon an expedient; for 
 with a pair of scissors, which he carried in a case, he quickly cut 
 off Cardenio’s beard; then put on him a grey capouch, and gave 
 him his own black cloak (himself remaining in his breeches and 
 doublet), which so changed Cardenio’s appearance, that had he 
 looked in a mirror he would not have known himself. Although 
 the others had in the meantime been proceeding onward, they easily 
 gained the high road first, because the narrow passes between the 
 rocks were more difficult to horse than to foot travellers. They 
 waited in the plain until Don Quixote and his party came up; 
 whereupon the curate, after gazing for some time earnestly at him, 
 at last ran towards him with open arms, exclaiming aloud, ‘‘ Happy 
 is this meeting, O thou mirror of chivalry, my noble countryman, 
 Don Quixote de la Mancha! the flower and cream of gentility,— 
 the protector of suffering mankind,—the quintessence of knight- 
 errantry !” Having thus spoken, he embraced Don Quixote by the 
 knee of his left leg. 
 
 The knight was surprised at this address ; but after attentively 
 surveying the features of the speaker, he recognized him, and would 
 immediately have alighted; but the priest would not suffer it. 
 “You must permit me to alight, signor licentiate,” answered Don 
 Quixote; ‘‘for it would be very improper that I should remain on 
 horseback while so reverend a person as you were travelling on 
 foot,” ‘*I will by no means consent to your dismounting,” replied 
 the priest, ‘‘since on horseback you have achieved the greatest 
 exploits this age has witnessed. As for myself, an unworthy priest, 
 I shall be satisfied if one of these gentlemen of your company will 
 allow me to mount behind him; and I shall then fancy myself 
 mounted on Pegasus, or on a zebra, or on the sprightly courser 
 bestrode by the famous Moor Muzarque, who lies to this day en- 
 chanted in the great mountain Zulema, not far distant from the 
 
ACCIDENT TO THE BARBER. LES 
 
 grand Compluto.” ‘‘T did not think of that, dear signor licen- 
 tiate,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘and I know her highness the princess 
 will, for my sake, order her squire to accommodate you with the 
 saddle of his mule; and he may ride behind if the beast will carry 
 double.” ‘‘I believe she will,” answered the princess; ‘‘and I 
 know it is unnecessary for me to lay my commands upon my squire, 
 for he is too courteous and well-bred to suffer an ecclesiastic to go 
 on foot when he may ride.” ‘‘ Most certainly,” answered the bar- 
 ber; and, alighting in an instant, he comphmented the priest with 
 the saddle, which he accepted without much persuasion. But it 
 unluckily happened that, as the barber was getting upon the crup- 
 per, the animal, which was a hackney, and consequently a vicious 
 jade, threw up her hind legs twice or thrice in the air; and had 
 they met with Master Nicholas’s breast or head, his rambling after 
 Don Quixote had come to an end. He was, however, thrown to the 
 ground, and so suddenly, that he forgot to take due care of his 
 beard, which fell off; and all he could do was to cover his face 
 with both hands, and cry out that his jaw-bone was broken. Don 
 Quixote, seeing sucha mass of beard without jaws and without blood, 
 lying at a distance from the face of the fallen squire, exclaimed, 
 ‘‘Heavens! what a miracle! His beard has fallen as clean from 
 his face as if he had been shaven!” The priest, seeing the danger 
 they were in of discovery, instantly seized the beard, and ran to 
 Master Nicholas, who was still on the ground moaning, and going 
 up close to him, with one twitch replaced it, muttering over him 
 some words, which he said were a specific charm for fixing on 
 beards, as they should soon see; and when it was adjusted, the 
 squire remained as well bearded and as whole as before. Don 
 Quixote was amazed at what he saw, and begged the priest to teach 
 him that charm ; for he was of opinion that its virtue could not be 
 - confined to the refixing of beards, because it was clear that where 
 
 the beard was torn off, the flesh must be left wounded and bloody, 
 and, since it wrought a perfect cure, it must be valuable upon 
 _ other occasions. The priest said that his surmise was just, and 
 promised to take the first opportunity of teaching him the art. 
 They now agreed that the priest should mount first, and that all 
 three should ride by turns until they came to the inn, which was 
 distant about two leagues. 
 
 Don Quixote, the princess, and the priest, being thus mounted, 
 attended by Cardenio, the barber, and Sancho Panza on foot, Don 
 Quixote said to the damsel, ‘*‘ Your highness will now be pleased 
 to lead on in whatever direction you choose.” Before she could 
 reply, the licentiate interposing, said, ‘‘ Whither would your lady- 
 
 ‘ship go? To the kingdom of Micomicon, I presume, or I am much 
 mistaken.” She, being aware that she was to answer in the affir- 
 mative, said, ‘‘ Yes, signor, that kingdom is indeed the place of 
 
 my destination.” ‘‘If so,” said the priest, ‘‘ we must pass through 
 my native village; and thence you must go straight to Carthagena, 
 where you may embark; and, if you have a fair wind, a smooth 
 sea, and no storms, in somewhat less than nine years you will get 
 
 *yithin view of the great lake of Meona, I mean Meotis, which is 
 
176 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 not more than a hundred days’ journey from your highness’s terri- 
 tories.” ‘‘ You are mistaken, good sir,” said she; ‘‘for it is not 
 two years since I left it; and although I had very bad weather 
 during the whole passage, here I am, and I have beheld what so 
 ardently I desired to see—Signor Don Quixote de la Mancha; the 
 fame of whose valour reached my ears the moment I set foot in 
 Spain, and determined me upon seeking him, that I might appeal 
 to his courtesy, and commit the justice of my cause to the valour of 
 his invincible arm.” ‘‘ Cease, I pray, these encomiums,’’ said Don 
 Quixote; ‘‘for I aman enemy to every species of flattery ; and even 
 if this be not such, still are my chaste ears offended at this kind 
 of discourse. All that I can say, dear madam, is, that my powers, 
 such as they are, shall be employed in your service, even at the 
 forfeit of my life; but waiving these matters for the present, I beg 
 the signor licentiate to tell me what has brought him into these 
 parts, alone, unattended, and so lightly apparelled.” ‘I can soon 
 satisfy your worship,” answered the priest ; ‘‘ our friend, Master 
 Nicholas, and I were going to Seville, to receive a legacy left me 
 by a relation in India, and no inconsiderable sum, being sixty 
 thousand crowns; and on our road, yesterday, we were attack- 
 ed by four highway robbers, who stripped us of all we had, to our 
 very beards, and for this youth here (pointing to Cardenio), you 
 see how they have treated him. It is publicly reported here 
 that those who robbed us were galley-slaves, set at liberty near 
 this very place by a man so valiant that in spite of the commissary 
 and his guards he released them all; but he certainly must have 
 been out of his senses, or as great a rogue as any of them, since he 
 could let loose wolves among sheep, foxes among poultry, and 
 wasps among honey; for he has defrauded justice of her due, and 
 has set himself up against his king and natural lord, by acting 
 against his lawful authority. He has, I say, disabled the galleys 
 of their hands, and disturbed the many years’ repose of the holy 
 brotherhood ; in a word, he has done a deed by which his body 
 may suffer, and his soul be for ever lost.” 
 
 Sancho had communicated the adventure of the gallev-slaves, so 
 gloriously achieved by his master; and the priest laid it on thus 
 heavily to see what effect 1t would have upon Don Quixote ; whose 
 colour changed at every word, and he dared not confess that he 
 had been the deliverer of those worthy gentlemen. ‘‘ These,” said 
 the priest, ‘‘ were the persons that robbed us; and God of His 
 mercy pardon him who prevented the punishment they so richly 
 deserved.” 
 
| 
 } 
 
 RELATES THE ADVENTURE OF THE GALLEY-SLAVES. 177 
 
 GH APTER XXX. 
 
 Which treats of the pleasant and ingenious method pursued to with- 
 draw our enamoured knight from the rigorous penance which ‘he 
 had vmposed on himself. 
 
 Laughing in his sleeve, Sancho said, as soon as the priest had 
 done speaking, ‘‘ By my troth, signor licentiate, it was my master 
 who did that feat; not but that [ gave him fair warning, and ad- 
 vised him to mind what he was about, and that it was a sin to set 
 them at lberty; for that they were all going to the galleys for 
 being most notorious villains.” ‘‘ Blockhead!” said Don Quixote, 
 ‘‘knights-errant are not bound to inquire whether the afflicted, 
 fettered, and oppressed whom they meet upon the road, are brought 
 to that situation by their faults or their misfortunes. It is their 
 part to assist them under oppression, and to regard their sufferings, 
 not their crimes. I encountered a bead-roll and string of miserable 
 wretches, and acted towards them as my profession required of me. 
 As for the rest, I care not ; and whoever takes it amiss, saving the 
 holy dignity of signor the licentiate, and his reverend person, I say 
 he knows but little of the principles of chivalry, and les in his 
 throat; and this I will maintain with the edge of my sword!” So 
 saying, he fixed himself firmly in his stirrups and lowered his vizor ; 
 for Mambrino’s helmet, as he called it, hung useless at his saddle- 
 bow, until it could be repaired of the damage it had received from 
 the galley slaves. 
 
 Dorothea was possessed of too much humour and sprightly wit 
 not to join with the rest in their diversion at Don Quixote’s ex- 
 pense ; and perceiving his wrath, she said, ‘‘ Sir knight, be pleased 
 to remember the boon you have promised me, and that you are 
 thereby bound not to engage in any other adventure, however ur- 
 gent; therefore assuage your wrath, for had signor the licentiate 
 known that the galley-slaves were freed by that invincible arm, he 
 would sooner have sewed up his mouth with three stitches, and 
 thrice have bitten his tongue, than he would have said a word that 
 might redound to the disparagement of your worship.” ‘‘ By my 
 faith I would,” exclaimed the priest; ‘‘or even have plucked off 
 one of my mustachios.” ‘‘I will say no more, madam,” said Don 
 Quixote; ‘‘and I will repress that just indignation raised within 
 my breast, and quietly proceed until I have accomplished the pro- 
 mised boon. But in requital, I beseech you to inform me of the 
 particulars of your grievance, as well as the number and quality of 
 the persons on whom I must take due, satisfactory, and complete 
 revenge.” ‘That I will do most willingly,” answered Dorothea, 
 “if a detail of my afflictions will not be wearisome to you.” ‘‘ Not 
 in the least, my dear madam,” replied the knight. ‘‘ Well, then,” 
 said Dorothea, “‘ you have only to favour me with your attention,” 
 
 ‘Cardenio and the barber now walked by her side, curious to hear 
 
 what kind of story she would invent. Sancho, who was as much 
 M 
 
178 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 deceived as his master, did the same; and after a hem or two, 
 and other preparatory airs, with much grace she thus began her 
 story :— 
 
 “In the first place, you must know, gentlemen, that my name 
 is” —here she stopped short, having forgotten the name the priest 
 had given her; but he came to her aid, saying, ‘‘ I am not at all 
 surprised at your highness’s emotion, upon this recurrence to your 
 misfortunes ; for affliction too often deprives us of the faculty of 
 memory—even now your highness seems to forget that you are the 
 great Princess Micomiconia.” ‘‘'True, indeed !” answered Dorothea ; 
 ‘*but I will command my distracted thoughts, and proceed in my 
 true tale of sorrow. 
 
 ‘‘My father, Tinacrio the Wise, was very learned in the magic 
 art, and foresaw by it that my mother, the Queen Xaramilla, would 
 die before him ; that he must soon depart this life, and I should be 
 thus left an orphan. But this, he said, did not trouble him so 
 much as the foreknowledge he had that a monstrous giant, lord of 
 a great island bordering upon our kingdom, called Pandafilando 
 of the Gloomy Aspect—for it is averred, that although his eyes 
 stand in their proper place, he always looks askew, as if he 
 squinted ; and this he does of pure malignity, to scare and frighten 
 those he looks at—my father foresaw, as I said before, that this 
 giant would take advantage of my orphan state, invade my king- 
 dom with a mighty force, and take it all from me, without leaving 
 me the smallest village, wherein to hide my head; but that it was 
 in my power to avoid all this ruin and misery by marrying him, 
 although he could not imagine that I would consent to the match 
 —and he was in the right; for I could never think of marrying 
 this, nor any other giant, however huge and monstrous. My 
 father’s advice was, that when, upon his decease, Pandafilando 
 invaded my kingdom, I should not make any defence, for that 
 would be my ruin; but, to avoid death, and the total destruction 
 of my faithful and loyal subjects, my best way was voluntarily to 
 quit the kingdom, since it would be impossible for me to defend 
 myself against the power of the giant; and immediately set out, 
 with a few attendants, for Spain, where I should find a remedy for 
 my distress in a knight-errant, whose fame about that time, would 
 extend all over that kingdom, and whose name, if I remember 
 right, was to be Don Axote, or Don Gigsote.” ‘‘ Don Quixote, you 
 mean, madam,” quoth Sancho Panza, ‘‘or otherwise called the 
 Knight of the Sorrowful Figure.” ‘* You are right,” said Dorothea. 
 **He said, further, that he was to be tall and thin visaged; and 
 on his right side, under the left shoulder, or thereabouts, he was 
 to have a grey mole, with hair like bristles.” 
 
 Don Quixote, hearing this, said to his squire, ‘‘Come hither, 
 Sancho; help me to strip, that I may know whether I am the 
 knight alluded to in the prophecy of that sage king.” ‘‘ You need 
 pot strip,” said Sancho; ‘‘ I know you have exactly such a mole on 
 the ridge of your back—a sure sign of strength.” ‘‘That is suffi- 
 cient,” said Dorothea; ‘‘for we must not stand upon trifles. It 
 matters not whether it be on the shoulder or on the back-bone ;— 
 
179 
 
 And doubtless I am 
 
 THE GIANT PANDAFILANDO. 
 
 there is a mole, and it is all the same flesh. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ome 
 \ 
 Y 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Z 
 
 a 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Pandafilando of the Gloomy Aspect. 
 perfectly right in recommending myself to Signor Don Quixote; for 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Uy, LG SG) 
 YSU; 
 
 
 
 » 
 
180 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 he must be the knight whom my father meant, since it is proved, 
 both by his person and his extraordinary fame, not only in Spain, 
 but over all La Mancha: for I was hardly landed in Ossuna before 
 I heard of so many of his exploi+s that I felt immediately assured 
 that he must be the very person whom I came to seek.” ‘‘ But, 
 dear madam, how came you to land at Ossuna,” said Don Quixote, 
 ‘‘since that is not a seaport town?” Before Dorothea could reply, 
 the priest, interposing, said, ‘‘ Doubtless the princess would say, 
 that after she had landed at Malaga, the first place where she 
 heard news of your worship was Ossuna.” ‘‘ That is what I meant 
 to say,” said Dorothea. ‘‘ Nothing can be more clear,” rejoined 
 the priest, ‘‘Please your majesty to proceed.” ‘‘I have little 
 more to add,” replied Dorothea, ‘‘ but that, having now had the 
 good fortune to meet with Signor Don Quixote, J already look upon 
 myself as queen and mistress of my whole kingdom, since he, out 
 of his courtesy and generosity, has promised, in compliance with 
 my request, to go with me wherever I please to conduct him, which 
 shall be only into the presence of Pandafilando of the Gloomy 
 Aspect, that he may slay him, and restore to me that which has 
 been so unjustly usurped. Nor is there the smallest reason to 
 doubt but that all this will come to pass, according to the prophecy 
 of the wise Tinacrio, my good father ; who, moreover, left an order, 
 written either in Chaldean or Greek (for I cannot read them), that 
 if this knight in his prophecy, after cutting off the giant’s head, 
 should desire to marry me, 1 must immediately submit to be his 
 lawful wife, and with my person give him also possession of my 
 kingdom.” 
 
 ‘*Now, what thinkest thou, friend Sancho?” quoth Don Quixote. 
 ‘‘Dost thou hear that? Did not I tell thee so? See whether we 
 have not now a kingdom to command, and a queen to marry!” 
 ‘Odds my life! so it is,” cried Sancho; ‘‘and plague take him, 
 who will not marry as soon as Signor Pandafilando’s wizen is cut. 
 About it then; her majesty’s a dainty bit!” And so saying, he cut 
 acouple of capers, and exhibited other tokens of delight. Then, 
 laying hold of the reins of Dorothea’s mule, and making her stop, 
 he fell down upon his knees before her, beseeching her to give him 
 her hand to kiss, in token that he acknowledged her for his queen 
 and mistress. With difficulty could the rest of the party restrain 
 their laughter at the madness of the master and the simplicity of 
 the man. Dorothea held out her hand to him, and promised to 
 make him a great lord in her kingdom, when Heaven should be so | 
 penaers as to put her again in possession of it. Sancho returned 
 
 er thanks, in expressions which served to increase: their mirth. 
 
 ‘This, gentlemen,” continued Dorothea, ‘‘is my history ; I have 
 only to add, that of all the attendants I brought with me from my 
 kingdom, I have none left but this well-bearded squire; for the rest 
 were all drowned in a violent storm which overtook us in sight of 
 
 the port. He and I got ashore on a couple of planks, as it were by 
 a miracle; and indeed the whole progress of my life is a miracle 
 and mystery, as you may have observed. And if I have exagge- 
 rated, or not been so exact as I ought to have been, ascribe it, I 
 
CHASTISES SANCHO PANZA. 181 
 
 entreat you, to what the reverend gentleman said at the beginning 
 of my narrative, that continual and extraordinary troubles deprive 
 the sufferer even of memory.” ‘‘ Mine shall never fail me, O most 
 worthy and exalted lady!” cried Don Quixote, ‘‘whatever I may be 
 called upon to endure in your service. And again I confirm my 
 engagement, and swear to accompany you to the remotest regions of 
 the earth, until I shall meet and grapple with that fierce enemy of 
 yours, whose proud head, by the help of Heaven and this my strong 
 arm, I will cut off with the edge of this (I will not say good) sword ; 
 thanks be to Gines de Passamonte, who carried off my own.” 
 These last words he uttered in a lower tone; then, again raising his 
 voice, he proceeded to say, ‘‘ Having severed it from his body, and 
 replaced you in peaceable possession of your dominions, the disposal 
 of your person will be at your own discretion, since, while my 
 memory is engrossed, my heart enthralled, and my mind subjected 
 to her who—! say no more—it is impossible I should prevail upon 
 myself even to think of marrying, although it were a phoenix.” 
 Don Quixote’s last declaration was so displeasing to Sancho, that, 
 in a great fury, he exclaimed, ‘‘I vow and swear, Signor Don 
 Quixote, your worship cannot be in your right senses! How else is 
 it possible you should scruple to marry so great a princess? Do 
 you think that fortune is to offer you at every turn such good luck 
 as this? Is my lady Dulcinea more beautiful? no, indeed, not by 
 half! nay, I could almost say she is not worthy to tie this lady’s 
 shoe-string. I am like, indeed, to get the earldom if your worship 
 stands fishing for mushrooms at the bottom of the sea! Marry, 
 marry at once, and take this kingdom that drops into your hand ; 
 and when you are a king, make me a marquis or a lord-lieutenant.”’ 
 Don Quixote, unable to endure such blasphemies against his lady 
 Dulcinea, raised his lance, and, without word or warning, let it fall 
 with such violence upon Sancho that he was laid flat on the ground ; 
 and had not Dorothea called out, entreating him to forbear, the 
 squire had doubtless been killed on the spot. ‘‘ Thinkest thou,” 
 said Don Quixote to him, after a short pause, ‘‘ base varlet! that I 
 am always to stand with my arms folded; and that there is to be 
 aothing but transgression on thy side, and forgiveness on mine? 
 Ixpectit not, excommunicated wretch! for so thou surely art, having 
 resumed to speak ill of the peerless Dulcinea. Knowest thou not, 
 rustic, slave, beggar! that were it not for the power: she infuses 
 into my arm, I should not have enough to kill a flea? Tell me, en- 
 venomed scoffer ! who, thinkest thou, hast gained this kingdom, and 
 cut off the head of this giant, and made thee a marquis (all of which 
 I look upon as done), but the valour of Dulcinea, employing my 
 arm as the instrument of her exploits? She fights, she vanquishes 
 in me; ‘in her I live and breathe, and of her I hold my life and 
 being. O, base-born villain! what ingratitude, when thou seest 
 thyself exalted from the dust of the earth to the title of a lord, to 
 make so base a return as to speak contemptuously of the hand that 
 raised thee.” 
 Sancho was not so much hurt but that he heard all his master 
 said to him; and getting up nimbly, he ran behind Dorothea’s pal~ 
 
182 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 frey; and thus sheltered, he said to him, ‘‘ Pray, sir, tell me if 
 you are resolved not to marry this princess, it is plain the kingdom 
 will not be yours—what favours then will you be able to bestow on 
 me? That is what I complain of. Marry this queen, sir, once for 
 all, now we have her, as it were, rained down upon us from heaven. 
 As to the matter of beauty, I have nothing to say to that; but if I 
 must speak the truth, I really think them both very well to pass, 
 though I never saw the lady Dulcinea.” ‘‘ How! never saw her, 
 blasphemous. traitor!” said Don Quixote; ‘‘hast thou not just 
 brought me a message from her?” ‘‘I say I did not see her so 
 leisurely,” said Sancho, ‘‘as to take particular notice of her 
 features, piece by piece; but take her altogether, she looks well 
 enough.” ‘‘ NowI pardon thee,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘and do thou 
 excuse my wrath towards thee; for first emotions are not in our 
 power.” ‘So I find,” answered Sancho; ‘‘and in me the desire of 
 talking is always a first motion, and I cannot forbear uttering at 
 once whatever comes to my tongue’s end.” ‘* Nevertheless,” quoth 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘take heed, Sancho, what thou utterest; for, ‘the 
 pitcher that goes so often to the well’—I say no more.” ‘‘ Well, 
 then,” answered Sancho, ‘‘ God is in heaven, who sees all guile, 
 and shall be judge of which does most harm, I, in not speaking 
 well, or your worship in not doing well.” ‘‘ Let there be no more 
 of this,” said Dorothea; ‘‘go, Sancho, and kiss your master’s hand, 
 and ask his pardon. Henceforward be more cautious in your 
 praises and dispraises; and speak no ill of that lady 'Toboso, of 
 whom I know no more than that I am her humble servant. Put 
 your trust in Heaven; for you shall not want an estate to live upon 
 like a prince.” Sancho went with his head hanging down, and 
 begged his master’s hand, who presented it to him with much 
 gravity ; and when he had kissed it, Don Quixote gave him his 
 blessing; he then begged that he would walk on before him, as he 
 wished to put some questions to him, and to have some conversa- 
 tion on affairs of great importance. Having both advanced a little 
 distance before the rest, Don Quixote said, ‘‘ Since thy return, I 
 have had no opportunity to inquire after many particulars concern- 
 ing thy embassy, and the answer thou broughtest back; and now 
 that fortune presents a favourable occasion, deny me not the 
 gratification which thou art able to bestow by such agreeable 
 communications.” ‘Ask me what questions you please, sir,” 
 answered Sancho, ‘‘I warrant I shall get out as well as I got in; 
 but I beseech your worship not to be so revengeful for the future.” 
 “*What dost thou mean, Sancho?” quoth Don Quixote. ‘‘I say so,” 
 replied Sancho, ‘‘because the blows you were pleased to bestow 
 on me.just now, were rather on account of the quarrel between us 
 the other night than for what I said against my lady Dulcinea, 
 whom I love and reverence like any relic, though she is one, only 
 inasmuch as she belongs to your worship.” ‘‘No more of that, 
 Sancho, at thy peril.” said, Don Quixote, ‘‘for it offends me; I 
 forgave thee before, and thou knowest the saying—‘ For a new sin 
 a new penance.’” At this time they saw a man coming towards 
 them, mounted upon an ass, and as he drew near, he had the 
 
SANCHO RECOVERS HIS ASS. 183 
 
 appearance of a gipsy. But Sancho Panza, who, whenever he 
 saw an ass, followed it witleyes and heart, had no sooner got a 
 glimpse of the man, than he recognized Gines de Passamonte, and, 
 by the same clue, was directed to his lost ass; it being really 
 Dapple himself on which Gines was mounted ! for in order to escape 
 discovery, and sell the animal, he had disguised himself like a gipsy, 
 as he could speak their language, among many others, as readily as 
 his native tongue. Sancho immediately called out aloud to him, 
 ** Ah, rogue Ginesillo! leave my darling, let go my life, rob me not 
 of my comfort, quit my sweetheart, leave my delight !—fly rapscal- 
 lion— fly !—get you gone, thief! and give up what is not your 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 own.” So much railing was not necessary; for at the first word, 
 Gines dismounted in a trice, and taking to his heels, was out of 
 sight in an instant. Sancho ran to his Dapple, and embracing him, 
 said, ‘‘ How hast thou done, my dearest Dapple, delight of my 
 eyes, my sweet companion?” Then he kissed and caressed him, 
 as if he had been a human creature. The ass held his peace, and 
 suffered himself to be thus kissed and caressed by Sancho with- 
 out answering him one word. They all came up, and wished him 
 Joy on the restoration of his Dapple ; especially Don Quixote, who 
 at the same time assured him that he should not on that account 
 revoke his order for the three colts ;'for which he had Sancho’s 
 hearty thanks. 
 
 >. 
 
- 1840 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 In the meantime the priest commended Dorothea for her ingenu- 
 ity in the contrivance of her story, for its conciseness, and its re- 
 semblance to the narrations in books of chivalry. She said she had 
 often amused herself with such kind of books, but that she did not 
 know much of geography, and therefore had said at a venture that 
 she landed at Ossuna. ‘‘So I conjectured,” said the priest; ‘‘ and 
 therefore I corrected your mistake. But is it not strange to see 
 
 _ how readily this unhappy gentleman believes all these fictions, only 
 _ because they resemble the style and manner of his absurd books ?”’ 
  “Ttisindeed extraordinary,” said Cardenio, ‘‘ and so unprecedented 
 that I much question whether any one could be found possessed 
 of ingenuity enough to invent and fabricate such a character.” 
 ‘‘There is another thing remarkable,” said the priest, ‘‘ which 
 is, that except on that particular subject, this good gentleman can 
 discourse very rationally, and seems to have a clear judgment and 
 an excellent understanding.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXL 
 
 Of the relishing conversation which passed between Don Quixote ane 
 his squire Sancho Panza, with other incidents, 
 
 They were thus pursuing their conversation while Don Quixote 
 
 proceeded in his with Sancho. ‘‘ Let us forget, friend Panza, what 
 is past; and tell me now, all rancour and animosity apart, where, 
 how, and when didst thou find Dulcinea? What was she doing? 
 What didst thou say to her? What answer did she return? How 
 did she look when ske read my letter? Who transcribed it for 
 thee? Tell me all that is worth knowing, inquiring, or answering. 
 Inform me of all, without adding or diminishing aught to deprive me 
 of any satisfaction.” ‘‘Sir,” answered Sancho, ‘‘to say the truth, 
 nobody transcribed the letter for me ; for I carried no letter at all.” 
 ‘Thou sayest true,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘ for I found the pocket- 
 book in which I wrote it two days after thy departure; which 
 troubled me exceedingly; and I thought thou wouldst return for 
 it.’ ‘So I should have done,” answered Sancho, ‘‘ had I not got 
 it by heart, when your worship read it tome; and so perfectly that 
 I repeated it to a parish clerk, who wrote it down so exactly that 
 ‘he said, though he had read many letters of excommunication, he 
 had never in all his life seen or read so pretty a letter.” ‘‘ And 
 hast thou it still by heart, Sancho?” said Don Quixote. ‘‘No, 
 sir,” answered Sancho; ‘‘for after I had delivered it, seeing it was 
 to be of no further use, I forgot it on purpose. If I remember 
 anything, itis ‘subterrane,’ I mean ‘ sovereign’ lady, and the con- 
 clusion, ‘thine until death, the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure ;’ 
 and between these two things I put above three hundred souls, 
 and lives, and dear eyes.” <n 
 
 This is very well—proceed,” said Don Quixote. ‘‘On thy 
 arrival, what was that queen of beauty doing? I suppose thou 
 
SANCHO’S NEWS OF DULCINEA. 185 
 
 foundest her stringing pearls, or embroidering some device with 
 threads of gold’ for this her captive knight.” ‘‘No, faith!” 
 answered Sancho, ‘‘I found her winnowing two bushels of wheat 
 in a back-yard of her house.” ‘‘Then be assured,” said Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘that the grains of that wheat were so many grains of 
 pearl, when touched by her hands. And didst thou observe, friend, 
 whether the wheat was fine or of the ordinary sort?” ‘‘It was 
 neither,” answered Sancho, ‘‘but of the reddish kind.” ‘‘ Rely 
 upon it, however,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘that when winnowed by 
 her hands, it made the finest manchet bread—but go on. When 
 thou gavest her my letter, did she kiss it? Did she put it upon 
 her head? Did she use any ceremony worthy of such a letter ?—or 
 what did she do?” ‘‘ When I was going to give it to her,” an- 
 swered Sancho, ‘‘she was so busy winnowing a good sievefull of the 
 wheat, that she said to me, ‘ Lay the letter, friend, upon that sack ; 
 for { cannot read it until I have done what I am about.’” ‘‘ Dis- 
 creet lady,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘this was assuredly that she might 
 read and enjoy it at leisure! Proceed Sancho; while thus em- 
 ployed, what discourse had she with thee?—what did she inquire 
 concerning me? And what didst thou answer? Tell me all, omit 
 not the slightest circumstance.” ‘‘She asked me nothing,” said 
 Sancho; ‘‘ but I told her how your worship was doing penance for 
 her service, among these rocks, naked from the waist upwards, just 
 like a savage: sleeping on the ground, not eating bread on a nap- 
 kin, nor combing your beard, weeping, and cursing your fortune.” 
 ‘*In saying that I cursed my fortune, thou saidst wrong,” quoth 
 Don Quixote: ‘*‘I rather bless it, and shall bless it all the days of 
 my life, for having made me worthy to love so high a lady as Dul- 
 cinea del Toboso.” ‘‘So high, indeed,” answered Sancho, ‘‘ that, 
 in good faith, she is a hand taller than I am.” ‘*Why, how! 
 Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘hast thou measured with her?” 
 “* Yes,” answered Sancho; ‘‘ for as I was helping her to put a sack 
 of wheat upon an ass, we came so close together that I noticed she 
 was taller than I by more than a full span.” ‘‘ True,” replied Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘and is not this uncommon stature adorned by millions 
 of intellectual graces? One thing, Sancho, thou canst not deny; 
 when near her, thou must have perceived a Sabzean odour, an aro- 
 matic fragance, a something sweet, for which I cannot find a name 
 —a scent, a perfume—as if thou wert in the shop of some curious 
 
 glover.” ‘All I can say is,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘that I perceived 
 y 1 P 4 
 
 somewhat of a strong smell, which must have been owing to the 
 sweat she was in with hard work.” ‘‘ Impossible!” cried Don 
 Quixote; ‘‘ that smell must have proceeded from thyself: for well 
 I know the scent of that lovely rose among thorns, that lily of the 
 valley, that liquid amber.” ‘‘ Very likely,” answered Sancho ; 
 ‘‘for the very same smell often comes from me, which methought 
 then came from my lady Dulcinea.” ‘‘ Well, then,” continued 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘ she has now done winnowing, and the corn is sent 
 to the mill. What did she do when she had read the letter?” ‘‘'The 
 letter,” quoth Sancho, “‘she did not read; for she said that she 
 could neither read nor write; so she tore it to pieces, saying she 
 
 / 
 
186 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 would not give it to anybody to read, that her secrets might not be 
 known all over the village; and that what I had told her by word 
 of mouth concerning your worship’s love, and all you were doing 
 for her sake was enough ; and she bid me tell your worship that 
 she kissed your hands, and that she would rather see you than 
 write to you; so begged and commanded you, at sight hereof, to 
 quit those brakes and bushes, and leave off these foolish pranks, 
 and set out immediately for Toboso, if business of more consequence 
 did not prevent you: for she wished mightily to see your worship. 
 She laughed heartily, when I told her how you called yourself the 
 Knight of the Sorrowful Figure. I asked her whether the Bis- 
 cayan had been there with her; she told me he had, and that he 
 was a very good kind of fellow. I asked her also after the galley- 
 slaves, but she had not yet seenany of them.” ‘‘ All this is well,” 
 said Don Quixote ; ‘‘ but, tell me, what jewel did she present thee 
 with at thy departure, in return for the tidings thou hadst brought 
 her; for it is an ancient and universal custom among knights and 
 ladies errant to bestow some rich jewel on the squires, damsels, or 
 dwarfs who bring them news of their mistresses or knights, as a 
 reward of acknowledgment of their welcome intelligence.” ‘‘ Very 
 likely,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘and a good custom it was; but it must 
 have been in days of yore, for now-a-days the custom is to give 
 only a piece of bread and cheese, for that was what my lady Dul- 
 cinea gave me, over the pales of the yard, when she dismissed me ; 
 and, by the way, the cheese was made of sheep’s milk.” ‘‘She is 
 extremely generous,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘and if she did not give 
 thee a jewel, it must have been because she had none about her; 
 but gifts are good after Haster.* I shall see her, and all will then 
 be rectified.” 
 
 ‘¢ But I marvel at one thing, Sancho, which is, that thou must 
 have gone and returned through the air; for thou hast been little 
 more than three days in performing this journey, although the dis- 
 tance between this place and Toboso is more than thirty leagues ; 
 whence I conclude that the sage enchanter who has the superin- 
 tendence of my affairs (for such an one there is, or I should be no 
 true knight-errant)—I say, this same enchanter must have expe- 
 dited thy journey ; for there are sages who will take up a knight- 
 errant sleeping in his bed, and, without his knowing anything of 
 the matter, he awakes the next day above a thousand leagues from 
 the place where he fell asleep. Indeed, were it otherwise it would 
 be impossible for knights-errant to succour each other, as they often 
 do, in the critical moment of danger. A knight, for instance, hap- 
 pens to be fighting in the mountains of Armenia with some dread- 
 ful monster, or fierce goblin, or some other knight; he has the 
 worst of the combat, and is just upon the point of being killed, 
 when suddenly another knight, his friend, who perhaps a moment 
 before was in England, comes upon a cloud, or in a fiery chariot, 
 and rescues him from death; and on the same evening he finds 
 himself in his own chamber, supping with a good appetite, after a 
 
 * A proverbial expression, signifying that a good thing is always seasonable. 
 
SANCHO’S DISINTERESTED ADVICE. 187 
 
 journey of two or three thousand leagues. And all this is effected 
 by the diligence and skill of those sage enchanters. So that, friend 
 Sancho, I make no difficulty in believing that thou hast really per- 
 formed the journey in that short time; having, doubtless, been 
 borne unconsciously through the air by some friendly power.” 
 “‘It may be so,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘for, in good faith, Rozinante 
 went like any Bohemian’s ass with quicksilver in his ears.”* 
 ‘* With quicksilver,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘ ay, and with a legion of 
 demons to boot; a sort of cattle that travel and make others travel 
 as fast as they please without being tired. But waiving this sub- 
 ject for the present, what thinkest thou I should do respecting my 
 lady’s orders that I should wait upon her? Iam bound to obey 
 her commands, yet how is it possible, on account of the boon I 
 have promised to the princess? The laws of chivalry oblige me to 
 consider my honour rather than my pleasure. On the one hand, I 
 am torn with impatience to see my lady; on the other, I am in- 
 cited by glory to the accomplishment of this enterprise. My best 
 plan, I believe, will be to travel with all possible expedition, cut off 
 the giant’s head, replace the princess on her throne, and then in- 
 stantly return to that sun which illumines my senses, who will par- 
 don a delay which was only to augment her fame and glory; since 
 al] my victories, past, present, and to come, are but emanations from 
 her favour.” 
 
 “* Alack!” cried Sancho, ‘‘ your worship must needs be down- 
 right crazy! Tell me, pray, do you mean me to take this journey 
 for nothing? And will you let slip such a match as this, when the 
 dowry is a kingdom, which, they say, is about twenty thousand 
 leagues round, and abounding in all things necessary for the sup- 
 port of life, and bigger than Portugal and Castile together? Talk 
 no more in this manner, but follow my advice, and be married out 
 of hand at the first place where there is a priest ; our licentiate here 
 will do it very cleverly. And please to recollect, I am old enough 
 to give advice, and what I now give is as fit as if it were cast in a 
 mould for you: for a sparrow in the hand is worth more than a 
 bustard on the wing: and he that will not when he may, when he 
 would, he shall have nay.” ‘‘ Hear me, Sancho,” replied Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘if thou advisest me to marry, only that I may have it in 
 my power to reward thee, be assured that I can gratify thy desire 
 without taking such a measure; before the battle I will make an 
 agreement to possess part of the kingdom without marrying the 
 princess ; and when I have it to whom dost thou think I shall give 
 it but to thyself?” ‘* No doubt,” answered Sancho; ‘‘ but pray, 
 sir, take care to choose it towards the sea, that, if I should not like 
 living there, I may ship off my black subjects, and dispose of them, 
 ‘as I said before. I would not have your worship trouble yourself 
 now about seeing my lady Dulcinea, but go and kill the giant, and 
 let us make an end of this business; for, I verily believe it will 
 bring us much honour and profit.” ‘Thou art in the right, Sancho,” 
 
 * In allusion to a trick practised by the Bohemian horse-dealers, who, to give 
 
 paces to the most stupid mule, or to the idlest ass, were in the habit of pouring a 
 smal! dnanty of quicksilver into its ears. 
 
188 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 said Don Quixote, ‘* and I shall follow thy counsel, and accompany 
 the princess before I visit my lady Dulcinea. But I beg thou wilt 
 say nothing on the subject of our conference, not even to our com- 
 panions: for since Dulcinea is so reserved that she would not have 
 her thoughts known, it would be improper in me, or in any other 
 person, to reveal them.” ‘If so,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ why does your 
 worship send all those you conquer by your mighty arm, to present 
 themselves before my lady Dulcinea, for this is giving it under your 
 hand that you are in love with her?” ‘‘ How dull and simple thou 
 art!” said Don Quixote. ‘‘Seest thou not, Sancho, that all this 
 redounds the more to her exaltation? For thou must know, that in 
 this our style of chivalry, it is to the honour of a lady to have many 
 knights-errant, who serve her merely for her own sake, without in- 
 dulging a hope of any other reward for their zeal than the honour of 
 being admitted among the number of her knights.” ‘I have heard 
 it preached,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘that God is to be loved with this 
 kind of love, for Himself alone, without our being moved to it by 
 hope of reward, or fear of punishment ; though, for my part, J am 
 inclined to love and serve Him for what He is able to do for me.” 
 _ “Thou art no bumpkin,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘ thou sayest ever and 
 anon such apt things that one would almost think thee a scholar.” 
 ** And yet, by my faith,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘I cannot so much as read.” 
 
 While they were thus talking, Master Nicholas called aloud to 
 them to stop, as they wished to quench their thirst at a small spring 
 near the road. Don Quixote halted, much to the satisfaction of 
 Sancho, who began to be tired of telling so many lies, and was afraid 
 his master should at last catch him tripping: for although he knew 
 Dulcinea was a peasant-girl of Toboso, he had never seen her in his 
 life. Meanwhile Cardenio had put on the clothes worn by Dorothea 
 in her disguise, being better than his own. They alighted at the 
 fountain, and with the provisions which the curate had brought 
 from the inn, they all appeased their hunger. 
 
 While they were thus employed, a lad happened to pass that 
 way, who, after looking earnestly at the party, ran up to Don Quix: 
 ote, and, embracing his knees, began to weep, saying, ‘‘ Ah, dear 
 sir! does not your worship know me? Look at me well: I am 
 Andres, the lad whom you delivered from the oak to which I was 
 tied.” Don Quixote recollected him, and, taking him by the hand, 
 he thus addressed the company: ‘‘To convince you of the import- 
 ance of knights-errant in the world, in order to redress the wrongs 
 and injuries committed by insolent and wicked men, know that 
 some time since, as I was passing a wood, I heard certain cries, and 
 the voice of some person in affliction and distress. Prompted by my 
 duty, I hastened towards the place whence the voice seemed to 
 come, and I found, tied to an oak, this lad whom you see here. I 
 am rejoiced to my soul that he is present, for he will attest the truth 
 of what I tell you. He was bound, I say, to an oak-tree, naked 
 from the waist upward, and a country-fellow, whom I afterwards 
 found to be his master, was lashing him with a bridle. I immedi- 
 ately demanded the reason of so severea chastisement. The clown 
 answered that he was his servant, whom he was punishing for ne- 
 
BENEFITS OF KNIGHT-ERRANTRY. 189 
 
 glect, proceeding rather from knavery than simplicity. ‘Sir,’ said 
 the boy, ‘he whips me only because I ask him for my wages.’ The 
 master, in reply, made many speeches and excuses, which I heard 
 indeed, but did not admit. In short, I compelled him to unbind 
 the youth, and made him swear to take him home, and pay every 
 real, perfumed into the bargain. Is not all this true, son Andres? 
 Didst thou not observe with what authority I commanded, and with 
 what humility he promised to do whatever I enjoined, notified, and 
 required of him? Answer boldly: relate to this company what 
 passed, that they may see the benefits resulting from the vocation 
 of knights-errant.” ‘‘ All that your worship has said is very true,” 
 answered the lad; ‘‘ but the business ended quite contrary to what 
 your worship supposes.” ‘‘ How, contrary?” replied Don Quixote: 
 ‘‘did not the rustic instantly pay thee?” ‘‘He not only did not 
 pay me,” answered the boy, ‘‘ but as soon as your worship was out 
 of the wood and we were left alone, he tied me again to the same 
 tree, and gave me so many fresh lashes that I was flayed like any 
 Saint Bartholomew; and at every stroke he said something by way 
 of scoff or jest upon your worship, which, if I had not felt so much 
 pain, would have made me laugh. In short, he laid on in such a 
 manner that I have been ever since in an hospital, to get cured of the 
 bruises that cruel fellow then gave me: for all which your worship 
 is to blame, for had you gone on your way, and not come when you 
 were not called, nor meddled with other folks’ business, my master 
 would have been satisfied with giving me a dozen or two of lashes, 
 and then would have loosed me, and paidme mydue. But, as your 
 worship abused him so unmercifully, and called him so many bad 
 names, his wrath was kindled; and, not having it in his power to 
 be revenged on you, no sooner had you left him than he discharged 
 such a tempest upon me that I shall never be a man again while I 
 live.” 
 
 “‘The mischief,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ was in my departing before 
 I had seen you paid; for I should have known, by long experience, 
 that no rustic will keep his word, if he finds it his interest to break 
 it. But thou mayest remember, Andres, that I swore if he paid 
 thee not I would hunt him out although he were concealed in a 
 whale’s belly.” ‘‘ That is true,” quoth Andres; ‘‘ but it signified 
 nothing.” ‘Thou shalt see that,” said Don Quixote: and so say- 
 ing, he started up, and ordered Sancho to bridle Rozinante, who 
 was grazing. Dorothea asked him what he intended todo? He 
 told her that he was going in search of the rustic, to chastise him 
 for his base conduct, and make him pay Andres to the last farthing, 
 in spite and defiance of all the rustics in the world. She desired he 
 would recollect, that according to the promised boon, he could not 
 engage in any other adventure until hers had been accomplished ; 
 and, as no one could be more sensible of this than himself, she en- 
 treated him to curb his resentment until his return from her king- 
 dom. ‘You are right,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘and Andres 
 must, as you say, madam, have patience until my return; and [ 
 again swear not to rest until he is revenged and paid.” ‘‘TI do not 
 think much of these oaths,” said Andres: ‘‘I would rather have 
 
190 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 wherewithal to carry me to Seville than all the revenges in the 
 world, If you have anything to give me to eat, let me have it, and 
 Heaven be with your worship, and with all knights-errant, and may 
 they prove as lucky errants to themselves as they have been to me.” 
 Sancho pulled out a piece of bread and cheese, and, giving it to the 
 lad, said to him, ‘‘ Here, brother Andres, we have all a share in 
 your misfortune.” ‘‘Why, what share have you in it?” said 
 Andres. ‘‘This piece of bread and cheese which I give you,” an- 
 swered Sancho, ‘‘J know not whether I may not want 1t myself; for 
 I would have you know, friend, that we squires to knights-errant 
 are subject to much hunger and ill-luck, and other things too, 
 which are better felt than told.” Andres took the bread and cheese, 
 and, seeing that nobody else gave him anything, he made his bow 
 and marched off. It is true, he said at parting to Don Quixote, 
 ‘‘Signor knight-errant, if you ever meet me again, though you see 
 me beaten to pieces, do not come with your help, but leave me to 
 my fate, which cannot be so bad but that it will be made worse by 
 your worship, whom a plague take with all the knights-errant that 
 ever were born!” So saying, he ran off with so much speed that 
 nobody attempted to follow him. Don Quixote was much abashed 
 at this affair of Andres, and his companions endeavoured to restrain 
 their inclination to laugh, that they might not put him quite out of 
 countenance. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 Which treats of what befell Don Quixote and his company at the inn. 
 
 Leaving the fountain, after having made a hearty repast, they 
 forthwith mounted, and without encountering any adventure worth 
 relating, arrived the next day at the inn, so much the dread and 
 ‘terror of Sancho Panza, who now, much against his will, was 
 obliged to enter it. The hostess, the host, their daughter, and 
 Maritornes, seeing Don Quixote and his squire, went out to meet 
 and welcome them. The knight received them with a grave, but 
 approving countenance, desiring them to prepare a better bed than 
 they had given him before; to which the hostess answered, that 
 provided he would pay better than he did before, she would get him 
 a bed for a prince. Don Quixote having satisfied them by his 
 promises, they provided him with a tolerable bed, in the same 
 apartment which he had before occupied; and, being so much 
 shattered both in body and brains, he immediately threw himself 
 down upon it. He was no sooner shut into his chamber, but the 
 hostess fell upon the barber, and, taking him by the beard, said, 
 ‘* By my faith, you shall use my tail no longer for a beard: give me 
 my tail again, for my husband’s comb is so thrown about that it is 
 a shame.” The barber would not part with it for all her tugging, 
 until the licentiate told him that he might give it to her; for as 
 there was no farther need of that artifice, he might now appear in his 
 own shape, and tell Don Quixote, that being robbed by the galley- 
 
»* 
 BOOKS OF KNrvanT-EXNANTRY. 191 
 
 slaves, he had fled to this inn: and if he should ask for the princess’s 
 squire, they should say she had despatched him before, with intell- 
 gence to her subjects of her approach with their common deliverer. 
 Upon which the barber willingly surrendered the tail to the hostess, 
 together with the other articles she had lent them in order to effect 
 Don Quixote’s enlargement. All the people at the inn were struck 
 with the beauty of Dorothea, and the comely person of Cardenio. 
 The priest ordered them to get ready what the house afforded, and 
 the host, hoping to be well paid, quickly served up a decent supper. 
 Don Quixote still continued asleep, and they agreed not to awake 
 him; for at that time he had more occasion for sleep than food. 
 
 During the supper, at which the host and his family were present, 
 as well as the strangers who happened to be then at the inn, the 
 discourse turned upon the extraordinary derangement of Don 
 Quixote, and the state in which he had been found in the mountain. 
 The hostess, seeing that Sancho was not present, related to them 
 his adventure with the carrier, and also the whole story of the 
 blanket, at which they were not a little diverted. The priest 
 happening to remark that the books of chivalry which Don Quixote 
 had read had turned his brain, the innkeeper said, ‘‘I cannot con- 
 ceive how that can be; for, really, in my opinion, there is no choicer 
 reading in the world. I have three or four of them by me, with 
 some manuscripts, which in good truth have kept me alive, and 
 many others: for, in harvest time, among the reapers who take 
 shelter here during the noon-day heat, there is always some one 
 able to read, who will take up one of these books; and above thirty 
 of us place ourselves around him, and listen to him with so much 
 pleasure that it keeps away a thousand grey hairs; at least, 1 can 
 say for myself that when | hear of those furious and terrible blows 
 which the knights-errant lay on, I long to be doing as much, and 
 could sit and hear them day and night.” ‘‘I wish you did,” quoth 
 the hostess; ‘‘for I never have.a quiet moment in my house but 
 when you are listening to the reading; for you are then so besotted 
 that you forget to scold.” ‘‘ Yes, indeed,” said Maritornes, ‘‘and 
 in good faith I, too, like much to hear those things ; for they are 
 very fine, especially when they tell us how such a lady and her 
 knight loved each other. Isay al! thisis pure honey.” ‘‘ And pray, 
 young damsel, what is your opinion of these matters?” said the 
 priest, addressing himself to the innkeeper’s daughter. ‘‘I do not 
 know, indeed, sir,” answered the girl; ‘‘I listen, too; and though 
 I do not understand, I take some pleasure in hearing; yet truly 
 these blows and slashes, which please my father so much, are not 
 tomy mind. [f like the complaints the knights make when they 
 are absent from their mistresses; and really sometimes they make 
 me weep for pity.” 
 
 **Then you would soon afford them relief, young gentlewoman,” 
 said Dorothea, ‘‘if they wept for you?” ‘‘1 do not know what I 
 should do,” answered the girl: ‘‘I only know that some of those 
 ladies are so cruel that their knights call them tigers and lions, and 
 a thousand other ugly names. And J cannot imagine what kind of 
 folks they must be who are so hard-hearted and unconscionable that 
 
 - 
 
192 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 rather than bestow a kind look on an honest gentleman, they will 
 let him die orrun mad. For my part, I cannot see any reason for 
 so much coyness; let them marry them, for that is what the gentle- 
 men would beat.” ‘‘ Hold your tongue, hussey,” said the hostess ; 
 ‘‘methinks you know a great deal of these matters; it does not 
 become young maidens to know or talk so much.” ‘‘ When this 
 gentleman asked me a civil question,” replied the girl, ‘‘I could do 
 no less, sure, than answer him.” ‘‘ Well, well,” said the priest; 
 ‘<but pray, landlord, let us see those books.” ‘‘ With all my heart,” 
 answered the host: and going into his chamber, he brought out ay 
 old trunk, with a padlock and chain to it, and opening it he took 
 out three large volumes, and some manuscript papers written in a 
 very fair character. The first book which he opened he found to be 
 Don Cirongilio of Thrace, the next, Felixmarte of Hyrcania, and 
 the third, the history of the Grand Captain Gonzalo Hernandez of 
 Cordova, with the life of Diego Garcia de Parades. When the 
 priest had read the titles of the two first, he turned to the barber, 
 and said, ‘‘We want here our friend’s housekeeper and niece.” 
 “‘Not at all,” replied the barber ; ‘‘ for I myself can carry them to the 
 yard, or to the chimney, where there is a very good fire.” ‘‘ What, 
 sir, would you burn my books?” said theinnkeeper. ‘‘ Only these 
 two,” said the priest, ‘‘ Don Cirongilio and Felixmarte.” ‘*‘ What, 
 then, are my books heretical or phlegmatical, that you want to 
 burn them?” ‘‘Schismatical, you would say, my friend,” said the 
 barber, ‘‘and not phlegmatical.” ‘‘ Yes, yes,” replied the inn- 
 keeper, ‘‘ but if you intend to burn any, let it be this of the great 
 Captain and Diego de Garcia ; for I will sooner let you burn one of 
 my children than either of the others.” ‘‘ Brother,” said the 
 _ priest, ‘‘these two- books are full of extravagant fictions and ab- 
 surd conceits ; whereas the history of ‘the great Captain’ 1s matter 
 of fact, and contains the exploits of Gonzalo Hernandez of Cordova, 
 who, for his numerous brave actions, acquired all over the world the 
 title of the great Captain—a name renowned and illustrious, and 
 merited by him alone. As for Diego Garcia de Parades, he was a 
 distinguished gentleman, born in the town of Truxillo in Estrama- 
 dura ; a brave soldier, and of so much bodily strength that he could 
 stop a mill-wheel in its most rapid motion with a single finger. 
 Being once posted with a two-handed sword at the entrance upon a 
 bridge, he repelled a prodigious army, and prevented their passage 
 overit. There are other exploits of the same kind, which, if instead 
 of being related by himself with the modesty of a cavalier who is 
 his own historian, they had been recorded by some other dispas- 
 sionate and unprejudiced author, would have eclipsed the actions 
 of the Hectors, Achilleses, and Orlandos.” ‘‘Persuade my grand- 
 mother to that,” quoth the innkeeper; ‘‘do but see what it is he 
 wonders at—the stopping of a mill-wheel! Your worship should 
 read what I have read, concerning Felixmarte of Hyrcania, who, 
 with one backstroke, cut asunder five giants through the middle, 
 as if they had been so many bean-cods of which the children 
 make puppet-friars. At another time he encountered a great 
 and powerful army, consisting of about a million six hundred 
 
DISCUSSION AT THE INN. 193 
 
 thousand soldiers, all armed from head to foot, and routed them as 
 if they had been a flock of sheep. But what will you say of the 
 good Don Cirongilio of Thrace? who was so stout and valiant, as 
 you may there read in the book, that once as he was sailing on a 
 river, seeing a fiery serpent rise to the surface of the water, he im- 
 mediately threw himself upon it, and getting astride its scaly 
 shoulders, squeezed its throat with both his hands, and with so much 
 force that the serpent, finding itself in danger of being choked, had 
 no other remedy but to plunge to the bottom of the river, carrying 
 with him the knight, who would not quit his hold; and when they 
 reached the bottom, he found himself in such a fine palace and 
 beautiful gardens, that it was wonderful; and presently the ser- 
 pent turned into an old man, who said so many things to him that 
 the like was never heard! Therefore, pray say no more, sir; for if 
 you were but to hear all this, you would run mad with pleasure. 
 A fig for the grand Captain, and your Diego Garcia !” 
 
 Dorothea, here whispering to Cardenio, said, ‘‘ Our landlord wants 
 but little to make the second part of Don Quixote.” ‘‘I think so, 
 too,” answered Cardenio; ‘‘for he evidently takes all that is re- 
 lated in these books for gospel, and the barefooted friars them- 
 selves could not make him believe otherwise.” ‘‘Look you, 
 brother,” said the priest, ‘‘there never was in the world such a 
 man as Felixmarte of Hyrcania, nor Don Cirontvilio of Thrace, nor 
 any other knights mentioned in books of chivalry; for all is the 
 invention of idle wits, who composed them for the purpose of that 
 amusement which you say your readers find in them. I swear to 
 you there never were such knights in the world, nor were such 
 feats and extravagances ever performed.” ‘‘To another dog with 
 that bone,” answered the host; ‘‘ what then! I do not know how 
 many make five; nor where my own shoe pinches? Do not think, 
 sir, that Iam now to be fed with pap; for lam nosuckling. A fine 
 jest, indeed, that your worship should endeavour tomake me believe 
 that the contents of these books, printed with the license of the 
 king’s privy-council, are all extravagant fables ; as if they would 
 allow the printing of a pack oflies!” ‘‘I have already told you, 
 friend,” replied the priest, ‘‘that it is done for the amusement of 
 our idle thoughts; and, as in all well-instituted commonwealths, 
 the games of chess, tennis, and billiards are permitted for the en- 
 tertainment of those who have nothing to do, and who ought not, 
 or cannot work, for the same reason they permit such books to be 
 published ; presuming, as they well may, that nobody can be so 
 ignorant as to take them for truth; and if this had been a season- 
 able time, I could lay down such rules for the composing books of 
 chivalry as should, perhaps, make them not only agreeable but even 
 useful; however, I hope an opportunity may offer for me to com- 
 municate my ideas to those who have the power to turn them to 
 account. Here, landlord, take your books; and if you will not 
 trust my word, you must settle the point of their truth or fiction 
 as you please. Much good may they do you; and Heaven grant 
 you halt not on the same foot as your guest Don Quixote.” ‘‘ Not 
 so,” answered the innkeeper, ‘‘I shall not be so mad as to turn 
 
 N 
 
194 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 knight-errant ; for I know very well that times are altered since 
 those famous knights wandered about the world.” 
 
 Sancho entered during this conversation, and was much con- 
 founded at hearing that knights-errant were not now in fashion, 
 and that all books of chivalry were mere lies and fooleries; he 
 therefore secretly resolved to await the event of his master’s pre- 
 sent expedition, determined, if it was not successful, to leave him, 
 and to return home to his wife and children, and to his accustomed 
 labour. 
 
 The innkeeper was carrying away the books, when the priest 
 said to him, ‘‘ Pray, stop till 1 have looked at those papers which 
 are written in so fair a character.”’ The host took them out, 
 and having given them to him, he found about eight sheets in 
 manuscript, with a large title-page, on which was written, ‘‘ The 
 Novel of the Curious Impertinent.” The priest having read three 
 or four lines to himself, said, ‘‘ In truth, I do not dislike the title 
 of this novel, and I feel disposed to read the whole.” ‘‘ Your rever- 
 ence will do well,” answered the innkeeper ; ‘‘ for I assure you that 
 some of my guests who have read it liked it mightily, and earnestly 
 begged it of me; but I would not give it them, meaning to restore 
 it to the person who left behind him the portmanteau with these books 
 and papers. Perhaps their owner may come this way again some time 
 or other; and though I shall feel the loss of the books, I will faith- 
 fully restore them ; for though I am an innkeeper, thank Heaven I 
 am a Christian.” ‘‘ You are much in the right, friend,” said the 
 priest; ‘‘nevertheless, if the novel pleases me, you must give me 
 leave to take a copy of it.” ‘‘ With all my heart,” answered the 
 innkeeper. In the meantime, Cardenio had taken up the novel, 
 and being likewise pleased with what he saw, he requested the 
 priest to read it aloud. ‘‘I will,” said the priest, ‘“‘ unless you 
 think we had better spend our time in sleeping.” ‘‘ I would rather 
 listen to some tale,” said Dorothea; ‘‘for my spirits are not so 
 tranquil as to allow me to sleep.” Master Nicholas expressed the 
 same inclination. ‘‘ Well, then,” said the priest, ‘‘I will read it; 
 for I myself feel a little curiosity, and possibly it may yield us 
 some amusement. So listen to me good people. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 The dreadful battle which Don Quixote fought with the wine-bags. 
 
 The novel was nearly finished, when Sancho Panza, full of dis- 
 may, came running out of Don Quixote’s chamber, crying aloud, 
 “Run, gentlemen, quickly, and succour my master who is over head 
 and ears in the toughest battle my eyes ever beheld. He has given 
 the giant, that enemy of the Princess Micomicona, such a stroke 
 that he has cut his head as clean off his shoulders as if it had been 
 a turnip!” ‘* What say you, brother?” quoth the priest, laying 
 
 
 
BATTLE WITH THE WINE-BAGS. 195 
 
 aside the novel. ‘‘ Are you in your senses, Sancho? How can this 
 
 ossibly be, since the giant is two thousand leagues off?” At that 
 instant they heard a great noise in the room, and Don Quixote call- 
 ing aloud, ‘‘Stay, cowardly thief! robber! rogue! Here I have 
 you, and your scimitar shall avail you nothing!” Then followed 
 the sound of strokes and slashes against the walls. ‘‘ Do not stand 
 listening,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ but go in and end the fray, or help my 
 master; though by this time there will be no occasion; as [ dare 
 say the giant is dead, and giving an account to God of his past 
 wicked life; for I saw the blood run about the floor, and the head 
 cut off, lying on one side, and as big as a wine-skin.” ‘‘I will be 
 hanged,” exclaimed the innkeeper, ‘‘if Don Quixote, or Don Devil, 
 has not gashed some of the wine-skins that hung at his bed’s-head ; 
 and the wine he has spilt this fellow takes for blood.” So saying, 
 he rushed into the room, followed by the whole company ; and they 
 found Don Quixote in the strangest situation imaginable. He was 
 in his shirt, and on his head a little greasy red cap which belonged 
 to the innkeeper. About his left arm he had twisted the bed- 
 blanket (to which Sancho owed a grudge—he well knew why), and 
 in his right hand he held his drawn sword, with which he was 
 laying about him on all sides, calling out as if in actual combat ; 
 his eyes were shut, being still asleep, and dreaming that he was 
 engaged in battle with the giant; for his mind was so full of the 
 adventure which he had undertaken, that he dreamt that, having 
 reached the kingdom of Micomicon and engaged in combat with his 
 enemy, he was cleaving the giant down with a stroke that also proved 
 fatal to the wine-skins, and set the whole room ailoat with wine. 
 The innkeeper seeing this, was in such a rage, that with his clenched 
 tists, he fell so furiously upon Don Quixote, that if Cardenio and the 
 priest had not taken him off, he would have put an end to the war 
 of the giant. The barber seeing that the poor gentleman was not 
 awake, brought a large bucket of cold water, with which he soused 
 him all over ; and even that ablution did not restore him so entirely 
 as to make him sensible of his situation. Dorothea perceiving 
 how scantily he was arrayed, would not stay to see the fight between 
 her champion and his adversary. Sancho searched about the floor 
 for the head of the giant, and not finding it, he said, ‘*‘ Well, I see 
 plainly that everything about this house is enchantment; for the 
 last time I was here I had thumps and blows given me in this very 
 same place by an invisible hand; and now the head is vanished, 
 which I saw cut off with my own eyes, and the blood spouting from 
 the body like any fountain.” ‘‘ What blood, and what fountain?” 
 said the innkeeper, ‘‘ dost thou not see, fellow, that the blood and 
 the fountain are nothing but these skins ripped open, and the red 
 wine floating about the room?” ‘*So mueh the worse for me,” 
 said Sancho, ‘‘ for want of this head, I shall see my earldom melt 
 away like salt in water.” Thus Sancho awake was as wise as Don 
 Quixote asleep, his head being quite turned by his master’s pro- 
 mises. The innkeeper lost all patience at the indifference of the 
 squire and the mischievous havoc of the knight; and he swore they 
 should not escape, as they did before, without paying; and that the 
 
*, 
 196 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 privileges of his chivalry should not exempt him this time from dis- 
 charging both reckonings, even to the patching of the wine-skins. 
 Don Quixote (whose hands were held by the priest), now conceiv- 
 ing the adventure to be finished, and that he was in the presence 
 of the princess Micomicona, fell on his knees before the priest, and 
 said, ‘‘ High and renowned lady, your highness may henceforward 
 live secure of harm from that ill-born wretch. I have now dis- 
 charged the promise I gave you, since, by the assistance of Heaven, 
 and through the favour of her by whom I live and breathe, I have 
 so happily accomplished the enterprise.” ‘‘ Did not I tell you so?” 
 quoth Sancho, hearing this, ‘‘ you see I was not drunk—look if my 
 master has not already put the giant in pickle! Here are the bulls ! * 
 my earldom is cock-sure.” Who could help laughing at the absur- 
 dities of both master and man? They were all diverted except the 
 innkeeper, who swore like a trooper. At length the barber, Car- 
 denio, and the priest, with much difficulty, got Don Quixote upon 
 his bed again, where, exhausted with his labour, he slept soundly. 
 They left him to his repose, and went out to the inn-door, trying 
 to comfort Sancho for his disappointment in not finding the giant’s 
 head; but they had most trouble in pacifying the innkeeper, who 
 was in despair at the untimely death of his wine-skins. The host- 
 ess grumbled, too, muttering to herself, ‘‘In an evil hour this 
 knight-errant came into my house! O that I had never set my eyes 
 on him, for he has been a dear guest to me! The last time he went 
 away without paying his night’s reckoning for supper, bed, straw, 
 and barley, for himself, squire, his horse and ass; telling us, for- 
 sooth, that he was a knight-adventurer—evil befall him, and all the 
 adventurers in the world !—and so he was not obliged to pay anything, 
 according to the rules of knight-errantry. It was on his account, too, 
 this other gentlemancarries off my tail, which he returns me damaged 
 and good for nothing; and, after all, to rip open my skins, and let 
 out my wine—would it were his blood! But he shall not escape 
 again; for, by the bones of my father, and the soul of my mother, 
 they shall pay me down upon the nail every farthing, or Iam not my 
 father’s daughter!” Thus the hostess went on in great wrath; and 
 honest Maritornes agreed with her mistress. The daughter held 
 her peace, but now and then smiled. The priest endeavoured to 
 quiet all of them; promising to make the best reparation in his 
 power for the skins as well as the wine; and especially for the 
 damage done to the tail which they valued so much. Dorothea 
 comforted Sancho Panza, telling him that if it should really appear 
 that his master had cut off the giant’s head, she would, when 
 peaceably seated on her throne, bestow on him the best earldom in 
 her dominions. With this promise Sancho was comforted, and he 
 assured the princess that she might depend upon it he had seen the 
 giant’s head, and that it hada beard which reached down to the 
 girdle; and if it could not be found it was owing to the witchcraft 
 in that house, of which he had seen and felt enough the last time 
 they lodged there. Dorothea agreed with him; but assured him 
 
 * In allusion to the joy of the mob in Spain, when they see the bulls coming. 
 
FRESH ARRIVALS AT THE INN. 197 
 
 that all would end well and to his heart’s desire. Tranquillity 
 being now restored, the priest was requested by Cardenio, Doro- 
 thea, and the rest, to read the remainder of the novel. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 Which treats of other uncommon incidents that happened at the inn. 
 
 “Eh! by our Lady!” suddenly exclaimed the host, who was 
 standing at the inn-door, ‘‘ here comes a goodly company of guests ! 
 If they stop here we shall sing, O be joyful!” ‘‘ What are they?” 
 said Cardenio. ‘‘ Four men,” answered the host, ‘‘on horseback, 4 
 la Gineta,* with lances and targets, and black masksf on their 
 faces; and there isa woman with them, ona side-saddle, dressed in 
 white, and her face likewise covered: besides these, there are two 
 lads on foot.” ‘*‘ Are they near?” said the priest. ‘‘So near,” re- 
 plied the inn-keeper, ‘‘ that they are already at the door.” Doro- 
 thea, hearing this, veiled her face, and Cardenio retired to Don 
 Quixote’s chamber. When the persons mentioned by the host en- 
 tered the yard, the four horsemen (who appeared to be gentlemen), 
 having alighted, went to assist the lady to dismount; and one of 
 them taking her in his arms, placed her in a chair near the door of 
 the chamber to which Cardenio had retired. During all this time 
 not one of the party had taken off their masks, or spoken a 
 word. The lady, when seated in a chair, heaved a deep sigh, and 
 her arms hung listlessly down, as if she were in a weak and faint- 
 ing state. When the servants took the horses to the stable, the 
 priest followed and questioned one of them, being curious to know 
 who these people were. ‘‘In truth, signor,” replied the servant, 
 *‘T cannot tell you who they are; but they must be people of 
 quality, especially he who took the lady in his arms, because all the 
 rest pay him such respect, and do nothing but what he orders and 
 directs.” ‘‘ And the lady, pray who is she?” asked the priest. 
 ‘* Neither can I tell that,” replied the lacquey ; ‘‘ for I have not once 
 seen her face during the whole journey. I often, deed, hear her 
 sigh, and utter such groans that any one of them was enough to 
 break her heart: but it is no wonder that we cannot tell you any 
 more, as my comrade and [ have been only two days in their service ; 
 for having met us upon the road, they persuaded us to go with them 
 as far as Andalusia, and promised to pay us well.” ‘‘ Have you 
 heard any of their names?” said the priest. ‘‘ No, indeed,” 
 answered the lad, ‘‘for they all travel in so much silence we hear 
 nothing but the sighs and sobs of the poor lady, which move our 
 pity; and wheresoever she is going, we suspect itis against her 
 will. From her habit, she must be a nun, or perhaps going to be 
 made one, and not from her own choice, which makes her so 
 
 * A mode of riding with short stirrups, which the Spaniards took from the Arabs 
 
 + A piece of thin black silk worn before the face in travelling, not for disguise 
 but to keep off the dust and sun. 
 
198 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 sorrowful.” ‘‘ Very likely,” quoth the priest; and then leaving 
 them, he returned to the room where he had left Dorothea, whose 
 compassion being excited by the sighs of the masked lady, she 
 approached her, and said, ‘‘ You seem in distress, dear madam; 
 if it be in the power of woman to render you any service, most 
 willingly I offer you mine.” The afflicted lady returned no answer ; 
 and although Dorothea renewed her offers, she persisted in her 
 silence, until the cavalier in the mask, who seemed to be superior 
 of the party, came up and said to Dorothea, ‘‘ Trouble not your- 
 self, madam, to offer anything to this woman; for she is very 
 ungrateful; nor endeavour to get au answer from her, unless you 
 _ wish to hear some falsehood.” ‘‘No,” said the lady, who had 
 hitherto been silent, ‘‘on the contrary, it is from my aversion to 
 falsehood that I am thus wretched ; for it is my truth alone which 
 makes you act so false and treacherous a part.” 
 
 These words were distinctly heard by Cardenio, who was very 
 near to the speaker, being separated only by the door of Don 
 Quixote’s chamber; and on hearing them, he cried aloud, ‘‘ What 
 do I hear? what voice is that which has reached my ears?” The 
 lady in much surprise, turned her head at these exclamations; and 
 not seeing who uttered them, she started up, and was going into 
 the room, when the cavalier detained her, and would not suffer her 
 to move a step. In this sudden commotion her mask fell off, and 
 discovered a face of incomparable beauty, although pale and full of 
 terror; for she looked wildly around her, examining every place 
 with so much eagerness that she seemed distracted, and excited the 
 sympathy of Dorothea and others of the party, who could not con- 
 jecture the cause of her agitation. The cavalier held her fast by 
 the shoulders, and his hands being thus engaged he could not keep 
 on his mask, which at length fell to the ground, and Dorothea, who 
 also had her arms round the lady, raising her eyes, discovered in 
 the stranger—her husband, Don Fernando! when instantly, witha 
 long and dismal Oh! she fell backward in a swoon; and had not 
 the barber, who stood close by, caught her in his arms, she would 
 have fallen to the ground. ‘The priest then hastily removed her 
 veil to throw water in her face; upon which Don Fernando 
 recognised her, and seemed petrified at the sight. Nevertheless, he 
 still kept his hold of Lucinda, who was the lady that was endeav- 
 ouring to release herself from him ; for she knew Cardenio’s voice, 
 and he well recollected hers. The groan of Dorothea when she 
 fainted was also heard by Cardenio, who, believing it came from 
 his Lucinda, rushed into the room, and the first object he saw was 
 Don Fernando, holding Lucinda in his arms. They all gazed upon 
 each other in silence; for none seemed able to utter a word. 
 Lucinda was the first who recovered the power of speech, and she 
 thus addressed Don Fernando, ‘‘ Let me go, my lord ; I entreat 
 you, as you are a gentleman, that you will suffer me to fly to the 
 protection of him from whom in vain you have endeavoured to 
 separate me. See how mysteriously Heaven has conducted me 
 into the presence of my true husband! You well know, by a 
 thousand proofs, that nothing can shake the faith I have pyedaed 
 

 
 THE RECONCILIATION. 199 
 
 to him. Cease, therefore, your fruitless persecution, or let your 
 love be converted into rage, and destroy me; for then, at least, I 
 shall die in the presence of my beloved, who by my death, will be 
 convinced of my inviolable fidelity.” 
 
 Dorothea, in the meantime, had recovered her senses, and hear- 
 ing what Lucinda said, she conjectured who she was. Seeing that 
 Don Fernando still held her, she approached him, and threw her- 
 self at his feet, her lovely face bathed in tears. ‘‘ Ah, my lord!” 
 said she, ‘‘ were you not dazzled by that beauty in your arms, you 
 would see the unhappy Dorothea, who is now prostrate at your 
 feet. Iam that humble country girl whom you vouchsafed to call 
 yours; she who lived a happy and modest life, until, seduced by 
 your importunities, and the apparent sincerity of your affection, she 
 resigned her liberty to you. How you requited her is now too 
 manifest ! But do not think that I have followed the path of dis- 
 honour; grief and misery alone have attended my steps since your 
 cruel desertion. When I was persuaded to bind myself to you, it 
 was with ties that, changed as your sentiments may be, can never 
 be dissolved. Ah, my lord! will not my tenderness compensate 
 for the beauty and rank of her for whom you abandon me? Recol- 
 lect that you are mine, and that Lucinda belongs to Cardenio ; 
 surely it will be easier for you to revive your own love towards her 
 who adores you, than to inspire with love her who hates you. You 
 were not ignorant of my condition when I consented to become 
 yours on honourable terms: then, as you are a Christian and a 
 gentleman, I claim the fulfilment of your promise, for I am your 
 true and lawful wife. Still, if you refuse to acknowledge me, pro- 
 tect me as your slave, and I will submit; but do not abandon me 
 to the world,—do not afflict the declining years of my parents, who 
 have ever been your faithful vassals. Think not of their meanness 
 —for rank is not essential in a wife; besides, true nobility consists 
 in. virtue, and if you forfeit that by wronging me, you degrade 
 yourself below me. But however you may please to act towards 
 me, my lord, I am still your wife—witness your words, witness 
 your letters, and witness Heaven, whom you called upon to sanctify 
 our mutual vows! Lastly, I appeal to your conscience, which 
 will embitter with self-reproach every enjoyment of your life, if you 
 fail to listen to its dictates.” 
 
 The afflicted Dorothea urged these and other arguments in so 
 affecting a manner that she excited the most lively interest in all 
 present. Don Fernando listened in silence to her words, which 
 were followed by such bursts of overwhelming grief, that no human 
 heart could witness it without emotion. Lucinda longed to com- 
 fort her, and condole with her, but she was still detained. Don 
 Fernando at length suddenly disengaged his arms from her, after 
 having gazed awhile on Dorothea, ‘‘ You have conquered, fair 
 Dorothea!” he exclaimed,—‘‘ you have conquered. There is no 
 resisting you.” 
 da was so faint when released from Don Fernando’s em- 
 brace, that she was just falling to the ground; but Cardenio has- 
 
 
 
  tened to her support. ‘‘These arms,” said he, ‘shall protect thee, 
 
 
 
 | 
 
200 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 my beloved, my faithful mistress! Heaven grant you may now 
 find repose!” Lucinda looked up, to be assured that it was indeed 
 her Cardenio, and on seeing his beloved face, regardless of forms, 
 she threw her arms around his neck, and embraced him with the 
 utmost tenderness. ‘‘ Oh, Cardenio! you are my true Jord! What- 
 ever the fates may condemn me to suffer, I am for ever yours !” 
 This was an affecting scene to all present. Dorothea watched 
 Don Fernando, and fearing that he meditated revenge on Cardenio, 
 as he looked agitated, and put his hand to his sword, she clung 
 around him, embracing his knees, and said to him, ‘‘ What means 
 my love, my only refuge? Behold your true wife at your feet! 
 Lucinda is in the arms of her husband, and even in your presence 
 bedews his bosom with tears of love; how then can you think of 
 uniting yourself to her! For Heaven’s sake, and the honour of 
 your name, let their declarations of mutual affection, instead of 
 moving your wrath, induce you to leave them unmolested, to pass 
 their lives happily together ; you will thus show to the world that 
 you are not governed by your passions, but have a noble, generous 
 
 - -mind;*; 
 
 While Dorothea spoke, Cardenio kept his eyes fixed on Don Fer- 
 nando, and was prepared to defend himself if assaulted by him. 
 But that nobleman was now surrounded by the whole party, not 
 excepting honest Sancho, who all interceded for Dorothea ; and the 
 priest represented to him that so singular a meeting must not be 
 ascribed to chance, but to the special providence of Heaven. He 
 begged him also to consider how vain would be the attempt to separate 
 Cardenio and Lucinda, who would be happy even to die proving each 
 other’s faith; and how prudent as well as noble it would be in 
 him to triumph over his passion, and freely leave the two lovers to 
 enjoy the happiness of mutual affection; that he should turn to 
 the lovely Dorothea, who had such strong claims upon him, not 
 only on account of her extreme tenderness for him, but the pro- 
 mises he had made to her, which, asa Christian and a man of honour, 
 he was bound to perform ; adding to these arguments, that it would 
 be no derogation to his rank to elevate beauty adorned with virtue. 
 
 These truths, so forcibly urged, were not lost upon the mind of 
 Don Fernando, who embraced Dorothea, saying, ‘‘ Rise, my dear 
 lady, for that is not a posture for the mistress of my soul; and if 
 J have offended against you, surely it has been by the will of 
 Heaven, that I might know your true value, by such proofs of your 
 constancy and affection. I only entreat that you will not reproach 
 me for my involuntary offence, but look at the now happy Lucinda, 
 and her eyes will plead my excuse. May she enjoy long years of 
 happiness with her Cardenio, and Heaven grant me the same 
 with my Dorothea!” Again he pressed her to his heart, and could 
 scarcely forbear showing his emotions of tenderness and repentance 
 by tears; indeed, all the company present were so much affected, 
 that their tears of sympathy might have been mistaken for those 
 of sorrow. Even Sancho Panza wept; though he owned afterwards 
 that it was only because Dorothea turned not out to be the queen 
 Micomicona who was to have made his fortune. Cardenio and 
 
 ‘2 
 
DON FERNANDO’S NARRATIVE. 201 
 
 Lucinda expressed their acknowledgments to Don Fernando for his 
 present conduct, in so feeling a manner, that he was too much 
 moved to find words to reply to them. 
 
 Dorothea being now questioned by Don Fernando as to the cir- 
 cumstances which had brought her to that place, she gave a brief 
 detail of what she had before related to Cardenio; and so interest- 
 ing was her narrative te Don Fernando and his party, and so grace- 
 ful her delivery, that they even regretted when the story of her 
 misfortunes was ended. Don Fernando then related what he had 
 done after finding in Lucinda’s bosom the paper declaring herself 
 the wife of Cardenio. He confessed that his first impulse was to 
 take her life, and that he should actually have done so, had he not 
 been prevented by her parents ; upon which he immediately quitted 
 the house, full of shame and fury, determined to seize the first op- 
 portunity of revenge. On the following day he heard that she had 
 left her father’s house, concealing the place of her retreat; but 
 after some months he discovered that she had retired to a convent, 
 whither he immediately pursued her, accompanied by the three 
 gentlemen then present. He then watched an opportunity when 
 the convent gate was open to make his entrance, leaving two of his 
 companions to secure the gate; and having found Lucinda walking 
 in the cloisters, attended only by a nun, they seized her, and bore 
 her away to a place where they had prepared every accommodation 
 necessary for their project. Lucinda, he said, had fainted on see- 
 ing herself in his power, and when her senses returned, she wept 
 and sighed, but never spoke a single word. Thus, in silence and 
 sorrow, they had reached that inn, which, he trusted, was the goal 
 of all their earthly misfortunes. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXYV. 
 
 Wherein is continued the history of the famous Infanta Micomicona, 
 with other pleasant adventures, 
 
 Sancho experienced no small grief of mind on thus seeing all his 
 hopes of preferment fast disappearing and vanishing into smoke, by 
 the transformation of the fair Princess Micomicona into Dorothea, 
 and the giant into Don Fernando; while his master, unconscious of 
 what was passing, lay wrapped in profound sleep. Dorothea could 
 not be certain whether the happiness she enjoyed was not a dream ; 
 and Cardenio and Lucinda entertained the same doubts. Don 
 Fernando gave thanks to Heaven for having delivered him from a 
 perilous situation, in which his honour as well as his soul were in 
 imminent danger. In short, all were pleased at the happy con- 
 clusion of such intricate and hopeless affairs. The priest, like a 
 man of sense, placed everything in its true light, and congratulated 
 each upon their share of the good fortune that had befallen them. 
 But the landlady was more delighted than all; as Cardenio and 
 
202 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the priest had promised to pay her with interest for every loss she 
 had sustained upon Don Quixote’s account. 
 
 Sancho alone was afflicted, unhappy, and full of sorrow; and, 
 with dismal looks, he went in to his master, just then awake, to 
 whom he said, ‘‘ Your worship may sleep on, signor sorrowful 
 figure, without troubling yourself about killing any giant, or re- 
 storing the princess to her kingdom, for that is already done and 
 over.” ‘‘I verily believe it,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ for I have 
 had the most monstrous and dreadful battle with the giant that 
 ever I expect to have in the whole course of my life; with one 
 back stroke I tumbled his head to the ground, and so great was the 
 quantity of blood that gushed from it, that the stream ran along 
 the ground like a torrent of water.” ‘‘ Like red wine, your wor- 
 ship might better say,” answered Sancho; ‘‘for I can tell you, if 
 you do not know it already, that the dead giant is a pierced wine- 
 skin, and the blood eighteen gallons of red wine contained in the 
 belly.” ‘‘ What sayest thou, fool?” replied Don Quixote. ‘‘ Art 
 thou in thy senses?” ‘‘ Pray, get up, sir,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘and 
 you will see what a fine day’s work you have made, and what a 
 reckoning we have to pay; and you will see, too, the queen con- 
 verted into a private lady called Dorothea, with other matters, 
 which, if you take them rightly, will astonish you.” ‘‘I shall 
 wonder at nothing,” replied Don Quixote: ‘‘ for, thou mayest re- 
 member, the last time we were here, I told thee that all things in 
 this place went by enchantment; and there can be nothing sur- 
 prising in it if this were the case again.” ‘‘ I should believe so, too,” 
 answered Sancho, ‘‘if my being tossed in the blanket had been a 
 matter of this nature: but it was downright real and true; and I 
 saw the very same innkeeper hold a corner of the blanket, and cant 
 me towards heaven with notable alacrity, laughing, too, all the time ; 
 and where it happens that we know persons, in my opinion (simple 
 and a sinner as I am), there is no enchantment at all, but much 
 misusage and much mishap.” ‘‘ Well, Heaven will remedy it,” 
 ~quoth Don Quixote: ‘‘ give me my clothes, that I may go and see 
 the events and transformations thou hast mentioned.” 
 
 Sancho reached him his apparel: and while he was dressing, the 
 priest gave Don Fernando and his companions an account of Don 
 Quixote’s madness, and of the artifice they had used to get him 
 from the barren mountain to which he had imagined himself 
 banished through his lady’s disdain. He related also most of the 
 adventures which Sancho had communicated to them, to their great 
 diversion and astonishment ; for they,-like others, considered it as 
 the most singular species of insanity that ever took possession of 
 the imagination. The priest said further, that since the lady 
 Dorothea’s good fortune would not permit her to prosecute their 
 design, it was necessary to contrive some other expedient to get 
 him home. Cardenio offered his assistance, and proposed that 
 Lucinda should personate Dorothea. ‘‘ No,” said Don Fernando, 
 ‘*it must not be so; for I will have Dorothea herself proceed in her 
 pert and as this good gentleman’s village is not far distant, I shall 
 
 glad to contribute to his cure.” ‘It is not above two days’ 
 
¥ 
 
 HIS DISUUUKSE. 2038 
 
 journey,” said the priest. ‘‘If it were further,” said Don Fer- 
 nando, ‘‘I would undertake it with pleasure for so good a pur- 
 ose.” 
 
 : Don Quixote now came forth, clad in all his armour; Mambrino’s 
 helmet, though bruised and battered, on his head; his target 
 braced, and resting on his sapling or lance. His strange appear- 
 ance greatly surprised Don Fernando and his company, who failed 
 not to observe his long and withered visage of sallow hue, his ill- 
 matched armour, and measured pace. ‘They paused in silent ex- 
 pectation of hearing him speak, when, with much gravity and 
 solemnity, fixing his eyes upon the fair Dorothea, he said, ‘‘I am 
 informed, fair lady, by this my squire, that your grandeur is anni- 
 hilated, and your very being demolished; and that from a queen 
 you are metamorphosed into a private maiden. If this has been 
 done by order of the necromantic king your father, fearing lest I 
 should not afford you the necessary aid, I say he knew not one half 
 of his art, and that he was but little versed in histories of knight- 
 errantry ; for had he read them as attentively as I have read and 
 considered them, he would have known that other knights, of less 
 fame than myself, have achieved still greater difficulties—it being 
 no such mighty business to kill a pitiful giant, arrogant as he may 
 be; for not many hours are passed since I was engaged with one 
 myself,—and I say no more, lest I should be suspected of falsehood ; 
 but time, the revealer of all things, will declare it when least ex- 
 pected.” ‘‘It was with a couple of wine-skins, and not a giant,” 
 quoth the innkeeper-—here he was interrupted by Don Fernando, 
 who commanded him to hold his peace, and in no wise to interrupt 
 Don Quixote’s discourse; who went on, saying, ‘‘I assure you, 
 therefore, high and disinherited lady, that if, for the cause I have 
 mentioned, your father has made this metamorphose in your person, 
 it is perfectly needless; for there is no danger upon earth through 
 which my sword shall not force a way; and by bringing down the 
 head of your enemy to the ground, shortly place upon your own the 
 crown of your kingdom.” 
 
 - Here Don Quixote ceased, and waited the answer of the princess, 
 who, knowing it to be Don Fernando’s desire that she should carry 
 on the deception until Don Quixote’s return home, with much dig- 
 nity and grace, replied, ‘‘ Whosoever told you, valorous knight of 
 the sorrowful figure, that I was changed and altered from what I 
 was, spoke not the truth; for I am the same to-day that I was 
 yesterday. It is true, indeed, that certain events, fortunate be- 
 yond my hopes, have befallen me since then, yet I do not cease to 
 be what I was before, and to entertain the same thoughts I have 
 ever indulged of availing myself of the valour of your valiant and 
 Invincible arm. Therefore, dear sir, with your accustomed good- 
 ‘mess, do justice to the honour of my father, and acknowledge his 
 ‘wisdom and prudence, since by his skill he found out so easy and 
 certain a way to remedy my misfortunes ; for I verily believe had it 
 not been for you, sir, I should never have enjoyed my present 
 happiness; and in this I speak the exact truth, as most of these 
 gentlemen, I am sure, will testify. Let us then proceed on our 
 
 
 
 
 
 
204 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 journey to-morrow (for to-day it is too late); and to Heaven and 
 your prowess I trust for a successful issue.” 
 
 Thus spoke the discreet Dorothea ; whereupon Don Quixote, turn- 
 ing to Sancho, said to him, ‘‘I tell thee, Sancho, thou art the 
 greatest rascal in Spain; say, vagabond ! didst thou not tell me just 
 now that this princess was transformed into a damsel called Doro- 
 thea; with other absurdities, which were enough to confound me? 
 I vow” (and here he looked up to heaven, and gnashed his teeth), 
 “‘T have a great inclination to make such an example of thee, as 
 shall put sense into the brains of all the lying squires of future 
 times !” ‘‘ Pray, sir, be pacified,” answered Sancho: ‘‘for I may 
 have been mistaken as to the change of my lady the Princess M1- 
 comicona; but as to the giant’s head, or at least the piercing of the 
 skins, and the blood being red wine, I am not deceived; for there 
 are the skins at your worship’s bed’s-head, cut and slashed, and the 
 red wine has made a pond of the room: and you will find I speak 
 true when our host demands damages. As for the rest, I rejoice in 
 my heart that my lady-queen is as she was; for I have my share in 
 it, like every neighbour’s child.” ‘‘I tell thee, Sancho,” said Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘thou art an ass. Excuse me, that’s enough.” ‘‘It is 
 enough,” said Don Fernando, ‘‘ and let no more be said on the sub- 
 ject: and since the princess hath declared that we are to set for- 
 ward in the morning, it being too late to-day, let us pass this night 
 in agreeable conversation ; and to-morrow we will all accompany 
 Signor Don Quixote, for we desire to be eye-witnesses of the va- 
 lorous and unheard-of deeds which he is to perform in the accom- 
 plishment of this great enterprise.” ‘‘It is my part to serve and 
 attend you,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘and much am I indebted to 
 you for your good opinion; which it shall be my endeavour not to 
 disappoint, even at the expense of my life, or even more, if more 
 were possible.” 
 
 Many were the compliments, and polite offers of service passing 
 between Don Quixote and Don Fernando, when they were inter- 
 rupted by the arrival of two other persons at the inn. The one was 
 aman, who by his garb seemed to be a Christian lately come from 
 among the Moors; for he had ona blue cloth coat, with short skirts, 
 half sleeves, and no collar. His breeches also were of blue cloth, 
 and his cap of the same colour. He had on a pair of date-coloured 
 buskins, and a Moorish scimitar hung in a shoulder-belt across his 
 breast. He was accompanied by a female in a Moorish dress, 
 mounted on an ass, her face veiled, a brocade turban on her head, 
 and covered with a mantle from her shoulders to her feet. The 
 man was of a robust and agreeable figure, rather above forty years 
 of age, of a dark complexion, with large mustachios, and a well-set. 
 beard ; in short, his deportment, had he been well-dressed, would 
 have marked him for a gentleman. Upon his entrance he asked for 
 a room, and seemed disconcerted on hearing that there was not one 
 unoccupied ; nevertheless, he assisted his female companion, who 
 was evidently a Moor, to alight. The other ladies, as well as the 
 landlady, her daughter, and maid, all surrounded the stranger, at-. 
 tracted by the novelty of her appearance; and Dorothea, who was. 
 
ARRIVAL OF TWO STRANGERS. “3905 
 
 always obliging and considerate, perceiving they were disappointed 
 at not having an apartment, accosted her, saying, ‘‘ Do not be dis- 
 tressed, my dear madam, at an inconvenience which must be ex- 
 pected in places of this kind; but if you will please to share with 
 us (pointing to Lucinda) such accommodation as we have, you may 
 perhaps have found worse in the course of your journey.” The 
 veiled lady returned her no answer, but, rising from her seat, and 
 laying her hands across her breast, bowed her head and body in 
 token that she thanked her. By her silence they conjectured that 
 she could not speak their language, and were confirmed in their 
 opinion of her being a Moor. 
 
 Her companion, who had been engaged out of the room, now en- 
 tered, and seeing that she was addresssd by some of the company, 
 he said, ‘‘ Ladies, this young person understands scarcely anything 
 of the Spanish language, and is therefore unable to converse with 
 you.” ‘* We have only been requesting her to favour us with her 
 company, and share our accommodations,” said Lueinda; ‘‘ and we 
 will show her all the attention due to strangers, who need it, espe- 
 cially those of our own sex.” ‘‘ My dear madam,” he replied, ‘‘I 
 return you a thousand thanks, both for this lady and myself, and 
 am fully sensible of the extent of the favour you offer us.” ‘* Allow 
 me to ask you, signor, whether the lady is a Christian or a Moor?” 
 ‘* By birth she is a Moor,” replied the stranger; ‘‘ but in heart she 
 is a Christian, having an ardent wish to become one.” ‘‘She is not 
 yet baptized, then?” inquired Lucinda. ‘‘'There has not yet been 
 an opportunity,” answered the stranger, ‘‘ since she left Algiers, 
 her native country; and she has not hitherto been in such immin- 
 ent danger of death as to make it necessary to have her baptized 
 before she be instructed in all the ceremonies enjoined by our 
 Church; but, if it please Heaven, she will be soon baptized in a 
 manner becoming her rank, which is beyond what either her ap- 
 pearance or mine indicate.” 
 
 These strangers excited the curiosity of the whole party, who 
 refrained, however, from importuning them with questions; con- 
 ceiving they would be more inclined to take repose than to satisfy 
 them. Dorothea now took the lady’s hand, and, leading her to a 
 seat, placed herself by her, and then requested her to unveil; upon 
 which she gave an inquiring look at her companion; and he having 
 interpreted what had been said to her in Arabic, she removed her 
 veil, and discovered a face so exquisitely beautiful that Dorothea 
 thought she exceeded Lucinda, who, on her part, thought her hand- 
 somer than Dorothea; while their admirers all seemed to confess 
 
 that if either of them could have a rival in beauty it was in this 
 
 Moorish lady ; and, as it is the privilege of beauty to conciliate and 
 attract good-will, they were all eager to show her attention. Don 
 Fernando inquired her name of her companion; ‘‘ Lela Zoraida,” 
 he replied ; when she interposed in a sweet, earnest manner—“‘ No, 
 not Zoraida; Maria, Maria,”—giving them to understand that her 
 name was Maria, not Zoraida. These words were pronounced in so 
 
 touching a voice that they were all affected, especially the ladies, 
 
 Re are: -. 
 
 who were naturally tender-hearted. Lucinda embraced her most 
 
206 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 affectionately, saying, ‘‘ Yes, yes; Maria, Maria;” who answered, 
 “‘yes, Maria; Zoraida macange ”’—meaning not Zoraida. 
 
 It being now night, supper was served up, in providing which the 
 landlord had, by” Don Fernando’s order, exerted himself to the 
 utmost. They seated themselves at a long table, like those in 
 halls; for there was no other, either round or square, in the house. 
 They ‘insisted on Don Quixote taking the head of the table, though 
 he would have declined it; the Princess Micomicona he placed next 
 to him, being her champion ; Lucinda and Zoraida seated them- 
 selves beside her; opposite them sat Don Fernando and Cardenio ; 
 the curate and barber sat next to the ladies, and the rest of the 
 gentlemen opposite to them; and thus they banqueted much to 
 their satisfaction. Don Quixote added to their amusement, for 
 being moved by the same spirit which had inspired him with elo- 
 quence at the goatherd’s supper, instead of eating he now harangued 
 as follows :— 
 
 ‘‘ Tt must certainly be confessed that great and wonderful are the 
 occurrences which befall those who profess the order of knight- 
 errantry. What man existing, who should now enter at this castle- 
 gate, and see us thus seated, could imagine us to be the persons we 
 really are! Who should say that this lady here, seated by my side, 
 is that great queen we all know her to be, and I that ‘ knight of the 
 sorrowful figure,’ so blazoned abroad by the mouth of fame! There 
 no longer remains a doubt that this art and profession exceeds all 
 that have ever been followed by man; and that it is the more hon- 
 ourable, inasmuch as it is exposed to more danger. Away with 
 those who say that letters have the advantage over arms! Who- 
 ever they may be, I will maintain that they know not what they 
 say; for the reason they usually give, and upon which they usually 
 lay the greatest stress, is that the labours of the brain exceed those 
 of the body, and that arms is simply a corporeal exercise; as if it 
 were the business of porters alone, for which mere strength is re- 
 quired, or’as if the profession of arms did not call for the fortitude 
 which ‘depends on a vigorous understanding, or as if the mental 
 powers of the warrior who has an army or the defence of a besieged 
 city committed to his charge, are not called into exertion as wellas 
 those of his body! Ietit be shown how, bymere corporeal strength, 
 he can penetrate the designs of the enemy, form stratagems, overcome 
 difficulties, and avert threatened dangers !—no, these are all the 
 efforts of the understanding, in which the body has no share. 
 Since, then, arms exercise the mind as well as letters, let us now 
 see whose mind is most exerted ; the scholar’s or the soldier’s. This — 
 may be determined by the ultimate object of each; for that pur- 
 suit deserves the most esteem which has the noblest aim in view. 
 Now the end and design of letters—I speak not of theology, the 
 aim of which is to guide and elevate the soul of man to heaven, for 
 with that none can be compared; but I speak of human learning, — 
 whose end, I say, is to regulate distributive justice, and give to 
 every man his due; to know good laws, and cause them to be | 
 strictly observed ; an object most certainly generous and exalted, 
 and worthy of high commendation, but not equal to that which is 
 
 
 
% 
 
 THE KNIGHT’S ORATION. ‘ 2907 
 
 annexed to the profession of arms, whose end and purpose is peace 
 —the greatest blessing man can enjoy in this life; for the first glad 
 tidings the world received was what the angels brought on that 
 night, which was our day, when they sang in the clouds, ‘Glory to 
 God in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will towards men !’ 
 and the salutation which the Master of earth and of heaven taught 
 His disciples was, that when they entered any house, they should 
 say, ‘ Peace be to this house ;’ and many times He said, ‘ My peace 
 I give unto you, my peace I leave with you; peace be amongst 
 you.’ Itis, indeed, a treasure without which there can be no true 
 happiness. ‘To obtain this peace is the legitimate object of war— 
 by war and arms I mean the same thing. Peace, then, being the 
 object of war, it must be granted that in its ultimate aim it is 
 superior to the pursuit of letters. We will now compare the cor- 
 poreal labours of the soldier and the scholar.” 
 
 Don Quixote thus pursued his discourse so rationally, that his 
 auditors could scarcely think him insane; on the contrary, most of 
 them being gentlemen, to whom the exercise of arms properly apper- 
 tains, they listened to him with particular pleasure while he thus con- 
 tinued: ‘‘ Among the hardships of the scholar we may, in the first 
 place, name poverty (not that all are poor—but let us suppose the 
 worst) ; and when I have said that he endures poverty, no more need 
 be said of his misery, for he who is poor is destitute of every good 
 thing ; he endures misery in all shapes, in hunger and in cold, some- 
 times in nakedness, and sometimes in acombination ofall. Still, how- 
 ever, he gets something to eat, either from the rich man’s leavings, 
 or the sops of the convent—that last miserable resource of the poor 
 scholar; nor are they without some neighbour’s fire-side or chimney- 
 corner to keep them, at least, from extreme cold; and at night they 
 can generally sleep under cover. I will not enlarge upon other 
 trifling inconveniences to which they are exposed ; such as scarcity 
 of linen, want of shoes, thread-bare coats, and the surfeits they are 
 liable to when good fortune sets a plentiful table in their way. 
 This is the hard and rugged path they tread, sometimes falling, 
 then rising and falling again, till they reach the eminence they had 
 in view; and after passing these Scyllas and Charybdises, we have 
 seen them from a chair command and govern the world, their hun- 
 ger converted into satiety, their pinching cold into refreshing cool- 
 ness, their nakedness into embroidery, and their slumbers on a mat 
 to repose on holland and damask—a reward justly merited by their 
 virtue. But their hardships fall far short of those of the warrior, 
 as I shall soon convince you.” 
 
 CeHaAr Evi) Hato Xk XV IT 
 
 The continuation of Don Quixote’s curious oration upon arms and 
 letters. 
 
 Don Quixote, after a short pause, continued his discourse thus: 
 
 _ ‘Since, in speaking of the scholar, we began with his poverty and 
 
4 
 
 908 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 its several branches, let us see whether the soldier be richer. ‘we 
 shall find that poverty itself is not more poor; for he depends on 
 his wretched pay, which comes late, and sometimes never ; or upon 
 what he can pillage, at the imminent risk of his life and conscience. 
 Such often is his nakedness that his slashed buff-doublet serves him 
 both for finery and shirt; and in the midst of winter, on the open 
 plain, he has nothing to warm him but the breath of his mouth, 
 which, issuing from an empty place, must needs be cold. But let 
 us wait, and see whether night will make amends for these incon- 
 veniences ; if his bed be too narrow it is his own fault, for he may 
 measure out as many feet of earth as he pleases, and roll himself 
 thereon at pleasure without fear of rumpling the sheets. Suppose 
 the moment arrived of taking his degree—I mean, suppose the day 
 of battle come; his doctoral cap may then be of lint, to cover some 
 gun-shot wound, which, perhaps, has gone through his temples, or 
 deprived him of an arm oraleg. And even suppose that Heaven in 
 its mercy should preserve him alive and unhurt, he will probably 
 remain as poor as ever; for he must be engaged and victorious in 
 many battles before he can expect high promotion; and such good 
 fortune happens only by a miracle; for you will allow, gentlemen, 
 that few are the number of those that have reaped the reward of their 
 services, compared with those who have perished in war. The dead 
 are countless; whereas those who survive to be rewarded may be 
 numbered with three figures. Not so with scholars, who, by their 
 salaries (I will not say their perquisites), are generally handsomely 
 peeccd for. Thus the labours of the soldier are greater, although 
 
 is reward is less. It may be said, in answer to this, that it is 
 easier to reward two thousand scholars than thirty thousand sol- 
 diers; for scholars are rewarded by employments which must of 
 course be given to men of their profession ; whereas the soldier can 
 only be rewarded by the property of the master whom he serves ; 
 and this defence serves to strengthen my argument. 
 
 ‘* But, waiving this point, let us consider the comparative claims 
 to pre-eminence; for the partisans of each can bring powerful ar- 
 guments in support of their own cause. It is said in favour of let- 
 ters that without them arms could not subsist; for war must have 
 its laws, and laws come within the province of the learned. 
 But it may be alleged, in reply, that arms are necessary to the main- 
 tenance of law; by arms the public roads are protected, cities 
 guarded, states defended, kingdoms preserved, and the seas cleared 
 of corsairs and pirates. In short, without arms there would be no 
 safety for cities, commonwealths, or kingdoms. Besides, it is just 
 to estimate a pursuit in proportion to the cost of its attainment. 
 Now it is true that eminence in learning is purchased by time, 
 watching, hunger, nakedness, vertigo, indigestion, and many other 
 inconveniences already mentioned ; but a man who rises gradually 
 to be a good soldier endures all these, and far more. What is the 
 hunger and poverty which menace the man of letters compared to 
 the situation of the soldier, who, besieged in some fortress, and 
 placed as sentinel in some ravelin or cavalier, perceives that the 
 enemy is mining towards the place where he stands, and yet must 
 
THE KNIGHT’S ORATION, 209 
 
 on no account stir from his post, or shun the imminent danger 
 that threatens him! All that he can do in such a case is to give 
 notice to his officer of what passes, that he may endeavour to coun- 
 teract it; in the meantime he must stand his ground, in momen- 
 tary expectation of being mounted to the clouds without wings, and 
 then dashed headlong to the earth. And if this be thought but a 
 trifling danger, let us see whether it be equalled or exceeded by the 
 encounter of two galleys, prow to prow, in the midst of the white 
 sea, locked and grappled together, so that there is no more room 
 left for the soldier than the two-foot plank at the breakhead; and 
 thouzh he sees as many threatening ministers of death before him as 
 there are pieces of artillery pointed at him from the opposite side, 
 not the length of a lance from his body ; though he knows that the 
 first slip of his foot sends him to the bottom of the sea; yet, with 
 an undaunted heart, inspired by honour, he exposes himself as a 
 mark to all their fire, and endeavours, by that narrow pass, to force 
 his way into the enemy’s vessel! And, what is more worthy of 
 admiration, no sooner is one fallen, never to rise again in this world, 
 than another takes his place; and if he also fall into the sea, which 
 lies in wait to devour him, another and another succeeds him with- 
 out intermission! In all the extremities of war there is no example 
 of courage and intrepidity to exceed this. Happy those ages which 
 knew not the dreadful fury of artillery !—those instruments of hell 
 (where, I verily believe, the inventor is now receiving the reward 
 of his diabolical ingenuity); by means of which the cowardly and 
 the base can deprive the bravest soldier of life. While a gallant 
 spirit, animated with heroic ardour, is pressing to glory, comes a 
 chance ball, sent by one, who perhaps fled in alarm at the flash of 
 his own accursed weapon, and in an instant cuts short the life of 
 him who deserved to live for ages! When I consider this, I could 
 almost repent having undertaken this profession of knight-errantry 
 in so detestable an age; for though no danger can daunt me, still 
 it gives me some concern to think that powder and lead may sud- 
 denly cut short my career of glory. But Heaven’s will be done! 
 I have this satisfaction, that I shall acquire the greater fame if [ 
 succeed, inasmuch as the perils by which I am beset are greater 
 than those to which the knights-errant of past ages were exposed.” 
 
 Don Quixote made this long harangue while the rest were eating, 
 forgetting to raise a morsel to his mouth, though Sancho Panza 
 ever and anon reminded him of his supper, telling him he would 
 have time enough afterwards to talk as much as he pleased. His 
 other auditors were concerned that a man who seemed to possess 
 so good an understanding should, on a particular point, be so egre- 
 giously in want of it. ‘The priest told him there was great reason 
 in all that he had said in favour of arms, and although himself a 
 scholar and a graduate, he acquiesced in his opinion. 
 
 The collation being over, the cloth was removed; and while the 
 hostess and her damsels were preparing the chamber which Don 
 Quixote had occupied for the ladies, Don Fernando requested the 
 stranger to gratify them by relating his adventures ; since, from 
 the lady who accompanied him, he was certain they must be both 
 
 fc) 
 
210 - ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 interesting and extraordinary. The stranger said that he would 
 willingly comply with their request, though he was afraid his his- 
 tory would not afford them much amusement. The priest and rest 
 of the party thanked him; and, seeing them all prepared to listen 
 to him with attention, he began his narrative in a modest and 
 agreeable manner, as follows :— 
 
 CHA PseT BIR «XXX VL 
 Wherein the captive relates his life and adventures. 
 
 ‘‘In a village among the mountains of Leon my family had its 
 origin; and, although more favoured by nature than fortune, in 
 that humble region my father was considered wealthy ; and might 
 really have been so, had he known the art of economising, rather 
 ‘than squandering his estates. This disposition to profusion pro- 
 ceeded from his having been a soldier in his younger days, for the 
 army is a school in which the miser becomes generous, and the 
 generous prodigal; miserly soldiers are, like monsters, but very 
 rarely seen. Liberality may be carried too far in those who have 
 children to inherit their name and rank; and this was my father’s 
 failing. He had three sons, and being himself aware of this pro- 
 pensity to extravagance, and of his inability to restrain it, he de- 
 termined to dispose of his property, and by that means effectually 
 deprive himself of the power of lavishing it: he therefore called us 
 one day together, and thus addressed us :— 
 
 ‘¢«My sons, I need not say I love you, for you are my children; 
 and yet you may well doubt my love, since I have not refrained from 
 dissipating your inheritance. But to prove to you that 1am not 
 an unnatural father, I have finally resolved upon the execution of 
 a plan which is the result of mature deliberation. You are now of 
 age to establish yourselves in the worid, or at least to choose some 
 employment from which you may hereafter reap honour and profit. 
 I intend to divide my property into four parts, three of which you 
 shall equally share, and the fourth I will reserve to subsist upon 
 for the remaining days it may please Heaven to allot me; itis my 
 wish, however, that each, when in possession of his share, should 
 follow the path that I shall direct. We have a proverb in Spain, 
 in my opinion a very true one, as most proverbs are, being maxims 
 drawn from experience, it is this, ‘‘The church, the sea, or the 
 court ;” meaning that whoever would prosper should either get 
 into the church, engage in commerce, or serve the king in his 
 court; for itis also said, that ‘‘the king’s morsel is better than 
 the lord’s bounty.” It would, therefore, give me great satisfaction 
 if one of you would follow letters, another merchandise, and the 
 third serve the king in the army ; for it is difficult to get admission 
 into his household ; and although a military career is not favour- 
 able to the acquirement of wealth, it seldom fails to confer honour, 
 
THE CAPTIVE S ADVENTURES. pata! 
 
 Within eight days I will give you each your share in money; and 
 now tell me whether you are disposed to follow my advice.’ As I 
 was the eldest, he desired me to answer first. Upon which I en- 
 treated him not to part with his estate, but to spend as much as 
 he pleased, for that we were young enough to labour for ourselves ; 
 and I concluded by assuring him that I would do as he desired, 
 and enter the army, to serve God and my king. My second 
 brother complied likewise, and chose to go to the Indies, turning 
 his portion into merchandise. The youngest, and I believe the 
 wisest, said he would take to the church, and for that purpose 
 finish his studies at Salamanca. 
 
 ‘* Having determined upon our several professions, my father em- 
 braced us, and insisted upon our taking each his share of the estate, 
 which an uncle of ours purchased, that it might not be alienated 
 from the family. The portion of each, I remember, amounted to 
 three thousand ducats. We all took our leave of our good father 
 on the same day; and, thinking it inhuman to leave him at his 
 advanced age with so reduced an income, [ prevailed on him to take 
 back two thousand ducats from my share; the remainder being 
 sufficient to equip me with what was necessary for a soldier. My 
 two brothers followed my example, and returned him each a thou- 
 sand ducats, so that my father now had four thousand in ready 
 money, and the value of three thousand more, which was his share 
 of the land. In short, we separated, not without much grief on all 
 sides, and mutual promises of correspondence; one of my brothers 
 taking the road to Salamanca, the other to Seville, and I to Alicant, 
 It is now two-and-twenty years since I left my father, and in all 
 that time I have heard nothing either of him or of my brothers, 
 although I have sent them many letters. But I shall now briefly 
 relate to you what has befallen me during that period. 
 
 ‘On my arrival at Alicant, finding a vessel bound to Genoa with 
 a cargo of wool, I embarked, and had a good passage to that city. 
 Thence I proceeded to Milan, where I furnished myself with arms 
 and military finery, intending at that time to enter the service of 
 Piedmont; but hearing, on my journey to Alexandria de la Paglia, 
 that the duke of Alva was entering Flanders with an army, I 
 changed my mind, and joined the duke, whom [ continued to serve 
 in all his battles, and was present at the death of the Counts 
 D’Egmont and Horn. J procured an ensign’s commission in the 
 company of the celebrated captain of Guadalajara, named Diego de 
 Urbina. Soon after my arrival in Flanders, news came of the league 
 concluded between Pope Pius V., of happy memory, and Spain, 
 against the common enemy the Turk ; who about the same time had 
 taken the island of Cyprus from the Venetians, a serious loss to 
 that republic. Don John of Austria, natural brother of our good 
 King Philip, was appointed generalissimo of this alliance, and such 
 great preparations for war were everywhere talked of, that I con- 
 ceived an ardent desire to be present in the expected engagement ; 
 therefore, in spite of the assurances I had received of being promoted, 
 I relinquished all, and resolved to go into Italy; and fortunately 
 for my design, Don John passed through Genoa, on his way to 
 
= 
 
 ae, * ADVENYURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Naples, to join the Venetian fleet. In the glorious action which 
 followed I was engaged; and, more from goodhap than merit, was 
 already advanced to the honourable post of captain. But on that 
 day, so happy for Christendom, by showing the fallacy of the pre- 
 vailing opinion, that the Turks were invincible at sea— on that day, 
 so humiliating to Ottoman pride, I alone remained unfortunate ; for 
 surely more happy were the Christians who died on that occasion 
 than the survivors! Instead of receiving a naval crown for my 
 service, I found myself the following night loaded with chains. 
 
 ‘‘My misfortune was occasioned in this way. Uchali, king of 
 Algiers, a bold and successful corsair, having boarded and taken 
 the captain-galley of Malta, in which three knights only were left 
 alive, and those desperately wounded, the captain-galley of John 
 Andrea D’Oria came up to her relief, on board of which I was with 
 my company ; and acting as my duty enjoined upon this occasion, I 
 leaped into the enemy’s galley, expecting to be followed by my 
 men ; but the two vessels separating, I was left alone among enemies 
 
 _.too numerous for me to resist, and carried off prisoner, after re- 
 ceiving many wounds. Thus Uchali escaped, and 1 remained his 
 captive—the only mourner on a day of joy,—a slave at the moment 
 when so many were set free !—for fifteen thousand Christians from 
 the Turkish galleys were on that day restored to liberty. I was 
 carried to Constantinople, where the Grand Signor Selim appointed 
 my master general of the sea for his bravery, and for having brought 
 off the flag of the order of Malta. 
 
 “‘The following year, which was seventy-two, I was at Navarino, 
 rowing in the captain-galley of the Three Lanthorns; and there I 
 observed the opportunity that was then lost of taking the whole 
 Turkish fleet in port: for all the Levantines and Janizaries on board 
 took it for granted that they should be attacked in the very har- 
 bour, and had their baggage and passamaquas in readiness for mak- 
 ing their escape on shore, without intending to resist—such was the 
 terror which our navy had inspired. But it was ordered otherwise ; 
 not through any fault in our general, but for the sins of Christen- 
 dom, and because God ordains that there should always be some 
 scourge to chastise us. In short, Uchali got into Modon, an island 
 near Navarino; and putting his men on shore, he fortified the en- 
 trance of the port, and remained quiet until the season forced Don 
 John to return home. In this campaign the galley called the Prize, 
 whose captain was the son of the famous corsair Barbarossa, was 
 taken by the She-wolf, of Naples, commanded by that thunderbolt 
 of war, the fortunate and invincible captain Don Alvara de Basan, 
 marquis of Santa Cruz. I cannot forbear relating what happened 
 at the taking of this vessel. The son of Barbarossa was so cruel, 
 and treated his slaves so ill, that as soon as the rowers saw that the 
 She-wolf was ready to board them, they all at once let fall their 
 oars, and seizing their captain, who stood near the poop, they tossed 
 him along from bank to bank, and from the poop to the prow, giv- 
 ing him such blows, that before his body had passed the mainmast 
 his soul was gone to hades ; so great was the hatred his cruelty had 
 inspired ! 
 
a 
 
 CAPTURE OF GOLETA BY THE TURKS: 213 
 
 “‘We returned to Constantinople, where the year following we 
 received intelligence that Don John had taken the city of Tunis 
 from the Turks, and put Muley Hamet in possession of it; thus 
 cutting off the hopes of Muley Hamida, who was one of the bravest, 
 but most cruel of Moors. The Grand Turk felt this loss very sen- 
 sibly ; and with that sagacity which is inherent in the Ottoman 
 family, he made peace with the Venetians (to whom it was very ac- 
 ceptable) ; and the next year he attacked the fortress of Goleta, as 
 well as the fort which Don John had left half finished near Tunis. 
 During all these transactions i was still at the oar, without any hope 
 of redemption: being determined not to let my father know of my 
 captivity. The Goleta and the fort were both lost ;. having been at- 
 tacked by the Turks with an army of seventy-five thousand men, 
 besides above four hundred thousand Moors and Arabs: which vast 
 multitude was furnished with immense quantities of ammunition 
 and warlike stores; together with so many pioneers, that each man 
 bringing only a handtul of earth, might have covered both the Goleta 
 and the fort. Although the Goleta was until then supposed to be — 
 impregnable, no blame attached to the defenders; for it was found ~ 
 that, water being no longer near the surface as formerly, the be- 
 siegers were enabled to raise mounds of sand that commanded the 
 fortifications: and thus attacking them by a cavalier, it was impos- 
 sible to make any defence. It has been ignorantly asserted that 
 our troops ought not to have shut themselves up in the Goleta, but 
 have met the enemy at the place of disembarkment—as if so small 
 a number, being scarcely seven thousand men, could have at once 
 defended the works and taken the field against such an over-whelm- 
 ing force! But many were of opinion, and myself among the rest, 
 that the destruction of that place was a providential circumstance 
 for Spain; for it was the forge of iniquity, the sponge, the devourer 
 of countless sums, idly expended for no other reason than because 
 it was a conquest of the invincibie Charles the Fifth: as if his im- 
 mortal fame depended upon the preservation of those ramparts! 
 The fort was also so obstinately defended, that above five-and- 
 twenty thousand of the enemy were destroyed in twenty-two 
 general assaults; and of three hundred that were left alive, not 
 one was taken unwounded: an evident proof of their unconquer- 
 able spirit. A little fort, also, in the middle of the lake, commanded 
 by Don John Zanoguera, of Valencia, yielded upon terms. Don 
 Pedro Portocarrero, general of Goleta, was made prisoner, and 
 died on his way to Constantinople, broken-hearted for the loss of 
 the fortress which he had so bravely defended. They also took 
 the commander of the fort, Gabrio Cerbellon, a Milanese gentleman, 
 a great engineer, and a brave soldier. Several persons of distinction 
 lost their lives in these two garrisons: among whom was Pagan 
 D’Oria, knight of Malta, a gentleman well known for his exalted 
 liberality to his brother, the famous John Andrea D’Oria; and his 
 fate was the more lamented, having been put to death by some 
 African Arabs, who, upon seeing that the fort was lost, offered to 
 convey him, disguised as a Moor, to Tabarca, a small haven, or 
 settlement, which the Genoese have on that coast for the coral 
 
214 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTR. 
 
 fishing. These Arabs cut off his head, and carried it to the general 
 of the Turkish fleet, who made good our Castilian proverb, that, 
 ‘though we love the treason, we hate the traitor ;’ for the general 
 ordered those who delivered him the present to be instantly hanged, 
 ‘because they had not brought him alive. Among the Christians 
 taken in the fort was an ensign, whose name was Don Pedro 
 D’ Aguilar, an Andalusian, who was a good soldier as well as a poet. 
 I mention this, because it was our fate to be slaves to the same 
 master: we served in the same galley, and worked at the same oar. 
 He composed two sonnets, by way of epitaph—one upon Goleta, 
 and the other upon the Fort—which I will endeavour to repeat; 
 for I think they will please you.” 
 When the captive named Don Pedro D’Aguilar, Don Fernando 
 looked and smiled at one of his companions; who, when he men- 
 tioned the sonnets, said, ‘‘I beseech you, sir, before you proceed, 
 tell me what became of that Don Pedro D’Aguilar.” ‘‘ All I know 
 concerning him,” answered the captive, ‘‘is, that after he had been 
 two years at Constantinople, he escaped, disguised as an Arnaut,* 
 with a Greek ; and I believe he succeeded in recovering his liberty, 
 but am not certain; for though I saw the Greek about a year after, 
 in Constantinople, I had not an opportunity of asking him the 
 success of their journey.” ‘‘ That Don Pedro,” said the gentleman, 
 ‘‘ig my brother; he returned to Spain, and is now married and 
 settled in his native city ; he has three children, and is blessed with 
 health and affluence.” ‘‘ Thanks be to Heaven!” exclaimed the 
 captive; ‘‘for what transport in life can equal that which a man 
 feels on the restoration of his liberty!” ‘‘ I well remember those 
 sonnets which you mention,” added the gentleman. ‘‘ Then, pray, 
 sir, repeat them,” said the captive; ‘‘ for you will do it better than 
 Ican.” The gentleman willingly complied: that upon the Goleta 
 was as follows :— 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 O happy souls, by death at length set free 
 From the dark prison of mortality, 
 
 By glorious deeds, whose memory never dies— 
 From earth’s dim spot exalted to the skies! 
 What fury stood in every eye confessed! 
 
 What generous ardour fired each manly breast, 
 Whilst slaughtered heaps distained the sandy shore, 
 And the tinged ocean blushed with hostile gore! 
 O’erpower’d by numbers, gloriously ye fell : 
 Death only could such matchless courage quell 
 Whilst dying thus ye triumph o’er your foes— 
 Its fame the world, its glory heaven, bestows! 
 
 “You have it correctly,” said the captive. ‘‘ This,” said the 
 entleman, ‘‘if I remember rightly, was the one written on the 
 ort :”— 
 
 * A native of Albania 
 
THE CAPTIVE’S ADVENTURES. 215 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 From ’midst these walls, whose ruins spread around, 
 And scattered clods that heap th’ ensanguin’d ground, * 
 Three thousand souls of warriors, dead in fight, 
 
 To better regions took their happy flight. 
 
 Long and unconquered souls they bravely stood, 
 And fearless shed their unavailing blood: 
 
 Till, to superior force compelled to yield, 
 
 Their lives they quitted in the well-fought field. 
 This fatal soil has ever been the tomb 
 
 Of slaughtered heroes, buried in its womb: 
 
 Yet braver bodies did it ne’er sustain, 
 
 Nor send more glorious souls the skies to gain. 
 
 ee 
 
 CHAS PT ERX XVITTE 
 In which is continued the history of the captive, 
 
 After the company had expressed their approbation of the sonnets, 
 the captive pursued his story:—‘‘ When the Turks had got possession 
 of Goleta, they gave orders for its demolition; and to lessen their 
 labour, they undermined it in three different places: the new 
 works, erected by the engineer Fratin, came easily down; but the 
 old walls, though apparently the weakest part, they could not raze. 
 The fleet returned in triumph to Constantinople, and within a few 
 months, Uchali, whose slave I had become, died; he was called 
 Uchali Fartax, or the leprous renegado, being so nicknamed accord- 
 ing to the custom of the Turks, who have but four family surnames, 
 and these descend from the Ottoman race: the rest of the people 
 are named either from their incidental blemishes, or peculiarities 
 of body or mind. This leper had been fourteen years a slave to 
 the Grand Signor; and when he was about four-and-thirty years of 
 age, being irritated by a blow he received from a Turk while he 
 was at the oar, he renounced his religion that he might have it in 
 his power to be revenged on him. He rose by his bravery alone, 
 and not by the base intrigues of court; and became king of Algiers, 
 and afterwards general of the sea, which is the third command in 
 the empire. He was a native of Calabria, a man of good morals, 
 and treated his slaves with humanity. He had three thousand of 
 them, and in his will he left one-half of them among his renegadoes, 
 the other to the Grand Signor, who is always joint-heir with the 
 the heirs of all his subjects. I fell to the lot of a Venetian, who 
 had been cabin-boy in a vessel taken by Uchali, with whom he be- 
 came a great favourite. His name was Hassan Aga, and one of the 
 most cruel of that apostate class ; he was afterwards king of Algiers, 
 and with him I left Constantinople, pleased at the idea of being 
 nearer to Spain—not that I intended to inform my family of my 
 
 wretched situation, but I hoped to find another place more favour- 
 
916 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 able to my schemes of escape, which hitherto I had attempted in 
 vain. In Algiers I purposed to renew my efforts; for notwith- 
 standing my numerous disappointments, the hope of recovering my 
 liberty never abandoned me; no sooner did one expedient fail than 
 I grasped at another, which still preserved my hopes alive. 
 
 ‘* By these means I supported existence, shut up in a prison, 
 which the Turks call a bath,* where they confine their Christian 
 captives—not only those which belong to the king, but the captives 
 of private individuals. In this place there is also another class, who 
 serve the city in its public works, and in other offices; they are 
 called the slaves of the Almazen; and as they belong to the public, 
 having no particular master, they find it very difficult to regain 
 their liberty; for even when they might procure money, there are 
 none with whom they can negotiate their ransom. The king’s 
 slaves do not work with the rest, unless their ransom is slow in 
 coming, in which case they are put upon toilsome labour, to hasten 
 its arrival. As they knew my rank to be that of a captain, in spite 
 of my assurances that I had neither interest nor money, they would 
 pe me among those who expected to be redeemed ; and the chain 
 
 wore was rather as a sign of ransom than to secure my person. 
 
 ‘‘Thus I passed years of captivity, with other gentlemen of con- 
 dition from whom ransom was expected. We suffered much, both 
 from hunger and nakedness; but these were less painful to endure 
 than the sight of those unparalleled and excessive cruelties which 
 our tyrant inflicted upon his Christian slaves; not a day passed on 
 which one of these unfortunate men was not either hanged, im- 
 paled, or mutilated ; and often without the least provocation. 
 Even the Turks acknowledged that he acted thus merely for the 
 gratification of his murderous and inhuman disposition. 
 
 ‘One Spanish soldier only, whose name was something de Saa- 
 vedra, t happened to be in his good graces; and although his enter- 
 prises to effect an escape were such as will long be remembered 
 there, he never gave him a blow, nor ordered one to be given him, 
 nor even rebuked him; yet, for the least of the many things he 
 did, we all feared he would be impaled alive; so, indeed, he feared 
 himself, more than once. Did the time allow, I could tell you of 
 some things done by this soldier which would surprise you more 
 than my own narrative. 
 
 ‘But to return. The court-yard of our place of confinement was 
 overlooked by the windows of a house belonging to a Moor of dis- 
 tinction, which, as is usual there, were rather peep-holes than win- 
 dows, and even these had thick and close lattices. It happened 
 that one day, as I was upon a terrace belonging to our prison with 
 three of my companions, trying, by way of pastime, who could leap 
 farthest with his chains, I accidentally looked up and observed a 
 
 * The baths of the Christian captives are large courtyards, the interior of which 
 are surrounded by small chambers. Within these the captives who are not under 
 strict confinement are enclosed at night; the others are confined in dungeons. 
 
 + The Saavedra here mentioned is Miguel de Cervantes himself, who in this pas- 
 sage only speaks expressly of himself; the hero of the captive’s tale being captain 
 Viedma, who was a fellow-sufferer with him under the tyranny of Asan Aga. 
 
 * 
 
THE MOORISH LADY’S SIGNAL. a iy 
 
 eane held out from one of the windows above.us; a handkerchief 
 was fastened to the end of it, which waving, seemed to invite us to 
 take hold of it. One of my comrades seeing it, placed himself under 
 the cane, expecting it would be dropped; but as he approached, the 
 cane was drawn back again. Upon his retiring, the cane was again 
 lowered as before. Another of our party then went towards it, but 
 was rejected inthe same manner. The third then tried it, but with- 
 out any better success. Upon which I determined to try my for- 
 tune; and I had no sooner placed myself under the cane, than it 
 fell at my feet. I immediately untied the handkerchief, and in a 
 knot at one corner found ten cianis—a sort of base gold coin used 
 by the Moors, each piece worth about ten reals of our money. You 
 will conceive that I felt no less pleasure than surprise at this sin- 
 gular circumstance, especially as it was so obvious that the favour 
 was intended exclusively forme. I took my money, returned to 
 _ the terrace, looked again to the window, and perceived a very white 
 hand hastily open and close it. Thence we conjectured that it 
 must be some woman residing in that house who had been thus 
 charitable; and to express our thanks we made our reverences after 
 the Moorish fashion, inclining the head, bending the body, and 
 laying the hands on the breast. 
 
 **Soon after, a small cross made of cane was held out of the win- 
 dow, and then drawn in again. On this signal we concluded that 
 it must be some Christian woman who was a captive in that house ; 
 but the whiteness of the hand, and the bracelet on the wrist, seemed 
 to oppose this idea. Then, again, we imagined it might be a Chris- 
 tian renegade, whom their masters often marry; for they value 
 them more than the women of their own nation. But our reason- 
 ings and conjectures were wide of the truth. From this time we 
 continued to gaze at the window with great anxiety, as to our polar 
 star; but fifteen days elapsed without having once seen either the 
 hand or any other signal; and though in this interval we had 
 anxiously endeavoured to procure information as to the inhabitants 
 of that house, we never could learn more than that the house 
 belonged to a rich Moor, named Agi-Morato, who had been aleaide. 
 of the part of Bata, an office among them of great authority. At 
 length the cane and handkerchief again appeared, witha still larger’ 
 knot; and at a time when, as before, all the other captives were 
 absent except myself and three companions. We repeated our 
 former trial, each of my three companions going before me; but the 
 cane was not let down until I approached. The knot, I found, con- 
 tained Spanish crowns in gold, and a paper written in Arabic, which 
 was marked with a large cross. I kissed the cross, took the crowns, 
 and returned to the terrace, where we ail made our reverences. 
 Again the hand appeared; I made signs that 1 would read the 
 paper, and the window closed. 
 
 ‘‘ We were very impatient to know the contents of the paper, but 
 none of us understood Arabic, and it was difficult to find an inter- 
 preter. I determined at length to confide in a renegado, a native of 
 Murcia, who had professed himself friendly towards me, and whom, 
 from an interchange of confidence, T could safely trust; for it is 
 
 + 
 
218 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 usual with these men, when they wish to return to Christendom, 
 to procure certificates from captains of distinction, attesting their 
 character as good Christians. These certificates are, however, 
 _ sometimes employed for artful purposes. For instance, if on their 
 - piratical excursions they happen to be shipwrecked or taken, they 
 produce their written characters, pretending that they had only 
 joined the pirates to effect their escape into a Christian country, 
 and by this means live unmolested until they have an opportunity 
 of returning to Barbary, to resume their former course of life. But 
 my friend was not of this number. With a good design he had ob- 
 tained certificates, in which we had spoken of him in the highest 
 terms ; and, had the Moors found these papers upon him, they 
 would certainly have burnt him alive. I knew that this man was 
 well acquainted with the Arabic language; but before I entrusted 
 to him the whole affair, I desired him to read the paper, which I 
 pretended to have found by chancein a hole of my cell. He opened 
 it, and stood for some time studying and translating it to himself. 
 I asked him if he understood it. ‘Perfectly,’ he said, ‘and if I 
 would provide him with pen and ink, he would give me an exact 
 translation. We instantly supplied him with what he required, 
 and he wrote down a literal translation of the Moorish paper, ob- 
 ' serving to us that the words Lella Maryem signified our Lady 
 the Virgin Mary. We read the paper, which was nearly in these 
 words :— 
 
 “¢¢ When I was a child, my father had a woman slave who in- 
 structed me in the Christian worship, and told me many things of 
 Lella Maryem. This Christian died, and I know she did not go to 
 the fire, but to Alla; for I saw her twice afterwards, and she bid 
 me go to the country of the Christians, to see Lella Maryem, who 
 loved me very much. I know not how it is, though I have seen 
 many Christians from this window, none has looked like a gentle- 
 man but thyself. I am very beautiful, and young, and have a 
 great deal of money to carry away with me. ‘Try if thou canst 
 find means for us to get away, and thou shalt be my husband, if it 
 please thee; and if otherwise, I shall not care, for Lella Maryem 
 will provide mea husband. I write this myself: be careful who 
 reads it. Trust not any Moor, for they are all treacherous. I am 
 full of tears, and would not have thee trust anybody; for if my 
 father hears of it, he will immediately throw me into a well, and 
 cover me with stones. I will fasten a thread to the cane; tie thy 
 answer to it, and if thou hast nobody that can write Arabic, tell 
 by signs—Lella Maryem will enable me to understand them. Both 
 she and Alla protect thee! and this cross too, which I often kiss ; 
 for so the captive instructed me.’ 
 
 ‘*Conceive, gentlemen, our emotion at the contents of this paper! 
 Being indeed so manifest, the renegado clearly perceived that it 
 could not have been found by accident, but was actually written 
 to one of us; and he therefore entreated us, if his conjectures were 
 true, to confide in him ; for he would venture his life for our liberty. 
 As he spoke, he drew from his bosom a crucifix of brass, and with 
 
THE CAPTIVE’S REPLY TO THE MOOR’S LETTER. 219 
 
 tears swore by the Deity that image represented, in whom, though 
 a sinner, he firmly believed, that he would faithfully keep secret 
 whatever we should reveal to him: for he hoped that through the 
 same means by which we regained our liberty he should be restored 
 to the bosom of our holy church, from which, like a rotten member, 
 he had been separated through his ignorance and sin. This was 
 spoken with such evident marks of sinverity that we agreed to tell 
 him the truth; and therefore communicated to him the whole affair, 
 without reserve. We showed him the window, out of which the 
 cane had appeared, and he determined to find out the owner of the 
 house. Having considered that it would be proper to answer the 
 lady’s billet, the renegado instantly wrote what I dictated to him, 
 which I can repeat correctly to you: for not one of the material 
 circumstances which befell me in this adventure has yet escaped my 
 memory, nor ever will, as long as I live. My answer to the Moor 
 was this :— 
 
 “*«The true Alla preserve thee, dear lady, and that blessed 
 Maryem, the true mother of God! who, because she loves thee, 
 has inspired thee with a desire to go into the land of Christians. 
 Pray that she will instruct thee how to obey her commands, and 
 she is so good that she will not deny thee. As for myself and the 
 Christians with me, we are ready to hazard our lives to serve thee. 
 Fail not to write and inform me of thy resolutions, and I will 
 always answer thee: for, thanks to the great Alla! we have a 
 Christian captive who is well acquainted with thy language; and 
 thou mayest, without fear, communicate anything to us. I pro- 
 mise thee, on the name of a good Christian, to make thee my wife, 
 as soon as we reach a Christian country ; and be assured the Chris- 
 tians perform their promises. Allaand Maryem, his mother, protect 
 thee, dear lady !’ 
 
 ‘*My letter being thus prepared, I waited for two days, when 
 an opportunity again offered of being alone on the terrace; and 
 the cane soon made its appearance, though I could not see by whom 
 it was held. I found the thread already attached to the end of it 
 to receive my letter, which I immediately fastened to it. Shortly 
 after, the handkerchief was dropped, in which I now found gold and 
 silver coin to the amount of fifty crowns—a joyful sight, when re- 
 garded as the means of obtaining liberty. On the same evening 
 we were told by our renegado that this house was inhabited by a 
 very rich Moor, named Agi-Morato; and that he had an only 
 daughter, heiress to his whole property, who was considered the 
 most beautiful woman in all Barbary: and that several of the vice- 
 roys who had been sent thither had sought her in marriage, but 
 that she had rejected them. He also learned that she had a Chris- 
 tian woman-slave, who died some time before: all which agreed 
 perfectly with the contents of the paper. We then consulted with 
 the renegado on what measure we should take to carry off the 
 Moorish lady, and make our escape into Christendom : and it was 
 finally agreed that we should wait for a second letter from Zoraida 
 (the name of her who now desires to be called Maria); for it waa 
 
220 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 obvious that she was in possession of the surest means of effecting 
 our design. During the four following days, the bath was con- 
 stantly full of people; but the first time it was vacant, the cane 
 again appeared with the prolific handkerchief. The billet I then 
 received, contained these words :— 
 
 «¢*T do not know, dear signor, how we are to get to Spain; nor 
 has Lella Maryem informed me, although I have asked her. The 
 only means I can think of is to convey to thee through this window 
 a large sum of money, with which thou mayest redeem thyself and 
 friends; one of whom may then procure a bark from the land of 
 the Christians, and return to the rest. JI will be ready in my 
 father’s garden, at the Babazon-gate, close to the sea-side—thou 
 mayest safely convey me thence to the bark ; but remember thou 
 art to be my husband ; otherwise I will pray to Maryem to punish 
 thee. Ii thou canst trust nobody to go for the bark, ransom thy- 
 self and go; for I shall be secure of thy return, as thou art a 
 gentleman and a Christian. Take care not to mistake the garden, 
 when I see thee walking there, I shall conclude thou art alone, and 
 will furnish thee with money. Alla preserve thee, dear signor !’ 
 
 ‘On hearing the proposal contained in this letter, each offered 
 himself to be the ransomed person; promising faithfully to return 
 with the boat. But the renegado would not trust any of us: for 
 he said he well knew, by experience, how seldom promises made in 
 slavery are remembered aftera release from bondage. Many cap- 
 tives of distinction, he said, had tried this expedient : ransoming one, 
 to send with money to Valencia or Majorca, in order to procure a 
 vessel for the conveyance of others ; but none ever returned to fulfil 
 his engagement ; for the dread of again falling into captivity effaces 
 from the memory every other obligation. In contirmation of what 
 he said, he related to us many extraordinary instances of the kind; 
 and he concluded with saying, that the best way would be to give 
 the money intended for the ransom of a Christian, to him, that he 
 might purchase a vessel there, in Algiers, under pretence of turning 
 merchant, and trading to Tetuan, and along the coast; that when 
 master of the vessel, he could easily contrive means to get us from 
 the bath, and put us on board; especially if the Moor would furnish 
 money enough to redeem us all. The greatest difficulty, he said, 
 was that the Moors do not allow a renegado to have any but large 
 vessels, fitted for piratical uses, as they suspect their real motives, 
 if they purchase small ones: but he thought this objection might 
 be removed by taking in a Tagarin Moor as a partner in his mer- 
 cantile concern. Having once got a vessel at their command, he 
 assured us we might consider everything as accomplished. 
 
 “‘ Although my companions and myself would have preferred 
 sending for the vessel to Majorca, as the Moorish lady proposed, yet 
 we dared not contradict him, lest he should betray our project, and 
 by discovering the clandestine correspondence of Zoraida} endanger 
 her life, for whom we would willingly have sacrificed our own: we 
 therefore resolved to commit ourselves into the hands of God, and 
 trust the renegado, He instantly wrote my answer to Zoraida, say- 
 
THE RENEGADO’S PLAN OF ESCAPE. OO T 
 
 ing that we would do all she advised, for she had directed as wall 
 as if Lella Maryem herself had inspired her; that the delay ct 
 immediate execution of the plan depended solely upon herself; and 
 I repeated my promise to become her husband. The next day, 
 therefore, when the bath was clear, she, at various times, with the 
 help of the cane and handkerchief, gave us two thousand crowns in 
 gold, and a paper informing me that on the first Juma, that is 
 Friday, she was to go to her father’s garden, and that before she 
 went she could give us more money: desiring us to tell her if it was 
 not sufficient, as she could give us any sum; having such abundance 
 under her care that her father would never miss it. 
 
 ‘We immediately gave five hundred crowns to the renegado, to 
 buy the vessel. With eight hundred I ransomed myself, and de- 
 posited the money with a merchant of Valencia then at Algiers, 
 who redeemed me from the king; passing his word for me that by 
 the first ship from Valencia my ransom should be paid: for had he 
 paid him then, it would have made the king suspect that it had 
 lain some time in his hands, and that he had employed it to his 
 own use. Indeed it would have been by no means safe, with a 
 master of such a disposition as mine, to have paid the money im- 
 mediately. The Thursday preceding the Friday on which the fair 
 Zoraida was to go to the garden, she gave us a thousand crowns 
 more, with a billet entreating me when I was ransomed to seek 
 her father’s garden, and take every opportunity of seeing her. I 
 promised her in a few words that I would not fail, and begged that 
 she would recommend us in her prayers to Lella Maryem. We now 
 concerted the means for redeeming our three companions, lest, if 
 I were ransomed without them, they might feel uneasy, and be 
 tempted by the devil to do something to the prejudice of Zoraida ; 
 I therefore ransomed them in the same way, and placed the whole 
 amount in the hands of the merchant, that he might have no fear 
 in becoming responsible for us; although we did not admit him 
 into our confidence. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX., 
 Wherein the captive continues his story. 
 
 ‘*Our renegado, about fifteen days afterwards, purchased a very 
 good bark, large enough to hold thirty persons; and to prevent 
 suspicion he made a short voyage to a place called Sargel, thirty 
 leagues from Algiers, towards Oran—a place of great trade for dried 
 figs. Two or three times he made his trip, accompanied by his 
 Tagarin partner. The Moors of Arragon are, in Barbary, called 
 Tagarins, and those of Granada, Mudejares ; and in the kingdom of 
 
 Fez the Mudejares are called Elches, who are principally empioyed 
 by the king in military service. Each time that he arrived with his 
 
BUA ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 bark he cast anchor in a little creek very near to the garden wheré 
 Zoraida waited for us; and there he either performed the zala with 
 his Moorish rowers, or contrived some way of practising in jest their 
 future project, in order to elude suspicion. He would also occasion- 
 ally visit Zoraida’s garden, and beg some fruit, which her father 
 often gave him, without knowing who he was. His object was to 
 speak to Zoraida, and tell her that he was the person whom I had 
 entrusted to convey her to Christendom, and that she might feel in 
 perfect security. But this was impossible, as the Moorish women 
 never suffer themselves to be seen, either by Moor or Turk, unless 
 by the command of their husbands or fathers; though Christian 
 slaves, it is true, are allowed to converse with them, and perhaps 
 even with too much freedom. I should have been sorry if he had 
 spoken to her, as she might have been alarmed at the affair having 
 been entrusted toa renegado ; but he had no opportunity of effecting 
 his design. Finding that he could now safely go to and from Sargel, 
 and anchor where he pleased, and that the Tagarin, his partner, 
 was wholly subservient to him—in short, that nothing was wanting 
 but some Christians to assist at the oar—he desired me to determine 
 on our party, and be ready on the following Friday. I immediately 
 engaged twelve Spaniards, all able rowers, whom just at that time 
 it was no easy matter to procure; for there were twenty corsairs 
 out on pirating excursions, and they had taken almost all the 
 rowers with them. AJl I said to them was, that they must steal 
 privately out of the town on the following Friday, in the dusk of 
 the evening, and wait for me near Agi-Morato’s garden; and with 
 this caution, which I gave to each separately, that if they should 
 see any other Christians there, they had only to say I ordered them 
 to stay for me in that place. 
 
 ‘* After these steps were taken, one thing was yet wanting, and that 
 the most essential of all, namely, to apprise Zoraida of our intended 
 movements, that she might not be alarmed if we rushed upon her 
 without previous warning. I went, therefore, myself, on the day 
 preceding our departure, to the garden, under pretence of gathering 
 herbs. ‘The first person I met was her father, who addressed me in 
 a jargon which is used over all Barbary, and even at Constantinople, 
 among the captives and Moors. It is neither Morisco nor Castil- 
 ian, nor the language of any other nation, but a medley of several, 
 and is very generally understood. He asked me what I sought for 
 in that garden, and to whom I belonged? I told him that I was a 
 slave of Arnaute Mami, his friend, and that I came to request herbs 
 for his table. He then asked meif I was upon ransom? At this 
 moment the fair Zoraida, having observed me in the garden, had 
 quitted the house, and came towards us. Her father, seeing her 
 slowly approach, called her to him. It would be in vain for me to 
 attempt to describe the beautiful creature who then appeared before 
 my’eyes. More jewels hung about her lovely neck, and were sus- 
 pene from her ears, or scattered over her tresses, than she had 
 
 airs on her head. Her ancles were, according to custom, bare, and 
 encircled by carcaxes, or foot-bracelets, of the purest gold, and so 
 studded with diamonds that, as she told me since, her father valued 
 
 , 
 
THE CAPTIVE’S FIRST SIGHT OF ZORAIDA. oS 
 
 them at ten thousand pistoles; and those she wore on her arms 
 were of equal value. Pearls of the finest quality were strewed 
 about her in profusion: those precious gems, indeed, form one of 
 the principal embellishments of the Moorish ladies, and are, there- 
 fore, in great request among the natives. Zoraida’s father was said 
 to have possessed them in abundance, and other wealth to the 
 amount of two hundred thousand crowns: cf all which she who is 
 now mine was once sole mistress. Whether or not she then ap- 
 peared beautiful thus adorned, and in the days of her prosperity, 
 may be conjectured by what remains after so many fatigues ; for it 
 is well known that beauty is often at the mercy of accident as well 
 as liable to be improved or impaired by the passions. In short, I 
 gazed upon her as the most lovely object my eyes had ever beheld. 
 Indeed, when I considered my obligations to her, I could only re- 
 gard her as an angel descended from heaven for my deliverance. 
 **When she had come up to us, her father told her in his own 
 language, that I was a captive belonging to his friend Arnaute 
 Mami. She then asked me, in that medley speech which I men- 
 tioned to you, whether I was a gentleman, and why I did not 
 ransom myself. I told her that 1 was already ransomed, and by 
 the sum which was to be paid she might judge how my master 
 ranked me, whose demand had been fifteen hundred pieces of eight. 
 ‘Truly,’ said she, ‘had you belonged to my father, he should not 
 have parted with you for twice that sum ; for you Christians always 
 deceive in the account you give of yourselves, pretending to be 
 poor, in order to cheat the Moors.’ ‘It may be so, signora,’ 
 answered I, ‘ but, in truth, I dealt sincerely with my master, and 
 shall ever do the same by everybody.’ ‘And when do you go 
 away?’ said Zoraida. ‘I believe to-morrow,’ said I; ‘for there is 
 a French vessel which is expected to sail then, and I intend to go 
 in her.’ ‘ Would it not be better,’ replied Zoraida, ‘ to stay until 
 some ships come from Spain, and go with one of them, rather than 
 with the French, who are not your friends?’ ‘I think not, sig- 
 nora,’ replied [; ‘but should the late intelligence of the arrival of a 
 Spanish ship prove true, I would, perhaps, stay a short time longer ; 
 it is, however, more probable that I shall depart to-morrow; for I 
 so ardently desire to be in my own country, and with the persons 
 I love, that I am impatient of any delay.’ ‘You are, perhaps, 
 married,’ said Zoraida, ‘and therefore anxious to return, and be at 
 home with your wife?’ ‘ No, indeed,’ I replied, ‘but Iam under an 
 engagement to marry as soonas I return.’ ‘And is the lady to 
 whom you are engaged beautiful?’ said Zoraida. ‘So beautiful,’ an- 
 swered I, ‘ that to compliment her, and say the truth, she is very like 
 yourself.’ Her father laughed heartily at this, and said, ‘ By the 
 _ Prophet, Christian, she must be beautiful, indeed, if she resembles 
 my daughter, who is the handsomest woman in this kingdom! Ob- 
 serve her well, and you will see that I speak the truth.’ Zoraida’s 
 father was our interpreter in most of this conversation, being better 
 acquainted than she was with the language ; for, though she knew 
 something of it, she expressed her meaning more by signs than 
 words. 
 
 &.. 
 
29.4 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ‘While we were thus engaged, a Moor came running to us, crying 
 aloud that four Turks had leaped over the wall of the garden, and 
 were gathering the fruit, though it was not yet ripe. The old man, as 
 well as Zoraida, was much alarmed; for the Moors are afraid of the 
 Turks, especially their soldiers, whose conduct towards them is in- 
 solent and imperious: even more so than to their slaves. Zoraida’s 
 father therefore said to her, ‘ Daughter, make haste into the house, 
 and lock yourself in, while I go and speak to these dogs; and you, 
 Christian, gather your herbs, and begone in peace, and Alla send 
 you safe to your own country.’ I made my obeisance, and he went 
 after the Turks. Zoraida also retired, but as soon as her father 
 was out of sight she returned to me, and said, with her eyes full of 
 tears, ‘ Ataméji, Christiano? Ataméji?’ that is, ‘Art thou going 
 away, Christian? Art thou going?’ ‘ Yes, dearest lady,’ said I, 
 ‘but not without you. Expect me the next Juma, and be not 
 alarmed when you see us; for we will convey you safely to a Chris- 
 tian land.’ She understood all that I said; and, throwing her arm 
 about my neck, she began, with faltering steps, to move towards the 
 house ; when, unfortunately as it might have proved, her father re- 
 turned and saw us in that attitude. We were aware that he had 
 seen us, and Zoraida had the presence of mind not to take her arm 
 from my neck, but rather held me closer; and letting her head fall 
 upon my breast, and bending her knees, she pretended to be faint- 
 ing: so that I appeared to be under the necessity of supporting her. 
 Her father came running to us, and seeing his daughter in that sit- 
 uation, inquired the cause. But as she made no reply, he said, 
 ‘These dogs have certainly terrified her ;’ and taking her from me, 
 he supported her in his arms; and she, heaving a deep sigh, with 
 her eyes still full of tears, said, ‘Amexi, Christiano, amexi! ‘ Be- 
 gone, Christian, begone!’ Her father said, ‘There is no occasion, 
 child, for the Christian to go away; he has done you no harm, and 
 the Turks are gone off. Be not alarmed, for there is no danger.’ 
 ‘They have indeed frightened her very much,’ said I, ‘and as she 
 desires me to go, [ will not disobey; but with your leave, I will 
 come again to this garden for herbs. Peace be with you.’ ‘Come 
 whenever you please,’ said Agi-Morato ; ‘for my daughter does not 
 say this as having been offended by you or any other Christian.’ I 
 now took my leave of them both; and she, looking as if her soul had 
 been rent from her, went away with her father, while I, under pre- 
 tence of gathering herbs, carefully surveyed the whole garden, ex- 
 amining all the inlets and outlets, the strength of the house, and 
 whatever might tend to facilitate our business. 
 
 ‘* Having finished my observations, I communicated to the rene- 
 gado and my companions all that had passed, anxiously wishing for 
 the hour when I might securely enjoy the happiness which fortune 
 presented to me in the company of the beautiful Zoraida. 
 
 “The appointed day at length arrived; and, strictly following 
 the rules and directions we had previously settled, everything pro- 
 ceeded with the fairest prospect of success. The day following my 
 
 interview with Zoraida, our renegado, at the close of the evening, 
 
 cast anchor almost opposite her residence; and the Christians who 
 
ESCAPE OF THE CAPTIVES. 995 
 
 were to be employed at the oar were ready, and concealed about the 
 neighbourhood, anxiously waiting for me, and eager to surprise the 
 bark, which was lying within view; for they knew nothing of our 
 pan but thought they were to regain their liberty by force, and by 
 illing the Moors who were on board the vessel: they joined us, 
 therefore, themoment wemadeour appearance. The criticaltime was 
 now arrived, the city gates being shut, and not a person to be seen 
 abroad ; we therefore deliberated whether it would be better to go 
 first to Zoraida, or secure the Moors who rowed the vessel. In the 
 meantime, our renegado came to us, asking us why we delayed? for 
 that now was the time, all his Moors being thoughtless of danger, 
 and most of them asleep. When we told him what we were con- 
 sulting about, he assured us that it was necessary first to seize the 
 vessel, which might be done with the utmost ease and safety; and 
 then we might go for Zoraida. We all approved his counsel, and 
 guided by him, immediately proceeded to the vessel ; when he, leap- 
 ing in first, drew his cutlass, and said, in Morisco, ‘ Let not one man 
 of you stir, or he shall instantly die.’ All the Christians quickly fol- 
 lowed their leader; and the Moors, who were cowardly fellows, in 
 great alarm, and without making any resistance (for indeed they had 
 few or no arms), quietly suffered themselves to be bound, which 
 was done in a moment; the Christians still threatening that if they 
 made the least noise they would instantly put them all to death. 
 
 “This being done, and half our number left on board to guard 
 them, the remainder, led on by the renegado, went to Agi-Morato’s 
 garden. Fortunately the door opened as easily to us as if it had 
 not been locked; and we came up to the house in profound silence. 
 The lovely Zoraida was waiting for us at a window; and hearing 
 us approach, she asked in a low voice whether we were Nazareni— 
 that is, Christians. J answered in the affirmative, and desired her 
 to come down. She knew my voice, and instantly obeyed the 
 summons, appearing to us beautiful beyond description, and in the 
 richest attire. I took her hand, and, kissing it, the renegado and 
 the rest of our party followed my example, thinking that I only 
 meant to express our thanks and acknowledgments to her as the 
 instrument of our deliverance. The renegado asked her in Morisco 
 whether her father was in the house. She said that he was, but 
 that he was asleep. ‘Then we must awake him,’ replied the rene- 
 gado, ‘and carry him and all his treasures with us.’ ‘ No,’ said she, 
 ‘my father shall not be touched ; and there is nothing of much value 
 but what I have with me, which is sufficient to satisfy and enrich 
 you all: wait a moment and you shall see.’ She then went in again, 
 promising to return quickly, and entreating us to be silent. The 
 renegado having told me what had passed, I insisted that she should 
 be obeyed in everything. Zoraida soon returned with a little trunk 
 so full of gold crowns that she could scarcely carry it. 
 
 ‘‘In the meantime the father of Zoraida unfortunately awoke, 
 and hearing a noise in the garden, looked out at the window and 
 saw the Christians. Upon which he cried out as loud as he could 
 in Arabic, ‘ Christians, Christians! thieves, thieves!’ His outcry 
 
 _ threw us all into the utmost consternation. The renegado, perceiv- 
 
 
 
 gts 
 
9°26 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ing our danger and the necessity of prompt exertion, rushed up with 
 several others to the chamber of Agi-Morato ; while I remained be- 
 low, not daring to quit Zoraida, who had fainted in myarms. They 
 acquitted themselves so well, that ina moment they came down with 
 their prisoner, his hands tied, and his mouth stopped with a hand- 
 kerchief, and threatening if he made the least noise, that it would cost 
 him his life. When Zoraida saw her father, she covered her eyes 
 to avoid the sight of him; and he was astonished to see her with 
 us, but little thought how willingly she had put herself imto our 
 hands. We hastened with all possible speed to the bark, where 
 our comrades were waiting for us with impatience; and scarcely 
 two hours of the night had passed when we were all safely on 
 board. We now untied the hands of Zoraida’s father, and took the 
 handkerchief out of his mouth; but the renegado again warned him, 
 at peril of his life, not to speak a word. When he saw his daughter, 
 he began to sigh piteously ; especially when he observed that I 
 held her closely embraced, without resistance or complaint on her 
 part ; nevertheless he remained silent, lest we should put the rene- 
 gado’s threat into execution. 
 
 ‘‘When Zoraida saw that we were on the point of leaving the 
 coast, she begged the renegado to communicate to me her wish that 
 J would unbind the Moors, and set her father at libery, for that 
 she would sooner throw herself into the sea, than behold a parent 
 who loved her so tenderly carried away captive before her eyes, 
 and upon her account. The renegado told me her request, and I 
 desired that she might be gratified; but he refused to comply, 
 saying that if they were put on shore at that place, they would im- 
 mediately raise the country and despatch armed vessels to pursue 
 us; and, thus beset by sea and land, it would be impossible for us 
 to escape; all, therefore, that could be done was to give them their 
 liberty at the first Christian country we should touch at. In this 
 opinion we all concurred; and Zoraida was herself satisfied, on 
 hearing our determination, with the reasons why we could not 
 then grant her request. With glad silence and cheerful diligence, 
 our brave rowers now handled their oars ; and recommending our- 
 selves to God with all our hearts, we began to make towards the 
 island of Majorca, which is the nearest Christian land. But the 
 north wind beginning to blow freshly, and the sea being somewhat 
 rough, it was found impossible to steer our course to Majorca, and 
 we were compelled to keep along shore towards Oran; though not 
 without great apprehensions of being discovered from the town of 
 Sargel, which les on that coast, about sixty miles from Algiers. 
 We were afraid, likewise, of meeting in ovr passage with some of 
 the galleots which bring merchandise from Tetuan; though, unless . 
 it was a cruiser, we trusted we should be able to defend ourselves, 
 if not capture some vessel wherein we might more securely pursue 
 our voyage. During this time Zoraida kept her head constantly 
 upon my breast, that she might not look at her father; and I could 
 hear her continually calling Lella Maryem to assist us. 
 
 ‘*We had rowed about thirty miles when morning dawned, and 
 we found ourselves near a shore which seemed to be quite a desert, 
 
AGI-MORATO LEAPS OVERBOARD. 227 
 
 and no human creature to be seen. However, by labouring hard at 
 the oars, we got a little out to sea, which had now become more 
 calm; and having made about two leagues, we ordered the rowers 
 to rest by turns, in order to recruit themselves with the food, of 
 which we had abundance; but they refused to quit their oars, 
 saying that it was not a time to repose, but that they could eat 
 and row at the same time, if those who were unemployed would 
 supply them. This was done; but soon the wind began to blow a 
 brisk gale, which compelled us to lay aside our oars; therefore, 
 hoisting sail, we steered directly to Oran, as it was impossible to 
 hold any other course; and we proceeded with great rapidity, 
 without any other fear than that of meeting some corsair. We 
 gave provisions to the Moorish prisoners, comforting them with the 
 assurance that they were not slaves, but should have their liberty 
 the first opportunity ; and we promised the same to Zoraida’s father. 
 ‘I might hope for much,’ he replied, ‘from your liberality and 
 generous treatment, O Christians ! but I am not so simple as to ex- 
 pect my liberty, or that you would expose yourselves to danger in 
 robbing me of it without some view to my ransom ; however, you 
 have only to name the sum you require for myself and this my un- 
 happy daughter, who is the better part of my soul.’ He then wept 
 so bitterly that we were moved to compassion; and Zoraida, looking 
 up and seeing her father in tears, left me to throw herself into his 
 arms. Nothing could be more affecting than the scene. The father 
 now observing her rich attire, said, ‘How is this, daughter ?—-last 
 night, I saw you dressed as usual, and now you are adorned in your 
 gayest apparel!’ She answered not a word. The renegado inter- 
 preted to us what the Moor had said, for he had spoken in his own 
 language. He then noticed the casket in which his daughter kept 
 her jewels, and being still more perplexed, he asked how it had 
 come into our hands, and what it contained. The renegado now 
 interposed, saying, ‘Do not trouble yourself with so many ques- 
 tions, signor; for in a word I can answer all—your daughter is a 
 Christian, and has been the means of filing off our chains and re- 
 storing us to liberty. She is here with her own consent, and I 
 believe, well pleased—like one who goes out of darkness into light, 
 from death to life, and from suffering to glory.’ ‘Is this true, 
 daughter?’ said the Moor. ‘It is,’ answered Zoraida. ‘ You are 
 then become a Christian,’ replied the old man, ‘and have thrown 
 your father into the power of his enemies?’ To which Zoraida an- 
 swered, ‘I am indeed a Christian, but I never thought of doing you 
 harm; I only wished to do myself good.’ ‘And what good have 
 you done yourself, my daughter?’ ‘Ask that,’ answered she, ‘ of 
 Lella Maryem, who can tell you better than I can.’ On hearing 
 his daughter speak thus, the Moor, with sudden impetuosity, threw 
 himself headlong into the sea, and would certainly have been 
 drowned had not the wide and cumbrous garments he wore kept 
 him a short time above water. Zoraida called out to us to save 
 him, and we all hastened to his assistance, and dragged him out half- 
 drowned and senseless, a sight which so much affected Zoraida that 
 she lamented over him as if he were dead, We placed him so that 
 
 
 
228 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 he might disgorge the water he had swallowed, and in about two 
 hours he recovered his senses. Jn the meantime, the wind chang- 
 ing, we were obliged to ply our oars to avoid running upon the 
 shore; and by good fortune we came to a creek by the side of a 
 small promontory, which by the Moors is called the Cape of Cava 
 Rumia, meaning in our language ‘The wicked Christian woman ;’ 
 for the Moors have a tradition that Cava,* who occasioned the loss 
 of Spain, lies buried there. Although they reckon it an ill omen 
 to be forced to anchor at this place, 1t proved a safe harbour to us, 
 considering how high the sea ran. We placed sentinels on shore, 
 and never dropped our oars; and after partaking of the refresh- 
 ments which the renegado had provided, we prayed devoutly to 
 God and to our Lady for assistance and protection in the happy 
 accomplishment of our enterprise. Order was given, at Zoraida’s 
 entreaty, to set her father on shore, and also the rest of the Moors, 
 who, until now, had been fast bound; for her tender heart could 
 not endure to see her father and countrymen under confinement. 
 We promised her it should be done when we put to sea again, since 
 we ran no risk in leaving them in so desolate a place. Our prayers 
 were not in vain: for the wind presently changed in our favour, 
 and the sea was calm, inviting us to prosecute our voyage. 
 
 ‘* We now unbound the Moors, and sent them one by one on shore, 
 to their great surprise; but when we came to Zoraida’s father, who 
 was then perfectly in his senses, he said, ‘ Why, Christians, is this 
 wicked woman desirous of my being set at liberty? Think you it 
 is out of filial piety? No, certainly: it is because my presence 
 would disturb her in the indulgence of her evil inclinations. Nor 
 think she is moved to change her religion because she thinks it 
 better than ours; no, because she knows that there is more licen- 
 tiousness in your country.’ Then, turning to Zoraida, while we 
 held him fast, lest he should do her any violence, he said, ‘Thou 
 ill-advised, thou infamous girl! whither art thou blindly going with 
 these dogs, our natural enemies? Cursed be the hour wherein I 
 begat thee, and cursed the indulgence and luxury in which I 
 brought thee up!’ Finding him not disposed to be soon silent, I 
 hurried him ashore, where he continued his execrations and wail- 
 ings, praying to Mahomet that he would beseech Heaven to destroy, 
 confound, and annihilate us; and when we had got too far off to 
 hear his words, we could see him tearing his beard, plucking off his 
 hair, and rolling himself on the ground: so high he once raised his 
 voice, that these words reached us, ‘Come back, beloved daughter ! 
 come back, and I will forgive thee all! Let those men keep the 
 money they have, but do thou come back, and comfort thy wretched 
 father, who must perish in this desert land if thou forsakest him !’ 
 All this Zoraida heard—all this she felt and bewailed ; but could 
 only say in reply, ‘ May it please Alla, my dear father, that Lella 
 Maryem, who has been the cause of my turning Christian, may com- 
 fort you in your affliction! Alla well knows that I could not do | 
 otherwise than I have done, and that these Christians owe me no 
 
 : * The daughter of Count Julian, who was the cause of bringing the Moors into 
 pain, 
 
 
 
CAPTURED BY A FRENCH VESSEL. 929 
 
 thanks for any favour to them, since my mind would never have 
 
 had rest until I had performed this work, which to me seems as 
 
 good as you, my dearest father, think it bad.’ But her father could 
 
 no longer see or hear her. I said all I could to console her as we 
 
 proceeded on our voyage, and happily the wind was so favourable 
 
 wat we made no doubt of being next morning upon the coast of 
 pain. 
 
 ‘*But as good seldom or never comes unmixed with evil, it 
 happened untortunately, or perhaps through the curses the Moor 
 bestowed on his daughter (for a father’s curse is always to be 
 dreaded, whatever he may be)—I say it happened, that about the 
 third hour of the night, when we were far out to sea, and under 
 full sail, we discovered by the light of the moon around vessel 
 with all her sails out, a little ahead of us, but so near, that to avoid 
 running foul of her we were forced to strike sail, and they also put 
 the helm hard up, to enable us to pass. The men had posted them- 
 selves on the quarter-deck, to ask who we were, whither we were 
 going, and whence we came: but as their inquiries were in French, 
 our renegado said, ‘Let no one answer, for these are certainly 
 French corsairs, who plunder everything that falls in their way.’ 
 Upon this caution all were silent, and we continued our course, 
 their vessel being to the windward; but we had not proceeded far, 
 when they suddenly fired two guns, and both, as it appeared, with 
 chain shot, for one cut our mast through the middle, which, together 
 with the sail, fell into the sea, and the other at the same instant 
 came through the middle of our bark, laving it quite open, though 
 without wounding any of us. But finding ourselves sinking, we 
 began to cry aloud for help, and entreated them to save us from 
 drowning. They then struck their sails, and sent out a boat, with 
 twelve Frenchmen on board, well armed with muskets, and their 
 matches lighted; but seeing how few we were, and that our vessel 
 was sinking, they took us in, and to:d us that we had suffered for 
 our incivility in returning them no answer. Ourrenegado took the 
 trunk containing Zoraida’s treasure, and unperceived threw it into 
 the sea. In short, we all passed into the;French ship, where, having 
 gained from us all the information they wanted, they proceeded to 
 treat us as enemies, stripping us of everything, even of the bracelets 
 which Zoraida wore upon her ankles. They would have taken 
 away even the clothes we wore as slaves, had they thought them 
 of the smallest value. Some of them proposed throwing us all over- 
 board, wrapped up in a sail: for their object was to trade in some 
 of the Spanish ports, pretending to be of Brittany ; and should they 
 carry us with them they would there be seized and punished for the 
 robbery. But the captain, who had plundered my dear Zoraida, 
 said he was contented with what he had already got, and that he 
 __ would not touch at any part of Spain, but pass the Straits of Gib- 
 raltar by night, and make the best of his way for Rochelle, whence 
 he came; and, therefore, they finally agreed to provide us with a 
 boat and what was necessary for so short a voyage as we had to 
 make. This they did on the following day, when in view of the 
 Spanish coast, at the sight of which all our troubles were forgotten 
 
230 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 —so great is the delight of regaining liberty! It was about noon 
 when they dismissed us, with two barrels of water and some biscuit. 
 The captain was even so far moved by compassion as to give Zoraida 
 about forty crowns in gold, at the same time forbidding his soldiers 
 to strip her of her clothes, the same which she now wears. 
 
 ‘¢' We expressed to them more gratitude for what they refrained 
 from doing, than resentment for what we had suffered from them ; 
 and thus we separated, they steering towards the Straits, and we 
 towards the land before us, rowing so hard that we hoped to reach 
 it before morning. Some of our party thought it unsafe to land at 
 dark upon a coast with which we were unacquainted ; while others 
 were so impatient, that they were for making the attempt even 
 though among rocks, rather than be exposed to the corsairs of 
 Tetuan, who are often at night in Barbary, and the next morning 
 on the coast of Spain, where they usually make some prize, and 
 return to sleep at their own homes. It was agreed até last that we 
 should row gently towards the shore, and, if the sea proved calm, 
 land where we could; and before midnight we found ourselves close 
 to a large and high mountain, at the foot of which there was a con- 
 venient landing-place. We ran our boat into the sand, leaped on 
 shore, and kissed the ground; thanking God with tears of joy, for 
 the happy termination of our perilous voyage. We dragged our 
 boat on shore, and then climbed the mountain, scarcely crediting 
 that we were really upon Christian ground. We were anxious for 
 day-break; but having at length gained the top of the mountain, 
 whence we had hoped to discover some village or shepherd’s hut, 
 we could see no indications of human abode; we, therefore, pro- 
 ceeded farther into the country, trusting we should soon meet with 
 some person to inform us where we were. But what most troubled 
 me was to see Zoraida travel on foot through those craggy places ; 
 for though I sometimes carried her in my arms, she was more dis- 
 tressed than relieved by my labour. I therefore led her by the 
 hand, and she bore the fatigue with the utmost patience and cheer- 
 fulness. 
 
 ‘‘Thus we proceeded for about a quarter of a league, when the 
 sound of a little bell reached our ears, which was a signal that 
 flocks were near; and eagerly looking around us, we perceived a 
 young shepherd at the foot of a cork-tree, quietly shaping a stick 
 with his knife. We called out to him, upon which he raised his 
 head and hastily got up; and, the first who presented themselves 
 to his sight being the renegado and Zoraida, in Moorish habits, he 
 thought all the Moors in Barbary were upon him; making, therefore, 
 towards the wood with incredible speed, he cried out, as loud as he 
 could, ‘Moors! the Moors are landed! Moors, Moors! arm, arm!’ 
 We were perplexed at first how to act; but considering that he 
 would certainly alarm the country, and that the militia of the coast 
 would soon be out to see what was the matter, we agreed that the 
 renegado should strip off his Turkish habit, and put on a jerkin, or 
 slave’s cassock, which one of our party immediately gave him, 
 leaving ‘himself only in his shirt. Then recommending ourselves 
 to Heaven, we pursued the same road that the shepherd had taken, 
 
ARRIVE IN VELEZ MALAGA. yeahs 
 
 expecting every moment that the coast-guard would be upon us. 
 Nor were we deceived in our apprehensions, for not long afterwards, 
 when we were descending into the plain, we discovered above fifty 
 horsemen advancing at a half-gallop; upon which we stood still to 
 wait their approach: but as they drew near and found, instead of 
 the Moors they had expected, a party of poor Christian captives, 
 they were not a little surprised ; and one of them asked us whether 
 we had been the cause of the alarm spread in the country. I told 
 him that I believed so, and was proceeding to inform him whence 
 we came, and who we were, when one of our party recognised the 
 horseman who had questioned us; and interrupting me, he ex- 
 claimed, ‘God be praised for bringing us to this part of the country ! 
 for if [am not mistaken, the ground we stand upon is the territory of 
 Velez Malaga; and if long captivity has not impaired my memory, 
 you, sir, who now question us, are Pedro de Bustamente, my uncle.’ 
 Scarcely had the Christian captive ceased speaking, when the horse- 
 man threw himself from his horse, and ran to embrace the young 
 man, saying to him, ‘Dear nephew of my soul, I well remember 
 you! How often have I bewailed your loss, with your mother and 
 kindred, who are still living to enjoy the pleasure of seeing you 
 again! We knew you were in Algiers; and by your dress, and that 
 of your companions, I conjecture that you must have recovered 
 your liberty in some miraculous manner.’ ‘It is so, indeed,’ an- 
 swered the young man, ‘and when an opportunity offers, you shall 
 know the whole story.’ As soon as the horsemen understood that 
 we were Christian captives, they alighted, and each of them invited 
 us to accept of his horse to carry us to the city of Velez Malaga, 
 which was a league and a half distant. Some of them went back to 
 convey the boat to the town, on being informed where we had left 
 it; others took us up behind them, and Zoraida rode behind our 
 captive’s uncle. The news of our coming having reached the town 
 before us, multitudes came out to greet us. They were not much 
 surprised by the sight of liberated captives, or Moors made slaves, 
 for the people of that coast are accustomed to both; but they were 
 struck by the beauty of Zoraida, which then appeared in perfection ; 
 for the exercise of walking, and the delight of being safe in Chris- 
 tendom, produced such a complexion, that if my affection did not 
 deceive me, the world never saw a more beautiful creature. 
 
 “‘We went directly to the church, to return thanks for the 
 mercy of our deliverance ; and Zoraida, upon first entering, said the 
 images there were very like that of Lella Maryem. The renegado 
 told her that she was right, and explained to her, as well as he could, 
 what they signified, that she might adore them as the representa- 
 tions of that very Lella Maryem who had spoken to her; nor was 
 she slow in comprehending him, for she had good sense, and a ready 
 apprehension. After this they accommodated us in different houses 
 of the town; and the Christian, our companion, took the renegado, 
 Zoraida, and myself, to the house of his parents, who treated us 
 with the same kindness they showed towards their own son. We 
 stayed in Velez six days; when the renegado, having gained all 
 necessary information on the subject, repaired to the city of 
 
he yd ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Granada, there to be re-admitted, by means of the holy Inquisition, 
 into the bosom of our church. The rest of the freed captives each 
 went their own way, leaving Zoraida and myself to pursue ours, 
 with no other worldly wealth than the crowns which the courtesy 
 of the Frenchman had bestowed on her ; some of which proved use- 
 ful in purchasing the animal on which she rides. I have hitherto 
 attended her as a father and esquire, not as a husband; and we are 
 going to see if my father be yet alive, or whether my brothers have 
 been more fortunate than myself; though, since Heaven has given 
 me Zoraida, I cannot conceive that any better fortune could have 
 befallen me. The patience with which she bears the inconveniences 
 attendant on poverty, and the fervour of her piety, excite my 
 warmest admiration ; and I consider myself bound to serve her all 
 the days of my life; yet the delight I feel in knowing her to be 
 mine is sometimes disturbed by an uncertainty whether I shall find 
 any corner in my own country wherein to shelter her; and also 
 whether time or death may not have made such alterations In my 
 family that I shall find none left to acknowledge me. 
 
 “‘This, gentlemen, is my story ; whether it has been entertaining 
 or uncommon, you are the best judges; [can only say, for my own 
 part, that I would willingly have been more brief ; and, indeed, I have 
 omitted many circumstances lest you should think me tedious.” 
 
 ONEEAT PAT ei Sarr 
 
 Which treats of other occurrences at the inn; and of various things 
 worthy to be known. 
 
 As soon as the captive ceased speaking, ‘‘ Truly, captain,” said 
 Don Fernando, ‘‘ your narrative has been so interesting to us, both 
 from the extraordinary nature of the events themselves, and your 
 manner of relating them, that we should not have been wearied, 
 had it lasted till to-morrow.” The whole party now offered their 
 services with such expressions of kindness and sincerity that the 
 captain felt highly gratified. Don Fernando in particular offered, 
 if he would return with him, to prevail with the marquis, his brother, 
 to stand godfather at Zoraida’s baptism; and promised on his own 
 part to atford him all the assistance necessary for his appearance in 
 his own country with the dignity and distinction due to his person. 
 The captive thanked him most courteously, but declined his gener- 
 ous offers. 
 
 Night was now advanced, and a coach arrived at the inn, with 
 some horsemen. The travellers wanted lodging for the night, but 
 the hostess told them that there was not an inch of room disengaged 
 in the whole inn, ‘‘ Notwithstanding that,” said one of the men 
 on horseback, ‘‘ there must be room made for my lord judge here in 
 the coach.” On hearing this, the hostess was disturbed, and said, 
 ‘¢Sir, the truth is, I have no bed; but if his worship, my lord 
 judge, brings one with him, let him enter, im Heaven’s name; for I 
 
ARRIVAL OF A JUDGE AND HIS DAUGHTER. [6G 
 
 and my husband will quit our own chamber to accommodate his 
 honour.” 
 
 ‘* Be it so,” quoth the squire; and by this time a person had 
 alighted from the coach, whose garb immediately showed the nature 
 and dignity of his station: for his long gown and tucked-up sleeves 
 denoted him to be a judge, as his servant had said. He led by the 
 hand a young lady, apparently about sixteen years of age, in a 
 riding-dress, so lovely and elegant in her person, that all were 
 struck with so much admiration, that, had they not seen Dorothea, 
 Lucinda, and Zoraida, they would never have believed that there 
 was such another beautiful damsel in existence. Don Quixote was 
 present at their entrance, and he thus addressed them, ‘‘ Your 
 worship may securely enter, and range this castle ; for however con- 
 fined and inconvenient it may be, place will always be found for 
 arms and letters; especially when, like your worship, they appear 
 under the patronage of beauty; for to this fair maiden not only 
 castles should throw open wide their gates, but rocks divide and 
 separate, and mountains bow their lofty heads in salutation. Enter, 
 sir, into this paradise! for here you will find suns and stars worthy 
 of that lovely heaven you bring with you. Here you will find arms 
 in their zenith, and beauty in perfection!” The judge marvelled 
 greatly at this speech, and he earnestly surveyed the knight, no 
 less astonished by his appearance than his discourse, and was con- 
 sidering what to say in reply, when the other ladies made their ap- 
 pearance, attracted by the account the hostess had given of the 
 beauty of the young lady. Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the priest, 
 paid their compliments in a more intelligible manner than Don 
 Quixote, and all the ladies of the castle welcomed the fair stranger. 
 In short, the judge easily perceived that he was in the company of 
 persons of distinction ; but the mien, visage, and behaviour of Don 
 Quixote confounded him. After mutual courtesies and inquiries as 
 to what accommodation the inn afforded, the arrangements pre- 
 viously made were adopted ; namely, that all the women should lodge 
 in the large chamber, and the men remain without, as their guard. 
 The judge was content that the young lady, who was his daughter, 
 should accompany the other ladies, and she herself readily con- 
 sented ; thus, with part of the innkeeper’s narrow bed, together 
 with that which the judge had brought with him, they accommo- 
 dated themselves during the night better than they had expected. 
 
 The captive, from the moment he saw the judge, felt his heart 
 beat, from an impression that this gentleman was his brother. He 
 therefore inquired his name and country of one of the servants, who 
 told him that he was the licentiate John Perez de Viedma, and he had. 
 heard that his native place was in a town in the mountains of Leon. 
 This account confirmed him in the opinion that this was indeed that 
 brother, who, by the advice of his father, had applied himself to 
 letters. Agitated and overjoyed, he called aside Don Fernando, 
 Cardenio, and the priest, and communicated to them his discovery. 
 The servant had also told him that he was going to the Indies, as 
 judge of the courts of Mexico, and that the young lady was 
 his daughter, whose mother had died in giving her birth, but 
 
934 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 had left her a rich inheritance. He asked them how they thought 
 he had best make himself known, or how he could ascertain whether 
 his brother, seeing him so poor, would not be ashamed to own him, 
 or receive him to his bosom with affection. ‘‘ Leave me to make that 
 experiment,” said the priest; ‘‘not that I make any doubt, signor 
 captain, of your meeting with a kind reception; for there is an ap- 
 pearance of worth and good sense in your brother, which neither 
 implies arrogance, nor inability to appreciate duly the accidents of 
 fortune.” ‘‘ Nevertheless,” said the captain, ‘‘I would rather not 
 discover myself abruptly to him.” ‘‘ Leave all to me,” answered 
 the priest, ‘‘and I will manage the affair to your satisfaction.” 
 
 A collation being now ready, they all sat down to table, except 
 the captain, to partake of it, and also the ladies, who remained in 
 their own chamber. ‘The priest took this opportunity of speaking 
 to the judge: ‘‘ My lord, I had a comrade of your name in Constan- 
 tinople, where I was a slave some years. He was a captain, and 
 one of the bravest soldiers in the Spanish infantry; but he was as 
 unfortunate as brave.” ‘Pray, what was this captain’s name?” 
 said the judge. ‘‘He was called,” answered the priest, ‘‘ Ruy 
 Perez de Viedma, and was born in a village on the mountains of 
 Leon. He related to me a circumstance, which, from a person of 
 less veracity than himself, I should have taken for a tale such as 
 old women tell by a winter’s fire-side. He told me that his father 
 had divided his estate equally between himself and his three sons, 
 and after giving them certain precepts, better than those of Cato, 
 he proposed to them the choice of three professions. My friend 
 adopted that of arms, and I can assure you that he was so success- 
 ful, that in a few years, without any other aid than his own bravery 
 and merit, he rose to the rank of a captain of foot, and was in the 
 high road to preferment, when fortune proved adverse, and he lost 
 her favours, together with his liberty, in that glorious action which 
 gave freedom to so many—I mean the battle of Lepanto. I was 
 myself taken in Goleta, and afterwards, by different adventures, 
 we became comrades in Constantinople. He was afterwards sent 
 to Algiers, where he met with one of the strangest adventures in 
 the world.” The priest then briefly related to him what had passed 
 between his brother and Zoraida. He was listened to by the judge 
 with extreme attention; but he proceeded no further than to that 
 point where the Christians were plundered by the French, and his 
 comrade and the beautiful Moor left in poverty; pretending that 
 he knew not what became of them afterwards, whether they ever 
 reached Spain, or were carried by their captors to France. 
 
 The captain stood listening at some distance, and watching all 
 the emotions of his brother, who, when the priest had finished his 
 story, sighed profoundly, and with tears in his eyes said, ‘‘ Oh, sir, 
 you know not how nearly I am affected by what you have com- 
 municated! That gallant captain you mention is my elder brother, 
 who, having entertained more elevated thoughts than my younger 
 brother or myself, chose the honourable profession of arms, which 
 was one of the three pursuits proposed to us by our father. I ap- 
 plied myself to letters, which, by the blessing of Heaven and my 
 
THE JUDGE RECOGNIZES HIS BROTHER. 935 
 
 own exertions, has raised me to my present rank. My younger 
 brother is in Peru, abounding in riches, and has amply repaid the 
 sum be took out with him. He has enabled my father to indulge 
 his liberal disposition, and supplied me with the means of prosecut- 
 ing my studies with every advantage, until I attained the rank 
 which at present I enjoy. My father is still living, and continually 
 prays to God that his eyes may not be closed in death before he has 
 once again beheld his first-born son. It surprises me that he never 
 communicated his situation to his family, for had either of us known 
 of it, he need not have waited for the miracle of the cane to have 
 obtained his ransom. My anxiety is now about the treatment he 
 may have met with from those Frenchmen; this uncertainty as to 
 his fate will render my voyage sad and melancholy. Oh, my 
 brother! if I knew but where to find thee, I would deliver thee at 
 any risk. Ah, who shall bear the news to our aged father that 
 thou art living? Wert thou buried in the deepest dungeon of Bar- 
 bary, his wealth and that of thy brothers should redeem thee! O 
 lovely and bountiful Zoraida! who can repay thy kindness to my 
 brother? Who shall be so happy as to witness thy regeneration by 
 baptism, and be present at thy nuptials, which would give us all 
 so much delight?” The judge affected all his auditors by these, 
 and other demonstrations of sorrow and fraternal affection. 
 
 The priest, finding he had gained his point according to the cap- 
 tain’s wish, would no longer protract their pain, and rising from the 
 table, he went into the adjoining chamber, and led out Zoraida, 
 who was followed by the other ladies; he took also the hand of the 
 captain, and introduced them both to the judge, saying, ‘‘ My lord, 
 cease your lamentations, for here is your brother and good sister- 
 in-law, Captain Viedma, and the beautiful Moor, to whom he owes 
 so much, They have been reduced to poverty by the French, only 
 to have an opportunity of proving a brother’s liberality.” The cap- 
 tain ran towards his brother, who first held back to look at him; 
 then, recognizing him, he pressed him to his heart, while his eyes 
 overflowed with tears of joy. ‘The meeting was indeed affecting 
 beyond description. From time to time their mutual inquiries were 
 suspended by renewed demonstrations of fraternal love: often the 
 judge embraced Zoraida, and as often returned her to the caresses 
 of his daughter ; and a most pleasing sight it was to see the mutual 
 embraces of the fair Christian and lovely Moor. 
 
 Don Quixote was all this time a silent but attentive observer, 
 satisfied at the correspondence of these singular events with the 
 annals of chivalry. It was agreed that the captain and Zoraida 
 should go with their brother to Seville, and acquaint their father 
 of his return, so that the old man might be present at the baptism 
 and nuptials of Zoraida, as it was impossible for the judge to defer 
 his journey beyond a month. The night being now far advanced, 
 they proposed retiring to repose during the remainder, Don Quixote 
 offering his service to guard the castle, lest some giant, or rather 
 miscreant errant, tempted by the treasure of beauty there enclosed, 
 should presume to make an attack upon it. His friends thanked 
 him, and took occasion to amuse the judge with an account of his 
 
286 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 strange frenzy. Sancho Panza alone was out of all patience at 
 sitting up so late. Hvuwever, he was better accommodated than 
 any of them, upon the accoutrements of his ass, for which he dearly 
 paid, as shall be hereafter related. The ladies having retired to 
 their chamber, and the rest accommodated as well as they could be, 
 Don Quixote, according to promise, sallied out of the inn to take 
 his post at the castle gate. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 Which treats of the agreeable history of the youny muleteer; with 
 other strange accidents that happened at the inn, 
 
 Just before daybreak a voice reached the ears of the ladies, so 
 sweet and melodious that it forcibly arrested their attention, 
 especially that of Dorothea, by whose side slept Donna Clara de 
 Viedma, the daughter of the judge. The voice was unaccompanied 
 by any instrument, and they were surprised at the skill of the 
 singer. Sometimes they fancied that the sound proceeded from the 
 yard, and at other times from the stable. While they were in this 
 uncertainty, Cardenio came to the chamber-door and said, ‘‘ If you 
 are not asleep, pray listen; and you will hear one of the muleteers 
 singing enchantingly.” Dorothea told him that they had heard him ; 
 upon which Cardenio retired. Then listening with much attention, 
 Dorothea plainly distinguished the following words :— 
 
 Toss’d in a sea of doubts and fears, 
 Love’s hapless mariner I sail 
 Where no inviting port appears, 
 To screen me from the stormy gale. 
 
 At distance view’d, a cheering star 
 Conducts me through the swelling tide ; 
 A brighter luminary far 
 Than Palinurus e’er descried. 
 
 My soul, attracted by its blaze, 
 Still follows where it points the way, 
 And, while attentively I gaze, 
 Considers not how far I stray. 
 
 But female pride, reserved and shy 
 Like clouds that deepen on the day, 
 
 Oft shrouds it from my longing eye, 
 When most I need the guiding ray. 
 
 O lovely star, so pure and bright ! 
 Whose splendour feeds my vital fire, 
 
 The moment thou deny’st thy light, 
 Thy lost adorer will expire. 
 
THE YOUNG MULETEER. 937 
 
 Dorothea thought it was a great loss to Donna Clara not to hear 
 such excellent singing, she therefore gave her a gentle shake and 
 awoke her: ‘‘ Excuse me, my dear, for disturbing you,” she said, 
 **since it is only that you may have the pleasure of hearing the 
 sweetest voice which perhaps you ever heard in your life!” Clara, 
 half awake, was obliged to ask Dorothea to repeat what she had 
 said to her; after which she endeavoured to command her atten- 
 tion, but had no sooner heard a few words of the song, than she was 
 seized with a fit of trembling, as violent as the attack of a quartan 
 ague: and, clinging round Dorothea, she cried, ‘‘ Ah, my dear lady! 
 why did you wake me? The greatest service that could be done 
 me would be for ever to close both my eyes and ears, that I might 
 neither see nor hear that unhappy musician.” ‘‘ What do you say, 
 my dear?” answered Dorothea: ‘‘is it not a muleteer who is sing- 
 ing?” ‘Oh no,” replied Clara; ‘‘ he isa young gentleman of large 
 possessions, and so much master of my heart, that if he reject me 
 not, it shall be his eternally.” Dorothea was surprised at the pas- 
 sionate expressions of the girl, which she would not have expected 
 from one of her tender years. She therefore said to her, ‘‘ Your words 
 surprise me, signora Clara: explain yourself further; what is this 
 you say of hearts and possessions—and who is this musician, whose 
 voice affects you so much? But stay—do not speak just yet: he 
 seems to be preparing to sing again, and I must not lose the pleasure 
 of hearing him,” Clara, however, stopped her own ears with both 
 her hands, to Dorothea’s great surprise, who listened attentively to 
 the following 
 
 pt OS e 
 
 Unconquer’d hope, thou bane of fear, 
 And last deserter of the brave, 
 Thou soothing ease of mortal care, 
 Thou traveller beyond the grave ; 
 Thou soul of patience, airy food, 
 Bold warrant of a distant good, 
 Reviving cordial, kind decoy ; 
 Though fortune frowns and friends depart, 
 Though Silvia flies me, flattering joy, 
 Nor thou, nor love, shall leave my doting heart. 
 
 No slave, to lazy ease resign’d, 
 H’er triumph’d over noble foes: 
 The monarch fortune most is kind 
 To him who bravely dares oppose. 
 They say, Love rates his blessing high, 
 But who would prize an easy joy? 
 My scornful fair then ll pursue, 
 Though the coy beauty still denies ; 
 I grovel now on earth, ’tis true, : 
 But, raised by her, the humble slave may rise. 
 
 Here the musician ceased to sing, and Donna Clara again began 
 
238 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 to sigh, both of whom excited Dorothea’s curiosity, and she pressed 
 her to explain what she had just before said. Clara embraced her, 
 and putting her face close to her ear, she whispered, lest she 
 should be overheard by Lucinda—‘‘ That singer, my dear madam,” 
 said she, ‘‘is the son of an Arragonian gentleman, who is lord of two 
 towns, and when at court lives opposite to my father. Although 
 my father kept his windows covered with canvas in the winter, and 
 lattices in summer, it happened by some chance that this young 
 gentleman saw me—whether at church, or where it was, I know 
 not, but in truth he fell in love with me; and expressed his passion 
 from the window of the house by so many signs and so many tears, 
 that I was forced to believe him, and even to love him too, Among 
 other signs, he often joined one hand with the other, signifying his 
 desire to marry me; and though I should have been very glad if it 
 might have been so, yet being alone, and having no mother, I knew 
 not who to speak to on the subject; and therefore let it rest, with- 
 out granting him any other favour than, when his father and mine 
 were abroad, to lift up the lattice of my window just to show my- 
 self, at which he seemed so delighted that you would have thought 
 him mad. When the time of my father’s departure drew near, he 
 heard of it, though not from me, for I never had an opportunity to 
 speak to him, and soon after he fell sick, as I was told, from grief ; 
 so that on the day we came away I could not see him to say fare- 
 well, though it were only with my eyes. But after we had tra- 
 velled two days, on entering a village about a day’s journey hence, 
 I saw him at the door of an inn, in the habit of a muleteer, so dis- 
 guised, that had not his image been deeply imprinted in my heart, 
 I could not have known him. I was surprised and overjoyed at 
 the sight of him, and he stole looks at me, unobserved by my 
 father, whom he carefully avoids when he passes either on the 
 road or at the inns. When I think who he is, and how he travels 
 on foot, bearing so much fatigue for love of me, I am ready to die 
 with pity, and cannot help following him with my eyes. I cannot 
 imagine what his intentions are, or how he could leave his father, 
 who loves him passionately, having no other heir, and also because 
 he is so very deserving, as you will perceive when you see him. [ 
 can assure you, besides, that all he sings is of his own composing ; 
 for I have heard that he is a great scholar and a poet. Every time 
 I see him, or hear him sing, I tremble all over with fright lest my 
 father should recollect him, and discover our inclinations. Al- 
 though I never spoke a word to him in my life, yet I love him so 
 well that I can never live without him. ‘This, dear madam, is all 
 I can tell you about him whose voice has pleased you so much; by 
 that alone you may easily perceive that he is no muleteer, but mas- 
 ter of hearts and towns, as I have already told you.” 
 
 ‘*Knough, my dear Clara,” said Dorothea, kissing her a thou- 
 sand times: ‘‘you need not say more; compose yourself till mor- 
 ning, for I hope to be able to manage your affair so that the con- 
 clusion may be as happy as the beginning is innocent.”  ‘‘ Ah, 
 signora !” said Donna Clara, ‘‘what conclusion can be expected, 
 since his father is of such high rank and fortune that I am not 
 
THE KNIGHT'S SOLILOQUY. 2389 
 
 worthy to be his servant, much less his wife? As to marrying 
 without. my father’s knowledge, I would not do it for all the world. 
 I only wish this young man would go back, and leave me; absence, 
 perhaps, may lessen the pain I now feel; though I fear it will not 
 have much effect. What a strange sorcery this loveis! I know 
 not how it came to possess me, so young as I am—in truth, I be. 
 lieve we are both of the same age, and I am not yet sixteen, nor 
 shall I be, as my father says, until next Michaelmas.” Dorothea 
 could not forbear smiling at Donna Clara’s childish simplicity ; 
 however, she entreated her again to sleep the remainder of the 
 night, and to hope for everything in the morning. 
 
 Profound silence now reigned over the whole house; all being 
 asleep except the innkeeper’s daughter and her maid Maritornes, 
 who, knowing Don Quixote’s weak points, determined to amuse 
 themselves by playing him some trick while he was keeping guard 
 without doors. There was no window on that side of the house 
 which overlooked the field, exeept a small opening to the straw- 
 loft, where the straw was thrown out. At this hole the pair of 
 damsels planted themselves, whence they commanded a view of 
 the knight on horseback, leaning on his lance, and could hear him 
 ever and anon heaving such deep and mournful sighs, that they 
 seemed torn from the very bottom of his soul. They could also 
 distinguish words, uttered in a soft, soothing, amorous tone; such 
 as, ‘‘O my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso! perfection of all beauty, 
 quintessence of discretion, treasury of wit, and pledge of modesty ! 
 what may now be thy sweet employment? Art thou, peradven- 
 ture, thinking of thy captive knight, who voluntarily exposes him- 
 self to so many perils for thy sake! O thou triformed luminary, 
 bring me swift tidings of her! Perhaps thou art now gazing at 
 her, envious of her beauty, as she walks through some gallery of 
 her sumptuous palace, or leans over some balcony, considering how 
 she may, without offence to her virtue or dignity, assuage the tor- 
 ment which this poor afflicted heart of mine endures for her! or 
 meditating on what glory she shall bestow on my sufferings, what 
 solace to my cares, or recompense to my long services! And thou, 
 O sun! who must now be preparing to harness thy steeds, to 
 come forth and visit my adorable lady, salute her, I entreat thee, 
 in my name; but beware that thou dost not kiss her face, for I 
 shall be more jealous of thee than thou wert of that swift ingrate 
 who made thee sweat and run over the plains of Thessaly, or along 
 the banks of Peneus—I do not exactly remember over which it was 
 thou rannest so jealous and so enamoured.” 
 
 Thus far Don Quixote had proceeded in his soliloquy, when the 
 innkeeper’s daughter softly called to him, saying, ‘‘Pray, sir, come 
 a little this way.” Don Quixote turned his head, and perceiving 
 by the light of the moon, which then shone bright, that some per- 
 son beckoned him towards the spike-hole, which to his fancy was a 
 window with gilded bars, suitable to the rich castle he conceived 
 the inn to be, and his former visions again recurring, he concluded 
 that the fair damsel of the castle, irresistibly enamoured of him, 
 had now come to repeat her visit. Unwilling, therefore, to appear 
 
> 
 240 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 discourteous or ungrateful, he approached the aperture, and replied, 
 ‘*T lament, fair lady, that you should have placed your affections 
 where it is impossible for you to meet with that return which your 
 great merit and beauty deserve; yet ought you not to blame an 
 unfortunate knight whom love has already enthralled. Pardon me, 
 dear lady; retire, and do not by any further disclosure of your 
 sentiments make me appear yet more ungrateful; but if I can re- 
 pay you by any other way than a return of passion, I entreat that 
 you will command me, and I swear, by that sweet absent enemy of 
 mine, to gratify you immediately, though you should require a lock 
 of Medusa’s hair, which was composed of snakes; or the sunbeams 
 enclosed in a vial.” ‘‘ Sir,” quoth Maritornes, ‘‘my lady wants 
 none of these.” ‘‘ What, then, doth your lady require, discreet 
 duenna?” answered Don Quixote. ‘‘Only one of your beautiful 
 hands,” quoth Maritornes, ‘‘ whereby partly to satisfy that longing 
 which brought her to this window, so much to her peril, that if her 
 lord and father should know of it he would whip off at least one of her 
 ears.” ‘Let him dare to do it!” cried Don Quixote ; ‘‘ fatal should 
 be his punishment for presuming to lay violent hands on the delicate 
 members of an enamoured daughter.” Maritornes, not doubting 
 but that he would grant the request, hastened down into the stable, 
 and brought back the halter belonging to Sancho’s Dapple, just as 
 Don Quixote had got upon Rozinante’s saddle to reach the gilded 
 window at which the enamoured damsel stood; and giving her his 
 hand, he said, ‘‘ Accept, madam, this hand, or rather this scourge 
 of the wicked ; accept, I say, this hand, which that of woman never 
 before touched, not even hers who has the entire right of my whole 
 person, I offer it not to be kissed, but that you may behold the 
 contexture of its nerves, the firm knitting of its muscles, the large- 
 ness and spaciousness of its veins, whence you may infer what 
 must be the strength of that arm which belongs to such a hand.” 
 *‘We shall soon see that,” quoth Maritornes. Then, making a 
 running-knot in the halter, she fixed it on his wrist, and tied the 
 other end of it fast to the staple of the hay-loft door. Don Quix- 
 ote, feeling the harsh rope about his wrist, said, ‘‘ You seem rather 
 to rasp than grasp my hand—pray do not treat it so roughly, since 
 that is not to blame for my adverse inclination ; nor is it just to 
 vent your displeasure thus ; indeed, this kind of revenge is very 
 unworthy of a lover.” But his expostulations were unheard; for 
 as soon as Maritornes had tied the knot, they both went laughing 
 away, having fastened it in such a manner that it was impossible 
 for him to get loose. 
 
 Thus he remained standing upright on Rozinante, his hand close 
 to the hole, and tied by the wrist to the bolt of the door; and in 
 the utmost alarm lest Rozinante should move on either side, and 
 leave him suspended. He durst not, therefore, make the least 
 motion; though, indeed, he might well have expected, from the 
 sobriety and patience of Rozinante, that he would remain in that 
 position an entire century. In short, Don Quixote finding himself 
 thus situated, and the Jadies gone, concluded that it was an affair 
 of enchantment, like others which had formerly happened to him 
 
THE KNIGHT IN A NOOSE. - »QAT 
 
 in the same castle. He then cursed his own indiscretion for having 
 entered it a second time; since he might have learnt from his 
 chivalry that when a knight was unsuccessful in an adventure, it 
 was a sign that its accomplishment was reserved for another, and 
 that second trials were always fruitless. He made many attempts 
 to release himself, though he was afraid of making any great 
 exertion, lest Rozinante should stir; but his efforts were all in 
 vain, and he was compelled, either to remain standing on the 
 saddle, or to tear off his hand. Now he wished for Amadis’s 
 sword, against which no enchantment had power, and now he 
 cursed his fortune. Sometimes he expatiated on the loss the world 
 would sustain during the period of his enchantment ; other moments 
 were devoted to his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso; and some to his 
 good squire Sancho Panza, who, stretched on his ass’s pannel and 
 buried in sleep, was dreaming of no such misfortune ; nor did he 
 fail to invoke the aid of the sages Lirgandeo and Alquife, and call 
 upon his special friend Urganda. Thus the morning found him, 
 like a bull, roaring with despair ; for he expected no relief with the 
 dawn, fearing his enchantment was eternal; and he was the more 
 induced to believe it, as Rozinante made not the least motion, and 
 he verily thought himself and his horse must remain in the same 
 posture, without eating, drinking, or sleeping, until the evil 
 influence of the stars had passed over, or some more powerful sage 
 should disenchant him. 
 
 But he was mistaken; for it was scarcely daylight when four 
 men on horse-back stopped at the inn, well appointed and 
 accoutred, with carbines hanging on their saddle-bows. Not 
 finding the inn door open, they called aloud, and knocked very 
 hard ; upon which Don Quixote called out from the place where he 
 stood sentinel, in an arrogant and loud voice, ‘‘ Knights, or 
 squires, or whoever ye are, desist from knocking at the gate of this 
 castle; for at this early hour its inmates are doubtless sleeping; at 
 least, they are not accustomed to open the gates of their fortress 
 until the sun has spread his beams over the whole horizon; retire 
 until brighter daylight shall inform us whether it be proper to 
 admit you or not.” ‘‘What sort of a fortress or castle is this,” 
 quoth one of them, ‘‘that we are obliged to observe all this cere- 
 mony? If you are the innkeeper, make somebody open the door, 
 for we are travellers, and only want to bait our horses, and go on, 
 as we are in haste.” ‘‘ What say ye, sirs—do I look like an inn- 
 keeper?” said Don Quixote. ‘I know not what you look like,” 
 answered the other ; ‘‘ but Iam sure you talk preposterously to call 
 this inn a castle.” ‘‘A castle it is,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘and 
 one of the best in the whole province; and at this moment contains 
 Within its walls persons who have had crowns on their heads 
 and sceptres in their hands.” ‘‘ You had better have said the 
 reverse,” quoth the traveller; ‘‘the sceptre on the head, and the 
 ercwn on the hand ; but perhaps some company of strolling players 
 are here, who frequently wear such things ; this is not a place for 
 any other sort of crowned heads.” ‘* Your ignorance must be 
 great,” replied Don Quixote, “‘if you know not that such events 
 
 Q 
 
949, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 are very common in chivalry.” The other horseman, impatient at 
 the dialogue, repeated his knocks, with so much violence that he 
 roused not only the host but all the company in the house. 
 
 Just at that time it happened that the horse of one of the 
 travellers was seized with an inclination to smell at Rozinante, 
 who, sad and spiritless, was then supporting his distended lord; 
 but being in facta horse of flesh, although he seemed to be one of 
 stone, he could not be insensible to the compliment, nor refuse to 
 return it with equal kindness. But scarcely had he stirred a step, 
 when Don Quixote’s feet slipped from the saddle, and he remained 
 suspended by the arm, in so much torture that he fancied his wrist 
 or his arm was tearing from his body; and he hung so near the 
 ground that he could just reach it with the tips of his toes, which 
 only made his situation the worse; for feeling how near he was to 
 the ground, he stretched and strained with all his might to reach 
 it; like those who are tortured by the strappado, and who, being 
 placed in the same dilemma, aggravate their sufferings by their 
 fruitless efforts to stretch themselves, 
 
 CHAPTER XLIL 
 
 A continuation of the extraordinary adventures that happened 
 in the inn, 
 
 Exerting his lungs to the utmost, Don Quixote roared so loudly 
 that the host opened the inn-door, in great alarm, to discover the 
 cause of the outcry. Maritornes, being awakened by the noise, 
 and guessing the cause, went to the straw-loft, and privately 
 untied the halter which held up Don Quixote, who immediately 
 came to the ground, Without answeriny a word to the many 
 inquiries that were made to him by the innkeeper and travellers, 
 he slipped the rope from off his wrist, and springing from the 
 earth, mounted Rozinante, braced his target, couched his lance, 
 and taking a good compass about the field, came up at a half 
 gallop, saying, ‘‘ Whoever shall dare to affirm that I was fairly 
 enchanted, I say he lies; and provided my sovereign lady, the 
 Princess Micomicona, gives me leave, I challenge him to single 
 combat.” The new comers were amazed at Don Quixote’s words, 
 till the innkeeper explained the wonder, by telling them that he 
 was disordered in his senses, They then inquired of the host 
 whether there was not in the house a youth about fifteen years old, 
 habited like a muleteer—in short, describing Donna Clara’s lover. 
 The host said that there were so many people in the.inn, that he 
 had not observed such a person as they described, But one of 
 them just then seeing the judge’s coach, said, ‘‘ He must certainly 
 be here, for there is the coach which he is said to have followed. 
 Let one of us remain here, and the rest go in search for him ; and 
 it would not be amiss for one of us to ride round the house in case 
 he should attempt to escape over the pales of the yard.” All this 
 
 —= 
 
 
 
 
 
DISCOVERY OF THE MULETEER. 248 
 
 they immediately did, much to the innkeeper’s surprise, who 
 could not guess the meaning of so much activity. 
 
 It was now full daylight, and most of the company in the house 
 were rising ; among the first were Donna Clara and Dorothea, who 
 had slept but indifferently ; the one from concern at being so near 
 her lover, and the other from a desire of seeing him. Don Quixote, 
 finding that the four travellers regarded neither him nor his chal- 
 lenge, was furious with rage; and could he have found a precedent 
 among the ordinances of chivalry for engaging in a new adventure 
 after he had pledged his word to forbear until the first had been 
 accomplished, he would now have fiercely attacked them all, and 
 compelled them to reply; but reflecting that he was bound in 
 honour first to reinstate the princess on her throne, he endeavoured 
 to tranquillize himself. In the meantime the men pursued their 
 search after the youth, and at last found him peaceably sleeping by 
 the side of a muleteer. One of them pulling him by the arm, said, 
 “Upon my word, Signor Don Louis, your dress is very becoming a 
 gentleman like you, and the bed you lie on is very suitable to the 
 tenderness with which your mother brought you up!” The youth 
 was roused from his sleep, and looking earnestly at the man who 
 held him, he soon recollected him to be one of his father’s servants, 
 and was so confounded that he could not say a word. ‘‘ Signor 
 Don Louis,” continued the servant, ‘‘ you must instantly return 
 home, unless you would cause the death of my lord your father, he 
 is in such grief at your absence.” ‘‘ Why, how did my father 
 know,” said Don Louis, ‘‘ that I came this road, and in this dress?” 
 ‘¢ He was informed by a student, to whom you mentioned your pro- 
 ject, and who was induced to disclose it from compassion at your 
 father’s distress. There are four of us here at your service, and we 
 shall be rejoiced to restore you to your family.” ‘‘ That will be 
 as I shall please, or as Heaven may ordain,” answered Don Louis. 
 ‘* What, signor, should you please to do, but to return home?” re- 
 joined the servant; ‘‘indeed, you cannot do otherwise.” 
 
 The muleteer who had been Don Louis’s companion hearing this 
 contest, went to acquaint Don Fernando and the rest of the com- 
 pany with what was passing, telling them that the man had called 
 the young lad Don, and wanted him to return to his father’s house, 
 but that he refused to go. They all recollected his fine voice, and 
 being eager to know who he was, and to assist him if any violence 
 were offered to him, they repaired to the place where he was con- 
 tending with his servant. Dorothea now came out of her chamber, 
 with Donna Clara; and calling Cardenio aside, she related to him 
 in a few words the history of the musician and Donna Clara. He 
 then told her of the search that had been made after the young 
 man by the servants, and although he whispered, he was overheard 
 by Donna Clara, who was thrown into such an agony by the intel- 
 ligence, that she would have fallen to the ground if Dorothea had 
 not supported her. Cardenio advised her to retire with Donna 
 Clara, while he endeavoured to make some arrangements in their 
 behalf. Don Louis was now surrounded by all the four servants, 
 entreating that he would immediately return to comfort his father, 
 
Q44 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 He answered that he could not possibly do so until he had accom- 
 plished that on which his life, his honour, and his soul depended. 
 The servants still urged him, saying that they would certainly not 
 go back without him, and that they must compel him to return if 
 he refused. ‘‘ That you shall not do,” replied Don Louis; ‘‘ at least 
 you shall not take me living.” This contest had now drawn to- 
 gether most of the people in the house, Don Fernando, Cardenio, 
 the judge, the priest, the barber; and even Don Quixote had 
 quitted his post of castle-guard. Cardenio, already knowing the 
 young man’s story, asked the men why they would take away the 
 youth against his will? ‘‘ To save his father’s life,” replied one of 
 them; ‘‘ which is in danger from distress of mind.” ‘‘ There is 
 no occasion to give an account of my affairs here,” said Don Louis ; 
 ‘‘T am free, and will go back if I please; otherwise, none of you 
 shall force me.” ‘‘ But reason will prevail with you,” answered 
 the servant; ‘‘andif not, we must do our duty.” ‘‘ Hold!” said 
 the judge; ‘‘let us know the whole of this affair.” The man (who 
 recollected him) answered, ‘‘ Does not your worship know this gen- 
 tleman? He is your neighbour’s son, and has absented himself 
 from his father’s house, in a garb very unbecoming his quality, as 
 your worship may see.”” The judge, after looking at him with at- 
 tention, recognised him, and accosted him in a friendly manner, 
 ‘¢ What childish frolic is this? Signor Don Louis,” said he, ‘‘ or 
 what powerful motive has induced you to disguise yourself in a 
 manner so unbecoming your rank?” The eyes of the youth were filled 
 with tears, and he could not say a word. The judge desired the 
 servants to be quiet, promising that all should be well; and, tak- 
 ing Don Louis by the hand, he led him aside and questioned him. 
 In the meantime a great uproar was heard at the inn-door, which 
 was occasioned by two guests who had lodged there that night, and 
 who, seeing everybody engaged, had attempted to go off without 
 paying their reckoning; but the host, being more attentive to his 
 own business than to that of other people, laid hold of them as they 
 were going out of the door, and demanded his money, giving them 
 such hard words for their evil intention, that they were provoked to 
 return him an answer with their fists, and so much to the purpose that 
 _ the poor innkeeper was forced to call for help. The hostess and her 
 daughter, seeing none more proper to give him succour than Don Quix- 
 ote, applied to him, ‘‘ Sir Knight,” said the daughter, ‘‘I beseech 
 you, by the valour which God has given you, to come and help my 
 poor father, whom a couple of wicked fellows are beating without 
 mercy.” Don Quixote, very leisurely, and with much phlegm, re- 
 pe ‘Fair maiden, your petition cannot be granted at present, 
 ecause I am incapacitated from engaging in any other adventure 
 until I have accomplished one for which my word is already 
 plighted ; all that I can do in your service is to, advise you to go 
 and desire your father to maintain the fight as well as he can, and 
 by no means allow himself to be vanquished; in the meantime I 
 will request permission of the Princess Micomicona to relieve him 
 in his distress, which, if she grants me, rest assured I will forth- 
 with deliver him.” ‘‘As JI ama sinner,” quoth Maritornes, who 
 
REASONS FOR NOT HELPING THE HOST. 945 
 
 was present, ‘‘ before your worship can do all that, my master may 
 be gone into the other world.” ‘‘ Suffer me, madam, to obtain 
 that permission,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘and if I procure it, it 
 matters not though he be in the other world ; for thence would I 
 liberate him, in spite of the other world itself ; or atleast I will take 
 such ample revenge on those who sent him thither, that you shall 
 be entirely satisfied.” Then, without saying another word, he ap- 
 proached Dorothea, and throwing himself on his knees before her, 
 in chivalrous terms he entreated that her grandeur would vouchsafe 
 to give him leave to succour the governor of the castle, who was 
 in grievous distress. The princess very graciously consented ; when, 
 bracing on his target and drawing his sword, he proceeded to the 
 inn-door, where the two guests were still maltreating the poor 
 host; but before he came there, he suddenly stopped short and 
 stood irresolute, though Maritornes and the hostess asked. him why 
 he delayed helping their master. ‘‘I delay,” said Don Quixote, 
 “‘because it is not lawful for me to draw my sword against ple- 
 beians; but call hither my squire, Sancho Panza, for to him doth 
 this matter more properly belong.” In the meantime the conflict 
 at the door of the inn continued without intermission, very much 
 to the disadvantage of the innkeeper, and the rage of Maritornes, 
 the hostess, and her daughter, who were ready to run distracted 
 to see the cowardice of Don Quixote, and the injury done to their 
 lord and master. 
 
 But here we must leave him; for somebody will no doubt come 
 to his relief: if not, let him suffer for being so foolhardy as to en- 
 gage in such an unequal contest: and let us remove some fifty paces 
 off, to hear what Don Louis replied to the judge, whom we left 
 questioning him as to the cause of his travelling on foot so meanly 
 apparelled. The youth, clasping his hands, as if some great afflic- 
 tion wrung his heart, and shedding tears in abundance, said in an- 
 swer, ‘‘I can only say, dear sir, that from the moment Heaven 
 was pleased by means of our vicinity to give me a sight of Donna 
 Clara, your daughter, she became sovereign mistress of my affec- 
 tions; and if you, my true lord and father, do not oppose it, this 
 very day she shall be my wife. For her I left my father’s house, 
 and for her I assumed this garb, to follow her wheresoever she 
 might go. She herself knows no more of my passion than what 
 she may have perceived by occasionally seeing, at a distance, my 
 eyes full of tenderness and tears, You know, my lord, the wealth 
 and rank of my family, of whom I am the sole heir; if these cir- 
 sumstances can plead in my favour, receive me immediately for 
 your son: for though my father, influenced by other views of his 
 own, should not approve my choice, time may reconcile him to it.” 
 Here the enamoured youth was silent, and the judge remained in 
 Suspense: no less surprised by the ingenuous confession of Don 
 Louis than perplexed how to act in the affair; in reply, therefore, 
 he only desired him to be calm for the present, and not let his ser- 
 vants return that day, that there might be time to consider what 
 was most expedient to be done. Don Louis kissed his hands with 
 vehemence, bathing them with tears, that might have softened a 
 
246 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 heart of marble, much more that of the judge, who, being a man of 
 sense, was aware how advantageous this match would be for his 
 daughter. Nevertheless, he would rather, if possible, that it 
 should take place with the consent of Don Louis’s father, who, he 
 knew, had pretensions to a title for his son. 
 
 By this time the innkeeper and his guests had made peace, more 
 through the persuasions and arguments of Don Quixote than his 
 threats; and the reckoning was paid. And now it so happened 
 that at this time the very barber entered the inn who had been 
 deprived of Mambrino’s helmet by Don Quixote, and of the trap- 
 pings of his ass by Sancho Panza; and as he was leading his beast 
 to the stable he espied Sancho Panza, who at that moment was re- 
 pairing some thing about the self-same pannel. He instantly fell 
 upon him with fury: ‘‘ Ah, thief!” said he, ‘‘have I got you at 
 last !—give me my basin and my pannel, with all the furniture you 
 stole from me!” Sancho, finding himself thus suddenly attacked 
 and abused, secured the pannel with one hand, and with the other 
 made the barber such a return that his mouth was bathed in blood. 
 Nevertheless, the barber would not let go his hold; but raised his 
 voice so high that he drew everybody around him, while he called 
 out, ‘‘ Justice, in the king’s name! ‘This rogue and highway-robber 
 here would murder me for endeavouring to recover my own goods.” 
 ‘*You lie!” answered Sancho, ‘‘I am no highway-robber; my 
 master, Don Quixote, won these spoils in fair war.” Don Quixote 
 was now present, and not a little pleased to see how well his squire 
 acted both on the offensive and defensive; and regarding him 
 thenceforward as a man of mettle, he resolved in,his mind to dub 
 him a knight the first opportunity that offered, thinking the order 
 of chivalry would be well bestowed upon him. 
 
 During this contest the barber made many protestations. ‘‘Gentle- 
 men,” said he, ‘‘this pannel is as certainly mine as the death I 
 owe to God; I know it as well as if it were made by myself; and 
 yonder stands my ass in the stable, who will not sufter me to lie— 
 pray do but try it, and if it does not fit him to a hair, let me be 
 infamous: and moreover, the very day they took this from me, 
 they robbed me likewise of a new brass basin, never hanselled, that 
 
 cost me a crown.” Here Don Quixote could not forbear inter- 
 posing; and separating the two combatants, he made them lay 
 down the pannel on the ground to public view, until the truth 
 should be decided. ‘The error of this honest squire,” said he, 
 ‘‘is manifest, in calling that a basin which was, is, and ever shall 
 be, Mambrino’s helmet—that helmet which I won in fair war, and 
 am therefore its right and lawful possessor. With regard to the 
 pannel, I decline any interference; all I can say is, that my squire, 
 Sancho, asked my permission to take the trappings belonging to 
 the horse of this conquered coward, to adorn his own withal. I 
 gave him leave—he took them, and if from horse-trappings they are 
 metamorphosed into an ass’s pannel, I have no other reasons to give 
 than that these transformations are frequent in affairs of chivalry. 
 In confirmation of what I say, go, Sancho, and bring hither the 
 helmet which this honest man terms a basin.” ‘In faith, sir,” 
 
DISPUTE CONCERNING MAMBRINO’S HELMET. Q47 
 
 quoth Sancho, ‘‘if we have no better proof than that your worship 
 speaks of, Mambrino’s helmet will prove as arrant a basin as the 
 honest man’s trappings are a pack-saddle.” ‘‘Do what I com- 
 mand,” replied Don Quixote; ‘‘for surely all things in this castle 
 cannot be governed by enchantment.” Sancho went for the basin, 
 and returning with it, he gave it to Don Quixote. ‘‘ Only behold, 
 gentlemen !” said he; ‘‘ how can this squire have the face to declare 
 that this is a basin, and not the helmet which I have described to 
 you? By the order of knighthood which I profess, I swear that 
 this very helmet is the same which I took from him, without ad- 
 dition or diminution.” ‘‘ There is no doubt of that,” quoth Sancho, 
 ‘‘for from the time my master won it, until now, he has fought but 
 one battle in it, which was when he freed those unlucky galley- 
 slaves; and had it not been for that same basin-helmet, he would 
 not have got off so well from the showers of stones which rained 
 upon him in that skirmish.” 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 In which the dispute concerning Mambrino’s helmet and the pannel is 
 decided; with other adventures that really and truly happened. 
 
 **Good sirs,” quoth the barber, ‘‘hear what these gentlefolks 
 say! They will have it that this is no basin, but a helmet!” 
 «* Aye,” said.Don Quixote, ‘‘and whoever shall affirm the contrary, 
 I will convince him, if he be a knight, that he lies; and if a squire, 
 that he les and hes again, a thousand times.” Our barber, Master 
 Nicholas, who was present, wishing to carry on the jest for the 
 amusement of the company, addressed himself to the other barber, 
 and said,—‘‘ Signor barber, or whoever you are, know that I also 
 am. of your profession, and have had my certificate of examination 
 above these twenty years, and am well acquainted with all the in- 
 struments of barber-surgery, without exception. I have likewise 
 been a soldier in my youth, and therefore know what a helmet is, 
 and what a morion, or cap of steel is, as well as a casque with its 
 beaver, and other matters relating to soldiery—I mean to the 
 arms commonly used by soldiers. And I say, with submission 
 always to better judgments, that the piece before us, which that 
 gentleman holds in his hand, not only is not a barber’s basin, but 
 is as far from being so as white is from black, and truth from false- 
 hood. At the same time I say that although it be a helmet, it is 
 not a complete helmet.” ‘‘ Certainly not,” said Don Quixote ; ‘‘ for 
 one-half of it is wanting, namely the beaver.” ‘‘ Undoubtedly,” 
 said the priest, who perceived his friend the barber’s design ; and 
 Cardenio, Don Fernando, and his companions, all confirmed the 
 same! even the judge, had not his thoughts been engrossed by the 
 affair of Don Louis, would have taken some share in the jest; but 
 in the perplexed state of his mind he could attend but little to 
 these pleasantries. 
 
248 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ‘‘ Mercy on me!” quoth the astonished barber, ‘‘ how is it pos- 
 sible that so many honourable gentlemen should maintain that this 
 is not a basin, but a helmet! This would be enough to astonish a 
 whole university, be it everso wise. Well, if the basin bea helmet, 
 then the pannel must needs be a horse’s furniture, as the gentleman 
 has said.” ‘‘To me, indeed, it seems to be a pannel,” said Don 
 Quixote; ‘‘ but I have already told you I will not interfere on that 
 subject.” ‘‘ Whether it be the pannel of an ass, or the caparison 
 of a horse,” said the priest, ‘‘must be left to the decision of Signor 
 Don Quixote: for in matters of chivalry all these gentlemen and 
 myself submit to his judgment.” ‘‘ By all that is holy! gentle- 
 men,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘such extraordinary things have befallen ~ 
 me in this castle, that I dare not vouch for the certainty of any- 
 thing that it may contain ; for I verily believe that all is conducted 
 by the powers of enchantment. During my first visit, I was tor- 
 mented by an enchanted Moor, while Sancho fared no better among 
 some of his followers: and this night I have been suspended for 
 nearly two hours by my arm, without knowing either the means or 
 the cause of my persecution: it would be rash in me, therefore, to 
 give my opinion in an affair of so much perplexity. As to the ques- 
 tion whether this be a basin or a helmet, I have already answered ; 
 but with regard to the pannel, gentlemen, not daring myself to 
 
 ronounce a definitive sentence, I refer it to your wisdom to decide. 
 Patars, as you are not knights-errant, the enchantments of this 
 place may not have the same power over you; and, your under- 
 standings remaining free, you may judge of things as they really 
 are, and not as they appear tome.” ‘‘ There is no doubt,” answered 
 Don Fernando, ‘but that Signor Don Quixote is right in leaving 
 the decision of this case to us; and that we may proceed in it upon 
 solid grounds, I will take the votes of these gentlemen in secret, and 
 then give you a clear and full account of the result.” 
 
 To those acquainted with Don Quixote, all this was choice enter- 
 tainment; while to others it seemed the height of folly, among 
 whom were Don Louis, his servants, and three other guests, troopers 
 of the holy brotherhood, who just then arrived at the inn. As for 
 the barber, he was quite raving to see his basin converted into 
 Mambrino’s helmet before his eyes, and he made no doubt but his 
 pannel would undergo a like transformation. It was diverting to 
 see Don Fernando walking round and taking the opinion of each 
 person at his ear, whether that precious object of contention was a 
 pannel or caparison; and after he had taken the votes of all those 
 who knew Don Quixote, he said aloud to the barber, ‘‘In truth, 
 honest friend, I am weary of collecting votes; for I propose the 
 question to nobody who does not say in reply, that it is quite ridi- 
 culous to assert that this is an ass’s pannel, and not the caparison 
 of a horse, and even of a well-bred horse ; and as you have given us 
 no proofs to the contrary, you must have patience and submit, for 
 in spite of both you and your ass, thisis no pannel.” ‘‘ Let me never 
 enjoy a place in heaven !” exclaimed the barber, ‘‘if your worships 
 are not all mistaken; and so may my soul appear in heaven as this 
 appears to me a pannel, and not a caparison: but so go the laws :— 
 
THE DISCORD OF AGRAMANTE’S CAMP. Q49 
 
 I say no more: and verily I am not drunk, for I am as yet fasting 
 from everything but sin.” 
 
 The barber’s simplicity caused no less merriment than the va- 
 garies of the knight, who now said, ‘‘ As sentence is passed, let each 
 take his own; and him to whom God giveth, may St Peter bless.” 
 One of Don Louis’s four servants now interposed. ‘‘ How is it pos- 
 sible,” said he, ‘‘that men of common understanding should say 
 that this is not a basin nor that a pannel? But since you do actu- 
 ally affirm it, I suspect that there must be some mystery in obsti- 
 nately maintaining a thing so contrary to the plain truth: for by— 
 (and out he rapped a round oath) all the votes in the world shall 
 never persuade me that this is not a barber’s basin and that a jack- 
 ass’s pannel.” ‘‘ May it not be that of a she-ass?”’ quoth the priest. 
 <« That is all one,” said the servant ; ‘‘the question is only whether it 
 be or be not a pannel.” One of the officers of the holy brotherhood, 
 who had overheard the dispute, cried out, full of indignation, ‘‘ It is 
 as surely a pannel as my father is my father; and whoever says, or 
 shall say, to the contrary, must be drunk.” ‘‘ You lie, like a pitiful 
 scoundrel !” answered Don Quixote; and lifting up his lance, which 
 was still in his hand, he aimed such a blow at the trooper, that, 
 had he not slipped aside, he would have been levelled to the ground. 
 The lance came down with such fury that it was shivered to pieces. 
 “‘ Help! help the holy brotherhood !” cried out the other officers. 
 The innkeeper, being himself one of that body, ran instantly for 
 his wand and sword, to support his comrades. Don Louis’s ser- 
 vants surrounded their master, lest he should escape during the 
 confusion. The barber perceiving the house turned topsy-turvy, 
 laid hold again of his pannel, and Sancho did the same. Don 
 Quixote drew his sword, and fell upon the troopers! and Don Louis 
 called out to his servants to leave him, that they might assist Don 
 Quixote, Cardenio, and Don Fernando, who both took part with 
 the knight. The priest cried out, the hostess shrieked, her daughter 
 wept, Maritornes roared, Dorothea was alarmed, Lucinda stood 
 amazed, and Donna Clara fainted away. The barber cuffed Sancho, 
 and Sancho pummelled the barber. Don Louis gave one of his ser- 
 vants, who had presumed to hold him by the arm lest he should 
 escape, such a blow with his fist that his mouth was bathed in 
 blood; which caused the judge to interpose in his defence. Don 
 Fernando got one of the troopers down, and laid on his blows most 
 unmercifully ; while the innkeeper bawled aloud for help to the 
 holy brotherhood ; thus was the whole inn filled with cries, wail- 
 ings, and shrieks, dismay, confusion, and terror, kicks, cudgellings, 
 and effusion of blood. In the midst of this chaos and hurly-burly 
 Don Quixote suddenly conceived that he was involved over head 
 and ears in the discord of king Agramante’s camp, and he called out 
 in a voice which made the whole inn shake, ‘‘ Hold, all of you! 
 Put up your swords; be pacified, and listen all to me, if ye would 
 live!” His vehemence made them desist, and he went on saying, 
 “‘Did I not tell you, sirs, that this castle was enchanted, and that 
 some legion of devils must inhabit it? Behold the confirmation of 
 what I said! Mark with your own eyes how the discord of Agra- 
 
250 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 mante’s camp is transferred hither amongst us !—there they fight 
 for the sword, here for the horse, yonder for the eagle, here again 
 for the helmet: we all fight, and no one understands another. 
 Let, then, my lord judge and his reverence the priest come forward, 
 the one as king Agramante, the other as king Sobrino, and restore 
 us to peace ; for by the powers divine it were most disgraceful and 
 iniquitous that so many gentlemen of our rank should slay each 
 other for such trivial matters.” The troopers, not understanding 
 Don Quixote’s language, and finding themselves still roughly 
 handled by Don Fernando, Cardenio, and their companions, would 
 not be pacified; but the barber submitted: for both his beard and 
 his pannel were demolished in the scuffle; and Sancho, like a duti- 
 ful servant, obeyed the least word of his master. Don Louis’s four 
 servants were also quiet, seeing how unprofitable it was to interfere. 
 The innkeeper, still refractory, insisted that the insolence of that 
 madman ought to be chastised, who was continually turning his 
 house upside down. At length the tumult subsided; the pannel 
 was to remain a caparison, and the basin a helmet, and the inna 
 castle, at least in Don Quixote’s imagination, until the day of judg- 
 ment. 
 
 Amity and peace being now restored by the interposition of the 
 judge and the priest, the servants of Don Louis renewed their 
 solicitations for his return. The judge having, in the meantime, 
 informed Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the priest, of what had 
 passed between himself and the young man, he consulted with them 
 on the affair, and it was finally agreed that Don Fernando should 
 make himself known to Don Louis’s servants, and inform them that it 
 was his desire that the young gentleman should accompany him to 
 Andalusia, where he would be treated by the marquis, his brother, 
 in a manner suitable to his quality; for his determination was at 
 all events not to return just at that time into his father’s presence. 
 The servants, being apprised of Don Fernaudo’s rank, and finding 
 Don Louis resolute, agreed among themselves that three of them 
 should return to give his father account of what had passed, and that 
 the other should stay to attend Don Louis, and not leave him until 
 he knew his lord’s pleasure. Thus was this complicated tumult ap- 
 peased by the authority of Agramante and the prudence of Sobrino. 
 
 But the enemy of peace and concord finding himself foiled and 
 disappointed in the scanty produce of so promising a field, resolved 
 to try his fortune once more, by contriving new frays and disturb- 
 ances. ‘The officers of the holy brotherhood, on hearing the qualities 
 of their opponents, retreated from the fray, thinking that, what- 
 ever might be the issue, they were likely to be losers. But one of 
 this body, who had been severely handled by Don Fernando, hap- 
 ei to recollect that among other warrants in his possession he 
 
 ad one against Don Quixote, whom his superiors had ordered to be 
 taken into custody for releasing galley-slaves, thus confirming San- 
 cho’s just apprehensions. In order to examine whether the person 
 of Don Quixote answered the description, he drew forth a parch- 
 ment scroll from his doublet, and began to read it slowly (for he 
 was not much of a scholar), ever and anon as he proceeded fixing 
 
A WARRANT AGAINST THE KNIGHT. 951 
 
 his eyes on Don Quixote, comparing the marks in his warrant with 
 the lines of his physiognomy. Finding them exactly to correspond, 
 and being convinced that he was the very person therein described, 
 he held out the warrant in his left hand, while with his right he 
 seized Don Quixote by the collar, with so powerful a grasp as almost 
 to strangle him, at the same time crying aloud, ‘‘ Help the holy 
 brotherhood ! and that you may see that I require it in earnest, 
 read this warrant, wherein it is expressly ordered that this high- 
 way robber should be apprehended.” The priest took the warrant, 
 and found what the trooper said was true, the description exactly 
 corresponding with the person of Don Quixote. The knight, find- 
 ing himself so rudely handled by this scoundrel, was exasperated 
 to the highest pitch, and, trembling with rage, caught the trooper by 
 the throat with both hands; and had he not been immediately 
 rescued by his comrades, he would certainly have been strangled be- 
 fore Don Quixote had loosed his hold. The innkeeper, who was bound 
 to aid his brother in office, ran instantly to help him. The hostess, 
 seeing her husband again engaged in battle, again exalted her voice ; 
 her daughter and Maritornes added their pipes to the same tune, 
 calling upon Heaven and all around them forassistance. ‘‘ Certes !” 
 exclaimed Sancho, ‘‘ what my master says is true about the en- 
 chantments of this castle ; for it is impossible to live an hour quietly 
 init.” Don Fernando at length parted the officer and Don Quixote ; 
 and, to the satisfaction of beth, unlocked their hands from the 
 doublet-collar of the one, and from the wind-pipe of the other. 
 Nevertheless, the troopers persisted in claiming their prisoner ; de- 
 claring that the king’s service and that of the holy brotherhood 
 required it; and in whose name they again demanded help and 
 assistance in apprehending that common robber and highway thief. 
 Don Quixote smiled at these expressions, and with great calmness 
 said, ‘‘ Come hither, base and ill-born crew; call ye it robbing on 
 the highway to loosen the chains of the captive, to set the prisoner 
 free, to succour the oppressed, to raise the fallen, and relieve the 
 needy and wretched? Ah, scoundrel race! undeserving, by the 
 meanness and baseness of your understandings, that Heaven should 
 reveal to you the worth inherent in knight-errantry, or make you 
 sensible of your own sin and ignorance in not revering the shadow, 
 much more the presence of a knight-errant! Tell me, ye rogues in 
 a troop; not troopers, but highway marauders under licence of the 
 holy brotherhood—tell me, who was the blockhead that signed the 
 warrant for apprehending such a knightas Iam? Who was he who 
 knew not that knights-errant are exempt from all judicial authority ; 
 that their sword is their law, valour their privilege, and their own 
 will their edicts? Who was the madman, I say again, who knew 
 not that there is no patent of gentility which contains so many 
 privileges and exemptions as are required by the knight-errant, on 
 the day he devotes himself to the rigorous exercise of chivalry? 
 What knight-errant ever paid custom, poll-tax, subsidy, quit-rent, 
 porterage, or ferry-boat? What tailor ever brought ina bill for 
 making his clothes? What governor that lodged him in his castle 
 _ ever made him pay for his entertainment? What king did not seat 
 
952 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. - 
 
 him at his table? What damsel was not enamouredofhim? Finally, 
 what knight-errant ever did, or shall exist, who has not courage, 
 with his single arm, to bestow a hundred bastinadoes on any four 
 hundred troopers of the holy brotherhood who shall dare to oppose 
 him?” 
 
 
 
 Gos AP DP EeRsoChE vs 
 
 In which is finished the notable adventure of the holy brotherhood; 
 with an account of the ferocity of our good knight Don Quixote. 
 
 Thus eloquently did Don Quixote harangue the officers, while at 
 the same time the priest endeavoured to persuade them, that since 
 the knight, as they might easily perceive, was deranged in his mind, 
 it was useless for them to proceed farther in the affair; for if they 
 were to apprehend him, he would soon be released as insane. But 
 the trooper only said, in answer, that it was not his business to judge 
 of the state of Don Quixote’s intellects, but to obey the order of his 
 superior ; and that when he had once secured him, they might set 
 him free as oftenas they pleased. ‘‘ Indeed,” said the priest, ‘‘ you 
 must forbear this once ; nor do I think that he will suffer himself 
 to be taken.” In fact, the priest said so much, and Don Quixote 
 acted so extravagantly, that the officers would have been more 
 crazy than himself had they not desisted after such evidence of his 
 infirmity. They judged it best, therefore, to be quiet, and endea- 
 vour to make peace between the barber and Sancho Panza, who still 
 continued their scuffle with great rancour. As officers of justice, 
 therefore, they compounded the matter, and pronounced such a de- 
 cision that, if both parties were not perfectly contented, at least 
 they were in some degree satisfied ; it being settled that they should 
 exchange pannels, but neither girths nor halters. As for Mam- 
 brino’s helmet, the priest, unknown to Don Quixote, paid the bar- 
 ber eight reals, for which he received a discharge in full, acquitting 
 him of all fraud thenceforth for evermore. 
 
 Thus were these important contests decided; and fortune seemed 
 to smile on all the heroes and heroines of the inn; even the face of 
 Donna Clara betrayed the joy of her heart, as the servants of Don 
 Louis had acquiesced in his wishes. Zoraida, although she could 
 not understand everything, looked sad or gay in conformity to the 
 expressions she observed in their several countenances, especially 
 that of her Spaniard, on whom not only her eyes but her soul 
 rested. The innkeeper, observing the recompense the priest had 
 made the barber, claimed also the payment of his demands upon 
 Don Quixote, with ample satisfaction for the damage done to his 
 skins, and the loss of his wine; and swore that neither Rozinante 
 nor the ass should stir out of the inn until he had been paid the 
 uttermost farthing. The priest, however, endeavoured to soothe 
 him; and, what was more, Don Fernando settled the knight’s ac- 
 count, although the judge would fain have taken the debt upon 
 
THE KNIGHT’S ADDRESS TO THE PRINCESS. 953 
 
 nimself. Peace was, therefore, entirely restored; and the inn no 
 longer displayed the confusion of Agramante’s camp, as Don Quix- 
 ote had called it; but rather the tranquillity of the days of Octa- 
 vius Cesar,—thanks to the mediation and eloquence of the priest, 
 and the liberality of Don Fernando. 
 
 Don Quixote now finding himself disengaged, thought it was time 
 to pursue his journey, and accomplish the grand enterprise for 
 which he had been elected. Accordingly, he approached the prin- 
 cess, and threw himself upon his knees before her; but she would 
 not listen to him in that posture; and, therefore, in obedience to 
 her, he arose, and thus addressed her, ‘‘ It is a common adage, fair 
 lady, that ‘diligence is the mother of success ;’ and experience 
 constantly verifies its truth. The active solicitor brings the doubt- 
 ful suit to a happy issue; but this truth is never more obvious than 
 in military operations, where expedition and despatch anticipate 
 the designs of the enemy, and victory is secured before he is pre- 
 pared for defence. I am induced to make these remarks, most 
 exalted lady, because our abode in this castle seems no longer 
 necessary, and may, indeed, be prejudicial; for who knows but 
 your enemy the giant may, by secret spies, get intelligence of my 
 approach, and thus gain time to fortify himself in some impreg- 
 nable fortress, against which my vigilance, and the force of my in- 
 defatigable arm may be ineffectual. Therefore, sovereign lady, 
 that his designs may be prevented by our diligence, let us depart 
 quickly, in the name of that good fortune, which will be yours the 
 moment I come face to face with your enemy.” Here Don Quixote was 
 silent, and with dignified composure awaited the answer of the 
 beautiful infanta, who, with an air of majesty, and in a style cor- 
 - responding with that of her knight, thus replied, ‘‘I am obliged to 
 you, sir knight, for the zeal you testify in my cause, so worthy of 
 a true knight whose office and employment it is to succour the 
 orphan and distressed ; and Heaven grant that our desires may be 
 soon accomplished, that you may see that all women are not un- 
 grateful. As to my departure, let it be instantly; for I have no 
 other will but yours. Dispose of me entirely at your pleasure: for 
 she who has committed the defence of her person and the restora- 
 tion of her dominions into your hands must not oppose what your 
 wisdom shall direct.” ‘*By Heaven!” exclaimed Don Quixote, 
 ‘I will not lose the opportunity of exalting a lady who thus 
 humbleth herself. I will replace her on the throne of her ances- 
 tors. Let us depart immediately: for the ardour of my zeal makes 
 me impatient: nor hath Heaven created nor earth seen aught of 
 danger that can daunt or affright me. Sancho, let Rozinante be 
 saddled ; get ready thine own beast, and also her majesty’s palfrey ; 
 let us take our leave of the governor of the castle and these nobles, 
 that we may set forth instantly.” } 
 
 Sancho, who had been present all the time, shook his head, say- 
 ing, ‘‘ Ah, master of mine: there are more tricks in the town than 
 are dreamt of; with all respect be it spoken.” ‘‘ What tricks can 
 there be to my prejudice in any town or city in the world, thou 
 bumpkin?” said Don Quixote. ‘‘If your worship puts yourself 
 
954 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 into a passion,” answered Sancho, ‘‘I will hold my tongue, and 
 not say what I am bound to say as a faithful squire and a dutiful 
 servant.” ‘‘Say what thou wilt,” replied Don Quixote; “but 
 think not to intimidate me: for it is thy nature to be faint-hearted 
 —amine to be proof against allfear.” ‘‘AsIamasinner to Heaven,” 
 answered Sancho, ‘‘ I mean nothing of all this; I mean only that I 
 am sure and positively certain this lady who calls herself queen of 
 the great kingdom of Micomicon is no more a queen than my 
 mother ; for if she were so she would not be nuzzling at every turn 
 and in every corner with a certain person in the company.” Do- 
 rothea’s colour rose at Sancho’s remark; for it was indeed true, 
 that her spouse, Don Fernando, now and then by stealth had 
 snatched with his lips an earnest of that reward which his affec- 
 tion deserved; and Sancho, having observed it, thought this free- 
 dom very unbecoming the queen of so vast a kingdom. As Do- 
 rothea could not contradict Sancho, she remained silent, and 
 suffered him to continue his remarks. ‘‘I say this, sir, because 
 supposing, after we have travelled through thick and thin, and 
 oi many bad nights and worse days, one who is now enjoying 
 
 imself in this inn should chance to reap the fruit of our labours, 
 there would be no use in my hastening to saddle Rozinante, or get 
 ready the ass and the palfrey; therefore we had better be quiet. 
 Let every drab mind her spinning, and let us to dinner.” How 
 great was the indignation of Don Quixote on hearing his squire speak 
 in terms so disrespectful! It was so great, that with a faltering 
 voice and stammering tongue, while living fire darted from his eyes, 
 hecried, ‘Scoundrel ! unmannerly, ignorant, ill-spoken, foul-mouth- 
 ed, impudent, murmuring, and back-biting villain! How darest thou 
 utter such words in my presence, and in the presence of these illus- . 
 trious ladies! How darest thou to entertain such rude and insolent 
 thoughtsin thy confused imagination ! Avoid my presence, monster of 
 nature, treasury of les, magazine of deceits, storehouse of rogueries, 
 inventor of mischiefs, publisher of absurdities, and foe to all the 
 honour due to royalty! Begone!—appear not before me on pain of 
 my severest indignation!” And as he spoke he arched his eye- 
 brows, swelled his cheeks, stared around him, and gave a violent 
 stamp with his right foot on the ground; plainly indicating the 
 fury that raged in his breast. Poor Sancho was so terrified by the 
 storm of passion, that he would have been glad if the earth had 
 opened that instant and swallowed him up. He knew not what to 
 say or do; so he turned his back and hastened out of the presence 
 of his furious master. 
 
 But the discreet Dorothea, perfectly understanding Don Quixote, 
 in order to pacify his wrath, said, ‘‘ Be not offended, sir knight of the 
 sorrowful figure, at the impertinence of your good squire, for per- 
 haps be has not spoken without some foundation; nor can it be 
 suspected, considering his good sense and Christian conscience, that 
 he would bear false witness against anybody; it is possible that 
 since, as you affirm yourself, sir knight, the powers of enchant- 
 ment prevail in this castle, Sancho may, by the same diabolical 
 illusion, have seen what he has affirmed so much to the prejudice 
 
THE CURATE’S STRATAGEM. 955 
 
 of my honour.” ‘‘I swear,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘ your highness 
 has hit the mark !—some evil apparition must have appeared to this 
 sinner, and represented to him what it is impossible for him to see 
 any other way; for [am perfectly assured of the simplicity and in- 
 nocence of the unhappy wretch, and that he is incapable of slan- 
 dering any person living.” ‘‘So it is, and so it shall be,” said Don 
 Fernando, ‘‘therefore, Signor Don Quixote, you ought to pardon 
 him and restore him to your favour sicut erat in principio, before 
 these illusions turned his brain.’’ Don Quixote having promised 
 his forgiveness, the priest went for Sancho, who came in with much 
 humility, and on his knees begged his master’s hand, which was 
 pun to him; and after he had allowed him to kiss it, he gave him 
 
 is blessing, adding, ‘‘ Thou wilt now, son Sancho, be thoroughly 
 convinced of what I have often told thee, that all things in this 
 castle are conducted by enchantment.” ‘‘I believe so, too,” quoth 
 Sancho, ‘‘ except the business of the blanket, which really fell out 
 in the ordinary way.” ‘‘ Believe not so,” answered Don Quixote; 
 ‘*for in that case I would have revenged thee at the time, and even 
 now; but neither could I then, nor can I now, find on whom to 
 resent the injury.” To gratify the curiosity which this remark had 
 excited, the innkeeper gave a very circumstantial account of Sancho 
 Panza’s excursion in the air, which, though it entertained the rest, 
 would have distressed the feelings of the squire, if his master had 
 not given him fresh assurances that it was all a matter of enchant- 
 ment. However, Sancho’s faith was never so strong, but that he 
 shrewdly suspected it to be a downright fact, and no illusion at 
 all, that he had been tossed in a blanket by persons of flesh and 
 blood, and by no visionary phantoms. 
 
 This illustrious company had now passed two whole days in the 
 inn; and thinking it time to depart, they considered how the priest 
 and barber might convey the knight to his home without troubling 
 Dorothea and Don Fernando to accompany them; and for that pur- 
 pose, having first engaged a waggoner who happened to pass by 
 with his team of oxen, they proceeded in the following manner. 
 They formed a kind of cage, with poles grate-wise, large enough to 
 contain Don Quixote at his ease; then, by the direction of the 
 priest, Don Fernando and his companions, with Don Louis’s ser- 
 vants, the officers of the holy brotherhood, and the innkeeper, 
 covered their faces, and disguised themselves so as not to be re- 
 cognized by Don Quixote, This done, they silently entered the 
 room where the knight lay fast asleep, reposing after his late ex- 
 ertions, and secured him with cords; so that when he awoke, he 
 stared about in amazement at the strange visages that surrounded 
 him, but found himself totally unable to move. His disordered im- 
 agination operating as usual, immediately suggested to him that 
 these were goblins of the enchanted castle, and that he was en- 
 tangled in its charms, since he felt himself unable to stir in his own 
 defence, a surmise which the curate, who projected the stratagem, 
 had anticipated. Sancho alone was in his own proper figure 3; and 
 though he wanted but little of being infected with his master’s 
 infirmity, yet he was not ignorant who all these counterfeit goblins 
 
256 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 were; but he thought it best to be quiet until he saw what was in- 
 tended by this seizure and imprisonment of his master. Neither 
 did the knight utter a word, but submissively waited the issue of 
 his misfortune. Having brought the cage into the chamber, they 
 placed him within it, and secured it so that it was impossible he 
 could make his escape. In this situation he was conveyed out of 
 the house; and on leaving the chamber a voice was heard, as 
 dreadful as the barber could form (not he of the pannel, but the 
 other), saying, ‘‘O knight of the sorrowful figure! let not thy pre- 
 sent confinement afflict thee, since it is essential to tne speedy 
 accomplishment of the adventure in which thy great valour hath 
 engaged thee, which shall be finished when the furious Manchegan 
 lion shall be coupled with the white Tobosian dove, after having 
 submitted their stately necks to the soft matrimonial yoke ; from 
 which wonderful conjunction shall spring into the light of the 
 world brave whelps who shall emulate the ravaging claws of their 
 valorous sire. And this shall come to pass before the pursuer of 
 the fugitive nymph shall have made two circuits to visit the bright 
 constellations, in his rapid and natural course. And thou, O the 
 most noble and obedient squire that ever had sword in belt, beard on 
 face, and smell in nostrils! be not dismayed nor afflicted to see the 
 flower of knight-errantry carried thus away before thine eyes; for ere 
 long, if it so please the great Artificer of the world, thou shalt see 
 thyself so exalted and sublimated as not to know thyself; and thus 
 will the promises of thy valorous lord be fulfilled. Be assured, 
 moreover, in the name of the sage Mentironiana,* that thy wages 
 shall be punctually paid thee. Follow, therefore, the valorous and 
 enchanted knight, for it is expedient for thee to go where ye both 
 may find repose. More Iam not permitted to say. Heaven pro- 
 tect thee! I now go—I well know whither!” As he delivered 
 this solemn prediction, the prophet first raised his voice high, then 
 gradually lowered it to so pathetic a tone, that even those who 
 were in the plot were not unmoved. 
 
 Don Quixote was much comforted by this prophecy, quickly 
 comprehending the whole signification thereof; for he saw that it 
 epee him the felicity of being joined in holy wedlock with his 
 
 eloved Dulcinea del Toboso, and that the whelps were his sons, to 
 the everlasting honour of La Mancha. Upon the strength of this 
 conviction, he exclaimed, with a deep sigh, ‘‘O thou, whoever 
 thou art, who hast prognosticated me so much good, I beseech thee 
 to intercede in my behalf with the sage enchanter who hath the 
 charge of my affairs, that he suffer me not to perish in the prison | 
 wherein I am now enclosed, before these promises of joyful and hea- 
 venly import are fulfilled. Let them but come to pass, and I shall 
 glory in the pains of my imprisonment, enjoy the chains with which 
 I am bound, and imagine the hard couch whereon I lie a soft bridal 
 bed of down. On the affectionate attachment of my squire, Sancho 
 Panza, I have too much reliance to think that he will desert me, 
 whatever be my fortunes; and though it should even happen, 
 
 * A word framed from “ mentira,” a lie, 
 
THE KNIGHT CAGED AND CARTED, 257 
 
 through his or my evil destiny, that I were unable to give him the 
 island, or something equivalent, according to my promise, at least 
 he shall not lose his salary ; for in my will, which is already made, 
 I have settled that. point; not indeed, proportionate to his many 
 and good services, but according to my own ability.” Sancho 
 Panza bowed with great respect, and kissed both his master’s 
 hands ; for one alone he could not, as they were both tied together. 
 The goblins then took the cage on their shoulders, and placed it on 
 the waggon. ; 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 Of the strange and wonderful manner in which Don Quixote de la 
 Mancha was enchanted, with other remarkable occurrences, 
 
 ‘Learned and very grave historians of knights-errant have I 
 read,” said Don Quixote, on finding himself thus cooped up and 
 carted; ‘‘but I never read, saw, nor heard of enchanted knights 
 being transported in this manner, and so slowly as these lazy, 
 heavy animals seem to proceed; for they were usually conveyed 
 through the air with wonderful speed, enveloped in some thick and 
 dark cloud, or on some fiery chariot, or mounted upon a hippogriff, 
 or some such animal. But to be carried upon a team drawn by 
 oxen—it overwhelms me with confusion! Perhaps, however, the 
 enchantments of these our times may differ from those of the 
 ancients ; and it is also possible, that as I am a new knight in the 
 
 R ~, 
 
958 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 world, and the first who revived the long-forgotten exercise of 
 knight-errantry, new modes may have been invented. What 
 thinkest thou of this, son Saicho?” ‘‘I do not know what to 
 think,” answered Sancho, ‘‘not being so well read as your worship 
 in scriptures-errant ; yet I dare affirm and swear that these hob- 
 goblins here about us are not altogether catholic.” ‘‘Catholic, my 
 father!” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘ how can they be catholic, being 
 devils who have assumed fantastic shapes to effect their purpose, 
 and throw me into this state? To convince thyself of this, try to 
 touch and feel them, and thou wilt find their bodies have no sub- 
 stance, but are of air, existing only to the sight.” ‘‘Sir!” replied 
 Sancho, ‘‘ I have already touched them ; and this devil, who is so 
 very busy here about us, is as plump as a partridge, and has another 
 property very different from what your devils are wont to have— 
 for it is said, they all smell of brimstone and other bad scents; but 
 this spark smells of amber, at half a league’s distance.” Sancho 
 spoke of Don Fernando, who, being a cavalier of rank, must have 
 been perfumed as Sancho described. ‘‘ Wonder not at this, friend 
 Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ for thou must know that devils 
 are cunning; and although they may carry perfumes about them, 
 they have no scent themselves, being spirits; or, if they do smell, 
 it can be of nothing but what is foul and offensive, since, wherever 
 they are they carry hell about them, and have no respite from their 
 torments. Now, perfumes being pleasing and delicious, it is quite 
 impossible that they should have such an odour; or if, to thy 
 sense, one smelleth of amber, either thou deceivest thyself, or he 
 would mislead thee, that thou mightest not know him for a fiend.” 
 
 Thus were the knight and squire discoursing together when Don 
 Fernando and Cardenio, fearing lest Sancho should see into the 
 whole of their plot, being already not far from it, resolved to hasten 
 their departure ; and, calling the innkeeper aside, they ordered 
 him to saddle Rozinante, and pannel the ass, which he did with 
 great expedition. In the meanwhile the priest engaged to pay the 
 troopers of the holy brotherhood to accompany Don Quixote home 
 to his village. Cardenio fastened the buckler on one side of the 
 pommel of Rozinante’s saddle, and the basin on the other; then, 
 after placing the two troopers with their carbines on each side of 
 the waggon, he made signs to Sancho to mount his ass, and lead 
 Rozinante by the bridle. But before the car moved forward, the 
 hostess, her daughter, and Maritornes, came out to take their leave 
 of Don Quixote, pretending to shed tears for grief at his misfortune. 
 ‘‘ Weep not, my good ladies,” said the knight, ‘‘for disasters of 
 this kind are inzident to those of my profession; and if such 
 calamities did not befall me, I should not account myself a dis- 
 tinguished knight-errant, for these events never occur to the ignoble, 
 but to those whose valour and virtue excite the envy of princes and 
 knights, who seek by evil machinations to defame whatever is 
 praiseworthy and good. Notwithstanding which, so powerful is 
 virtue, that of herself alone, in spite of all the necromantic skill of 
 the first enchanter, Zoroaster, she will come off victorious in every 
 attack, and spread her lustre over the world, as the sun illumines 
 
THE CAVALCADE LEAVES THE INN. 259 
 
 the heavens. Pardon me, fair ladies, if I have, through inadvertence, 
 given you any offence—for intentionally I never offended any per- 
 son; and I beseech you to pray Heaven for my deliverance from 
 my present thraldom ; and if ever I find myself at liberty, I shall 
 not forget the favours you have done me in this castle, but shall 
 acknowledge and requite them as they deserve.” 
 
 While this passed between the ladies of the castle and Don 
 Quixote, the priest and the barber took their leave of Don Fer- 
 nando and his companions, the captain, and of all the ladies, now 
 supremely happy. Don Fernando requested the priest to give him 
 intelligence of Don Quixote, assuring him that nothing would afford 
 him more satisfaction than to hear of his future proceedings; and 
 he promised, on his part, to inform him of whatever might amuse 
 or please him respecting his own marriage, the baptism of Zoraida, 
 and the return of Lucinda.to her parents, and also how Don Louis 
 sped with Donna Clara. The priest engaged to perform all that was 
 desired of him with the utmost punctuality ; after which they separ- 
 ated, with many expressions of mutual cordiality and good-will. 
 Just before the priest left the house, the innkeeper brought him some 
 papers which he said he had found in the lining of the wallet that 
 contained the novel of the ‘‘ Curious Impertinent ;” and, since the 
 owner had never returned to claim them, and he could not read 
 himself, he might take them away with him. The priest thanked 
 him; and opening the papers, found them to be a novel, entitled 
 ** Rinconete and Cortadillo ;” * and, concluding that it was by the 
 same author as that of the ‘‘ Curious Impertinent,” was inclined 
 to judge favourably of it: he therefore accepted the manuscript, 
 intending to peruse it the first opportunity that offered. He and 
 the barber then joined the cavalcade, which was arranged in the 
 following order :—In the front was the car, guided by the owner, 
 and on each side the troopers with their matchlocks ; then came 
 Sancho upon his ass, leading Rozinante by the bridle; and in the 
 rear the priest and his friend Nicholas, mounted on their stately 
 mules; and thus the whole moved on with great solemnity, regu- 
 lated by the slow pace of the oxen. Don Quixote sat in the cage, 
 with his hands tied and his legs stretched out, leaning against the 
 bars, as silently and patiently as if he had been not a man of flesh 
 and blood, but a statue of stone. In this manner they travelled 
 about two leagues, when they came to a valley which the wag- 
 goner thought a convenient place for resting and baiting his cattle: 
 but on his proposing it, the barber recommended that they should 
 travel a little further, as beyond the next rising ground there was 
 a vale that afforded much better pasture and this advice was 
 followed. 
 
 The priest, happening about this time to look back, perceived 
 behind them six or seven horsemen, well mounted and accoutred, 
 who soon came up with them; for they were not travelling with 
 the phlegmatic pace of the oxen, but like persons mounted on good 
 ecclesiastical mules, and eager to reach a place of shelter against 
 
 * Written by Cervantes. 
 
260 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the midday sun. The speedy overtook the slow, and each party 
 courteously saluted the other. One of the travellers, who was a 
 canon of Toledo, and master to those who accompanied him, ob- 
 serving the orderly procession of the waggon, the troopers, Sancho, 
 Rozinante, the priest, and the barber, and especially Don Quixote 
 caged up and imprisoned, could not forbear making some inquiries ; 
 though, on observing the badges of the holy brotherhood, he con- 
 cluded that they were conveying some notorious robber, or other 
 criminal, whose punishment belonged to that fraternity. ‘‘ Why 
 the gentlemen is carried in this manner,” replied one of the troopers 
 who was questioned, ‘‘he must tell you himself; for we know 
 nothing about the matter.” Upon which Don Quixote (having over- 
 heard what passed) said, ‘‘ If, perchance, gentlemen, you are con- 
 versant in the affairs of chivalry, I will acquaint you with my 
 misfortunes ; but if not, I will spare myself that trouble.” The 
 priest and the barber perceiving that the travellers were speaking 
 with Don Quixote, rode up to them, lest anything should pass that 
 might frustrate their plot. The canon, in answer to Don Quixote, 
 said, ‘‘ In truth, brother, I am more conversant in books of chivalry 
 than in Villalpando’s Summaries; you may, therefore, freely com- 
 municate to me whatever you please.” ‘‘ With Heaven’s permission, 
 then,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘ be it known to you, signor cavalier, 
 that I am enchanted in this cage through the envy and fraud of 
 wicked necromancers ; for virtue is more persecuted by the wicked 
 than beloved by the®ood. A knight-errant I am: not one of those 
 whose names fame has forgotten to eternize, but one who, in despite 
 of envy itself, and of all the magicians of Persia, the Brahmins of 
 India, and the gymnosophists of Ethiopia, shall enrol his name in 
 the temple of immortality, to serve as a model and mirror to future 
 ages whereby knights-errant may see the track they are to follow, 
 if they are ambitious of reaching the honourable summit and pinnacle 
 of true glory.” ‘‘ Signor Don Quixote de la Mancha says the truth,” 
 said the priest; ‘‘for he is conveyed in that enchanted state not 
 through his own fault or demerit, but the malice of those to whom 
 virtue is odious, and courage obnoxious. This, sir, is the knight of 
 the sorrowful figure, whose valorous exploits and heroic deeds shall 
 be recorded on solid brass and everlasting marble, in despite of all 
 the efforts of envy and malice to conceal and obscure them.” The 
 canon, upon hearing not only the imprisoned but the free man talk 
 in such a style, crossed himself in amazement, nor were his followers 
 less surprised ; and Sancho now coming up, to mend the matter, 
 said, ‘‘ Look ye, gentlemen, let it be well or ill taken, I will out 
 with it: the truth of the case is, my master, Don Quixote, is just 
 as much enchanted as my mother; he is in his perfect senses—he 
 eats, drinks, and does everything else like other men, and as he did 
 yesterday, before they cooped him up. This being so, will you 
 persuade me he is enchanted? The enchanted, I have heard say, 
 neither eat, nor sleep, nor speak ; but my master here, if nobody 
 stops him, will talk ye more than thirty barristers.” Then, turning 
 to the priest, he went on saying, ‘‘Ah, master priest, do I not know 
 you? And think you that I cannot guess what these new enchant- 
 
SANCHO ADMONISHES THE PRIEST. 261 
 
 ments drive at? Let me tell you I know you, though you do hide 
 your face, and understand you, too, sly as you may be. But the 
 good cannot abide where envy rules, nor is generosity found in a 
 beggarly breast. Had it not been for your reverence, before this 
 time his worship had been married to the Princess Micomicona, and 
 I had been an earl at least; for I could expect no less frommy 
 master’s bounty, and the greatness of my services. But I find the 
 proverb true, that ‘the wheel of fortune turns swifter than a mill- 
 wheel,’ and they who were yesterday at the top are to-day at the 
 bottom. I am grieved for my poor wife and children; for when 
 they might reasonably expect to see their father come home a 
 governor or viceroy of some island or kingdom, they will now see 
 him return a pitiful groom. All this I say, master priest, only to 
 make your paternity feel some compunction in regard to what you 
 are doing with my master ; take heed that you are not called to an 
 account in the next life for this imprisonment of my lord, and all 
 the good he might have done during this time of his confinement be 
 required at your hands.” ‘‘Snuff me these candles!” quoth the 
 barber, interrupting the squire; ‘‘what! art thou, Sancho, of thy 
 master’s fraternity? I begin to think thou art likely to keep him 
 company in the cage, for thy share of his humour and his chivalry. 
 In an evil hour wert thou puffed up by his promises, and thy head 
 filled with islands.” ‘‘Iam not puffed up at all,” answered Sancho, 
 ‘‘nor am I a man to suffer myself to become so by the promises of 
 the best king that may be: and though I am a poor man, I am an 
 old Christian, and owe nobody anything; and if I covet islands, 
 there are others who covet worse things; and every one is the son 
 of his own works: and being a man, I may come to be pope, and 
 much more easily, governor of an island ; especially since my master 
 may win so many, that he may be at a loss where to bestow 
 them. Take heed, master barber, what you say; for shaving 
 beards is not all, and there is some difference between Pedro and 
 Pedro. J say this because we know one another, and there is no 
 putting false dice upon me. As for my master’s enchantment, 
 Heaven knows the truth, and let that rest—it is the worse for 
 stirring.” The barber would not answer Sancho, lest his simplicity 
 should betray them; and for the same reason the priest desired the 
 canon to go ona little before, saying he would let him into the 
 mystery of the imprisonment, with other particulars that would 
 amuse him. 
 
 The canon and his servants then rode on before with the priest, 
 who entertained him with a circumstantial account of Don Quixote, 
 from the first symptoms of his derangement to his present situation 
 in the cage. The canon was surprised at what he heard. ‘‘'Truly,” 
 said he to the curate, ‘‘those tales of chivalry are very prejudicial 
 to the common weal; and, though led away by an idle and false 
 taste, I have read in part almost all that are printed, I could never 
 get through the whole of any one of them—they are all so much 
 alike. In my opinion, this kind of writing and composition falls 
 under the head of what are called Milesian fables, which are extrava- 
 gant stories calculated merely to amuse, and very unlike those moral 
 
262 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 tales which are no less instructive than entertaining; and though 
 the principal object of such books is to please, I know not how they 
 can attain that end by such monstrous absurdities: for the mind 
 receives pleasure from the beauty and consistency of what is pre- 
 sented to the imagination, not from that which is incongruous and 
 unnatural. Where is the sense or consistency of a tale in which a 
 youth of sixteen hews down a giant as tall as a steeple, and splits 
 - him in two, as if he were made of paste? Or how are we to be in- . 
 terested in the detail of a battle, when we are told that the hero 
 contends alone against a million of adversaries, and obtains the 
 victory by his single arm? Then what shall we say to the facility 
 with which a queen or empress throws herself into the arms of an 
 errant and unknown knight? What mind, not wholly barbarous 
 and uncultivated, can feel satisfied in reading, that a vast tower, 
 full of knights, is launched upon the ocean, and sailing like a ship 
 before the wind, is to-night in Lombardy, and to-morrow morning 
 in the country of Prester John, in the Indies, or in some other that 
 Ptolemy never discovered, or Marco Paolo ever saw? It may be 
 said, that these, being professedly works of invention, should not be 
 criticised for inaccuracy: but I say that fiction should be probable, 
 and that in proportion as it is so, it is pleasing. Fables should not 
 be composed to outrage the understanding; but by making the 
 wonderful appear possible, and creating in the mind a pleasing 
 interest, they may both surprise and entertain: which cannot be 
 effected where no regard is paid to probability. I have never yet 
 found a regular, well-connected fable in any of our books of chi- 
 valry—they are all inconsistent and monstrous ; the style is generally 
 bad ; and they abound with incredible exploits, immorality, absurd 
 sentiment, and miraculous adventures: in short, they should be 
 banished every Christian country.” 
 
 The priest listened attentively to these observations of the canon, 
 which he thought were perfectly just; and he told him that he also 
 had such enmity to those tales of chivalry that he had destroyed 
 all that Don Quixote had possessed, which were not a few in num- 
 ber; and he amused the canon very much by his account of the 
 formal trial and condemnation through which they had passed. 
 ‘‘ Notwithstanding all that I have said against this kind of books,” 
 said the canon, ‘‘I think they certainly have the advantage of 
 affording an ample field for the exercise of genius; there is such 
 scope for descriptive powers, in storms, shipwrecks, and battles, 
 and also for the delineation of character, for instance, in the mili- 
 tary hero—his foresight in anticipating the stratagems of his adver- 
 sary, his eloquence in encouraging or restraining his followers, his 
 wisdom in council, his promptitude in action. Now the author 
 paints a sad and tragical event, and now one that is joyful; some- 
 times he expatiates on a valiant and courteous knight, at others on 
 a rude and lawless barbarian; now on a warlike and affable prince, 
 then a good and loyal vassal. He may show himself to be an ex- 
 cellent astronomer or geographer, a musician or a statesmen; and 
 if he pleases, may even dilate on the wonders of necromancy. He 
 may describe the stability of Ulysses, the piety of Auneas, the bra- 
 
THE CANON’S DISCOURSE ON BOOKS OF CHIVALRY. 2638 
 
 very of Achilles, the misfortunes of Hector, the treachery of Sinon, 
 the friendship of Euryalus, the liberality of Alexander, the valour 
 of Cesar, the clemency and probity of Trajan, the fidelity of Zopy- 
 rus, the wisdom of Cato, and finally, all those qualities which con- 
 stitute the perfect hero, either uniting them in a single person, or 
 distributing them among many; and if all this be done in a natural 
 and pleasing style, a web of various and beautiful contexture might 
 surely be wrought, that would be equally delightful and instructive. 
 The freedom, indeed, of this kind of composition is alike favourable 
 to the author, whether he would display his powers in epic (for 
 there may be epic in prose as well as verse), or in lyric, in tragedy 
 or comedy—in short, in every department of the delicious arts of 
 poetry and oratory.” 
 
 CHAPTER XLVL 
 
 In which the canon continues his discourse on books of chivalry, with 
 other subjects worthy of his genius. 
 
 ‘* Very true—it is exactly as you say, sir,” said the priest to the 
 canon; ‘‘and, therefore, those who have hitherto composed such 
 books are the more deserving of censure for their entire disregard to 
 good sense, and every rule by which they might have become the 
 rivals in prose of the two princes of Greek and Latin poetry.” ‘‘I 
 have myself made an attempt to write a book of knight-errantry on 
 a better plan,” said the canon, ‘‘and, to confess the truth, I have 
 not written less than a hundred sheets, which I have shown to some 
 learned and judicious friends, as well as to others less cultivated, 
 and more likely to be pleased with extravagance; and from all 1 
 met with encouragement. Notwithstanding this, I have never pro- 
 ceeded in the work, partly from an idea that it was foreign to my 
 profession, and partly from the consideration of what a great ma- 
 jority of fools there is in the world; and, although I know that the 
 approbation of the judicious few should far outweigh the censure of 
 the ignorant, yet I feel averse to exposing myself to vulgar criti- 
 cism. I was discouraged, too, whenever I reflected on the present 
 state of the drama, and the absurdity and incoherence of most of 
 our modern comedies, whether fictitious or historical ; for the actor 
 and author both say that they must please the people, and not pro- 
 duce compositions which can only be appreciated by a half-score of 
 men of sense; and that they would rather gain subsistence by the 
 many than reputation by the few. What other fate, then, could I 
 expect, but that, after racking my brains to produce a reasonable 
 work, I should get nothing but my labour for my pains? I have 
 occasionally endeavoured to persuade theatrical managers that they 
 would not only gain more credit, but eventually find it more ad- 
 vantageous to produce better dramas; but they will not listen to 
 reason. Conversing one day with a fellow of this kind, I said, ‘Do 
 you not remember that a few years since three tragedies were pro- 
 
264 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 duced which were universally admired; that delighted both the 
 ignorant and the wise, the vulgar as well as the cultivated; and 
 that by those three pieces the players gained more than by thirty 
 of the best which have since been represented?’ ‘I suppose you 
 mean the ‘‘Isabella,” ‘‘ Phillis,” and ‘‘ Alexandra,”’’ he replied. 
 ‘The same,’ said I; ‘and pray, recollect, that although they were 
 written in strict conformity to the rules of art, they were success- 
 ful; the whole blame, therefore, is not to be ascribed to the taste 
 of the vulgar. There is nothing absurd, for instance, in the play 
 of ‘‘Ingratitude Revenged,” nor in the ‘‘ Numantia,” nor in the 
 ‘Merchant Lover,” much less in the ‘‘ Favourable Enemy ;” or in 
 some others, composed by ingenious poets, to their renown and the 
 profit of those who acted them.’ ‘To these Ladded other arguments, 
 which I thought in some degree perplexed him, but were not so 
 convincing as to make him reform his erroneous practice.” 
 
 ‘‘Signor canon,” said the priest, ‘‘ you have touched upona sub- 
 ject which has revived in me an old grudge I have borne against 
 our modern plays, scarcely less than that I feel towards books of 
 chivalry ; for though the drama, according to Cicero, ought to be 
 the mirror of human life, an exemplar of manners, and an image of 
 truth, those which are now produced are mirrors of inconsistency, 
 patterns of folly, and images of licentiousness. What, for instance, 
 can be more absurd than the introduction in the first scene of the 
 first act, of a child in swaddling-clothes, that in the second makes 
 his appearance as a bearded man? or to represent an old man valiant, 
 a young man cowardly, a footman a rhetorician, a page a privy 
 counsellor, a king a water-carrier, and a princess a scullion? Nor 
 are they more observant of place than of time. I have seen a 
 comedy, the first act of which was laid in Europe, the second in 
 Asia, and the third in Africa; and had there been four acts, the 
 fourth would doubtless have been in America. If truth of imita- 
 tion be an important requisite in dramatic writing, how can any 
 one, with a decent share of understanding, bear to see an action 
 which passed in the time of king Pepin or Charlemagne, ascribed to 
 the emperor Heraclius, who is introduced carrying the cross into 
 Jerusalem, or recovering the holy sepulchre, like Godfrey of 
 Boulogne, though numberless years had elapsed between these 
 actions? and, when the piece is founded on fiction, to see historical 
 events mingled with facts relating to different persons and times ?— 
 and all this without any appearance of probability, but, on the con- 
 trary, full of the grossest absurdity? And yet there are people who 
 think all this perfection, and call everything else mere pedantry. 
 The sacred dramas, too—how they are made to abound with false 
 and incomprehensible events ; frequently confounding the miracles 
 of one saint with those of another: indeed, they are often intro- 
 duced in plays on profane subjects, merely to please the people. 
 Thus is our natural taste degraded in the opinion of cultivated na. 
 tions, who, judging by the extravagance and absurdity of our pro- 
 ductions, conceive us to be in a state of ignorance and barbarism, 
 It is not a sufficient excuse to say that the object in permitting 
 theatrical exhibitions being chiefly to provide innocent recreation 
 
DISCOURSE ON THE DRAMA. 965 
 
 for the people, it is unnecessary to limit and restrain the dramatic 
 author within strict rules of composition ; for I affirm that the same 
 object is, beyond all comparison, more effectually attained by legi- 
 timate works. The spectator of a good drama is amused, admon- 
 ished, and improved, by what is diverting, affecting, and moral, in 
 the representation ; he is cautioned against deceit, corrected by ex- 
 ample, incensed against vice, stimulated to the love of virtue. 
 Such are the effects produced by dramatic excellence, but they are 
 not to be expected on our present stage; although we have many 
 authors perfectly aware of the prevailing defects, but who justify 
 themselves by saying, that in order to make their works saleable, — 
 they must write what the theatre will purchase. We have a proof 
 of this even in the happiest genius of our country, who has written 
 an infinite number of dramatic works, with such vivacity and 
 elegance of style, such loftiness of sentiment and richness of elocu- 
 tion, that his fame had spread over the world; nevertheless, in 
 conforming occasionally to the bad taste of the present day, his pro- 
 ductions are not all equally excellent. Besides the errors of taste, 
 some authors have indulged in public and private scandal, insomuch 
 that the actors have been obliged to abscond. These, and every 
 other inconvenience, would be obviated,if some intelligent and judi- 
 cious person of the court were appointed to examine all plays before 
 they are acted, and without whose approbation none should be per- 
 formed. Thus guarded, the comedian might act without personal 
 risk, and the author would write with more circumspection; and 
 by such a regulation works of merit might be more frequent, to the 
 benefit and honour of the country. And, in truth, were the same, 
 or some other person appointed to examine all future books of 
 chivalry, we might hope to see some more perfect productions of 
 this kind to enrich our language, and which, superseding the old 
 romances, would afford rational amusement, not to the idle alone, 
 but to the active; for the bow cannot remain always bent. and re- 
 laxation both of body and mind is indispensable to all.” 
 
 The canon and the priest were now interrupted in their dialogue 
 by the barber, who, coming up to them, said, ‘‘ This is the spot 
 where I proposed we should rest ourselves; and the cattle will find 
 here plenty of grass.” The canon hearing this, determined to halt 
 likewise, induced by the beauty of the place and the pleasure he 
 found in the priest’s conversation ; besides, he was curious to see 
 and hear more of Don Quixote. He ordered some of his attendants 
 to go to the nearest inn and bring provisions for the whole party ; 
 but he was told by one of them that their sumpter-mule, which had 
 gone forward, carried abundance of refreshment, and that they 
 should want nothing from the inn but barley; upon which he 
 despatched them in haste for the mule. 
 
 During the foregoing conversation between the canon and the 
 curate, Sancho, perceiving that he might speak to his master with- 
 out the continual presence of the priest and the barber, whom he 
 looked upon with suspicion, came up to his master’s cage, and said 
 to him, ‘Sir, to disburden my conscience, I must tell you some- 
 thing about this enchantment of yours; and it is this, that those 
 
 ' ‘. 
 Ar 
 ° 
 *) 
 * " 
 . é 
 
266 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 who are riding along with us with their faces covered, are the 
 priest and the barber of our town; and I fancy they have played you 
 this trick, and are carrying you in this manner out of pure envy of 
 your worship for surpassing them in famous achievements. Now, 
 supposing this to be true, it is plain that you are not enchanted, 
 but cheated and fooled; for proof whereof I would ask you one 
 thing, and if you answer me, as I believe you must, you shall lay 
 your finger upon this cheat, and find that it is just as I say.” 
 ‘¢ Ask what thou wilt, son Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ for I 
 will satisfy thee to the full without reserve. But as to thy 
 assertion that those persons who accompany us are the priest and 
 the barber, our townsmen and acquaintance—however they may 
 appear to thee, thou must in nowise believe it. Of this thou may- 
 est be assured, that if they appear to be such, they have only 
 assumed their semblance; for enchanters can easily take what 
 forms they please, and they may have selected those of our two 
 friends in order to mislead and involve thee in such a labyrinth of 
 fancies, that even the clue of Theseus could not extricate thee. 
 Besides, they may also have done it to make me waver in my 
 judgment, and prevent me from suspecting from what quarter this 
 injury comes. For if, on the one hand, thou sayest that the priest 
 and the barber of our village are our companions, and on the other 
 I find myself locked up in a cage, and am conscious that super- 
 natural force alone would have power to imprison me—what can I 
 say or think but that the manner of my enchantment is more 
 extraordinary than any that 1 have ever read of in history? Rest 
 assured, therefore, that these are no more the persons thou sayest 
 than I am a Turk. As to thy queries—make them ; for I will 
 answer thee, though thou shouldst continue asking until to-morrow 
 morning.” ‘‘ Blessed Virgin!” answered Sancho, raising his voice, 
 ‘‘is your worship so thick-skulled and devoid of brains that you do 
 not see what I tell you to M the very truth, and that there is more 
 roguery than enchantment in this mishap of yours, as I will 
 clearly prove? Now tell me, as Heaven shall deliver you from this 
 trouble, and as you hope to find my Lady Dulcinea when you least. 
 think of it——” ‘‘Cease conjuring me,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ and 
 ask what questions thou wilt, for I have already told thee that I 
 will answer them with the utmost precision.” ‘That is what 1 
 want,” replied Sancho, ‘‘and all I crave is, that you would tell 
 me, without adding or diminishing a tittle, and with that truth 
 which is expected from all who exercise the profession of arms, as 
 your worship does, under the title of knight-errant om Sd tell 
 thee I will le in nothing,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ therefore 
 speak ; for in truth, Sancho, I am wearied with so many salvos, 
 postulatums, and preparatives.” ‘‘I say,” replied Sancho, ‘‘ that 
 I am fully satisfied of the goodness and veracity of my master ; and 
 therefore, it being quite to the purpose in our afifair, I ask (with 
 respect beit spoken), whether, since you have been cooped up, or as 
 you call it enchanted, in this cage, your worship has had any 
 natural inclinations for food and drink?” ‘In truth,” said Don | 
 Quixote, ‘I have often been both hungry amd thirsty.” 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE KNIGHT’S CONVERSATION WITH SANCHO. 267 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIL 
 
 Of the ingenious conference between Sancho Panza and his master 
 Don Quixote. 
 
 ‘‘ Ah!” quoth Sancho, ‘‘now I have caught you; this is what I 
 longed to know with all my heart and soul. Come on, sir; can 
 you deny what is in everybody’s mouth, when a person is in the 
 dumps? It is always then said, ‘I know not what such an one ails 
 —he neither eats, nor drinks, nor sleeps, nor answers to the 
 purpose, like other men—surely he is enchanted.’ Wherefore it is 
 clear that such, and such only, are enchanted, who neither eat, nor 
 drink, nor sleep, and not they who eat and drink when they can 
 get it, and answer properly to all that is asked them.” ‘‘ Thou art 
 right, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘but I have already told thee 
 that thereare sundry sorts of enchantments, and it is probable that 
 in process of time they may have changed, and that now it may 
 be usual for those who are enchanted to do as Ido, though it was 
 formerly otherwise; it is impossible to argue or draw conclusions 
 from the varying customs of different periods. I know, and am 
 verily persuaded, that I am enchanted ; and that is sufficient for my 
 conscience, which would be heavily burdened if I thought I was not 
 so, but suffered myself to lie in this cage like a coward, defrauding 
 the necessitous and oppressed of succour, when, perhaps, at this very 
 moment, they may be in extreme want of my aid and protection.” 
 ‘* But for all that,” replied Sancho, ‘‘I say, for your greater and 
 more abundant satisfaction, that your worship will do well to 
 endeavour to get out of this prison; and I will endeavour to help 
 you with all my might. You may then once more mount your 
 trusty Rozinante, who seems as if he was enchanted too, he looks 
 so melancholy and dejected ; and we may again try our fortune in 
 search of adventures; and if matters turn out not quite to our 
 heart’s content, we can come back to the cage; and I promise you, 
 on the faith of a good and loyal squire, to shut myself up in it with 
 your worship.” ‘‘I am content to follow thy advice, brother 
 Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘and when thou seest an oppor- 
 tunity for effecting my deliverance, I will be guided entirely by 
 thee; but be assured, Sancho, thou wilt find thyself mistaken as to 
 the nature of my misfortune.” 
 
 In such conversation the knight-errant and the evil-errant squire 
 were engaged, until they came to the place where the priest, the 
 canon, and the barber were already alighted and waiting for them. 
 The waggoner then unyoked the oxen from his team, and turned 
 them loose upon that green and delicious spot, the freshness of 
 which was inviting, not only to those who were enchanted, like 
 Don Quixote, but to discreet and enlightened persons like his 
 squire, who besought the priest to permit his master to come out of 
 the cage for a short time. The priest understood him, and said 
 that he would readily consent to his request; but he feared lest his 
 
 
 
 
268 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 master, finding himself at liberty, should play his old pranks, and 
 be gone where he might never be seen more, ‘‘I will be security 
 for his not running away,” replied Sancho. ‘‘ And I also,” said the 
 canon, ‘‘if he will give his parole of honour.” ‘I give it,” said 
 Don Quixote ; ‘‘ especially as those, who like myself are enchanted, 
 have no power over their own persons, for their persecutors may 
 render them motionless during three centuries ; you may, therefore, 
 safely release me.” The canon took him by the hand, though he 
 was still manacled, and upon his faith and word they uncaged him, 
 to his great satisfaction. The first thing that he did was to stretch 
 himself; after that he went up to Rozinante, and giving him a 
 couple of slaps with the palm of his hand, he said, ‘‘I yet trust, 
 O thou flower and pattern of steeds! that we shall both soon see 
 ourselves in that state which is the desire of our hearts—thou with 
 thy lord on thy back, and I mounted upon thee, exercising the 
 function for which Heaven destined me!” The canon contemplated 
 him with surprise; for he displayed in conversation a very good un- 
 derstanding, and seemed, as it hath been before observed, only to 
 lose his stirrups on the theme of chivalry; and while they were 
 waiting for the return of the sumpter-mule, he was induced, oat of 
 compassion to his infirmity, to address him on the subject. 
 
 ‘«Ts it possible, worthy sir,” said the canon, ‘‘ that the disgusting 
 and idle study of books of chivalry should so powerfully have 
 affected your brain as to make you believe that you are now en- 
 chanted, with other fancies of the same kind, as far from truth as 
 falsehood itself? Is it possible that human reason can credit the 
 existence of all that infinite tribe of knights—the Amadises, the 
 emperors of Trapisonda, Felixmartes of Hyrcania, all the palfreys, 
 damsels-errant, serpents, dragons, giants; all the wonderful ad- 
 ventures, enchantments, battles, furious encounters; enamoured 
 princesses, ennobled squires, witty dwarfs, billets-doux, amours, 
 Amazonian ladies—in short, all the absurdities which books of 
 chivalry contain? For my own part, I confess, when I read them 
 without reflecting on their falsehood and folly, they gave me some 
 amusement; but when I consider what they are, | dash them 
 against the wall, and even commit them to the flames when I am 
 near a fire, as well deserving such a fate, for their want of common 
 sense, and their injurious tendency in misleading the uninformed. 
 Nay, they may even disturb the intellects of sensible and well-born 
 gentlemen, as is manifest by the effect they have had on your wor- 
 ship, who is reduced by them to such a state that you are forced to 
 be shut up in a cage and carried on a team from place to place, like 
 some lion or tiger exhibited for money. Ah, Signor Don Quixote! 
 have pity on yourself! shake off this folly, and employ the talents 
 with which Heaven has blessed you in the cultivation of literature 
 more subservient to your honour, as well as profitable to your mind. 
 If a strong natural impulse still leads you to books containing the 
 exploits of heroes, read in the Holy Scriptures the book of Judges, 
 where you will meet with wonderful truths, and achievements no 
 less heroic than true. Portugal had a Viriatus, Rome a Cesar, 
 Carthage a Hannibal, Greece an Alexander, Castile a Count Fer- 
 
CONVERSATION ON KNIGHT-ERRANTRY. 269 
 
 nando Gonzolez, Valencia a Cid, Andalucia a Gonzalo Fernandez, 
 Estramadura a Diego Garcia de Paredes, Xerez a Garcia Perez de 
 Vargas, Toledo a Garcilaso, and Seville a Don Manuel de Leon; the 
 memoirs of whose heroic deeds afford a rational source of amuse- 
 ment and pleasure. This, indeed, would bea study worthy of your 
 understanding, my dear sir, by which you would become well in- 
 structed in history, enamoured of virtue, familiar with goodness, 
 improved in morals; and would acquire valour without rashness, 
 and caution without cowardice; which would, at the same time, 
 redound to the glory of God, your own profit, and the fame of La 
 Mancha, whence I have been informed you derive your birth and 
 origin.” . 
 
 Don Quixote listened with great attention to the canon till he 
 had ceased speaking, and then, looking steadfastly in his face, he 
 replied, ‘‘I conceive, sir, that you mean to insinuate that there 
 never were knights-errant in the world; that all books of chivalry 
 are false, mischievous, and unprofitable to the commonwealth ; and 
 that I have done ill in reading, worse in believing, and still worse 
 in imitating them, by following the rigorous profession of knight- 
 errantry, as by them exemplified ; and also that you deny that there 
 ever existed the Amadises, either of Gaul or of Greece, or any of 
 those celebrated knights?” ‘‘I mean precisely what you say,” re- 
 plied the canon. ‘‘ You also were pleased to add, I believe,” con- 
 tinued Don. Quixote, ‘‘ that those bocks had done me much pre- 
 judice, having injured my brain, and occasioned my imprisonment 
 in a cage; and that it would be better for me to change my course 
 of study by reading other books more true, more pleasant, and more 
 instructive?” ‘‘Just so,” quoth the canon. ‘‘ Why, then,” said 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘in my opinion, sir, it is yourself who are deranged 
 and enchanted, since you have dared to blaspheme an order so uni- 
 versally acknowledged in the world, and its existence so authenti- 
 cated that he who denies it merits that punishment you are pleased 
 to say you inflict on certain books. ‘To assert that there never was 
 an Amadis in the world, nor any other of the knights-adventurers 
 of whom so many records remain, is to say that the sun does not 
 enlighten, the frost produce cold, nor the earth yield sustenance. 
 What human ingenuity can make us doubt the truth of that affair 
 between the Infanta Floripes and Guy of Burgundy? and that of 
 Fierabras at the bridge of Mantible, which occurred in the time of 
 Charlemagne?—I vow, they are as true as that it is now daylight! 
 If these are fictions, it must be denied also that there ever was a 
 Hector, or an Achilles, or a Trojan war, or the twelve peers of 
 France, or King Arthur of England, who is still wandering about, 
 transformed into a raven, and is every moment expected in his 
 kingdom. They will even dare to affirm that the history of 
 Guarino Mezquino, and that of the acquisition of the Santo Grial, 
 are lies; and that the love of Sir Tristram and the queen Iseo, as 
 well as those of Ginebra and Lancelot, are also apocryphal: 
 although there are persons who almost remember to have seen the 
 duenna Quintanona, who was the best wine-skinner in Great 
 Britain. And this is so certain, that I remember my grandmother 
 
270 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 by my father’s side, when she saw any duenna reverently coifed, 
 would say to me, ‘That woman, grandson, looks like the duenna 
 Quintanona ;’ whence I infer that she must either have known her, 
 or at least seen some true effigy of her. Then who can deny the 
 truth of the history of Peter of Provence and the fair Magalona, 
 since, even to this day, you may see in the king’s armoury the very 
 peg wherewith the valiant Peter steered the wooden horse that 
 bore him through the air; which peg is somewhat larger than the 
 pole of a coach; and near it hes the saddle of Babieca? In 
 Roncesvalles, too, there may be seen Orlando’s horn, the size of a 
 great beam. It is, therefore, evident that there were the twelve 
 peers, the Peters, the Cids, and all those knights commonly termed 
 adventurers; and if that be doubted, it will be said, too, that the 
 valiant Portuguese, John de Merlo, was no knight-errant ; he who 
 went to Burgundy, and in the city of Ras fought the famous 
 lord of Charni, Monseigneur Pierre; and afterwards in the city of 
 Basil, Monseigneur Enrique of Remestan, coming off conqueror in 
 both engagements. They will deny, also, the challenges and feats 
 performed in Burgundy by the valiant Spaniards, Pedro Barba and 
 Gutierre Quixada (from whom I am lineally descended), who 
 vanquished the sons of the Count San Polo. Let them deny, like- 
 wise, that Don Fernando de Guevara travelled into Germany in 
 quest of adventures, where he fought with Messire George, a knight 
 of the Duke of Austria’s court. Let them say that the jousts of 
 Suero de Quinones of the Pass were all mockery ; and the enter- 
 prizes of Monseigneur Louis de Falces against Don Gonzalo de Guz- 
 man, a Castilian knight, with many other exploits performed by 
 Christian knights of these and other kingdoms :—all so authentic 
 and true, that, I say again, whoever denies them must be wholly 
 destitute of sense and reason.” 
 
 The canon was astonished at Don Quixote’s medley of truth and 
 _ fiction, as wellas at the extent of his knowledge on affairs of chivalry, 
 and he replied, ‘‘ I cannot deny, Signor Don Quixote, but that there 
 is some truth in what you say, especially with regard to the knights- 
 errant of Spain; I grant, also, that there were the twelve peers of 
 France; but I can never believe that they performed all the deeds 
 ascribed to them by Archbishop Turpin. The truth is, they were 
 knights chosen by the kings of France, and called peers from being 
 all equal in quality and prowess—at least it was intended that they 
 should be so; and in this respect they were similar to the religious 
 order of Saint Jago or Calatrava, all the professors of which, it is pre- 
 sumed, are noble, valiant, and virtuous; and were called Knights 
 of St John, or of Alcantara, just as those of the ancient order were 
 termed Knights of the Twelve Peers. That there was a Cid no 
 one will deny, and likewise a Bernardo del Carpio; but that they 
 performed all the exploits ascribed to them I believe there is 
 great reason to doubt. As to Peter of Provence’s peg, and its 
 standing near Babieca’s saddle in the king’s armoury, I confess my 
 sin in being so ignorant or short-sighted, that though I have seen 
 the saddle I never could discover the peg—large as it is, according 
 to your description.” ‘‘ Yet, unquestionably, there it is,” replied 
 
CONVERSATION ON KNIGHT-ERRANTRY. 271 
 
 Don Quixote; ‘‘and they say, moreover, that it is kept ina leathern 
 case, to prevent rust.” ‘‘It may be so,” answered the canon; 
 *‘but by the holy orders I have received, I do not remember to 
 have seen it. Yet, even granting it, I am not therefore bound to 
 believe all the stories of so many Amadises, and the whole tribe of 
 knights-errant ; and it is extraordinary that a gentleman possessed 
 of your understanding and talents should give credit to such extra- 
 vagance and absurdity.” ; 
 
 Ca At. ihe. SUVILE 
 
 Of the ingenious contest between Don Quixote and the canon, with 
 other incidents. 
 
 ** Vastly fine !—a good jest, truly,” said Don Quixote, ‘that 
 books printed with the licence of kings, and the approbation of the 
 examiners, read with general pleasure, and applauded by great 
 and small, poor and rich, learned and ignorant, nobles and ple- 
 beians—in short, by people of every state and condition, should be 
 all lies, and at the same time appear so much like truth! For do 
 they not tell us the parentage, the country, the kindred, the age, 
 with a particular detail of every action of this or that knight? 
 Good sir, be silent, and utter not such blasphemies; and believe 
 me serious when I advise you to think on this subject more like a 
 man of sense; only peruse these memoirs, and they will abun- 
 dantly repay your trouble. What more delightful than to have, 
 as it were, before our eyes a vast lake of boiling pitch, with a pro- 
 digious number of serpents, snakes, crocodiles, and divers other 
 kinds of fierce and dreadful creatures, floating in it ; and from the 
 midst of the lake to hear a most dreadful voice saying, ‘ O knight, 
 whosoever thou art, now surveying this tremendous lake, if thou 
 wouldst possess the treasure that lies concealed beneath these 
 sable waters, show the valour of thy undaunted breast, and plunge 
 thyself headlong into the midst of the black and burning liquid ; if 
 not, thou wilt be unworthy to see the mighty wonders enclosed 
 therein, and contained in the seven castles of the seven enchanted 
 nymphs who dwell beneath this horrid blackness.’ And scarcely 
 has the knight heard these terrific words, when, without further 
 consideration, or reflection upon the danger to which he exposes 
 himself, and even without putting off his cumbrous armour, he 
 commends himself to Heaven and his mistress, and plunges head- 
 long into the boiling pool; when unexpectedly he finds himself in 
 the midst of flowery fields, with which those of Elysium can 
 bear no comparison, where the sky seems far more clear, and the 
 sun shines with greater brightness. Beyond it appears a forest of 
 beautiful and shady trees, whose verdure regales the sight, whilst 
 the ears are entertained with the sweet and artless notes of an 
 infinite number of little birds of various hues, hopping among the 
 
272 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 intricate branches. Here he discovers a little brook, whose clear 
 waters, resembling liquid crystal, run murmuring over the fine 
 sands and snowy pebbles, which rival sifted gold and purest pearl. 
 There he sees an artificial fountain of variegated jasper and polished 
 marble. Here he beholds another of rustic composition, in which the 
 minute shells of the muscle, with the white and yellow wreathed 
 houses of the snail, arranged in orderly confusion, interspersed 
 with pieces of glittering crystal and pellucid emeralds, compose a 
 work of such variety, that art, imitating nature, seems here to sur- 
 pass her. Then suddenly he descries a strong castle, or stately 
 palace, the walls of which are massy gold, the battlements com- 
 posed of diamonds, and the gates of hyacinths; in short, the struc- 
 ture is so admirable, that though the materials whereof it is 
 framed are no less than diamonds, carbuncles, rubies, pearls, gold, 
 and emeralds, yet the workmanship is still more precious. And 
 after this, can anything be more charming than to behold, sallying 
 forth at the castle gate, a goodly troop of damsels, in such rich 
 and gorgeous attire, that were I to attempt the minute description 
 that is given in history, the task would be endless; and then she 
 who appears to be the principal takes by the hand the daring knight 
 who threw himself into the burning lake, and silently leads him 
 into the rich palace or castle; and stripping him, bathes him in 
 temperate water, and then anoints him with odoriferous essences, 
 and puts on him a shirt of the finest lawn, all sweet-scented and 
 perfumed. Then comes another damsel, and throws over his 
 shoulders a mantle, worth a city at least. He is afterwards led 
 into another hall, where he is struck with wonder and admiration 
 at the sight of tables spread in beautiful order. Then to see him 
 wash his hands in water distilled from amber and sweet-scented 
 flowers! To see him seated ina chair of ivory! To behold the 
 damsefs waiting upon him, all preserving a marvellous silence! 
 Then to see such a variety of delicious viands, so savourily dressed 
 that the appetite is at a loss where to direct the hand! To hear 
 soft music while he is eating, without knowing whence the sounds 
 proceed! And when the repast is finished, and the tables removed, 
 the knight reclines on his seat, and perhaps is picking his teeth, 
 when suddenly the door of the saloon opens, and lo! a damsel enters, 
 more beautiful than any of the former, who, seating herself by the 
 knight’s side, begins to give him an account of that castle, and to 
 inform him how she is enchanted in it, with sundry other matters 
 which amaze the knight, and all those who read his history. I 
 will enlarge on this no further ; for you must be convinced from 
 what I have said, that every part of every history of a knight- 
 errant must yield wonder and delight. Study well these books, 
 signor; for, believe me, you will find that they will exhilarate and 
 improve your mind. Of myself I can say, that since 1 have been 
 a knight-errant I am become valiant, polite, liberal, well-bred, 
 generous, courteous, daring, affable, patient, a sufferer of toils, 
 imprisonments, and enchantment; and although so lately en- 
 closed within a cage, like a maniac, yet do I hope, through 
 the valour of my arm, and the favour of Heaven, to see myself 
 
ae 
 
 SANCHO’S PHILOSOPHIES. 2738 
 
 in a short time king of some kingdom, when I may display the gra- 
 titude and liberality enclosed in this breast of mine; for upon my 
 faith, sir, the poor man is unable to exercise the virtue of liberality ; 
 and the gratitude which consists only in inclination is a dead thing, 
 even as faith without works is dead. I shall, therefore, rejoice 
 when fortune presents me with an opportunity of exalting myself, 
 that I may show my heart in conferring benefits on my friends, 
 especially on poor Sancho Panza here, my squire, who is one of the 
 best men in the world; and I would fain bestow on him an earl- 
 dom, as I have long since promised ; although I am somewhat in 
 doubt of his ability in the government of his estate.” 
 
 Sancho, overhearing his master’s last words, said, ‘‘ Take you the 
 trouble, Signor Don Quixote, to procure me that same earldom 
 which your worship has so often promised, and I have been so long 
 waiting for, and you shall see that I shall not want ability to govern 
 it. But even if I should, there are people, I have heard say, who 
 farm these lordships; and, paying the owners so much a year, take 
 upon themselves the government of the whole, while his lordship 
 lolls at his ease, enjoying his estate, without concerning himself 
 any further about it. Just so will I do, and give myself no more 
 trouble than needs must, but enjoy myself like any duke, and let 
 the world rub.” ‘‘ This, brother Sancho,” said the canon, ‘‘may 
 be done, as far as regards the management of your revenue; but 
 the administration of justice must be attended to by the lord him- 
 self; and requires capacity, judgment, and, above all, an upright 
 intention, without which nothing prospers; for Heaven assists the 
 good intent of the simple, and disappoints the evil designs of the 
 cunning.” ‘‘I do not understand these philosophies,” answered 
 Sancho; ‘‘all that I know is, that I wish I may as surely have the 
 earldom as I should know how to govern it; for I have as large a 
 soul as another, and as large a body as the best of them; and L 
 should be as much king of my own dominion as any other king ; 
 and, being so, I would do what I pleased ; and, doing what I 
 pleased, I should have my will; and, having my will, I should be 
 contented ; and, being content, there is no more to be desired; and 
 when there is no more to desire, there is an end of it, and let the 
 estate come; so Heaven be with ye, and let us see it, as one blind 
 
 man said to another.” ‘‘These are no bad philosophies, as you 
 say, Sancho,” quoth the canon; ‘‘ nevertheless, there is a great deal 
 more to be said on the subject of earldoms.” ‘‘That may be,” ob- 
 
 served Don Quixote, ‘‘ but I am guided by the numerous examples 
 
 . offered on this subject by knights of my own profession ; who, in 
 
 compensation for the loyal and signal services they had received ~ 
 from their squires, conferred upon them extraordinary favours, 
 making them absolute lords of cities and islands; indeed, there was 
 one whose services were so great, that he had the presumption to 
 accept of a kingdom. But why should I say any more, when 
 before me is the bright example of the great Amadis de Gaul, who 
 made his squire knight of the Firm Island? Surely I may, there- 
 fore, without scruple of conscience, make an earl of Sancho Panza, 
 who is one of the best squires that ever served knight-errant.” 
 S 
 
274 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 With all this methodical raving the canon was no less amused than 
 astonished. 
 
 The servants who went to the inn for the sumpter-mule had now 
 returned; and, having spread a carpet over the green grass, the 
 party seated themselves under the shade of some trees, and there 
 enjoyed their repast, while the cattle luxuriated on the fresh pas- 
 ture. As they were thus employed, they suddenly heard a noise 
 and the sound of a little bell from a thicket near them; at the same 
 instant a beautiful she-goat, speckled with black, white, and grey, 
 ran out of the thicket, followed by a goatherd, calling to her aloud, 
 in the usual language, to stop and come back to the fold. The 
 fugitive animal, trembling and affrighted, ran to the company, 
 claiming, as it were, their protection; but the goatherd pursued 
 her, and seizing her by the horns, addressed her as a rational crea- 
 ture, ‘‘ Ah, wanton, spotted thing! how hast thou strayed of late! 
 What wolves have frightened thee, child? Wilt thou tell me, 
 pretty one, what this means? But what else can it mean, but that 
 thou art a female, and therefore canst not be quiet! A plague on 
 thy humours, and all theirs whom thou resemblest! Turn back, 
 my love, turn back; for though not content, at least thou wilt be 
 more safe in thine own fold, and among thy companions; for if 
 thou, who shouldst protect and guide them, go astray, what must 
 become of them?” 
 
 The party were very much amused by the goatherd’s remon- 
 strances, and the canon said, ‘‘I entreat you, brother, not to be in 
 such haste to force back this goat to her fold; for, since she is a 
 female, she will follow her natural inclination in spite of all your 
 opposition. Come, do not be angry, but eat and drink with us, 
 and let the wayward creature rest herself.” At the same time he 
 offered him the hinder quarter of a cold rabbit on the point of a 
 fork. The goatherd thanked him, and accepted his offer, and being 
 then in a better temper, he said, ‘‘ Do not think me a fool, gentle- 
 men, for talking so seriously to this animal; for, in truth, my 
 words were not without a meaning; and though I am a rustic, I 
 know the difference between conversing with men and beasts.” 
 **T doubt it not,” said the priest; ‘‘indeed, it is well known that 
 the mountains breed learned men, and the huts of shepherds con- 
 tain philosophers.” ‘‘ At least, sir,” replied the goatherd, ‘‘ they 
 contain men who have some knowledge gained from experience ; 
 and if I shall not be intruding, I will tell a circumstance which 
 confirms it.” 
 
 . Since this affair,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ bears somewhat the: 
 
 ~ semblance of an adventure, for my own part, friend, I shall listen 
 to you most willingly ; I can answer also for these gentlemen, who 
 are persons of sense, and will relish the curious, the entertaining, 
 and the marvellous, which, I doubt not, your story contains; I 
 entreat you, friend, to begin it immediately.” ‘‘I shall take myself 
 away to the side of yonder brook,” said Sancho, ‘‘ with this pasty, 
 of which I mean to lay in enough to last three days at least; for I 
 have heard my master, Don Quixote, say that the squire of a knight- 
 errant should eat when he can, and as long as he can, because he 
 
THE GOATHERD’S NARRATIVE. 278 
 
 may lose his way for six days together in a wood; and then, if a 
 man has not his belly well lined, or his wallet well provided, there 
 he may stay till he is turned intoamummy.” ‘‘Thou art in the 
 right, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘go where thou wilt, and eat 
 what thou canst; my appetite is already satisfied, and my mind 
 only needs refreshment, which the tale of this good man will doubt- 
 less afford.” The goatherd being now requested by the others of 
 the company to begin his tale, he patted his goat, which he still 
 held by the horns, saying, ‘‘ Lie thee down by me, speckled fool ; 
 for we shall have time enough to return to our fold.” The goat 
 seemed to understand him ; for'as soon as her master was seated, 
 she laid herself quietly down by him, and, looking up into his face, 
 seemed to listen to his story, which he began as follows :— 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 The goatherd’s narrative. 
 
 ‘*Three leagues from this valley there is a town, which, though 
 small, is one of the richest in these parts ; and among its inhabitants 
 was a farmer of such an excellent character, that though riches 
 generally gains esteem, he was more respected for his good qualities 
 than for his wealth ; and his happiness was completed in possessing 
 a daughter of extraordinary beauty, discretion, and virtue. When 
 a child, she was lovely, but at the age of sixteen she was perfectly 
 beautiful, and her fame extended over all the neighbouring villages 
 —villages, do I say?—it spread itself to the remotest cities ; even 
 into the palaces of kings! People came from every part to see her, 
 as some relic or wonder-working image. Her father guarded her, 
 and she guarded herself: for no padlocks, bolts, or bars, secure a 
 maiden so well as her own reserve. The wealth of the father, and 
 the beauty of the daughter, induced many to seek her hand, inso- 
 much that he whose right it was to dispose of so precious a jewel 
 was perplexed, and knew not whom to select among her importunate 
 suitors. I was one of the number, and had indulged fond hopes of 
 success, being known to her father, born in the same village, un- 
 tainted in blood, in the flower of my age, rich, and of no mean 
 understanding. Another of our village, of equal pretensions with 
 myself, solicited her also; and her father, being equally satisfied 
 with both of us, was perplexed which to prefer, and therefore deter- , 
 mined to leave the choice to Leandra herself—for so the maiden is 
 called: an example worthy the imitation of all parents. I do not 
 say they should give them their choice of what is improper; but 
 they should propose to them what is good, and leave them to select 
 thence according to their taste. I know not which of us Leandra 
 preferred ; this only I know, that her father put us both off by 
 pleading the tender age of his daughter, and with such general ex- 
 pressions as neither bound himself nor disobliged us. My rival’s 
 name is Anselmo, mine Eugenio; for you ought to know the names 
 
276 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 of the persons concerned in this tragedy, the catastrophe of which, 
 though still suspended, will surely be disastrous. 
 
 ‘* About that time there came to our village one Vincent de la 
 Rosa, son of a poor farmer in the same place. This Vincent had 
 returned from Italy and other countries, where he had served in 
 the wars, having been carried away from our town at twelve years 
 of age, by a captain who happened to march that way with his 
 company ; and now, at the end of twelve years more, he came back 
 in a soldier’s garb, bedizened with a variety of colours, and covered 
 with a thousand trinkets and glittering chains. To-day he put on 
 one piece of finery, to-morrow another: but all slight and counter- 
 feit, of little or no value. The country-folks (who are naturally 
 envious, and, if they chance to have leisure, are malice itself) ob- 
 served and reckoned up all his trappings and gew-gaws, and found 
 that he had three suits of apparel, of different colours, with hose 
 and garters to them; but those he disguised in so many different 
 ways, and with so much contrivance, that had they not been 
 counted, one would have sworn that he had above ten suits, and 
 twenty plumes of feathers. Do not look upon this description of 
 his dress as impertinent or superfluous, for it is an important part 
 of the story. He used to seat himself on a stone bench, under a 
 great poplar-tree in our market-place, and there he would hold us 
 all gaping and listening to the history of his exploits. There was 
 no country on the whole globe that he had not seen, nor battle in 
 which he had not been engaged. He had slain more Moors than 
 are in Morocco and Tunis, and fought more single combats, accord- 
 ing to his own account, than Gante, Luna, Diego Garcia de Paredes, 
 and a thousand others, from which he always came off victorious, 
 and without losing a drop of blood ; at the same time he would show 
 us marks of wounds, which, though they were not to be discerned, 
 he assured us were so many musket-shots received in different 
 actions. With the utmost arrogance he would thee and thou his 
 equals and acquaintance, and boast that his arm was his father, 
 his deeds his pedigree, and that under the title of soldier he owed 
 the king himself nothing. Im addition to this boasting, he pre- 
 tended to be somewhat of a musician, and scratched a little upon 
 the guitar, which some people admired. But his accomplishments 
 did not end here; for he was likewise something of a poet, and 
 would compose a ballad, a league and a half in length, on every 
 trifling incident that happened in the village. 
 
 _**Now this soldier whom I have described, this Vincent de la 
 Rosa, this hero, this gallant, this musician, this poet, was often 
 seen and admired by Leandra, from a window of her house, which 
 faced the market-place. She was struck with the tinsel of his 
 gaudy apparel; his ballads enchanted her; for he gave at least 
 twenty copies about, of all he composed. The exploits he related 
 of himself reached her ears—in short, she fell downright in love 
 with him, before he had entertained the presumption of courting 
 her. In short, as in affairs of love none are so easily accomplished 
 as those which are favoured by the inclination of the lady, Leandra 
 and Vincent soon came to a mutual understanding, and before any 
 
THE GOATHERD’S NARRATIVE. Dhl 
 
 of her numerous suitors had the least suspicion of her design, she 
 had already accomplished it, and left the house of her affectionate 
 father (she had no mother), and quitted the town with the soldier, 
 who came off in this enterprise more triumphantly than in any of 
 those of which he had so arrogantly boasted. This event excited 
 great astonishment. Anselmo and I were utterly confounded, her 
 father grieved, her kindred ashamed, justice alarmed, and the 
 troopers of the holy brotherhood in full activity. They beset the 
 highways, and searched the woods, leaving no place unexplored ; 
 and at the end of three days they found the poor giddy Leandra in 
 the cave of a mountain, stripped of all her clothes, and the money 
 and jewels which she had carried away from home. They brought 
 her back to her disconsolate father; and being questioned, she 
 freely confessed that Vincent de la Rosa had deceived her, and 
 upon promise of marriage had persuaded her to leave her father’s 
 house, telling her he would carry her to Naples, the richest and 
 most delicious city in the whole world. ‘The imprudent and 
 credulous girl said, that having believed him, she had robbed her 
 father, and given the whole to him on the night of her elopement : 
 and that he had carried her among the mountains, and left her 
 shut up in that cave, after plundering her of everything. 
 ‘‘The same day that Leandra returned, she disappeared from 
 our eyes, as her father placed her in the monastery of a neighbour- 
 ing town, in hopes that time might efface the blemish which her 
 reputation had suffered. Her tender years were some excuse for 
 her fault, especially with those who were indifferent as to whether 
 she was good or bad, but those who know how much sense and 
 understanding she possesses, could only ascribe her fault to levity, 
 and the foibles natural to womankind. When Leandra was gone, 
 Anselmo and myself were blind to everything—at least no object 
 could give us pleasure. We cursed the soldier’s finery, and repro- 
 bated her father’s want of vigilance; nor had time any effect in 
 diminishing our regret. At length, we agreed to quit the town, 
 and retire to this valley, where we pass our lives, tending our flocks, 
 and indulging our passion by praises, lamentations, or reproaches, 
 and sometimes in solitary sighs and groans. Our example has been 
 followed by many other admirers of Leandra, who have joined us in 
 the same employment: indeed, we are so numerous, that this place 
 seems converted into the pastoral Arcadia; noris there a part of it 
 where the name of our beautiful mistress isnot heard. One utters 
 execrations against her, calling her fond, fickle, and immodest ; 
 _ another condemns her forwardness and levity; some excuse and 
 pardon her; others arraign and condemn her; one praises her | 
 beauty, another rails at her disposition ; in truth, all blame, and all 
 adore her—nay, such is the general frenzy, that some complain of 
 her disdain who never had spoken to her, and some there are who 
 bemoan themselves, and affect to feel the raging disease of jealousy, 
 though, as I have said before, her fault was known before her in- 
 clinations were suspected. There is no hollow of a rock, nor mar- 
 gin of a rivulet, nor shade of a tree, that is not occupied by some 
 shepherd, lamenting to the winds. Wherever there is an echo, it 
 
278 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 is continually heard repeating the name of Leandra: the moun- 
 tains resound Leandra: the brooks murmur Leandra: in short, 
 Leandra holds us all in a state of delirium and enchantment, hoping 
 without hope, and dreading we know not what. He who shows 
 the least, though he has the most sense, among us madmen, is my 
 rival Anselmo, for he complains only of absence; and to the sound 
 of a rebec, which he touches to admiration, pours forth his com- 
 plaint in verses of wonderful ingenuity. I follow a better course ; 
 and inveigh against the levity of women, their inconstancy, and 
 double-dealing, their vain promises, and broken faith, their absurd 
 and misplaced affections. 
 
 ‘This, gentlemen, gave rise to the expressions used to the goat ; 
 for being a female, I despise her, though she is the best of all my flock. 
 I have now finished my story, which, Ifear, you have thought tedious ; 
 but I shall be glad to make you amends by regaling you at my cot- 
 tage, which is near, and where you will find new milk, good cheese, 
 and abundance of fruit.” 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 Of the quarrel between Don Quixote and the goatherd; with the rare 
 adventure of the disciplinants, which he happily accomplished 
 with the sweat of his brow. 
 
 Looking and speaking, as he did, more like a gentleman and a 
 scholar than an unpolished goatherd, Eugenio’s tale amused all his 
 his auditors; especially the canon, who was struck by his manner 
 of telling it; and he was convinced that the priest was perfectly 
 right when he affirmed that men of letters were often produced 
 among mountains. They all offered their services to Eugenio: but 
 the most liberal in his offers was Don Quixote, who said to him, 
 “‘In truth, brother goatherd, were I in a situation to undertake 
 any new adventure, I would immediately engage myself in your 
 service, and release your lady from the nunnery in_ spite 
 of the abbess and all opposers, then deliver her into your 
 hands, to be disposed of at your pleasure, so far as is consistent 
 with the laws of chivalry, which enjoin that no kind of outrage be 
 offered to damsels. I trust, however, in Heaven, that the power of 
 one malicious enchanter shall not be so prevalent over another, but 
 that a better disposed one may triumpb; and then I promise you 
 my aid and protection, according to the duty of my profession, 
 which is no other than to favour the weak and necessitous.” 
 
 The goatherd stared at Don Quixote, and observing his sad plight 
 and scurvy appearance, he whispered to the barber, who sat next to 
 him, ‘‘ Pray, sir, who is that man that looks and talks so strangely?” 
 ‘Who should he be,” answered the barber, ‘‘ but the famous Don 
 Quixote de la Mancha, the redresser of injuries, the righter of 
 wrongs, the protector of maidens, the dread of giants, and the con- 
 queror of battles?” ‘‘ Why, this is like what we hear in the stories 
 
THE KNIGHT’S QUARREL WITH THE GOATHERD. 279 
 
 of knights-errant,” said the goatherd; ‘‘ but I take it either your 
 worship is in jest, or the apartments in this gentleman’s skull are 
 unfurnished.” ‘‘You are a very great rascal,” exclaimed the 
 knight; ‘‘it is yourself who are empty-skulled and shallow-brained ; 
 for mine is fuller than was ever the head of any of your vile gene- 
 ration !” and as he spoke, he snatched up a loaf and threw it at the 
 
 oatherd’s face with so much fury that he laid his nose flat. 
 
 he goatherd did not much relish the jest; so, without any respect 
 to the table-cloth, or to the company present, he leaped upon Don 
 Quixote, and seizing him by the throat with both hands, would 
 doubtless have strangled him, had not Sancho Panza, who came 
 up at that moment, taken him by the shoulders and thrown him 
 back on the'table-cloth, demolishing dishes and platters, and spill- 
 ing and overturning all that was upon it. Don Quixote, finding 
 himself free, turned upon the goatherd, who, being kicked and 
 trampled upon by Sancho, was feeling about, upon all-fours, for 
 some knife or weapon to take a bloody revenge withal; but the 
 canon and the priest prevented him. The barber, however, mali- 
 ciously contrived that the goatherd should get Don Quixote under 
 him, whom he buffetted so unmercifully that he had ample retalia- 
 tion for his own sufferings. 
 
 This ludicrous encounter overcame the gravity of both the church- 
 men, while the troopers of the holy brotherhood, enjoying the con- 
 flict, stood urging on the combatants, as if it had been a dog-fight. 
 Sancho struggled in vain to release himself from one of the canon’s 
 servants, who prevented him from going to assist his master. In 
 the midst of this sport a trumpet was suddenly heard sounding so 
 dismally that every face wasinstantly turned in the direction 
 whence the sound proceeded. Don Quixote’s attention was par- 
 ticularly excited, though he still lay under the goatherd in a bruised 
 and battered condition. ‘‘Thou devil,” he said to him, ‘‘for a 
 devil thou must be to have such power over me, I beg that thou 
 wilt grant a truce for one hour, as the solemn sound of that trum- 
 pet seems to call me to some new adventure.” The goatherd, 
 whose revenge was by this time sated, immediately let him go, and 
 Don Quixote, having got upon his legs again, presently saw several 
 people descending from a rising ground, arrayed in white, after the 
 manner of disciplinants.* 
 
 That year, the heavens having failed to refresh the earth with 
 seasonable showers, throughout all the villages of that district pro- 
 cessions, disciplines, and public prayers were ordered, beseeching 
 Heaven to showits mercy by sending them rain. For this purpose the 
 ee of a neighbouring village were coming in procession to a holy 
 
 ermitage built upon the side of a hill not far from that spot. The 
 strange attire of the disciplinants struck Don Quixote, who, not re- 
 - collecting what he must often have seen before, imagined it to be 
 some adventure, which, as a knight-errant, was reserved for him 
 alone; and he was confirmed in his opinion on seeing an image 
 clothed in black, that they carried with them, and which he doubted 
 
 * Persons, either volunteers or hirelings, who march in processions, whipping 
 themselves by way of public penance. : 
 
. 
 
 280 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 not was some illustrious lady forcibly borne away by ruffians and 
 miscreants. With all the expedition in his power, he therefore 
 went up to Rozinante, and taking the bridle and buckler from the 
 pommel of the saddle, he bridled him in a trice, and calling to 
 Sancho for his sword, he mounted, braced his target, and in a loud 
 voice said to all that were present, ‘‘ Now, my worthy companions, 
 ye shall see how important to the world is the profession of 
 chivalry ! now shall ye see, in the restoration of that captive lady 
 to liberty, whether knights-errant are to be valued or not!” 
 
 So saying, he clapped heels to Rozinante (for spurs he had none), 
 and on a hand-gallop (for we nowhere read, in all this faithful 
 history, that Rozinante ever went full speed), he advanced to 
 encounter the disciplinants. The priest, the canon, and the 
 barber, in vain endeavoured to stop him ; and in vain did Sancho cry 
 out, ‘‘ Whither go you, Signor Don Quixote? What demons drive 
 you to assault the Catholic faith? Evil befall me! do but look— 
 it is a procession of disciplinants, and the lady carried upon the 
 bier is the blessed image of our Holy Virgin; take heed, for this 
 once [ am sure you know not what you are about.” Sancho 
 wearied himself to no purpose; for his master was so bent upon an 
 encounter, that he heard not a word: nor would he have turned 
 back though the king himself had commanded him. 
 
 - Having reached the procession, he checked Rozinante, who 
 already wanted to rest a little, and in a hoarse and agitated voice 
 cried out, ‘‘ Stop there, ye who cover your faces for an evil pur- 
 pose, I doubt not—stop and listen to me.” The bearers of the 
 image stood still, and one of the four ecclesiastics, who sung the 
 litanies, observing the strange figure of Don Quixote, the leanness 
 of Rozinante, and other ludicrous circumstances attending the 
 knight, replied, ‘‘ Friend, if you have anything to say to us, say it 
 quickly ; for these our brethren are scourging their flesh, and we 
 cannot stay to hear anything that cannot be said in two words.” 
 ‘*T will say it in one,” replied Don Quixote: ‘‘you must 
 immediately release that fair lady, whose tears and sorrowful 
 countenance clearly prove that she is carried away against her will, 
 and that you have done her some atrocious injury. I, who was 
 born to redress such wrongs, command you, therefore, not to 
 proceed one step further until you have given her the liberty she 
 desires and deserves.” By these expressions they concluded that 
 Don Quixote must be some whimsical madman, and only laughed 
 at him, which enraged him to such a degree that, without saying 
 another word, he drew his sword and attacked the bearers; one of 
 whom, leaving the burden to his comrades, stepped forward, 
 brandishing the pole on which the bier had been supported ; but it 
 was quickly broken in two bya powerful stroke aimed by the knight, 
 who, however, received instantly such a blow on the shoulder of his 
 sword-arm, that, his buckler being of no avail against the rustic 
 strength, he was felled to the ground. Sancho, who had followed 
 him, now called out to the man not to strike again, for he was a 
 pear enchanted knight, who had never done anybody harm in all 
 
 is life. The peasant forbore, it is true, though not.on account of 
 
SANCHO PANZA’S LAMENT. 981 
 
 Sancho’s appeal, but because he saw his opponent without motion ; 
 and, thinking he had killed him, he hastily tucked up his vest 
 under his girdle, and fled like a deer over the field. 
 
 By this time all Don Quixote’s party had come up; and those in 
 the procession, seeing among them troopers of the holy brotherhood, 
 armed with their cross-bows, began to be alarmed, and drew up in 
 a circle round the image ; then lifting up their hoods,* and grasping 
 their whips, and the ecclesiastics their tapers, they waited the 
 assault, determined to defend themselves, or if possible, offend 
 their aggressors, while Sancho threw himself upon the body of his 
 master, and believing him to be really dead, poured forth the most 
 dolorous lamentation. The alarm of both squadrons was speedily 
 dissipated, as our curate was recognized by one of the ecclesiastics 
 in the procession; and, on hearing from him who Don Quixote 
 was, they all hastened to see whether the poor knight had really 
 suffered a mortal injury or not; when they heard Sancho Panza, 
 with streaming eyes, exclaim, ‘‘O flower of chivalry, who, by one 
 single stroke, hast finished the career of thy well-spent life! O 
 glory of thy race, credit and renown of La Mancha, yea, of the 
 whole world, which, by wanting thee, will be overrun with evil- 
 doers, who will no longer fear chastisement for their iniquities ! 
 O liberal above all Alexanders, since, for eight months’ service only, 
 thou hast given me the best island thatsea doth compass or surround! 
 O thou that wert humble with the haughty, and arrogant with the 
 humble, undertaker of dangers, sufferer of affronts, in love without 
 cause, imitator of the good, scourge of the wicked, enemy of the 
 base; in a word, knight-errant—which is all in all.” Sancho’s 
 cries roused Don Quixote, who faintly said, ‘‘ He who lives absent 
 from thee, sweetest Dulcinea, endures far greater miseries than 
 this !—Help, friend Sancho, to place me upon the enchanted car; 
 I am no longer in a condition to press the saddle of Rozinante, for 
 this shoulder is broken to pieces.” ‘‘That I will do with all my 
 heart, dear sir,” answered Sancho; ‘‘and let us return to our 
 homes with these gentlemen, who wish you well; and there we 
 can prepare for another sally, that may turn out more profitable.” 
 ‘« Thou sayest well, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ and it will 
 be highly prudent in us to wait until the evil influence of the star 
 which now reigns is passed over.” The canon, the priest, and the 
 barber, told him they approved his resolution: and the knight, 
 being now placed in the waggon, as before, they prepared to 
 depart. 
 
 The goatherd took his leave; and the troopers, not being 
 disposed to attend them further, were discharged. The canon also 
 separated from them, having first obtained a promise from the 
 priest that he would acquaint him with the future fate of Don 
 Quixote. Thus, the party now consisted only of the priest, the 
 barber, Don Quixote, and Sancho, with good Rozinante, who bore 
 all accidents as patiently as his master. The waggoner yoked his 
 oxen, and, having accommodated Don Quixote with a truss of 
 . * The disciplinants wear hoods, that they may not be known, but which.they can 
 Bee through, -- . We NE E Laid Shapes 
 
 “ 
 
282 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 hay, they jogged on in the way the priest directed; and at the end 
 of six days reached Don Quixote’s village. It was about noon when 
 they made their entrance; and, it being Sunday, all the people 
 were standing about the market-place, through which the waggon 
 passed. Everybody ran tosee who was in it, and were not a little 
 surprised when they recognized their townsman ; and a boy ran off 
 at full speed with tidings to the housekeeper, that he was coming 
 home, lean and pale, stretched out at length in a waggon drawn by 
 oxen. On hearing this, the two good women made the most 
 pathetic lamentations, and renewed their curses against the books 
 of chivalry ; especially when they saw the poor knight entering the 
 ate. 
 ‘ Upon the news of Don Quixote’s arrival, Sancho Panza’s wife 
 repaired thither, and on meeting him, her first inquiry was whether 
 the ass had come home well. Sancho told her that he was in a 
 
 y 
 vas, 
 
 NN 
 
 
 
 better condition than his master. ‘‘ The Lord be praised,” replied 
 she, ‘‘for so great a mercy to me! But tell me, husband, what 
 good have you got by your squireship? Have you brought a 
 petticoat home for me, and shoes for your children?” ‘I have 
 brought you nothing of that sort, dear wife,” quoth Sancho; ‘“‘ but 
 I have got other things of greater consequence.” ‘¢I am very glad 
 of that,” answered the wife, ‘‘ pray show me your things of greater 
 consequence, friend; for I would fain see them to gladden my 
 heart, which has been so sad all the long time you have been 
 away.” ‘* You shall see them at home, wife,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ and 
 be satisfied at present; for if it please God that we make another 
 sally in quest of adventures, you will soon see me an earl 
 or governor of an island, and no common one, either, but one of 
 the best that is to be had.” ‘Grant Heaven it may be so, 
 husband,” quoth the wife, ‘for we have need enough of it. But 
 
SANCHO PANZA AND HIS SPOUSE. 283 
 
 pray tell me what you mean by islands; for I do not understand 
 you.” ‘‘ Honey is not for the mouth of an ass,’’ answered Sancho; 
 ‘*in good time, wife, you shall see, yea, and admire to hear your- 
 self styled ladyship by all your vassals.”. ‘‘What do you mean, 
 Sancho, by ladyship, islands, and vassals?” answered Teresa 
 Panza, for that was the name of Sancho’s wife, though they were 
 not of kin, but because it was the custom of La Mancha for the 
 wife to take the husband’s name. ‘‘Do not be in such haste, 
 Teresa,” said Sancho ; ‘‘it is enough that I tell you what is true, 
 so lock up your mouth ;—only take this by the way, that there is 
 nothing in the world so pleasant as to be an honourable esquire 
 to a knight-errant, and seeker of adventures. To be sure, most 
 of them are not so much to a man’s mind as he could wish; for, 
 as I know by experience, ninety-nine out of an hundred fall out 
 cross and unlucky; especially when one happens to be tossed in 
 a blanket, or well cudgelled; yet, for all that, it is a fine thing 
 to go about in expectation of accidents, traversing mountains, 
 searching woods, marching over rocks, visiting castles, lodging 
 in inns, all at pleasure, and never a farthing to pay.” 
 
 While this discourse was passing between Sancho Panza and his 
 wife Teresa, the housekeeper and the niece received Don Quixote, 
 and, after undressing him, they laid him in his old bed, whence he 
 looked at them with eyes askance, not knowing perfectly where he 
 was. Often did the women raise their voices in abuse of all books 
 of chivalry, overwhelming their authors with the bitterest male- 
 dictions. His niece was charged by the priest to take great care of 
 him, and to keep a watchful eye that he did not again make his 
 escape, after taking so much pains to get him home. Yet they 
 were full of apprehensions lest they should lose him again as soon as 
 he found himself a little better; and indeed the event proved that 
 their fears were not groundless. 
 
 But the author of this history, though he applied himself with 
 the utmost curiosity and diligence to trace the exploits which Don 
 Quixote performed in his third sally, could get no account of them, 
 at least from any authentic writings; fame has only left a tradition 
 in La Mancha that Don Quixote, the third time he sallied from 
 home, went to Saragossa, and was present at a famous tournament 
 in that city, where he performed deeds worthy of himself. Nor 
 would he have learned anything concerning his death, had he not 
 fortunately become acquainted with an aged physician, who had in 
 his custody a leaden box, found, as he said, under the ruins of an 
 ancient hermitage; in which box was discovered a manuscript, 
 written on parchment, in Gothic characters, but in Castilian verse, 
 containing many of his exploits, and describing the beauty of Dul- 
 cinea del Toboso, the form of Rozinante, the fidelity of Sancho 
 Panza, and the burial of Don Quixote himself, with several epitaphs 
 and eulogies on his life and habits. All that could be read, and 
 perfectly made out, are here inserted by the faithful author of this 
 most extraordinary history, who desires no other recompense for 
 the vast labour he has bestowed in searching into the archives of 
 La Mancha, than that this work may find equal favour with other 
 
284 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE: 
 
 books of knight-errantry ; with this he will be quite satisfied, and 
 moreover encouraged to seek after others, that may be quite as 
 entertaining, though not so true. The first stanzas written on 
 the parchment which was found in the leaden box, were the fol- 
 lowing :— 
 
 THE ACADEMICIANS 
 
 OF ARGAMASILLA, A TOWN OF LA MANCHA, 
 ON THE 
 LIFE AND DEATH OF THE VALOROUS 
 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA, 
 HOC SCRIPSERUNT. 
 
 
 
 MONICONGO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, ON THE SEPULTURE 
 OF DON QUIXOTE, 
 
 Epitaph. 
 
 Mancha’s thunderbolt of war. 
 The sharpest wit and loftiest muse, 
 The arm which from Gaéta far, 
 To Catai did its force diffuse; 
 He who, through love and valour's fire, 
 Outstript great Amadis’s fame, 
 Bid warlike Galaor retire, 
 And silenced Belianis’ name; 
 He who, with helmet, sword, and shield, 
 On Rozinante, steed well known, 
 Adventures fought in many a field, 
 Lies underneath this frozen stone. 
 
 PANIAGUADO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, IN PRAISE OF 
 DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO, 
 
 Sonnet, 
 
 She whom you see, the plump and lusty dame, 
 With high erected chest and vigorous mien, 
 
 Was erst th’ enamoured knight Don Quixote’s flame, 
 The fair Dulcinea, of Toboso, queen. 
 
 For her, arm’d cap-’-pie with sword and shield, 
 He trod the sable mountain o’er and o’er; 
 For her he travers’d Montiel’s well-known field, 
 And in her service toils unnumber’d bore. 
 Hard fate! that death should crop so fine a flower! 
 And love o’er such a knight exert his tyrant power! 
 
EPITAPHS. _ 285 
 
 “CAPRICHOSO, A MOST INGENIOUS ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, - 
 IN PRAISE OF DON QUIXOTE’S HORSE 
 ROZINANTE. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 On the aspiring adamantine trunk 
 
 Of a huge tree, whose root, with slaughter drunk, 
 Sends forth a scent of war, La Mancha’s knight, 
 Frantic with valour, and return’d from fight, 
 
 His bloody standard trembling in the air, 
 
 Hangs up his glittering armour beaming far, 
 
 With that fine temper’d steel whose edge o’erthrows, 
 Hacks, hews, confounds, and roots opposing foes. 
 Unheard-of prowess! and unheard-of verse! 
 
 But art new strains invents, new glories to rehearse. 
 If Amadis to Grecia gives renown, 
 
 Much more her chief does fierce Bellona crown. 
 Prizing La Mancha more than Gaul or Greece, 
 
 As Quixote triumphs over Amadis. 
 
 Oblivion ne’er shall shroud his glorious name, 
 Whose very horse stands up to challenge fame! 
 Illustrious Rozinante, wondrous steed! 
 
 Not with more generous pride or mettled speed, 
 
 His rider erst Rinaldo’s Bayard bore, 
 
 Or his mad lord, Orlando’s Brilladore. 
 
 BURLADOR, THE LITTLE ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, ON 
 : SANCHO PANZA. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 See Sancho Panza, view him well, 
 And let this verse his praises tell. 
 
 His body was but small, ’tis true, 
 
 Yet had a soul as large as two. 
 
 No guile he knew, like some before him, 
 But simple as his mother bore him, 
 This gentle squire on gentle ass 
 
 Went gentle Rozinante’s pace, 
 Following his lord from place to place. 
 To be an earl he did aspire, 
 
 And reason good for such desire, 
 
 But worth, in these ungrateful times, 
 To envied honour seldom climbs, 
 
 Vain mortals; give your wishes o’er, 
 And trust the flatterer Hope no more, 
 Whose promises, whate’er they seem, 
 End in a shadow or a dream. 
 
286 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 CACHIDIABLO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, ON THE SEPULTURE 
 OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Epitaph. 
 Here lies an evil-errant knight, 
 Well bruised in many a fray, 
 
 Whose courser, Rozinante hight, 
 Long bore him many a way. 
 
 Close by his loving master’s side 
 Lies booby Sancho Panza, 
 
 A trusty squire of courage tried, 
 And true as ever man saw. 
 
 TIQUITOC, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, ON THE SEPULTURE 
 OF DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO. 
 
 Dulcinea, fat and fleshy, lies 
 Beneath this frozen stone, 
 
 But since to frightful death a prize, 
 Reduced to skin and bone 
 
 Of goodly parentage she came, 
 And had the lady in her; 
 
 She was the great Don Quixote’s flame, 
 But only death could win her. 
 
 These were all the verses that were legible; the remainder, being 
 much defaced and worm-eaten, were put into the hands of one of 
 the Academicians, that he might discover their meaning by con- 
 ogres which, after much thought and labour, we are informed he 
 
 as actually done, and that he intends to publish them, in the hope 
 of Don Quixote’s third sally. 
 
 ‘* Forse altro cantara con miglior plectro.” 
 
PREFACE TO PART ITI. 
 
 
 
 Verily, reader, gentle or simple—whatever thou art, with what 
 impatience must thou be waiting for this Preface !—doubtless pre- 
 pared to find it full of resentment, railing, and invective against 
 the author of the second Don Quixote—him I mean who, the world 
 says, was begotten in Tordesillas and born in Tarragona. But in 
 truth, it is not my intention to give thee that satisfaction ; for, 
 though injuries are apt to awaken choler in the humblest breast, 
 yet in mine this rule must admit of an exception. Perhaps thou 
 wouldst have me call him ass, madman, and coxcomb ; but no :—be 
 his own folly his punishment. 
 
 There is one thing, however, which I cannot pass over in silence. 
 [ am guilty, it seems, of being old; and it is also proved upon me 
 that I have lost my hand ! as 1f I had the power to arrest the pro- 
 gress of time; and that this maim was the effect of some tavern 
 brawl, and not received on the noblest occasion* that past or present 
 times have witnessed, or the future can ever hopeto see! If my 
 wounds be disregarded by those who simply look on them, they 
 will be honoured by those who know how they were gained; for a 
 soldier makes a nobler figure dead, in the field of battle, than alive, 
 flying from his enemy; and so firmly fixed am I in this opinion, 
 that could the impossibility be overcome, and I had the power to 
 gnoose, i would rather be again present in that stupendous action, 
 than whole and sound, without sharing in its glory. The scars on 
 the front of a brave soldier are stars that direct others to the haven 
 of honour, and create in them a noble emulation. Let it be re- 
 membered, too, that books are not composed by the hand, but 
 by the understanding, which is ripened by experience and length 
 of years. 
 
 I have also heard that this author calls me envious; and, more- 
 over, in consideration of my ignorance, kindly describes to me what 
 envy is!—In truth, the only envy of which I am conscious 18 
 a noble, virtuous, and holy emulation, which would never dispose 
 me to inveigh against an ecclesiastic: especially against one who 
 holds a dignified rank in the Inquisition; and if he has been in- 
 
 9 * The famous sea-fight of Lepanto, 
 87 
 
288 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 fluenced by his zeal for the person * to whom he seems to allude, he 
 is utterly mistaken in my sentiments; for I revere that gentle- 
 man’s genius, and admire his works and his virtuous activity. 
 Nevertheless, I cannot refuse my acknowledgment to this worthy 
 author, for his commendation of my novels, which, he says, 
 are good, although more satirical than moral; but how they hap- 
 re to be good, yet deficient in morality, it would be difficult to 
 show. 
 
 Methinks, reader, thou wilt confess that I proceed with much 
 forbearance and modesty, from a feeling that we should not add to 
 the sufferings of the afflicted ; and that this gentleman’s case must 
 be lamentable, is evident from his not daring to appear in open 
 day ; concealing his name and his country, as if some treason or other 
 crime were upon his conscience. But shouldst thou, by chance, fall 
 into his company, tell him, from me, that I do not think myself ag- 
 grieved ; for I well know what the temptations of the devil are, 
 and that one of the greatest is the persuading a man that he can 
 write a book by which he will surely gain both wealth and fame; 
 and to illustrate the truth of this, pray tell him, in thy pleasant 
 way, the following story :— 
 
 ‘‘In the city of Cordova lived a maniac, whose custom was to 
 walk about the streets with a large stone upon his head, of no in- 
 considerable weight; and wherever he met with any careless cur, 
 he edged slily towards him, and when quite close, let the stone 
 fall plump upon his body; whereupon the dog, in great wrath, 
 limped away, barking and howling, for more than three streets’ 
 length, without once looking behind him. Now, it happened, 
 that among other dogs, he met with one that belonged to a cap- 
 maker, who valued him mightily; down went the stone, and hit 
 him exactly on the head; the poor animal cried out; his master, 
 seeing the act, was enraged, and, catching up his measuring-yard, 
 fell upon the madman, and left him with scarcely a whole bone in 
 his skin: at every blow venting his fury in reproaches, saying, 
 ‘Dog! rogue! rascal! What! maltreat my dog !—a spaniel! Did 
 you not see, barbarian! that my dog was a spaniel?’ and after re- 
 peating the word ‘spaniel’ very often, he dismissed the culprit, 
 beaten to a jelly. The madman took his correction in silence, and 
 walked off ; nor did he show himself again in the market place till 
 more than a month afterwards, when he returned to his former 
 amusement, with a still greater stone upon his head. It was ob- 
 served, however, that on coming up to a dog, he first carefully 
 surveyed it from head to tail, and not daring to let the stone fall, 
 he said, ‘’ Ware spaniel !—this won’t do.’ In short, whatever dog 
 he met with—terrier, mastiff, or hound—they were all spaniels; 
 and so great was his dread of committing another mistake, that he 
 never ventured to let fall his slab again.” Thus warned, perhaps, 
 our historian may think it necessary, before he again lets fall the 
 
 * Lope de Vega. 
 
> 
 
 PREFACE TO PART II. 289 
 
 onderous weight of his wit, to look and examine where it is likely 
 o drop.” 
 
 Tell him also, that as.to his threatening, by his counterfeit wares, 
 to deprive me of my expected gain,* I value it not a rush, and will 
 only answer him from the famous interlude of Parendenga—‘‘ Long 
 live my lord and master, and Heaven be with us all! Long live 
 the great Count de Lemos, whose well-known liberality supports 
 me under ali the strokes of adverse fortune ; and all honour and 
 pie to the eminent bounty of his grace the archbishop of Toledo, 
 
 ernardo de Sandoval! and let them write against me as many 
 books as there are letters in the rhymes of Mingo Rebulgo. These 
 two nobles, unsought by adulation on my part, but merely of their 
 own goodness, have taken upon them to patronise and favour me ; 
 wherefore I esteem myself happier and richer than if fortune, by 
 her ordinary means, had placed me on her highest pinnacle. Such 
 honour the meritorious, not the vicious, may aspire to, although 
 oppressed by poverty. Thenoble mind may be clouded by adversity, 
 but cannot be wholly concealed: for true merit shines by a light of 
 its own, and, glimmering through the rents and crannies of indi- 
 gence, is perceived, respected, and honoured by the generous and 
 the great.” 
 
 More than this, reader, thou needst not say to him; nor will I 
 say more to thee, except merely observing, for thy information, 
 that this Second Part of Don Quixote, here offered to thee, is cut 
 by the same hand, and out of the same piece, as the First Part; 
 and that herein I present thee with Don Quixote whole and entire: 
 having placed him in his grave at full length, and fairly dead, that 
 no one may presume to expose him to new adventures, since he 
 has achieved enough already. It is sufficient that his ingenious 
 follies have been recorded by a writer of credit, who has resolved 
 to take up the subject no more: for we may be surfeited by too 
 much of what is good, and scarcity gives a relish to what is only 
 indifferent. 
 
 * A certain Alonso Fernandez de Avellaneda published at Tarragona, a so-called 
 continuation of Den Quixote, which was made a vehicle of abuse lavished on 
 Cervantes. 
 
SECOND PART. 
 
 
 
 Hook First, 
 
 
 
 CHEAP AT iwe b 
 
 Of what passed between the priest, the barber, and Don Quixote, 
 concerning his indisposition. 
 
 _ Cid Hamet Benengeli relates, in the second part of this history, 
 containing the third sally of Don Quixote, that the priest and the 
 barber refrained during a whole month from seeing him, lest they 
 should revive in his mind the remembrance of things past. How- 
 ever, they paid frequent visits to the niece and housekeeper, charg- 
 ing them to take great care of him, and to give him good nourishing 
 diet, as that would be salutary to his heart and his brain, whence 
 all the mischief proceeded. The good women assured them of their 
 continual care of the patient, and said they occasionally observed 
 in him symptoms of returning reason. The priest and the barber 
 were greatly pleased to’hear this, and congratulated themselves on 
 the success of the scheme they had adopted of bringing him home en- 
 chanted in the ox-waggon, as it is related in the last chapter of the 
 first part of this no less great than accurate history. They resolved, 
 therefore, to visit him, and make trial of his amendment: at the 
 same time, thinking it scarcely possible that his cure could be com- 
 pe they agreed not to touch upon the subject of knight-errantry, 
 est they might open a wound which must yet be so tender. 
 
 They found him sitting on his bed, clad in a waistcoat of green 
 baize, with a red Toledo cap on his head, and so lean and shrivelled 
 that he looked like amummy. He received them with much po- 
 liteness, and when they inquired after his health, heanswered them 
 in a very sensible manner, and with much elegance of expression. 
 In the course of their conversation they touched upon matters of 
 state, and forms of government, correcting this abuse and condemn- 
 ing that, reforming one custom and exploding another: each of the 
 three setting himself up fora perfect legislator, a modern Lycurgus, 
 or a spick-and-span new Solon; and, by their joint efforts, they 
 seemed to have clapped the pron eae into a forge, and ham- 
 
 ‘ 
 
HIS WONDERFUL PROJECT. 291 
 
 mered it ‘nto quite a new shape. Don Quixote delivered himself 
 with so much good sense upon every subject they had touched upon, 
 that the two examiners were inclined to think that he was now 
 really in full possession of all his mental faculties. The niece and 
 the housekeeper were present at the conversation, and, hearing 
 from their master such proofs of a sound mind, thought they could 
 never sufficimtly thank Heaven. The priest, changing his former 
 purpose of not touching upon matters of chivalry, was now resolved 
 to put the question of his amendment fairly to the test: he there- 
 fore mentioned, among other things, some intelligence lately brought 
 from court, that the Turk was advancing with a powerful fleet, and 
 that, his object being unknown, it was impossible to say where the 
 storm would burst; that all Christendom was in great alarm, and 
 that the king had already provided for the security of Naples, 
 Sicily, and the island of Malta. To this Don Quixote replied: 
 **His majesty has acted with great prudence in providing in time 
 for the defence of his dominions, that he may not be taken by sur- 
 prise ; but, if my counsel might be taken, 1 would advise him to a_ 
 measure which probably never yet entered into his majesty’s mind.” 
 On hearing this the priest said within himself, ‘‘Heaven defend 
 thee, poor Don Quixote! for methinks thou art about to fall from 
 the summit of thy madness into the depth of folly!” The barber, 
 who had made the same reflection, now asked Don Quixote what the 
 measure was which he thought would be so advantageous ; though, 
 in all probability, it was like the impertinent advice usually given 
 to princes. ‘‘Mine, Mr Shaver,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘shall 
 not be impertinent, but to the purpose.” ‘‘I mean no offence.” 
 replied the barber, ‘‘ only experience has shown that all, or most of 
 the projects so offered to his majesty are either impracticable, ab- 
 surd, or prejudicial to himself or his kingdom.” ‘‘ True,” answered 
 Don Quixote ; ‘‘ but mine is neither impracticable nor absurd; but 
 the most easy, the most just, and also the most reasonable and ex- 
 peditious that ever entered the mind of a projector.” ‘Signor Don 
 Quixote,” quoth the priest, ‘‘you keep us too long in suspense.” 
 **T do not choose,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘ that it should be told 
 here now, that another may carry it by daybreak to the lords 
 of the privy-council, and thereby intercept the reward which is 
 only due to me.” ‘‘I give you my word,” said the barber, ‘‘ here 
 and before Heaven, that I will not reveal what your worship shall 
 say, either to king, or to rook, or to any mortal man—an oath 
 which I learned from the romance of the priest, where he gives the 
 king information of the thief that robbed him of the hundred pistoles 
 and his ambling mule.” ‘‘I know not the history,” said Don 
 Quixote ; ‘‘ but I presume the oath is a good one, because I am per- 
 suaded master barber is an honest man.” ‘‘ Though he were not,” 
 said the priest, ‘‘I will pledge myself for him, and engage, under 
 any penalty you please, that he shall be as silent as the dumb on 
 this affair.” ‘‘.And who will be bound for your reverence, master 
 priest?” said Don Quixote. ‘‘ My profession,” answered the priest ; 
 ‘‘ which enjoins secresy as an indispensable duty.” ‘‘ Body of me!” 
 cried Don Quixote; ‘‘has his majesty anything to do but to issue 
 
992 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 a proclamation ordering all the knights-errant, who are now wander- 
 ing about Spain, to repair, on an appointed day, to court? If not 
 more than half-a-dozen came, there might be one of that number 
 able, with his single arm, to destroy the whole power of the Turk. 
 Pray, gentlemen, be attentive, and listen to me. Is it anything 
 new fora single knight-errant to defeat an army of two hundred 
 thousand men, as if they had all but one throat, or were made of 
 astry? How many examples of such prowess does history supply ! 
 f, in an evil hour for me (I will not say for any other), the famous 
 Don Belianis, or some one of the numerous race of Amadis de Gaul, 
 were in being at this day to confront the Turk, in good faith I would 
 not farm his winnings! But God will protect his people, and provide 
 some one, if not as strong as the knights-errant of old, at least not 
 inferior to them in courage. Heaven knows niy meaning; I say no 
 more!” ‘Alas!’ exclaimed the niece at this instant: ‘‘may I 
 erish if my uncle has not a mind to turn knight-errant again !” 
 hereupon Don Quixote said, ‘‘ A knight-errant I will live and 
 die; and let the Turk come, down or up, when he pleases, and with 
 all the forces he can raise—once more, I say, Heaven knows my 
 meaning.” ‘‘Gentlemen,” said the barber, ‘‘ give me leave to tell 
 you a short story of what happened once in Seville; for it comes 
 so pat to the purpose that I cannot help giving it to you.” Don 
 Quixote and the priest signified their consent, and the others being 
 willing to hear, he began thus :— 
 
 ‘* A certain man being deranged in his intellects, was placed by 
 his relations in the mad-house of Seville. He had taken his de- 
 grees in the canon law at Ossuna; but, had it been at Salamanca, 
 many are of opinion he would, nevertheless, have been mad. This 
 graduate, after some years’ confinement, took into his head that 
 he was quite in his right senses, and therefore wrote to the arch- 
 bishop, beseeching him, with great earnestness, and apparently 
 with much reason, that he would be pleased to deliver him from 
 that miserable state of confinement in which he lived; since, 
 through the mercy of God, he had regained his senses; adding, 
 that his relations, in order to enjoy part of his estate, kept him still 
 there, and in spite of the clearest evidence, would insist upon his 
 being mad as long as he Jived. The archbishop, prevailed upon by 
 the many sensible epistles he received from him, sent one of his 
 chaplains to the keeper of the mad-house to inquire into the truth 
 of what the licentiate had alleged, and also to talk with him, and 
 if it appeared that he was in his senses, to set himat liberty. The 
 chaplain accordingly went to the rector, who assured him that the 
 man was still insane, for though he sometimes talked very sensibly, 
 it was seldom for any length of time without betraying his derange- 
 ment ; as he would certainly find on conversing with him. The chap- 
 lain determined to make the trial, and, during the conversation of 
 more than an hour, could perceive no symptom of incoherence in his 
 discourse ; on the contrary, he spoke with so much sedateness and 
 judgment that the chaplain could not entertain a doubt of the 
 sanity of his intellects. Among other things he assured him that 
 the keeper was bribed by his relations to persist in reporting him 
 
 
 
THE BARBER’S STORY. 293 
 
 to be deranged ; so that his large estate was his great misfortune, 
 to enjoy which his enemies had recourse to fraud ; and pretended 
 to doubt of the mercy of Heaven in restoring him from the condi- 
 tion of a brute to that of aman. Im short, he talked so plausibly 
 that he made the rector appear venal and corrupt, his relations 
 unnatural, and himself so discreet, that the chaplain determined to 
 take him immediately to the archbishop, that he might be satisfied 
 he had done right. With this resolution the good chaplain desired 
 the keeper of the house to restore to him the clothes which he 
 wore when he was first put under his care. The keeper again de- 
 sired him to beware what he did, since he might be assured that 
 the licentiate was still insane; but the chaplain was not to be 
 moved either by his cautions or entreaties; and as he acted by 
 order of the archbishop, the keeper was compelled to obey him. 
 The licentiate put on his new clothes, and now, finding himself rid 
 of his lunatic attire, and habited like a rational creature, he en- 
 treated the chaplain, for charity’s sake, to permit him to take 
 leave of his late companions in affliction. Being desirous of seeing 
 the lunatics who were confined in that house, the chaplain, with 
 several other persons, followed him upstairs, and heard him accost 
 a man who lay stretched in a cell, outrageously mad, though just 
 then composed and quiet. ‘ Brother,’ said he to him, ‘have you 
 any commands for me? for I am going to return to my own house, 
 God having been pleased, of His infinite goodness and mercy, with- 
 out any desert of mine, to restore me to my senses. I am now 
 sound and well, for with God nothing is impossible; put your 
 whole trust and confidence in Him, and he will doubtless restore 
 you also. I will take care to send you some choice food ; and fail 
 not to eat it: for I have reason to believe, from my own experience, 
 that all our distraction proceeds from empty stomachs, and brains 
 filled with wind. Take heart, then, my friend, take heart; for 
 despondence under misfortune impairs our health, and hastens our 
 death.’ This discourse was overheard by another madman, the 
 tenant of an opposite cell, who, rising from an old mat, whereon 
 he had been lying naked, asked who it was that talked of going 
 away restored to his senses. ‘It is I, brother, that am going,’ an- 
 swered the licentiate; ‘for, thanks to Heaven, my stay here is 
 no longer necessary.’ ‘Take heed, friend, what you say,’ replied 
 the maniac; ‘let not the devil delude you; stir not a foot, but 
 keep where you are, and you will spare yourself the trouble of 
 being brought back.’ ‘I know,’ answered the other, ‘that I am 
 perfectly well, and shall have no more occasion to visit the station 
 churches.’* ‘ You well, truly?’ said the madman; ‘we shall soon 
 see that. Farewell! but I swear by Jupiter, whose majesty I re- 
 pect on earth, that for this single offence of setting thee at 
 
 arge, and pronouncing thee to be in thy sound senses, I am deter- 
 mined to inflict such a signal punishment on this city, that the 
 “memory thereof shall endure for ever andever. And knowest thou 
 not, pitiful fellow, that I have the power to doit? I, who am the 
 
 * Certain churches with indulgences, appointed to be visited either for pardon of 
 sins, or for procuring blessings. 
 
994 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 thundering Jove, and grasp in my hands the flaming bolts with 
 which I might instantly destroy the world !—but, remitting that 
 
 unishment, J will chastise their folly by closing the flood-gates of 
 Treats so that no rain shall fall upon this city or the surrounding 
 country for three years, reckoning from this very day and hour on 
 which my vengeance is denounced. You at liberty! you recovered, 
 and in your right senses; and I here a madman, distempered and 
 in bonds!—I will no more rain than I will hang myself.’ This 
 rhapsody was heard by all present, and our licentiate, turning to 
 the chaplain, ‘ My good sir,’ said he, seizing both his hands, ‘ re- 
 gard not his foolish threats, but be perfectly easy: for should he, 
 being Jupiter, withhold his rain, I, who am Neptune, the god of 
 water, can dispense as much as I please, and whenever there shall 
 - be occasion !’ ~ To which the chaplain answered, ‘ Nevertheless, Sig- 
 nor Neptune, it would not be well at present to provoke Signor 
 Jupiter: therefore, I beseech you, remain where you are, and when 
 we have more leisure, and a better opportunity, we will return 
 for you.’ The rector and the rest of the party laughed, and put 
 the chaplain quite out of countenance. In short, the licentiate 
 was immediately disrobed, and he remained in confinement; and 
 there is an end of my story.” 
 
 ‘‘This, then, master barber,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘is the story 
 which was so much to the purpose that you could not forbear tell- 
 ing it? Ah! signor cutbeard! signor cutbeard! he must be blind 
 indeed who cannot see through a sieve. Is it possible you should 
 be ignorant that comparisons of all kinds, whether as to sense, 
 courage, beauty, or rank, are always offensive? I, master barber, 
 am not Neptune, god of the waters; nor do I set myself up for a 
 wise man; all [ aim at is to convince the world of its error in not 
 reviving those happy times when the order of knight-errantry 
 flourished. But this our degenerate age deserves not to enjoy so 
 gree a blessing as that which was the boast of former ages, when 
 
 nights-errant took upon themselves the defence of kingdoms, the 
 
 rotection of orphans, the relief of damsels, the chastisement of the 
 aught and the reward of the humble. The knights of these times 
 rustle in damask and brocade, rather than in coats of mail. Where 
 is the knight now who will lie in the open field, exposed to the 
 rigour of the heavens, in complete armour from head to foot? Or, 
 leaning on his lance, take a short nap without quitting his stirrups, 
 like the knights-errant of old times? You have no one now, who, 
 issuing out of a forest, ascends some mountain, and thence tra- 
 verses a barren and desert shore of the sea, commonly stormy and 
 tempestuous; and, finding on the beach a small skiff without oars, 
 sail, mast, or tackle of any kind, he boldly throws himself into it, 
 committing himself to the implacable billows of the deep ocean, 
 which now mount him up to the skies, and then cast him down 
 to the abyss: and he, opposing his courage to the irresistible hurri- 
 cane, suddenly finds himself above three thousand leagues from the 
 place where he embarked; and, leaping on the remote and un- 
 known shore, encounters accidents worthy to be recorded, not on 
 parchment, but on brass. But in these days, sloth triumphs over 
 
HIS SAGE DISCOURSE. 295 
 
 activity, idleness over labour, vice over virtue, arrogance over 
 bravery, and the theory over the practice of arms, which only existed 
 and flourished with knights-errant in those ages of gold. For, tell 
 me, I pray, where was there so much valour and virtue to be found 
 as in Amadis de Gaul? Who was more discreet than Palmerin of 
 England? Who more affable and obliging than Tirante the White? 
 Who more gallant than Lisuarte of Greece? Who gave or received 
 more cuts and slashes than Don Belianis? Who was more intrepid 
 than Perion of Gaul? Who more enterprising than Felixmarte of 
 Hyrcania? Who more sincere than Esplandian? Who more daring 
 than Don Cirongilio of Thrace? Who more brave than Rodamonte? 
 Who more prudent than King Sobrino? Who more intrepid than 
 Rinaldo? Who more invincible than Orlando?—and who more 
 gallant and courteous than Ruggierio, from whom, according to 
 Turpin’s Cosmography, the present dukes of Ferrara are descended? 
 All these, and others that I could name, master priest, were knights- 
 errant, and the light of chivalry; and such as these are the men I 
 would advise his majesty toemploy. He then would be well served, 
 a vast expense would be spared, and the Turk might go tear his 
 beard for very madness: so now I will stay at home, since the 
 chaplain does not fetch me out; and if Jupiter is determined to 
 withhold his rain, here am I, who will rain whenever I think pro- 
 per—goodman basin will see that I understand him.” 
 
 “Tn truth, Signor Don Quixote,” said the barber, ‘‘ I meant no 
 harm in what I said, therefore your worship ought not to take it 
 amiss.” ‘* Whether I ought or not,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘is best 
 known to myself.” ‘‘ Well,” said the priest, ‘‘though I have yet 
 scarcely spoken, I should be very glad to relieve my conscience of 
 a scruple which has been started by what Signor Don Quixote just 
 
 now said.” ‘‘ You may command me, signor curate, in such 
 matters,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘out then with your scruple: 
 for there can be no peace with a scrupulous conscience.” ‘‘ With 
 
 this license, then,” said the curate, ‘‘I must tell you that I can by 
 no means persuade myself that the multitude of knights-errant 
 your worship has mentioned were really and truly persons of flesh 
 and blood existing in the world; on the contrary, I imagine that 
 the accounts given of them are all fictions and dreams, invented by 
 men awake, or, to speak more properly, half asleep.” ‘‘ This is a 
 common mistake,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ which I have, upon 
 sundry occasions, and in many companies, endeavoured to correct, 
 Sometimes I have failed in my attempts, at other times succeeded, 
 being founded on the basis of truth: for I can almost say these 
 eyes have seen Amadis de Gaul, who was tall of stature, of a fair 
 complexion, with a well-set beard, though black; his aspect being 
 mild and stern; a man of few words, not easily provoked, and soon 
 pacified. And as I have described Amadis, so, methinks, I could 
 paint and delineate every knight-errant recorded in all the histories 
 in the world. For I feel such confidence in the accuracy of their 
 historians, that I find it easy, from their exploits and character, to 
 form a good philosophical guess at their features, their complexions, 
 and their stature.” ‘‘Pray, Signor Don Quixote,” quoth the bar- 
 
296 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ber, ‘‘ what size do you think the giaut Morgante might have been?” 
 «* As to the matter of giants,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ though it 
 has been a controverted point, whether they really existed or not, 
 the Holy Scriptures, which cannot deviate a tittle from truth, prove 
 their reality in the history of that huge Philistine Goliath, who was 
 six cubits and a half high—a prodigious stature! Besides, in the 
 island of Sicily there have been found thigh and shoulder bones so 
 large that it is evident those to whom they belonged were giants, 
 tall as lofty steeples, which may be ascertained beyond all doubt by 
 the rules of geometry. Nevertheless, I cannot precisely tell you 
 what were the dimensions of Morgante, although I am inclined to 
 believe that he was not extremely tall: because J find, in the his- 
 tory wherein his achievements are particularly mentioned, that he 
 often slept under a roof; and since he found a house which could 
 contain him, it is plain he was not himself of an immeasurable size.” 
 “That is true,” quoth the priest; who, being amused with his 
 solemn extravagance, asked his opinion of the persons of Rinaldo of 
 Montalvan, Orlando, and the rest of the twelve peers of France, 
 since they were all knights-errant. ‘‘Of Rinaldo,” answered Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘I dare boldly affirm, he was broad-faced, of a ruddy 
 complexion, rolling eyes, and somewhat prominent, punctilious, 
 choleric to an excess, and a friend to robbers and profligates. Of 
 Roldan, or Rotolando, or Orlando (for history gives him all these 
 names), I believe, and will maintain, that he was of middle stature, 
 broad-shouldered, rather bandy-legged, brown-complexioned, 
 carroty-bearded, hairy-bodied, threatening in aspect, sparing in 
 speech, yet courteous and well-bred.” ‘‘If Orlando,” replied the 
 priest, ‘‘was not more comely than you have described him, no 
 wonder that my Lady Angelica the Fair disdained and forsook him 
 for the grace, sprightliness, and gallantry of the smooth-faced little 
 Moor; and she was discreet in preferring the softness of Medora to 
 the roughness of Orlando.” ‘‘That Angelica, master curate,” re- 
 plied Don Quixote, ‘‘ was a light, and capricious damsel, and left 
 the world as full of the fame of her folly as of her beauty. She 
 slighted a thousand noble cavaliers, a thousand valiant and wise 
 admirers, and took up with a paltry beardless page, without estate, 
 and with no other reputation than what he acquired from his grate- 
 ful fidelity to his friend. Even the great extoller of her beauty, 
 the famous Ariosto, either not daring, or not caring, to celebrate 
 what befell this lady after her low intrigue, left her with these 
 verses : 
 
 Another bard may sing in better strain, 
 How he Cataya’s sceptre did obtain. 
 
 ‘* Poets are called ‘vates,’ that is to say, ‘diviners;’ and cer- 
 tainly these lines were prophetic: for since that time a famous 
 Andalusian poet* has bewailed and sung her tears; and her beauty 
 has been celebrated by a Castilian poett of extraordinary merit.” 
 ‘* And pray tell me, Signor Don Quixote,” said the barber, ‘‘ among 
 
 * Louis Barahona de Soto. t+ Lope de Vega. 
 
RECEPTION OF SANCHO PANZA. 297 
 
 many who have sung her praises, has no -poet written a satire upon 
 this Lady Angelica?” ‘‘I verily believe,” answered Don Quixote, 
 *‘that if Orlando or Sacripanta had been poets, they would long 
 ago have settled that account; for it is not uncommon with poets, 
 disdained or rejected by their mistresses, to retaliate by satires and 
 lampoons,—a species of revenge certainly unworthy a generous 
 spirit: but hitherto I have not met with any defamatory verses 
 against the Lady Angelica, although she was the author of so much 
 mischief in the world.” ‘* Marvellous indeed!” said the priest. 
 At this moment, they were interrupted by a noise in the courtyard ; 
 and hearing the niece and housekeeper vociferating aloud, they 
 hastened to learn the cause. 
 
 Sr APP RV TT 
 
 Which treats of the notable quarrel between Sancho Panza and Don 
 Quixote’s niece and housekeeper, with other pleasant occurrences. 
 
 Looking out of the window, Don Quixote, the priest, and the 
 barber, saw the niece and housekeeper engaged in defending the 
 door against Sancho Panza, who came to pay his master a visit. 
 ‘Fellow, get home!” said one of them, ‘‘ what have you to do here? 
 It is by you our master is led astray, and carried rambling about the 
 country, like a vagabond.” ‘‘ Thou shrewish housekeeper !” retorted 
 Sancho, ‘‘itis 1 that am led astray, and carried rambling up and 
 down the highways; and it was your master that led me this dance 
 —so there you are quite mistaken. He tempted me from home with 
 promises of an island, which I still hope for.” ‘‘ May the islands 
 choke thee, wretch !” auswered the niece; ‘‘and pray, what are 
 islands? Are they anything eatable?—glutton, cormorant as thou 
 art!” ‘* They are not to be eaten,” replied Sancho, ‘‘ but governed, 
 and are better things than any four cities, or four justiceships at 
 court.” ‘For all that,” said the housekeeper, ‘‘ you shall not come in 
 here, you bag of mischief, and bundle of roguery! Get you home 
 and govern there; go, plough and cart, and do not trouble your 
 silly pate about islands.” ‘The priest and the barber were highly 
 diverted at this dialogue; but Don Quixote, fearing lest Sancho 
 should blunder out something unseasonably, and touch upon certain 
 points not advantageous to his reputation, ordered the women to 
 hold their peace, and let him in. Sancho entered, and the priest 
 and the barber took their leave of Don Quixote, now quite despair- 
 ing of his cure, seeing that he was more intoxicated than ever with 
 knight-errantry. ‘‘ You will see, neighbour,” said the curate, as 
 they walked away, ‘‘our friend will soon take another flight.” 
 ‘No doubt of it,” said the barber, ‘yet I think the credulity of 
 the squire still more extraordinary—it seems impossible to drive 
 that same island out of his head.” ‘‘ Heaven help them !” cried 
 
298 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the priest; ‘‘ however, let us watch their motions, the knight 
 and the squire seem both to be cast in the same mould, and the 
 madness of the one, without the folly of the other, would not be 
 worth arush.” ‘‘I should like to know what they are now con- 
 ferring about,” said the barber. ‘‘ We shall soon hear that from 
 the niece or housekeeper,” replied the priest; ‘‘for I lay my life, 
 they will not refrain from listening.” 
 
 Don Quixote having shut himself up in his chamber with Sancho, 
 he said to him, ‘“‘It concerns me much, Sancho, that thou wilt 
 persist in saying that I enticed thee from thy home. How! Did 
 we not both leave our homes together, journey together, and were 
 both exposed to the same fortune! If thou wert once tossed in a 
 blanket, I have only had the advantage of thee, in being a hundred 
 times exposed to hard blows.” ‘‘ This is but reasonable,” answered 
 Sancho; ‘‘for, as your worship says, misfortunes belong more pro- 
 perly to knights-errant than to their squires.” ‘Thou art mis- 
 taken, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘for, according to the saying, 
 Quando caput dolet, &c.” ‘‘I understand no other language than 
 my own,” replied Sancho. ‘‘I mean,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘that 
 when the head aches, all the members ache also; and therefore, 
 I, being thy lord and master, am thy head, and thou, being my 
 servant, art a portion of me; and therefore, whatever evil I suffer 
 must be felt by thee, as thy sufferings likewise affect me.” ‘‘ And 
 so it should be,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘ but when I asa member, suffered 
 in the blanket, my head stood on t’other side of the pales seeing 
 me tossed in the air, without taking the smallest share in my pain, 
 though, as the members are bound to grieve at the ills of the head, 
 the head should have done the like for them.” ‘‘ Would’st thou 
 then insinuate, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘that I was not 
 grieved when I saw thee tossed in the air? If that be thy mean- 
 ing, be assured thou art deceived; for I felt more at that time in 
 my mind than thou didst in thy body. But let us dismiss this sub- 
 ject at present; for a time will come when we may set this matter 
 to rights. And now tell me, friend Sancho, what do they say of 
 me in the village? What opinion do the common people entertain 
 of me? What think the gentlemen and the cavaliers? What is 
 said of my prowess, of my exploits, and of my courteous demean- 
 our? What say they to the design I have formed of reviving the 
 long forgotten order of chivalry? In short, Sancho, I would have 
 thee tell me whatever thou hast heard concerning these matters ; 
 and this thou must do, without adding to the good, or omitting the 
 evil; for it is the part of faithful vassals to tell their lords the truth 
 in its native simplicity, neither embellished by adulation nor with- 
 held out of any idle delicacy. And let me tell thee, Sancho, that 
 if the naked truth could reach the ears of princes, without the dis- 
 guise of flattery, we should see happier days, and former ages would 
 be deemed as iron in comparison of ours, which would then be 
 truly termed the golden age. Now remember this, Sancho, and give 
 me an ingenuous and faithful account of what thou knowest con- 
 cerning these matters.” ‘‘That I will, with all my heart, sir,” 
 answered Sancho, ‘‘on condition that your worship be not angry at 
 
PUBLIC OPINION OF HIS EXPLOITS. 299 
 
 what I say, since you desire to have the truth, just as it came to 
 me.” ‘‘I will in no wise be angry,” replied Don Quixote; ‘‘ speak 
 then freely, Sancho, and without any circumlocution.” 
 
 ‘* First and foremost, then,” said Sancho, ‘‘the common people 
 take your worship for a downright madman, and me for no less a 
 fool. The gentry say, that not content to keep to your own proper 
 rank of a gentleman, you call yourself Don, and set up for a knight, 
 with no more than a paltry vineyard and a couple of acres of land. 
 The cavaliers say they do not choose to be vied with by those 
 country squires who clout their shoes, and take up the fallen 
 stitches of their black stockings with green silk.” ‘‘ That,” said 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘is no reflection upon me; for I always go well clad, 
 and my apparel is never patched; a little torn it may be, but more 
 from the fretting of my armour than by time.” ‘‘ As to your valour, 
 courtesy, achievements, and undertakings,” continued Sancho, 
 ‘‘there are many different opinions. Some say you are mad, but 
 humorous; others valiant, but unfortunate; others, courteous, but 
 absurd ; and thus they pull us to pieces, till they leave neither 
 your worship nor me a single feather upon our backs.” ‘Take 
 notice, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ that wherever virtue exists 
 in any eminent degree, it is always persecuted. Few or none of 
 the famous men of antiquity escaped the calumny of their malicious 
 contemporaries. Julius Cesar, a most courageous, prudent, and 
 valiant general, was charged with being too ambitious, and also 
 with want of personal cleanliness. Alexander, whose exploits 
 gained him the surname of Great, is said to have been addicted to 
 drunkenness. Hercules, who performed so many labours, is 
 accused of being lascivious and effeminate. Don Galaor, brother 
 of Amadis de Gaul, was taxed with being quarrelsome, and his 
 brother with being a whimperer. Amidst so many aspersions cast 
 on the worthy, mine, O Sancho, may very well pass, if they are no 
 more than thou hast mentioned.” ‘‘ Body of my father! there’s 
 the rub, sir,” exclaimed Sancho. ‘‘ What, then, is there more yet 
 behind?” said Don Quixote. ‘‘ Why, all the things I have told 
 you are tarts and cheesecakes to what remains behind,” replied 
 Sancho; ‘‘ but if your worship would have all, to the very dregs, I 
 will bring one hither presently who can tell you everything, 
 without missing a tittle; for last night the son of Bartholomew 
 Carrasco returned from his studies at Salamanca, where he has 
 taken his bachelor’s degree; and when I went to bid him welcome 
 home, he told me, that the history of your worship was already 
 printed in books, under the title of ‘Don Quixote de la Mancha!’ 
 and he says it mentions me too, by my very name of Sancho 
 Panza, and also the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and several other 
 ga matters which passed between us two only; insomuch that 
 
 crossed myself out of pure amazement, to think how the historian 
 who wrote it should come to know them.” ‘‘Depend upon it, 
 Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘that the author of this our history 
 must be some sage enchanter ; for nothing is concealed from them.” 
 *‘A sage and an enchanter?” quoth Sancho; ‘‘ why, the bachelor 
 Sampson Carrasco says the author of this story is called Cid 
 
800 _ ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Hamet Berengens.”* ‘‘That is a Moorish name,” answered 
 Don Quixote. ‘‘It may be so,” replied Sancho; ‘‘for I have 
 heard that your Moors, for the most part, are lovers of Berengenas.” 
 “Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘thou must be mistaken in the 
 surname of that same ‘Cid,’ which, in Arabic, signifies ‘a lord.’” 
 ‘That may be,” answered Sancho, ‘‘but if your worship would 
 like to see him, I will run and fetch him.” ‘‘ Thou wilt give me 
 singular pleasure, friend,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘for I am surprised 
 at what thou hast told me, and shall be impatient till I am informed 
 of every particular.” ‘‘I will go for him directly,” said Sancho; 
 then, leaving his master, he went to seek the bachelor, with whom 
 he soon returned, and a most delectable conversation then passed 
 between them. 
 
 Uo Abi bee LL. 
 
 Of the pleasant conversation which passed between Don Quizote, 
 Sancho Panza, and the bachelor Sampson Carrasco. 
 
 Don Quixote, full of thought, wasimpatient for the return of Sancho 
 and the bachelor .Carrasco, anxious to hear about the printed 
 accounts of himself, yet scarcely believing that such a history could 
 really be published, since the blood of the enemies he had slain was 
 still reeking on his sword-blade—indeed, he did not see how it was 
 possible that his high feats of arms should be already in print. 
 However, he finally concluded that some sage, either friend or 
 enemy, by art-magic, had sent them to the press; if a friend, to 
 
 roclaim and extol them above the most signal achievements of 
 
 nights-errant—if an enemy, to annihilate and sink them below 
 the meanest that ever were written even of a squire; though again, 
 he recollected that the feats of squires were never recorded, At 
 any rate, he was certain, if it should prove the fact that such a 
 history was really extant, being that of a knight-errant, it could 
 not be otherwise than lofty, illustrious, magnificent, and true. 
 This thought afforded him some comfort, but he lost it again on 
 considering that the author was a Moor, as it appeared from the 
 name of Cid, and that no truth could be expected from Moors, who 
 are all impostors, liars, and visionaries. He also felt much 
 inquietude lest the author might have treated his passion with 
 indelicacy, and thereby offend the immaculate purity of his lady 
 Dulcinea del Toboso; he hoped, however, he might find a faithful 
 delineation of his own constancy, and the decorum he had ever 
 inviolably preserved towards her; slighting, for her sake, queens, 
 empresses, and damsels of all degrees, and resisting the most violent 
 temptations. While he was agitated by these and a thousand other 
 
 7 
 
 Sancho mistakes Berengena, a species of fruit, for Benengeli, 
 
 * 
 
THE BACHELOR SAMPSON CARRASCO. 301 
 
 fancies, Sancho returned, accompanied by the bachelor, who was 
 received with all possible courtesy. 
 
 This bachelor, though Sampson by name, was no giant in person, 
 but a little mirth-loving man, with a good understanding; about 
 twenty-four years of age, of a pale complexion, round-faced, flat- 
 nosed, and wide-mouthed; all indicating humour, and native 
 relish for jocularity, which, indeed, showed itself when on 
 approaching Don Quixote, he threw himself upon his knees, and 
 said to him, ‘‘Signor Don Quixote de la Mancha, allow me the 
 honour of kissing your illustrious hand, for, by the habit of 
 St Peter, which I wear—though I[ have yet taken only the four first 
 degrees towards holy orders—your worship *3 one of the most 
 famous knights-errant that hath ever been or shall be upon the 
 whole circumference of the earth! A blessing light on Cid Hamet 
 Benengeli, who has recorded the history of your mighty deeds; 
 and blessings upon blessings light on that ingenious scribe whose 
 laudable curiosity was the cause of its being translated out of 
 Arabic into our vulgar Castilian, for the profit and amusement of 
 all mankind!” Don Quixote having raised him from the ground, 
 said to him, ‘‘It is true, then, that my history is really published 
 to the world, and that it was written by a Moor and a sage?” 
 **So true it is, sir, said Sampson, ‘‘ that I verily believe there are, 
 at this very day, above twelve thousand copies published of that 
 history :—witness Portugal, Barcelona, and Valencia, where they 
 were printed; and it is said to be now printing at Antwerp— 
 indeed, I prophecy that no nation or language will be without a 
 translation of it.” ‘‘There cannot be a more legitimate source of 
 gratification to a virtuous and distinguished man,” said Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘than to have his good name celebrated during his 
 life-time, and circulated over different nations !—I say his good 
 name, for if it were otherwise than good, death in any shape would 
 be preferable.” ‘‘As to high reputation and a good name,” said 
 the bachelor, ‘‘ your worship bears the palm over all past knights- 
 errant : for the Moor in the Arabian language, and the Castilian in 
 his translation, have both taken care to paint to the life that 
 gallant deportment which distinguishes you, that greatness of soul 
 in confronting dangers, and patience in adversity, that fortitude in 
 suffering, that modesty and truly Platonic love, subsisting between 
 you and my lady Donna Dulcinea del Toboso.” 
 
 Sancho here interposed, saying, ‘‘I never heard my lady 
 Duleinea called Donna before, but only plain Dulcinea del 
 Toboso ; so that here the history is already mistaken.” ‘‘ That 
 objection is of no importance,” answered Carrasco. ‘‘ No, cer- 
 tainly,” replied Don Quixote ; ‘‘ but pray tell me, signor bachelor, 
 on which of my exploits do they lay the greatest stress in that 
 same history?” ‘As to that matter,” said the bachelor, 
 ‘‘opinions vary according to the difference of taste. Some are for 
 the adventure of the windmills, which your worship took for so 
 many Briareuses and giants ; others prefer that of the fulling-mills ; 
 one cries up-for the two armies, which turned out to be flocks of 
 sheep; another for the dead body, carrying for imterment to 
 
— 
 302 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Segovia. Some maintain that the affair of the galley-slaves is the 
 flower of all; while others will have it that none can be compared 
 to that of the two Benedictine giants, and the combat with the 
 -valorous Biscayan.” ‘‘Pray tell me, signor bachelor,” quoth 
 Sancho, ‘‘has it got, among the rest, the affair of the Yanguesian 
 carriers, when our good Rozinante was tempted to go astray?” 
 ‘“‘The sage,” answered Sampson, ‘‘has omitted nothing—he 
 minutely details everything, even to the capers Sancho cut in the 
 blanket.” ‘‘I cut no capers in the blanket,” answered Sancho, 
 ‘in the air I own IJ did, and not much to my liking.” ‘‘ There ig 
 no history of human affairs, I conceive,” said Don Quixote, ‘which 
 is not full of reverses, and none more than those of chivalry.” 
 ‘* Nevertheless,” replied the bachelor, ‘‘ some who have read the 
 history say they should have been better pleased if the authors of 
 it had forborne to enumerate all the buffettings endured by 
 Signor Don Quixote in his different encounters.” ‘‘ Therein,” quoth 
 Sancho, ‘‘ consists the truth of the history.” ‘* They might, indeed, 
 as Well have omitted them,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘since there is no 
 necessity for recording actions which are prejudicial to the hero, 
 without being essential to the history. It is not to be supposed 
 that Alneas was in all his actions so pure as Virgil represents him, 
 nor Ulysses so uniformly prudent as he is described by Homer.” 
 ‘‘ True,” replied Sampson ; ‘‘ but it is one thing to write as a poet, 
 and another to write as a historian. The poet may say or sing, not 
 as things were, but as they ought to have been ; but the historians 
 must pen them, not as they ought to have been, but as they really 
 were, without adding or diminishing aught from the truth.” 
 ‘Well, then,” said Sancho, ‘‘if this Signor Moor is so fond of 
 telling the truth, and my master’s rib-roastings are all set down, I. 
 suppose mine are not forgotten ; for they never took measure of his 
 worship’s shoulders, but at the same time they contrived to get the 
 length and breadth of my whole body; but why should I wonder 
 at that, since, as this same master of mine says, the members 
 must share the fate of the head?” ‘‘Sancho, thou art an arch 
 rogue,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘ and, in faith, upon some occasions, 
 hast no want of memory.” ‘‘ Though I wanted ever so much to 
 forget what my poor body has suffered,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘the 
 tokens that are still fresh on my ribs would not let me.” ‘*‘ Peace, 
 Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘and let signor bachelor proceed, that 
 I may know what is further said of me in the history.” ‘And of 
 me too,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘for I hear that I am one of the principal 
 parsons in it.” ‘Persons, not parsons, friend Sancho,” quoth 
 Sampson. ‘‘ What, have we another corrector of words?” quoth 
 Sancho, ‘‘if we are to go on at this rate, we shall make slow work 
 of it.” ‘*As sure as I live, Sancho,” answered the bachelor, ‘‘ you 
 are the second person of the history :—nay, there are those who 
 would rather hear you talk than the finest fellow of them all; 
 though there are also some who charge you with being too credulous 
 in expecting the government of that island promised you by 
 Signor Don Quixote, here present.” ‘‘There is still sunshine on 
 the wall,” quoth Don Quixote; ‘‘and when Sancho is more 
 
e oe 
 POPULARITY OF THE KNIGHT’S EXPLOITS. 3808 
 
 advanced in age, with the experience that years bestow, he will 
 be better qualified to be a governor than he is at present.”  ‘* Sir,” 
 quoth Sancho, ‘‘if I am not fit to govern an island at these years, I 
 shall be no better able at the age of Methuselah. The mischief of 
 it is, that the said island sticks somewhere else, and not in my want 
 of a headpiece to govern it.” ‘‘ Recommend the matter to God,” 
 Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘and all will be well—perhaps better 
 than thou mayest think; for not a leaf stirs on the tree without 
 
 His permission.” ‘‘ That is very true,” quoth Sampson ; ‘‘and 
 if it please God, Sancho will not want a thousand islands to govern, 
 much less one.” ‘‘I have seen governors ere now,” quoth Sancho, 
 
 ‘‘ who, in my opinion, do not come up to the sole of my shoe; and 
 yet they are called ‘your lordship,’ and eat their victuals upon 
 vlate.” ‘Those are not governors of islands,” replied Sampson, 
 ‘but of other governments more manageable; for those who 
 govern islands must at least understand grammar.” ‘‘Gramercy 
 for that!” quoth Sancho; ‘‘it is all Greek to me, for I know 
 nothing of the matter; so let us leave the business of govern- 
 ments in the hands of God, and let Him dispose of me in the 
 way that I may best serve Him. But [ am mightily pleased, 
 Signor Bachelor Sampson Carrasco, that the author of the history 
 has not spoken ill of me; for, upon the faith of a trusty squire, 
 had he said anything of me unbecoming an old Christian, as I am, 
 the deaf should have heard it.” ‘‘That would be working 
 miracles,” answered Sampson. “ Miracles, or no miracles,” quoth 
 Sancho, ‘‘people should take heed what they say and write of 
 other folks, and not set anything down that comes uppermost.” 
 
 ** One of the faults found with this history,” said the bachelor, 
 “is ” «¢T will lay a wager,” interrupted Sancho, ‘‘ the rascally 
 author has made a fine hotch-potch of it, jumbling fish and flesh 
 together.” ‘‘Iaver then,” said Don Quixote, “‘ that the author of 
 my history could not be a sage, but some ignorant pretender, who 
 has engaged in the work without deliberation, and written down 
 anything just at random; like Orbeneja, the painter of Ubeda, 
 who, being asked what he was painting, answered ‘ Asit may hap- 
 pen; and who, when he had painted a cock, to prevent impertin- 
 ent mistakes, wrote under it, ‘This is a cock.’ Thus, perhaps, it 
 has fared with my history, which may require a comment to make 
 it intelligible.” ‘‘ Not at all,” answered Sampson, ‘‘for it is so 
 plain, so easy to be understood, that children thumb it, boys read 
 it, men understand it, and old folks commend it; in short, it is so 
 tossed about, so conned, and so thoroughly known by all sorts of 
 people, that no sooner is a lean horse seen than they cry, ‘ Yonder 
 goes Rozinante.’ But none are so much addicted to reading it as 
 your pages :—in every nobleman’s antechamber you will be sure to 
 find a Don Quixote. If one lays it down, another takes it up; one 
 asks for it, another snatches it ;—in short, this history is the most 
 pleasing and the least prejudicial work that was ever published ; 
 for it contains not one indecent expression, nor a thought that is 
 not purely catholic.” ‘‘To write otherwise of me,” said Don Quix. 
 ote, ‘‘had not been to write truths, but lies; and historians who 
 
 
 
804 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 propagate falsehoods should be condemned to the stake, like coiners 
 of base money. Why the author was induced to mix novels, or 
 narratives of other persons, with my history, which is itself so rich 
 in matter, I know not; but some writers think, as the proverb 
 says, ‘With hay or with straw—it is all the same.’ Verily, had 
 he confined himself to the publication of my thoughts, my sighs, 
 my groans, my laudable intentions, or my actual achievements, he 
 might, with these alone, have compiled a volume as large, or larger, 
 than all the works of Tostatus. But in truth, signor bachelor, 
 much knowledge and a mature understanding are requisite for 
 a historian, or, indeed, for a good writer of any kind; and wit and 
 humour belong to genius alone. There is no character in comedy 
 which requires so much ingenuity as that of the fool; for he must 
 not in reality be what he appears. History is like sacred writing, 
 because truth is essential to it; and where there is truth, the Deity 
 himself is present; nevertheless, there are many who think that 
 books may be written and tossed out into the world like fritters.” 
 ‘«T here is no book so bad,” said the bachelor, ‘‘ but that some- 
 thing good may be found init.” ‘‘ Undoubtedly,” said Don Quix- 
 ote; ‘‘I have known many, too, that have enjoyed considerable 
 reputation for their talents in writing, until, by publishing, they 
 have either injured, or entirely lost their fame.” ‘‘The reason of 
 this is,” said Sampson, ‘‘that as printed works may be read 
 leisurely, their defects are more easily seen, and they are scruti- 
 nized more or less strictly in proportion to the celebrity of the 
 author. Men of great talents, whether poets or historians, seldom 
 escape the attacks of those, who, without ever favouring the world 
 with any production of their own, take delight in scrutinizing 
 the works of others.” ‘‘ Nor can we wonder at that,” said Don Quix- 
 ote, ‘‘when we observe the same practice among divines, who, though 
 dull enough in the pulpit themselves, are wonderfully sharp-sighted 
 in discovering the defects of other preachers.” ‘‘ True, indeed, Sig- 
 nor Don Quixote,” said Carrasco; ‘‘I wish critics would be less 
 fastidious, nor dwell so much upon the motes which may be dis- 
 cerned even in the brightest works; for, though aliquando bonus 
 dormitat Homerus, they ought to consider how much he was awake 
 to produce a work with so much light and so little shade ; nay, per- 
 haps even his seeming blemishes are like moles, which are sometimes 
 thought to be rather an improvement to beauty. But it cannot be 
 denied, that whoever publishes a book to the world, exposes him- 
 self to imminent peril, since of all things, nothing is more impossible 
 than to satisfy everybody.” ‘‘My history must please but very 
 few, I fear,” said Don Quixote. ‘‘On the contrary,” replied the 
 bachelor, ‘‘as, stultorwm infinitus est numerus, so infinite is the 
 number of those who have been delighted with that history. 
 Though some, it is true, have taxed the author with having a 
 treacherous memory, since he never explained who it was that stole 
 Sancho’s Dapple: it only appears that he was stolen, yet soon after 
 we find him mounted upon the same beast, without being told 
 how it was recovered. They complain, also, that he has omitted 
 to inform us what Sancho did with the hundred crowns which he 
 
* 
 
 SANCHO PANZA’S EXPLANATIONS, 805 
 
 found in the portmanteau in the Sierra Morena: for he never men- 
 tions them again, to the great disappointment of many. curious 
 persons, who reckon it one of the most material defects in the 
 work.” ‘‘Master Sampson,” replied Sancho, ‘‘I am not in the . 
 mind now to come to accounts or reckonings, for I have a qualm 
 come over my stomach, and shall not be easy till [ have rectified 
 it with a couple of draughts of old stingo; I have the darling at 
 home, and my duck looks for me. When I have had my feed, and 
 my girths are tightened, I shall be with you straight, and will 
 satisfy you and all the world, in whatever they are pleased to ask 
 me, both touching the loss of Dapple and the laying out of the 
 hundred crowns.” Then, without waiting for an answer, or saying 
 another word, he set off home. The bachelor, being pressed by 
 Don Quixote to stay and do penance with him, he accepted the 
 invitation, and a couple of pigeons were added to the usual fare: 
 chivalry was the subject at table, and Carrasco carried it on with 
 proper humour and spirit. Their banquet over, they slept during 
 the heat of the day; after which Sancho returned, and the former 
 conversation was renewed. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER Iv. 
 
 Wherein Sancho Panza answers the bachelor Sampson Carrasco’s 
 doubts and questions ; with other incidents worthy of being known 
 and recited, 
 
 Sancho returned to Don Quixote’s house; and, reviving the late 
 subject of discourse, which he had so abruptly quitted, he said, 
 ‘* Well, Master Sampson Carrasco, now you want to know when 
 and how my Dapple was stolen, and who was the thief? You 
 must know, then, that on the very night when we marched off, to 
 avoid the officers of the holy brotherhood, after the unlucky affair 
 of the galley-slaves, having made our way into the Sierra Morena, 
 my master and I got into a thicket, where he, leaning upon his 
 lance, and I, sitting upon Dapple, mauled and tired by our late 
 skirmishes, we both fell as fast asleep as if we had been stretched 
 upon four feather-beds. For my own part, I slept so soundly that 
 the thief, whoever he was, had leisure enough to prop me up on 
 four stakes, which he planted under the four corners of the pannel, 
 and then drawing Dapple from under me, he left me fairly mounted, 
 without ever dreaming of my loss.” ‘‘ That is an easy matter, and 
 no new device,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘ for it is recorded, that at the 
 siege of Albraca the famous robber Brunelo, by the very same 
 stratagem, stole the horse of Sacripante from between his legs.” 
 ** At day-break,” continued Sancho, ‘‘when I awoke and began 
 to stretch myself, the stakes gave way, and down I came, witha 
 confounded squelch, to the ground. I looked about me, but could 
 see no Dapple ; tears came into my eyes, and I made such a lamenta- 
 tion that if the author of our history has not set it down, he haa 
 
 U 
 
© 
 % 
 806 “ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 surely omitted an excellent thing. After some days—I cannot 
 exactly say how many—as I was following the princess Micomicona, 
 I saw my ass again, and who should be mounted on him but that 
 cunning rogue and notorious malefactor, Gines de Passamonte, 
 whom my master and I freed from the galley-chain!” ‘‘ The mis- 
 take does not lie there,” said Sampson, ‘‘ but in the author making 
 Sancho ride upon the same beast before he is said to have recovered 
 him.” ‘‘ All this,” said Sancho, ‘‘I know nothing about ; it might 
 be a mistake of the historian, or perhaps a blunder of his printer.” 
 ‘‘ No doubt it was so,” quoth Sampson: ‘‘ but what became of the 
 hundred crowns?—for there we are in the dark.” ‘‘I laid them 
 out,” replied Sancho, ‘‘ for the benefit of my own person, and that 
 of my wife and children; and they have been the cause of her 
 bearing quietly my rambles from home in the service of my master 
 Don Quixote: for had I returned after so long a time, ass-less and 
 penny-less, I must have looked for a scurvy greeting: and if you 
 want to know anything more of me, here I am, ready to answer 
 the king himself in person ; though it is nothing to anybody whether 
 I bought or bought not, whether I spent or spent not: for if the 
 cuffs and blows that have been given me in our travels were to be 
 paid for in ready money, and rated only at four maravedis a piece, 
 another hundred crowns would not pay for half of them: so let 
 every man lay his hand upon his heart, and not take white for 
 black, nor black for white; for we are all as God made us, and 
 oftentimes a great deal worse.” 
 _ JT will take care,” said Carrasco, ‘‘to warn the author of the 
 history not to forget, in his next edition, what honest Sancho has 
 told us, which will make the book as good again.” ‘‘ Are there 
 any other explanations wanting in the work, signor bachelor?” 
 quoth Don Quixote. ‘‘ There may be others,” answered Carrasco, 
 ‘‘but none of equal importance with those already mentioned.” 
 ‘¢ Peradventure,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ the author promises a second 
 pene? » “He does,” answered Sampson, ‘‘ but says he has not yet 
 een able to find out the possessor of it; and therefore we are in 
 doubt whether or not it will ever make its appearance. Besides, 
 some people say that second parts are never good for anything ; and 
 others that there is enough of Don Quixote already; though it is 
 true there are some merry souls who cry, ‘ Let us have more Quix- 
 otades; let but Don Quixote encounter, and Sancho Panza talk, 
 and go the world as it may!’” ‘‘ But pray, how stands the editor 
 affected?” inquired Don Quixote. ‘‘ How!” said Sampson ; ‘‘ why, 
 as soon as he can find this history, which he is diligently searching 
 for, he will immediately send it to press, more on account of the 
 profit than the praise which he hopes to derive fromit.” ‘‘ What, 
 then,” said Sancho, ‘‘ the author wants to get money by it? Ifso, 
 it will be a wonder, indeed, if it is well done; for he will stitch it 
 away like a tailor on Haster-evye, and your hasty works are never 
 good for anything. ‘This same Signor Moor would do well to con- 
 sider a little what he is about; for land my master will furnish him 
 so abundantly with lime and mortar in matter of adventures that he 
 may not only compile a second but a hundred parts. The good 
 
bh > 
 = 
 ~ 
 
 «.¥ 
 
 THE FAVOURABLE OMEN, _ 807 
 
 man thinks, without doubt, that we lie sleeping here in straw, but 
 let him hold up the limping foot, and he will see why it halts. All 
 that I can say is, that if my master had taken my advice we might 
 have been now in the field, redressing grievances and righting wrongs, 
 according to the usage of good knights-errant.” At this moment, 
 while Sancho was yet speaking, the neighing of Rozinante reached 
 their ears; which Don Quixote took for a most happy omen, and 
 resolved, without delay, to resume his functions, and again sally 
 forth into the world. He therefore consulted the bachelor as to 
 what course he should take, and was advised by him to go straight to 
 the kingdom of Arragon and the city of Saragossa, where, in a few 
 days, a most solemn tournament was to be held in honour of the 
 festival of Saint George; and there, by vanquishing the Arragonian 
 knights, he would acquire the ascendancy over all the knights in 
 the world. He commended his resolution as most honourable and 
 brave: at the same time cautioning him to be more wary in en- 
 countering great and needless perils, because his life was not his 
 own, but belonged to those who stood in need of his aid and protec- 
 tion. ‘* That is just what I say, Signor Sampson,” quoth Sancho ; 
 ‘‘for my master makes no more of attacking an hundred armed 
 men than a greedy boy would do half-a-dozen melons. Body of 
 me, signor bachelor! yes, there must be a time to attack, and a 
 time to retreat, and it must not be always, ‘ Saint Jago, and charge,. 
 Spain !’* And further, I have heard it said (and, if I remember 
 right, by my master himself) that true valour lies in the middle 
 between cowardice and rashness; and, if so, I would not have him 
 either fall on or fly, without good reason for it. But, above all, I 
 would let my master know, that if he takes me with him, it must 
 be upon condition that he shall battle it all himself, and that 1 
 shall only have to tend his person—I mean look after his clothes 
 and food; all which I will do with a hearty good will: but if he 
 expects that I will lay hand to my sword, though it be only against 
 beggarly wood-cutters with hooks and hatchets, he is very much 
 mistaken. I, Signor Sampson, do not set up for being the most 
 valiant, but the best and most faithful squire that ever served 
 knight-errant; and if my lord Don Quixote, in consideration of my 
 many and good services, shall please to bestow on me some one of 
 the many islands his worship says he shall light upon, I shall be 
 much beholden to him forthe favour; and if he give me none, here [ 
 am, and it is better to trust God than each other; and mayhap my 
 government bread might not go down so sweet as that which I 
 should eat without it; and how do I know but the devil, in one of - 
 these governments, might set up a stumbling-block in my way, 
 over which I may fal], and dash out my grinders? Sancho I was 
 born, and Sancho I expect to die: yet for all that, if, fairly and 
 squarely, without much care or much risk, Heaven should chance 
 to throw an island, or some such thing, in my way, I am not such 
 a fool neither as to refuse it: for, as the saying is, ‘When they 
 give you a heifer, be ready with the rope,’ and ‘ When good fortune 
 knocks, make haste to let her in.’” 
 
 * “Santiago y cierra Espana,” is the cry of the Spaniards at the onset in battle, 
 
808 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ‘‘Brother Sancho,” quoth the bachelor, ‘‘ you have spoken like 
 any professor; nevertheless, trust in Heaven, and Signor Don 
 Quixote, and then you may get not only an island, but even a 
 kingdom.” ‘‘One as likely as the other,” answered Sancho; 
 “‘though I could tell Signor Carrasco that my master will not 
 throw the kingdom he gives me into a rotten sack; for I have felt 
 my pulse, and find myself strong enough to rule kingdoms and 
 govern islands, and so much I have signified, before now, to my 
 master.” ‘‘T'ake heed, Sancho,” quoth the bachelor, ‘‘ for honours 
 change manners; and it may come to pass when you are a gover- 
 nor, that you may not know even your own mother.” ‘‘ That,” 
 answered Sancho, ‘‘may be the case with those that are born among 
 the mallows; but not with one whose soul, like mine, is covered 
 four inches thick with the grace of an old Christian ;—no, no, I am 
 not one of the ungrateful sort.” ‘‘ Heaven grant it,” said Don 
 Quixote; ‘‘ but we shall see when the government comes: and me- 
 thinks I have it already in my eye.” 
 
 The knight now requested Sampson Carrasco, if he were a poet, 
 to do him the favour to compose some verses for him, as a farewell 
 to his lady, and to place a letter of her name at the beginning of 
 each verse, so that the initials joined together might make Dulcinea 
 del Toboso. ‘The bachelor said, that though he was not one of the 
 great poets of Spain, who were said to be three-and-a-half in nume 
 ber, he would endeavour to comply with his request; at the same 
 time, he foresaw that it would be no easy task, as the name con- 
 sisted of seventeen letters; for if he made four stanzas of four 
 verses each, there would be a letter too much, and if he made them 
 of five, which are called Decimas or Redondillas, there would be 
 three letters wanting: however, he said that he would endeavour 
 to sink a letter as well as he could, so that the name of Dulcinea 
 del Toboso should be included in the four stanzas. ‘‘ Let it be so 
 by all means,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘for, when the name is not plain 
 and manifest, the lady is always doubtful whether the verses be 
 really composed for her.” On this point they agreed, and also that 
 they should set out within eight days from that time. Don Quix- 
 ote enjoined the bachelor to keep his intention secret, especially 
 from the priest and master Nicholas, as well as his niece and house- 
 keeper, lest they might endeavour to obstruct his honourable pur- 
 pose. Carrasco promised to attend to his caution, and took his 
 leave, after obtaining a promise on his part to send him tidings of 
 his progress whenever an opportunity offered. Sancho also went 
 home to prepare for the intended expedition. 
 
 
 
 CALAP TH Realy. 
 
 Of the discreet and pleasant conversation which passed between Sancho 
 Panza and his wife Teresa. 
 
 Entering on the present chapter, the translator of this history 
 says that he takes it to be apocryphal, because Sancho therein ex- 
 
SANCHO PANZA’S HIGH SPIRITS. 809 
 
 presses himself in a style very different from what might be expected 
 from his shallow understanding, and speaks with an acuteness that 
 seems wholly above his capacity; nevertheless he would not omit 
 the translation of it, in compliance with the duty of his office, and 
 therefore proceeded as follows :— 
 
 Sancho went home in such high spirits that his wife observed his 
 gaiety a bow-shot off, insomuch that she could not help saying, 
 ‘“What makes you look so blithe, friend Sancho?” To which he an- 
 swered, ‘‘ Would to Heaven, dear wife, I were not so well pleased 
 as I seem tobe!” ‘‘I know not what you mean, husband,” replied 
 she, ‘‘ by saying you wish you were not so much pleased ; now, silly 
 as [ am, I cannot guess how any one can desire not to be pleased.” 
 ‘Look you, Teresa,” answered Sancho, ‘‘I am thus merry be- 
 cause I am about to return to the service of my master Don Quixote, 
 who is going again in search after adventures, and I am to accom- 
 pony him ; for so my fate wills it. Besides, I am merry with the 
 
 opes of finding another hundred crowns like those we have spent ; 
 though it grieves me to part from you and my children; and if 
 Heaven would be pleased to give me bread, dryshod and at home, 
 without dragging me over crags and cross-paths, it is plain that my 
 joy would be better grounded, since it is now mingled with sorrow 
 for leaving you; so that I was right in saying that I should be glad 
 if it pleased Heaven [ were not so well pleased.” ‘* Look you, 
 Sancho,” replied Teresa, ‘‘ ever since you have beena knight-errant 
 man, you talk in such a roundabout manner that nobody can under- 
 stand you.” ‘‘ It is enough, wife,” said Sancho, ‘‘that God under- 
 stands me. For He is the understander of all things; and so much 
 for that. And do you hear, wife, it behoves you to take special care 
 of Dapple for these three or four days to come, that he may be ina 
 condition to bear arms; so double his allowance, and get the pack- 
 saddle in order, and the rest of his tackling, for we are not going to 
 a wedding, but to roam about the world, and to give and take with 
 giants, fiery dragons, and goblins, and to hear hissings, roarings, 
 bellowings, and bleatings, all which would be but flowers of laven- 
 der, if we had not to do with Yangueses and enchanted Moors.” 
 ‘*T believe, indeed, husband,” replied Teresa, ‘‘that your squires- 
 errant do not eat their bread for nothing, and therefore I shall not 
 fail to beseech Heaven to deliver you speedily from so much evil 
 hap.” ‘<I tell you, wife,” answered Sancho, ‘‘that did I not ex- 
 pect, ere long, to see myself governor of an island, I vow I should 
 drop down dead upon the spot.” ‘‘ Not so, good husband,” quoth 
 Teresa ; ‘‘ let the hen live, thoughit be withthe pip. Do youlive, 
 and what care I for all the governments in the world. Without a 
 government you came into the world, without a government you 
 have lived till now, and without it you can be carried to your grave, 
 whenever it shall please God. How many folks are there in the 
 world that have no government? and yet they live, and are reckoned 
 among the people. The best sauce in the world is hunger, and as 
 that is never wanting to the poor, they always eat with a relish. 
 But if perchance, Sancho, you should get a government, do not for- 
 get me and your children. Consider that your son Sancho is just 
 
810 — ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 fifteen years old, and it is fit he should go to school, if his uncle the 
 abbot means to breed him upto the church. Consider, also, that Mary 
 Sancha, your daughter, will not break her heart if we marry her ; 
 for I am mistaken if she has not as much mind to a husband as you 
 have to a government; and verily, say I, better a daughter but 
 humbly married than highly kept.” ‘‘In good faith, dear wife,” 
 said Sancho, ‘‘if Heaven be so good to me that I get anything like 
 a government, I will match Mary Sancha so highly that there will 
 be no coming near her without calling her your ladyship.” ‘Not 
 so, Sancho,” answered Teresa; ‘‘ the best way is to marry her to her 
 equal; for if you lift her from clouted shoes to high heels, and, in- 
 stead of her russet coat of fourteenpenny stuff, give her a farth- 
 ingale and petticoats of silk; and instead of plain Molly and thou, 
 she be called madam and your ladyship, the girl will not know 
 where she is, and will fall into a thousand mistakes at every step, 
 showing her home-spun country stuff.” ‘‘ Peace, fool,” quoth San- 
 cho, ‘‘ she has only to practice two or three years, and the gravity 
 will set upon her as if it were made for her; and if not, what mat- 
 ters it? Let her be a lady, and come of it what will.” ‘‘ Measure 
 yourself by your condition, Sancho,” answered Teresa; ‘‘and do 
 not seek to raise yourself higher, but remember the proverb, ‘ Wipe 
 your neighbour’s son’s nose, and take him into your house.’ It 
 would be a pretty business, truly, to marry our Mary to some great 
 count or knight, who, when the fancy takes him, would look upon 
 her as some strange thing, and be calling her country-wench, clod- 
 breaker’s brat, and I know not what else. No, not while [ live, 
 husband ; I have not brought up my child to be so used; do you 
 provide money, Sancho, and leave the matching of her to my care: 
 for there is Lope Tocho, John Tocho’s son, a lusty, hale young man, 
 whom we know, and I am sure he has a sneaking kindness for the 
 girl; to him she will be very well married, considering he is our 
 equal, and will be always under our eye; and we shall be all as one, 
 parents and children, grandsons and sons-in-law, and so the peace 
 and blessing of Heaven will be among us all; and do not you be for 
 marrying her at your courts and great palaces, where they will 
 neither understand her, nor she understand herself.” ‘‘ Hark you, 
 beast, and wife for Barabbas,” replied Sancho, ‘‘ why would you 
 now, without rhyme or reason, hinder me from marrying my daugh- 
 ter with one who may bring me grandchildren that may be styled 
 your lordships?—Look you, Teresa, I have always heard my bet- 
 ters say, ‘He that will not when he may, when he will he shall 
 have nay ;’ and it would be wrong, now that fortune is knocking at 
 our door, not to open it and bid her welcome. ‘ Let us spread our 
 sail to the favourable gale, now that it blows.’”—It was this lan- 
 guage from Sancho, and more of the same kind which followed, 
 that made the translator suspect the present chapter to be apo- 
 eryphal. 
 
 ‘*Do you not think, animal,” continued Sancho, “that it would 
 be well for me to get hold of some good rich government that may 
 lift us out of the dirt, so that I may wed Mary Sancha to any ove 
 I please? You will then see how people will call you Donna Ter sa 
 
THE DOMESTIC DIFFICULTY. 811 
 
 Panza, and you will sit in the church with velvet cushions, carpets, 
 and tapestries, in spite of the best gentlewomen of the parish. No, 
 no, stay as you are, and be always the same thing, like a figure in 
 the hangings, without being ever higher or lower. But no more of 
 this, little Sancha shall be a countess in spite of your teeth.” 
 **Take care what you say, husband,” answered Teresa; ‘‘ for J am 
 afraid this countess-ship will be my daughter’s undoing. But you 
 must do as you please—make her a duchess or a princess; but it 
 shall never be with my consent. I always like to see things suited, 
 like to like, and cannot abide to see folks take upon them when they 
 should not. Plain Teresa was I christened, and my name was never 
 made to be dizened either with Donsor Donnas. My father’s name 
 was Cascajo, and I, being your wife, am called Teresa Panza, though 
 indeed, by good right, I should be called Teresa Cascajo; but the 
 laws follow the prince’s will. Iam content with that name as it 
 is, without being burthened with Donna, to make it so heavy that 
 I should not be able to carry it; and I would not have people ery 
 out, when they see me decked out like any countess or governess, 
 ‘Look how stately madam hog-feeder struts it! Yesterday she 
 toiled at her distaff from morning to night, and went to mass with 
 the tail of her petticoat over her head, for lack of a veil; and to-day, 
 forsooth, she goes with her farthingale, her embroideries, and all so 
 lofty as if we did not know her!’ Heaven keep mein my seven, or 
 my five senses, or as many as I have; for I have no mind to expose 
 myself after this manner. Go you, husband, to your governing and 
 islanding, and puff yourself up as you please; as for my girl and me, 
 by the hfe of my father, we will neither of us stir a step from our 
 own town ; for the proverb says, 
 
 ‘The wite that expects to have a good name 
 Is always at home, as if she were lame; 
 And the maid that is honest, her chiefest delight 
 Is still to be doing from morning to night.’ 
 
 Go you, with your Don Quixote, to your adventures, and leave us 
 to our ill fortunes; God will better them for us, if we deserve it; 
 though truly I cannot guess who made him a Don, for neither his 
 father nor his grandfather had any such title.” ‘‘ Out of all ques- 
 tion,” quoth Sancho, ‘some evil spirit must have got into that 
 body of thine? Heaven bless thee, woman! what a heap of stuff 
 hast thou been twisting together, without either head or tail! What 
 has Cascajo, embroideries, or the proverbs, to do with what I am say- 
 ing? Why, thou foolish, ignorant prater (for so I may well call 
 thee, since thou canst neither understand what I say, nor see what 
 is for thy own good), had I told thee that our daughter was to throw 
 herself headlong from some high steeple, or go gipseying about the 
 world as did the Infanta Donna Urraca, thou wouldst have been 
 right in not coming into my mind ; but if, in two turns of a hand, and 
 less than the twinkling of an eye, I can equip her with a Don and 
 Your Ladyship, and raise thee from the straw to sit under a canopy 
 of state, and upon a sofa with more velvet cushions than all the 
 
$12, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Almohadas* of Morocco had Moors in their lineage, why wilt thou 
 not consent, and desire what I desire?” ‘‘ Would you know why, 
 husband?” answered Teresa. ‘‘Itis because of the proverb, which 
 says, ‘He that covers thee discovers thee.’ The poor man is scarcely 
 looked at, while every eye is turned upon the rich; and if the poor 
 ‘man grows rich and great, then I warrant you there is work enough 
 for your grumblers and backbiters, who swarm everywhere like 
 bees.” 
 
 ‘‘Hearken to me, Teresa,” answered Sancho, ‘‘and listen to 
 what Iam going to say; mayhap thou hast never heard it before 
 in all thy life: and I do not speak now of my own head, but from 
 the speeches of that good father the preacher, who held forth to us 
 last Lent in this village, who, if I remember right, said that the 
 things which are present before our eyes take a stronger hold on 
 our minds than things past.” 
 
 All this parade of reasoning, so out of character in Sancho, 
 tended to confirm the opinion of the translator that this chapter 
 could not possibly be genuine. ‘‘ That being the case,” continued 
 Sancho, ‘‘ when we see any person finely dressed, and set off with 
 rich apparel, and with a train of servants, we are moved to show 
 him respect; for, though we cannot but remember certain scurvy 
 matters, either of poverty or parentage, that formerly belonged to 
 him, but which, being long gone by are almost forgotten, we only 
 think of what we see before our eyes. And if, as the preacher 
 said, the person so raised by good luck, from nothing, as it were, 
 to the tip-top of prosperity, be well-behaved, generous, and civil, 
 and gives himself no ridiculous airs, pretending to vie with the old 
 nobility, take my word for it, Teresa, nobody will twit him with 
 what he was, but will respect him for what he is: except, indeed, 
 the envious, who hate every man’s good luck.” ‘I don’t under- 
 stand you, husband,” replied Teresa; ‘‘do what you think fit, and 
 do not crack my brains any more with your speeches and flourishes ; 
 but if you are revolved to do as you say”—‘“‘ Resolved, you should 
 say, wife,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘and not revolved.” ‘‘ Do not trouble 
 yourself to mend my words,” answered Teresa; ‘‘I speak as it 
 piss God, and meddle not with your fine notions. I say if you 
 
 old still in the same mind of being a governor, take-your son 
 Sancho with you, and train him up to your calling, for it is fit that 
 sons should learn their father’s trade.” ‘‘ When I have a govern- 
 ment,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ I will send for him by the post; and also 
 money to you, which I shall have in abundance, for people are 
 always ready enough to lend their money to governors; and mind 
 you clothe the boy so that he may look, not like what he is, but 
 what he will be.” ‘‘Send you the money,” quoth Teresa, ‘‘and I 
 will make him as fine as a palm branch.” ‘‘ We are agreed, then,” 
 
 uoth Sancho, ‘‘that our daughter is to be a countess?” ‘‘ The 
 
 ay that I see her a countess,” answered Teresa, ‘‘ I shall reckon I 
 am laying her in her grave: but I say again, you must do as you 
 please, for to this burden women are born—they must obey their 
 
 ) 
 
 * A play on the word Almohada, which signifies a cushion, and is also the name 
 of a famous tribe of Arabs in Africa. 
 
THE KNIGHT, HIS NIECE, AND HOUSEKEEPER. 313 
 
 husbands if they are ever such blockheads ;” and then she began to 
 weep as bitterly as if she already saw little Sancha dead and 
 buried. Sancho comforted her, and promised, that though he must 
 make her a countess, he would put it offas long as possible. Thus 
 ended their dialogue, and Sancho went to pay his master another 
 visit, in order to confer on the subject of their departure. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Of what passed between Don Quixote, his niece, and housekeeper, 
 which ts one of the most important chapters in the whole history. 
 
 The niece and housekeeper of Don Quixote, during the conver- 
 sation of Sancho Panza and his wife Teresa Cascajo, were not idle; 
 for they were led to suspect, from a thousand symptoms, that he 
 was inclined to break loose a third time, and return to the exercise 
 of his unlucky knight-errantry ; and therefore endeavoured, by all 
 possible means, to divert him from his unhappy purpose; but it 
 was all preaching in the desert, and hammering on cold iron. 
 Among the many dialogues which passed between them on the sub- 
 ject, the housekeeper said to him, ‘‘ Indeed, sir, if you will not 
 tarry quietly at home, and leave off rambling over hills and dales, 
 like a troubled spirit, in quest of those same adventures, which 
 I call misadventures, { am fully resolved to pray to Heaven and 
 the king to put a stop to it.” To which Don Quixote replied, 
 ‘* Mistress housekeeper, what answer Heaven will return to your 
 complaints [ know not, any more than what his majesty will give 
 you; I only know, that if [ were king, I would excuse myself an- 
 swering the infinite number of impertinent memorials which are 
 daily presented to him. Indeed, one of the greatest fatigues to 
 which monarchs are subject is the hearing and answering of 
 every person who chooses to address them; and therefore I should 
 be sorry if he were troubled with my concerns.” ‘‘ Pray, sir,” 
 said the housekeeper, ‘‘are there no knights in his majesty’s 
 court?” ‘* Yes, many,” replied Don Quixote; ‘‘and highly neces- 
 sary they are to keep up the state and dignity of princes.” ‘‘ Would 
 it not, then, be better,” replied she, ‘‘that your worship should 
 be one of them, so that you might quietly serve your king and lord 
 at court?” ‘‘Look you, friend,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘all 
 knights cannot be courtiers, neither can, nor ought, all courtiers 
 to be knights-errant. There must be some of every station in the 
 world, and though we are all knights, there is a great difference 
 between us; for the courtier-knight traverses the globe only on a 
 map, without expense or fatigue, suffering neither heat nor cold, 
 hunger nor thirst; whereas the true knight-errant, exposed to all 
 the vicissitudes of the atmosphere, by night and by day, on foot and 
 on horseback, explores every quarter of the habitable world. Nor 
 
. 
 
 314 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 do we know our enemies in picture only, but in their proper per- 
 sons, and attack them upon every occasion, without standing upon 
 trifles, or upon the laws of duelling, such as, whether our adversary 
 bears a shorter or longer lance or sword—whether he is protected 
 by holy relics, or wears any secret coat of mail, or whether the sun 
 be duly divided or not ; with other ceremonies of the same stamp, 
 used in single combats between man and man, which thou dost not 
 understand, but Ido. Andthou must know, further, that the true 
 knight-errant, though he should espy ten giants, whose heads not 
 only touch, but overtop, the clouds, and though each of them stalk 
 on two prodigious towers instead of legs, and hath arms like the 
 mainmast of huge and mighty ships of war, and each eye like a 
 great mill-wheel, and glowing like a fiery furnace; yet must he 
 in no wise be affrighted, but, on the contrary, with gentle demean- 
 our, and an undaunted heart, encounter, assail, and, if possible, in 
 an instant vanquish and rout them, although they should come de- 
 fended by the impenetrable coat of a certain shell-fish, harder than 
 diamond; and, instead of swords, armed with dreadful sabres of 
 Damascus steel, or, as I have seen more than once, huge maces 
 
 ointed with the same metal. All this I have said, mistress 
 Aiueekeepeny that thou mayest understand the difference between 
 one species of knight and another ; and it were to be wished that 
 all princes could duly appreciate this last, or rather first order—I 
 mean the knights-errant, who were, in times past, the bulwark 
 not only of one, but of many kingdoms.” 
 
 ‘Ah, dear uncle!” said the niece, ‘* be assured all the stories 
 you tell us of knights-errant are fables and lies; and their his- 
 tories deserve to be burnt, or at least to be marked by a San- 
 benito,* or some badge, that their wickedness may be known.” 
 “Now,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘were you not my own sister’s daughter, 
 I would make such an example of you, for the blasphemy you have 
 uttered, that the whole world should resound with it. What! a 
 young baggage who scarcely knows how to manage a dozen of bob- 
 bins, presume to raise her voice in censure of the histories of 
 knights-errant! What would Sir Amadis have said to this ?— 
 though he, indeed, I believe, would have pardoned thee; for he 
 was the most humble and most courteous knight of his time, and, 
 moreover, a great protector of damsels. But thy profanity might 
 have reached the ears of others, from whose indignation thou 
 wouldst not have escaped so easily; for all are not equally gentle 
 and courteous. Neither are all those who call themselves knights 
 really so: for some are not sterling gold, but base, counterfeit stuff, 
 which, though deceiving the sight, cannot stand the test of truth. 
 There are low fellows, who strain and swell even to bursting, to 
 appear great; and others you will see, of exalted rank, who seem 
 desirous only of emulating the base. While the one class rises by 
 ambition or virtue, the other sinks by meanness or vice; yet it is 
 often difficult to distinguish between these varieties, so alike in 
 name, and so ditferent in their actions.” ‘‘ Bless me, uncle!” 
 
 *A coat of black canvas painted over with flames and devils. It is worn by 
 heretics, when going to be burnt by order of the Inquisition, 
 
# 
 HIS DISCOURSE ON LINEAGES. 815 
 
 quoth the niece, ‘‘that you should be so knowing, that, if need 
 were, you might mount a pulpit and hold forth in the streets, and 
 yet so infatuated as to imagine yourself valiant at your time of 
 life, and strong, when, alas! you are so infirm; and pretend to 
 make crooked things straight, though bent yourself under the weight 
 of years: and, above all, set up for a knight, when you are no such 
 thing !—some gentry may indeed pretend to that honour, but those 
 who are poor must not look so high.” 
 
 ‘‘Thou art right, niece,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘and I could 
 tell thee such things concerning lineages as would surprise thee: 
 but, not choosing to mix sacred with profane subjects, I forbear. 
 You must know, my friends, that all the genealogies in the world 
 may be reduced to four kinds. The first are those families who 
 from a low beginning have raised and extended themselves until 
 they have reached the highest pinnacle of human greatness; the 
 second are those of high extraction, who have preserved their 
 original dignity ; the third sort are those who from a great founda- 
 tion have gradually dwindled, until, like a pyramid, they ter- 
 minate ina small point. The last, which are the most numerous 
 class, are those who have begun and continued low, and who must 
 end the same: such are the great mass of the people. Of the 
 first kind we have an example in the Ottoman family (whose 
 founder, from the lowly rank of a shepherd), has attained its present 
 height. Of the second order, examples may be adduced from 
 sundry hereditary princes, who peaceably govern within the limits 
 of their own dominions without seeking to enlarge or contract them. 
 Of those who began great, and have ended in a point, there are 
 thousands of instances; for all the Pharaohs and Ptolemies of 
 Egypt, the Ceesars of Rome, with all that infinite herd (if I may so 
 call them) of princes, monarchs, and lords, the Medes, Assyrians, 
 Greeks, Persians, and Barbarians—I say, all these familes and 
 states, as well as their founders, have ended in a point—that is, in 
 nothing ; for it is impossible now to find any of their descendants, 
 and, if they were in existence, it would be in some low and abject 
 station. Of the lower race I have nothing to say, only that they 
 serve to swell the number of the living, without deserving any 
 other fame or eulogy. From all that I have said, you must clearly 
 see, my good simpletons, that genealogies are involved in endless 
 confusion, and that those only are illustrious and great who are 
 distinguished by their virtue and liberality, as well as their riches : 
 for the great man who is vicious, is only a great sinner; and the 
 rich man who wants liberality is but a miserly pauper. The grati- 
 fication which wealth can bestow is not in mere possession, nor in 
 lavishing it with prodigality, but in the wise application of it. The 
 poor knight can only manifest his rank by his virtues and general 
 conduct. He must be well-bred, courteous, kind, and obliging; 
 not proud, nor arrogant, no murmurer: above all, he must be 
 charitable, and by two maravedis given cheerfully to the poor, he 
 shall display as much generosity as the rich man who bestows large 
 alms by sound of bell. Of such a man no one would doubt his hon- 
 ourable descent, and general applause will be the sure reward of his. 
 
« 
 
 816 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. ‘ 
 virtue. There are two roads, my daughters, by which men may 
 attain riches and honour; the one by letters, the other by arms. 
 I have more in me of the soldier than of the scholar; and it is 
 evident, from my propensity to arms, that | was born under the 
 influence of the planet Mars; so that I am, as it were, forced into 
 that track, and must follow it in spite of the whole world. Your 
 endeavours, therefore, will be fruitless, in dissuading me from that 
 which Heaven wills, fate ordains, reason demands, and, above all, 
 that to which my inclinations irresistibly impel me. Well I know 
 the innumerable toils of knight-errantry ; but I know also its hon- 
 our and reward. The path of virtue is narrow, while that of vice is 
 easy and broad; and equally different are the points to which they 
 lead ; the one to life eternal, the other to ignominy and death. I 
 know, as our great Castilian poet expresses 1t, that— 
 
 Through these rough paths, to gain a glorious name, 
 We climb the steep ascent that leads to fame ;, 
 
 They miss the road who quit the rugged way, 
 
 And in the smoother tracks of pleasure stray.’” 
 
 ‘¢ Ah, woe is me!” quoth the niece; ‘‘my uncle a poet too! He 
 knows everything ; nothing comes amiss to him! I[ will lay a wager, 
 that if he had a mind to turn mason, he could build a house with 
 as much ease as a bird-cage!” ‘‘I assure thee, niece,” answered 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘ that were not my whole soul engrossed by the ardu- 
 ous duties of chivalry, I would engage to do anything :—there is not 
 a curious art which I would not acquire, especially that of making 
 bird-cages and tooth-picks.” 
 
 A knocking at the door was now heard, and finding, upon in- 
 quiry, that it was Sancho Panza, the housekeeper, to avoid the sight 
 of him whom she abhorred, ran to hide herself, while the niece let 
 him in. His master, Don Quixote, received him with open arms, 
 and, being closeted together, a conversation ensued, not inferior to 
 the former. 
 
 CoH Arp LE a 74eV Jd. 
 
 Of what passed between Don Quixote and his squire, with other 
 remarkable occurrences. 
 
 As soon as the housekeeper saw that Sancho and her master were 
 shut up together, she suspected the drift of their conference; and 
 doubting not but that another unfortunate expedition would be 
 the result, she put on her veil and set off, full of trouble and 
 anxiety, to seek the bachelor Sampson Carrasco: thinking that, 
 as he was a well-spoken person, and a new acquaintance of her 
 master, he might be able to dissuade him from so extravagant a 
 
 roject. She found him walking to and fro in the courtyard of his 
 
 ouse, and she immediately fell down on her knees before him. 
 
THE INTERVIEW WITH HIS SQUIRE. 817 
 
 The bachelor, seeing her in this situation, and that she was appa- 
 rently suffering under some heavy affliction, said to her, ‘‘ What 
 is the matter, mistress housekeeper? What has befallen you, that 
 you seem ready to give up the ghost?” ‘‘ Nothing at all, dear 
 sir,’ quoth she, ‘‘ only that my master is most certainly breaking 
 forth.” ‘‘How breaking forth, mistress?” demanded Sampson ; 
 **has he burst in any part of his body?” ‘*‘ No, but he is break- 
 ing forth into his old madness, signor bachelor,” she replied; ‘‘ he 
 is surely in the mind to be strolling again about the wide world 
 for the third time, in search of adventures, as he calls them. The 
 first time, he was brought home to us laid athwart an ass, all bat- 
 tered and bruised. ‘The second time, he returned in an ox-waggon, 
 locked up in a cage, and so changed, poor soul, that his own 
 mother would not have known him; so feeble, wan, and withered, 
 and his eyes sunk into the farthest corner of his brains, insomuch 
 that 1t took me above six hundred eggs to get him a little up 
 again, as Heaven and the world is my witness, and my hens, that 
 will not let me lie.” ‘‘I can easily believe that,” answered the 
 bachelor; ‘‘for your hens are too well bred and fed to say one 
 thing and mean another. ‘Then these apprehensions for your mas- 
 ter are the whole and sole cause of your trouble, are they, mistress 
 housekeeper?” ‘‘ Yes, sir,” answered she. ‘‘ Bein no pain, then,” 
 replied the bachelor, ‘‘ but go home, and get me something warm 
 for breakfast, and on your way repeat the prayer of St Apollonia, 
 if you knowit; I will be with you instantly, and you shall 
 see wonders.” ‘‘Bless me!” replied the housekeeper, ‘‘ the prayer 
 of St Apollonia, say you? that might do something if my master’s 
 distemper laid in his gums; but alas! it is all in his brain.” ‘TIT 
 know what I say mistress housekeeper,” replied Sampson ; ‘‘ get 
 you home, and do not stand disputing with me; for you know I 
 am a Salamancan bachelor of arts, and there is no bachelorising 
 beyond that.” Then away went the housekeeper home, while the 
 bachelor repaired to the priest, with whom he held a consultation, 
 the issue of which will come out in due time. 
 
 During the interview between Don Quixote and Sancho, some 
 conversation took place, which the history relates at large with 
 great accuracy and truth. ‘‘I have now, sir,” quoth Sancho to his 
 master, ‘‘reluced my wife to consent that I should go with your 
 worship wherever you please to carry me.” ‘‘ Reduced thou 
 shouldst say, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, and not ‘reluced.’” 
 **Once or twice already,” answered Saneho, ‘‘I have besought your 
 worship not to mind my words, when you know my meaning; and 
 when you do not, say, Sancho, I understand thee not; and then if 
 _I do not explain myself, you may correct me, for I am so focile.” 
 ‘*T do not understand thee now, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘ for 
 I know not the meaning of ‘focile.’” ‘‘So focile,” answered 
 Sancho, ‘‘means, 1 am so much so.” ‘‘I understand thee still less 
 now,” replied Don Quixote. ‘‘Why, if you do not understand 
 me,” answered Sancho, ‘‘I cannot help it; I know no more, so 
 Heaven help me!” ‘‘O! nowI have it,” answered Don Quixote, 
 “‘thou wilt say that thou art so docile, so pliant, and so tractable, that 
 
818 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 thou wilt readily comprehend whatever I say, and will learn what- 
 ever I shall teach thee.” ‘I will lay a wager,” quoth Sancho, 
 ‘‘vou took me from the first, only you had a mind to puzzle me, 
 that you might hear some more of my blunders.” ‘‘ Perhaps thou 
 mayest be right there,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘ but tell me, 
 what says Teresa?” ‘‘Teresa,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘says that fast 
 bind, fast find, and that we must have less talking, and more 
 doing : for he who shuffles is not he who cuts, and, ‘a bird in the 
 hand is worth two in the bush;’ and I say, though there is but 
 little in woman’s advice, yet he that won’t take it is not over wise.” 
 ‘**T say so too,” replied Don Quixote; ‘‘ proceed, Sancho, for thou 
 talkest admirably to-day.” ‘‘The case is this,” replied Sancho, 
 ‘*that, as your worship very well knows, we are all mortal—here 
 to-day, and gone to-morrow; that the lamb goes to the spit as 
 soon as the sheep; and that nobody can promise himself longer life 
 than God pleases; for when death knocks at the door, he turns a 
 deaf ear to all excuses—nothing can stay him, neither force, nor 
 entreaties, nor sceptres, nor mitres: for so it is said both in the 
 street and in the pulpit.” ‘‘ All this is true,” said Don Quixote, 
 ‘‘put I do not perceive what wouldst thou be at.” ‘* What I 
 would be at,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘is that your worship would be 
 pleased to allow me wages—so much a month, as long as I shall 
 serve you, and that in case of need, the same may be paid out of 
 your estate; for.I have no mind to trust to rewards, which may 
 come late or never; Heaven help me with my own, which I would 
 be glad to know, be it little or much: for the hen sits, if it be but 
 upon one egg; and many littles make a mickle, and while some- 
 thing is getting, nothing is losing. In good truth, should it fall 
 out that your worship should give me that same island you have 
 promised me (but which I am afraid will never come), I would not 
 wish to make a hard bargain, but I am willing that my wages 
 - should be deducted from the rent of such island fairly, cantity for 
 cantity.” ‘‘Isnot ‘quantity’ as good as ‘ cantity,’ friend Sancho?” 
 answered Don Quixote. ‘‘I understand you,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘TI 
 suppose now, I should have said ‘ quantity,’ and not ‘ cantity,’ but 
 that signifies nothing, since your worship knew my meaning.” 
 ‘‘Yes, and to the very bottom of it,” returned Don Quixote. ‘‘I 
 plainly see the mark at which thou art levelling thy proverbs; but 
 hear me, Sanche, I should have no objection to appoint thee wages 
 had Iever met with any exampleamong the histories of knights-errant 
 that showed the least glimmering of any such monthly or yearly 
 stipend. I have read all, or most of those histories, and do not re- 
 member eyer to have read that any knight-errant allowed his squire 
 fixed wages; on the contrary, they all served upon courtesy : and 
 when least expecting it, if their masters were fortunate, they were 
 rewarded with an island, or something equal to it; at all events, 
 they were certain of title and rank. If, Sancho, upon the strength 
 of these expectations, thou art willing to return to my service, in 
 Heaven’s name do so; but thou art mistaken if thou hast any hope 
 that I shall act in opposition to the ancient usages of chivalry. 
 Return home, therefore, Sancho, and inform thy wife of my dete” 
 
_ THE NEW SQUIRE. $19 
 
 mination; and if she is willing, and thou art disposed to stay with 
 me upon the terms I mentioned—bene quidem; if not, we will at 
 least part friends: for if the dovehouse wants not bait, it will never 
 want pigeons; and take notice, son, that a good reversion is better 
 than a bad possession, and a good claim better than bad pay. I 
 talk thus, Sancho, to show thee that I also can discharge a volley 
 of proverbs. But, to be plain with thee, if thou art not disposed 
 to accompany me upon courtesy, and follow my fortunes, the 
 Lord have thee in His keeping, and make thee a saint; for I shall 
 never want squires more obedient, more diligent, and at the same 
 time less talkative and selfish than thou art.” 
 
 On hearing this fixed resolution, the hopes of Sancho were over- 
 clouded, and his heart sunk within him: for hitherto he had 
 never supposed it possible that his master would go without him 
 for the world’s worth; and as he was standing thoughtful and de- 
 jected, Sampson Carrasco entered the chamber, followed by the 
 niece and housekeeper, who were curious to hear what arguments he 
 would use to dissuade the knight from his threatened expedition. 
 The waggish bachelor approached him with great respect, and after 
 embracing him, said, in an elevated tone, ‘‘O flower of knight- 
 errantry! O resplendent light of arms! Omirror and glory of the 
 Spanish nation! May it please Heaven that all those who shall 
 seek to prevent or impede your third sally be lost in the labyrinth 
 of their own wiles, nor ever accomplish their evil desire!” Then 
 turning to the housekeeper, he said, ‘‘ Now mistress housekeeper, 
 you may save yourself the trouble of saying the prayer of 
 St Apollonia; for I know that it is the positive determination of 
 the stars that Signor Don Quixote shall resume his glorious career, 
 and I should greatly burthen my conscience did I not give intima-- 
 tion thereof, and persuade this knight no longer to restrain the 
 force of his valorous arm, nor check the virtuous ardour of his soul, 
 since, by delay he defrauds the injured world of redress, orphans of 
 protection, damsels of deliverance, widows of relief, and matrons of 
 support, with other matters of this nature, dependent on knight- 
 errantry. Go on then, dear Signor Don Quixote, my brave and 
 gallant knight! Lose no time, but set forward rather to-day than 
 to-morrow ; and if anything be wanting to hasten the execution of 
 your design, here am I, ready to assist you with my life and 
 fortune; if your excellency stand in need of asquire, I shall esteem 
 myself singularly fortunate in having the honour to serve you in 
 that capacity.” ‘‘ Did I not tell thee,” said Don Quixote, turning 
 to Sancho, ‘‘that I should be in no want of squires? Behold who 
 now offers himself! The renowned bachelor Sampson Carrasco, the 
 darling and delight of the Salamancan schools! sound and active of 
 body, patient of heat and cold, of hunger and thirst, no prater—in 
 short, possessing all the qualifications requisite in the squire of a 
 knight-errant? But Heaven forbid, that to gratify my own 
 private inclination, I should endanger this pillar of literature, this 
 urn of genius, and lop off so flourishing a branch of the noble and 
 liberal arts. No, let our new Sampson abide in his country, and 
 do honour to the grey hairs of his venerable parents, by becoming 
 
820 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 its ornament. I will be content without a squire, since Sancho 
 deigns not to accompany me.” ‘‘I do deign,” said Sancho, with 
 eyes swimming in tears; ‘‘it shall never be said of me, dear 
 master, ‘the bread eaten, the company broke up.’ JI am not come 
 of an ungrateful stock; for all the world knows, especially our 
 village, who the Panzas were, that have gone before me. Besides, 
 I know, by many good works and better words, your worship’s 
 inclination to do me akindness ; and if I have said too much upon 
 the article of wages, it was to please my wife, who, when once she 
 sets about persuading one to a thing, no mallet drives the hoops of a 
 tub as she does to get her will; but a man must be a man, and a 
 woman a woman; and since I am a man elsewhere, I will also be 
 one in my own house, in spite of anybody, so your worship has 
 nothing to do but to look after your will and its codicil, in such 
 manner as it cannot be rebuked; and let us set out immediately, 
 that the soul of Signor Sampson may be at rest, as he is obliged in 
 conscience, he says, to persuade your worship to make a third 
 sally ; and I again offer myself to serve your worship faithfully and 
 loyally, as well and better than all the squires that ever served 
 knight-errant in past or present times.” 
 
 The bachelor listened in admiration to Sancho, for though he had 
 read the first part of the history, he had hardly conceived it 
 possible that he should really be so pleasant a fellow as he is 
 therein described ; but now he could believe all that had been said 
 of him—in short, he set down both the master and man as the most 
 extraordinary couple the world had ever yet produced. Don Quixote 
 and Sancho being now perfectly reconciled, they agreed, with the 
 approbation of the great Carrasco, their oracle, to depart within 
 three days, in which time they might have leisure to provide what 
 was necessary for the expedition, and especially a complete helmet, 
 which Don Quixote declared to be indispensable. Sampson 
 engaged to procure one from a friend, who he was sure would not 
 refuse it; though he confessed the brightness of the steel was not 
 a little obscured by tarnish and rust. The niece and housekeeper, 
 on hearing this determination, made a woful outcry, inveighing 
 bitterly against Carrasco, who had been acting agreeably to a plan 
 poy concerted with the priest and barber. They tore their 
 
 air, scratched and disfigured their faces, like the funeral 
 mourners* of former times, and lamented the approaching de- 
 parture of their master as if it were his death. 
 
 Three days were now employed in preparation, at the end of 
 which time, Sancho having appeased his wife, and Don Quixote 
 his niece and housekeeper, they issued forth in the evening, 
 unobserved by any except the bachelor, who insisted on bearing 
 them company half a league from the village. The knight was 
 mounted on his good Rozinante, and the squire on his trusty 
 Dapple, his wallets stored with food, and his purse with money, 
 providentially supplied by his master in case of need. When 
 Sampson took his leave, he expressed an earnest desire to have 
 
 * It was formerly the custom to hire these mourners or bewailers, to lament 
 over the body of the deceased, 
 
THE KNIGHT SETS OUT A THIRD TIME. O21 
 
 advice of his good or ill fortune, that he might rejoice or condole 
 with him, as the laws of friendship required. Don Quixote having 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 promised to comply with this request, the bachelor returned to the 
 village, and the knight and squire pursued their way towards the 
 great city of Toboso. 
 
 <> x 
 
 * 
 
S22, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Whercin is related what befell Don Quixote as he was going to visit 
 his lady Dulcinea dei Toboso. 
 
 ‘* Blessed be the mighty Alla!” exclaims Cid Hamet Benengeli, 
 at the beginning of this eighth chapter, ‘‘ blessed be Alla!” thrice 
 uttering these pious ejaculations, upon seeing Don Quixote and 
 Sancho again take the field; and he adds, that from this point the 
 readers of this delightful history may reckon that the exploits and 
 pleasantries of the knight and his squire will recommence, and he 
 entreats them to fix their attention only on the future achieve- 
 ments of the great adventurer, which now begin upon the road to 
 Toboso, as did the former in the plain of Montiel. Nor, indeed, is 
 this any very unreasonable request, considering what great things 
 he promises. And thus he proceeds. 
 
 Don Quixote and Sancho were now left together, and scarcely 
 had Sampson quitted them when Rozinante began to neigh, and 
 Dapple to bray, which both knight and squire regarded as a good 
 omen. It must be confessed that the snorting and braying of 
 Dapple exceeded the neighings of the steed; whence Sancho 
 gathered that his good luck was to rise above, and exceed that of 
 his master. But whether he drew this inference from any skill in 
 judicial astrology is not known, as the history is silent in that 
 particular ; certainly he had been heard to say, when he happened 
 to fall or stumble, that he wished he had not gone out that day, 
 for nothing was to be got by stumbling or falling but a torn shoe or 
 a broken rib ; wherein, although a simpleton, he was not far out of 
 the way 
 
 ‘‘Friend Sancho,” said Don Quixote to his squire, ‘‘the night 
 comes on apace, and it will be dark before we reach Toboso, 
 whither I am resolved to go before I undertake any other adven- 
 ture. There will I receive the farewell benediction of the peerless 
 Dulcinea, by which I shall secure the happy accomplishment of 
 every perilous enterprise : for nothing in this life inspires a knight- 
 errant with so much valour as the favour of his mistress.” ‘I 
 believe it,” answered Sancho; ‘‘but I am of opinion it will be 
 difficult for your worship to speak with her alone—at least, in any 
 place where you may receive her benediction ; unless she tosses it 
 over the pales of the yard where I saw her last, when I carried her 
 the letter that gave an account of the pranks your worship was 
 eke on the mountain.” ‘‘ Didst thou conceive those to be pales, 
 
 ancho,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘over which thou didst behold that 
 paragon of gentility and beauty? -Impossible! Thou must mean 
 galleries, arcades, or cloisters, of some rich or royal palace.” ‘‘ All 
 that may be,” answered Sancho ; ‘‘ but if I do not forget, to me they 
 seemed pales, or | have a very shallow memory.” ‘‘ However, let 
 us go thither, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ for, so [ but gaze on her, 
 be it through pales, the chinks of a hut, or lattice window, the 
 
THE POWER OF AMBITION. 528 
 
 smallest ray from the bright sun of her beauty will soon enlighten 
 my understanding, and fortify my heart, that I shall remain with- 
 out a rival either in prudence or valour.” ‘‘ In truth, sir,” answered 
 Sancho, ‘‘ when I saw this sun of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, it 
 was not bright enough to cast forth any beams, owing, I take it, to 
 the dust from the grain which, I told you, her ladyship was win- 
 nowing, and which overcast her face like a cloud.” ‘‘ What, 
 Sancho!” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ dost thou persist in saying and be- 
 lieving that my lady Dulcinea was winnowing wheat—an employ- 
 ment so unsuitable to persons of distinction, who are devoted to 
 other exercises and amusements more becoming their elevated 
 station? It seems thou dost not remember, Sancho, our poet’s 
 verses, in which he describes the labours of the four nymphs in their 
 crystal mansions, when they raised their heads above the delightful 
 Tagus, and seated themselves on the verdant mead to work those 
 rich stuffs, which, as described by the ingenious bard, were all em- 
 broidered with gold, silk, and pearls. And thus my lady must have 
 been employed when thou sawest her; but the envy of some wicked 
 enchanter changes and transforms everything that should give me 
 pleasure ; and, therefore, should the author of that history of me 
 which is said to be published, be some enemy of mine, he may, I 
 fear, have been very inaccurate, mingling a thousand lies with a 
 single truth, and digressing into idle tales unworthy of true and 
 genuine history. O envy! thou root of infinite evils, and canker- 
 worm of virtues! ‘There is no other vice, Sancho, which has not 
 some object of pleasure to excuse it; but envy is attended only with 
 nothing but disgust, malice, and rancour.” ‘‘'That is what I say, 
 too,” replied Sancho; ‘‘and I take it for granted, in that same 
 legend or history which the bachelor Carrasco tells us he has seen, 
 my reputation is tossed about like a tennis-ball. Now, as I am an 
 honest man, I never spoke ill of any enchanter, nor have I wealth 
 enough to be envied. It may be true, indeed, what they say, that 
 I am somewhat sly, and a little inclined to roguish tricks ; but then 
 I was always reckoned more simple than knavish. Besides, these 
 same historians ought to spare me a little, if I had nothing else in 
 me but my religion, for I am a true Catholic, and have a mortal 
 hatred to the Jews. But let them say what they will; naked I 
 came, and naked must I go. I neither lose nor win; and so my 
 name be but in print, and go about the world merrily from hand to 
 hand, not a fig shall I care ; they may say of me whatever they list.” 
 
 ‘““You remind me, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ of what hap- 
 pened to a famous poet of our own times, who wrote an abusive 
 satire upon the ladies of the court ; but, not having expressly named 
 a certain female of rank, so that it was doubtful whether she was 
 included in it or not, she took occasion to reproa@h him for the 
 omission, and desired to know what he had seen in hérthat she was 
 to be excluded, and commanded him, at his peril, to enlarge his 
 satire, and introduce her in the supplement. ‘The poet acquiesced, 
 and did not spare her character; but the lady, in order to be fam- 
 ous, was well content to be infamous. The same kind of ambition 
 was that of the shepherd who set fire to the temple @f Diana, ac- 
 
~ 
 
 824 . ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 counted one of the seven wonders of the world, only that his name 
 might live in future ages; and though, in order to defeat his pur- 
 pose, it was commanded by public edict that his name should never 
 be mentioned either in speech or writing, yet it is known to have 
 been Erostatus. A parallel instance is that which payee to the 
 great emperor Charles the Fifth, when he went to look over the 
 famous church of the Rotunda, which, by the ancients, was called 
 the Pantheon, or temple of all the gods, but now by a better name 
 —the church of all saints. It is the only entire edifice remaining of 
 heathen Rome, and one of the most considerable récords of the 
 greatness and magnificence of that city. It is circular in form, 
 spacious, and very light within, though it has but one window, 
 being a circular opening at the top, through which the emperor 
 looked down to view the interior of the structure. He was attended 
 by a Roman knight, who pointed out to him all the beauties of that 
 noble edifice ; and after they had descended from the skylight, the 
 knight said to him, ‘ Sacred sir, a thousand times I felt inclined to 
 clasp your majesty in my arms, and cast myself down with you 
 from the top to the bottom of the church, that my name might be 
 eternal.’ ‘I thank you,’ answered the emperor, ‘for not indulging 
 your ambitious thoughts upon this occasion, and shall take care in 
 future that your loyalty be not exposed to so severe a trial, and 
 therefore command you never to let me see you again.’ He then 
 dismissed him, but not without a princely token of his generosity. 
 This love of fame, Sancho, is a very active principle within us. 
 What, thinkest thou, cast Horatius down from the bridge, armed 
 at all points, into the Tiber? What burnt the arm and hand of 
 Mutius? What impelled Curtius to throw himself into the flaming 
 gulf that opened itself in the midst of Rome? What made Cesar 
 pass the Rubicon in opposition to every presage? What made the 
 valiant Spaniards, under the courteous and intrepid Cortes, destroy 
 their ships on the shores ef a new world? These, and a multitude 
 of other great exploits, were the effects of that unquenchable thirst 
 after distinction—that fame which mortals aspire to, as the only 
 meet recompense of great and glorious deeds; though we, who are 
 Catholic Christian knights-errant, ought to fix our hopes on that 
 high reward placed in the celestial and eternal regions, which is 
 happiness perfect and everlasting : unlike that shadow of glory which, 
 being onfy of this world, must perish with it. Since, then, we seek 
 a Christian reward, O my Sancho, iet our works be conformable to 
 the religion we profess. In slaying giants we must destroy pride 
 and arrogance; we must vanquish envy by generosity ; wrath, by a 
 serene and humble spirit; gluttony and sloth, by temperance and 
 vigilance; impunity, by chastity and inviolable fidelity to the 
 sovereign mistresses of our hearts; indolence, by traversing the 
 world in search of every honourable opportunity of obtaining renown 
 as knights and Christians. Such, Sancho, are the means by which 
 we must gain that applause which is the reward of exalted merit.” 
 ‘*T understand very well what your worship has been saying,” quoth 
 Sancho; ‘‘ but, for all that, I wish you would be so kind as to dis- 
 solve me one doubt which has come into my head.” ‘‘ Resolve, 
 
SANCHO’S QUESTIONS. 825 
 
 thou wouldst say, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘declare it, in 
 
 Heaven’s name, and I will satisfy thee as far as Lam-able.” ‘‘ Pray 
 tell me,” proceeded Sancho, ‘‘those Julys or Augusts, and all those 
 mighty heroes you spoke of, who are dead—where are they now?” 
 **The Gentiles,” answered Don Quixote, ‘“‘are doubtless in hell; 
 the Christians, if they were good Christians, are either in purgatory 
 or in heaven.” ‘‘ Very well,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘ but pray, sir, tell 
 me whether the sepulchres in which the bodies of those great lords 
 lie interred have silver lamps burning before them, and whether the 
 walls of their chapels are adorned with crutches, winding-sheets, 
 old perukes, legs, waxen eyes, and the like; and if not with these, 
 pray how are they adorned?” . ‘‘ The sepulchres of the heathens 
 were for the most part sumptuous temples,” answered Don Quixote ; 
 ‘but the ashes of Julius Cesar were deposited in an urn, placed 
 upon the top of a pyramid of stone, of a prodigious magnitude, now 
 called the obelisk of St Peter. The sepulchre of the Emperor 
 Adrian was a fortress in Rome, as large as a goodly-sized village, 
 formerly called Moles Adriani, and now the castle of St Angelo. 
 Queen Artemisia buried her husband Mausolus in a tomb which 
 was numbered among the seven wonders of the world; but neither 
 these, nor any other of the numerous sepulchres of the Gentiles, 
 were decorated with winding-sheets, or any other offerings or signs, 
 intended to denote the holiness of the deceased.” ‘‘ That is what 
 I am coming to,” replied Sancho; ‘‘and now, pray tell mewhich is 
 the most difficult, to raise a dead man to life, or to slay a giant?” 
 *« The answer is very obvious,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘ to raise 
 a dead man.” ‘‘'There I have caught you,” quoth Sancho. ‘‘'Then 
 his fame who raises the dead, gives sight to the blind, makes the 
 lame walk, and cures the sick; who has lamps burning near his 
 grave, and good Christians always in his chapels, adoring his relics 
 upon their knees—his fame, I say, shall be greater both in this 
 world and the next, than that which all the heathen emperors and 
 knights-errant in the world ever had or ever shall have.” ‘TI 
 grant it,” answered Don Quixote. ‘‘ Then,” replied Sancho, ‘‘ the 
 bodies and relics of saints have this power and grace, and these 
 privileges, or how do you call them, and with the license of our 
 holy mother church have their lamps, winding-sheets, crutches, 
 pictures, perukes, eyes, and legs, whereby they increase people’s 
 devotion, and spread abroad their own Christian fame. Kings 
 themselves carry the bodies or relics of saints upon their shoulders, 
 kiss the fragments of their bones, and adorn their chapels and 
 most favourite altars with them.” ‘‘ Certainly, but what wouldst 
 thou infer from all this, Sancho?” quoth Don Quixote. ‘‘ What I 
 mean,” said Sancho, ‘‘is, that we had better turn saints imme- 
 diately, and we shall then soon get that fame we are seeking after. 
 And pray take notice, sir, that it was but yesterday—I mean very 
 lately—a couple of poor barefooted. friars were canonized, and 
 people now reckon it a greater happiness to touch or kiss the iron 
 chains that bound them, and which are now held in greater vene- 
 ration than Orlando’s sword in the armoury of our lord the king, 
 Heaven save him; so that it is better to be a poor friar, of the 
 
826 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 meanest order, than the bravest knight-errant ; because four dozen 
 of good penitent lashes are more esteemed in the sight of God 
 than two thousand tilts with a lance, though it be against giants, 
 goblins, or dragons.” ‘‘I confess,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘all 
 this is true, but we cannot all be friars; and many and various are 
 the ways by which God conducts His elect to heaven. Chivalry 
 is a kind of religious profession; and some knights are now saints 
 in glory.” ‘‘ True,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘but I have heard say there 
 are more friars in heaven than knights-errant.” ‘It may well 
 be so,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘ because their number is much 
 greater than that of knights-errant.” ‘‘ And yet,” quoth Sancho, 
 ‘“‘there are abundance of the errant sort.” ‘‘ Abundance, in- 
 deed,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘ but few who deserve the name 
 of knight.” 
 
 In this, and the like conversation, they passed that night and 
 the following day, without having encountered anything worth re- 
 lating, to the no little mortification of Don Quixote: but the next 
 day they came in view of the great city of Toboso, at the sight of 
 which Don Quixote’s spirits were much elevated, and those of 
 Sancho as much dejected ; because he knew notthe abode of Dulcinea, 
 nor had he ever seen her in his life, any more than his master. 
 Thus both were in a state of suffering, the one anxious to see her, 
 and the other anxious because he had not seen her; for Sancho 
 knew not what he should do in case his master should despatch 
 him to the city. Don Quixote, having determined not to enter it 
 until nightfall, he waited in the meantime under the shade of some 
 oak-trees; and then proceeded towards the city, where things 
 befell them that were things indeed ! 
 
 (PAE EA ePiT nine eX, 
 Which relates what will be found therein. 
 
 It was late at night when Don Quixote and Sancho left their 
 retreat and entered Toboso. All the town was hushed in silence: 
 for its inhabitants were sound asleep, stretched out at their ease. 
 The night was clear, though Sancho wished it were otherwise, hav- 
 ing occasion for its darkness to conceal his prevaricaticns. No 
 noise was heard in any part, save the barking of dogs, which an- 
 noyed the ears of Don Quixote, and disquieted Sancho’s heart. 
 Now and then, it is true, asses brayed, swine grunted, and cats 
 mewed—sounds which seemed to be augmented by the absence of 
 every other noise. All these circumstances the enamoured knight re- 
 garded as boding ill. Nevertheless, he said to his squire, ‘‘ Son 
 Sancho, lead on to Dulcinea’s palace; for it is possible we may find 
 herawake.” ‘‘To what palace? Body of the sun!” answered Sancho, 
 ‘that in which I saw her highness was but a little mean house.” 
 ‘*It was, I suppose, some small apartment of her castle, which she 
 had retired to,” said the knight, ‘‘to amuse herself with her dam- 
 
THE SEARCH FOR DULCINEA’S PALACE. 327 
 
 sels, as is usual with great ladies and princesses.” ‘‘ Since your 
 worship,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ will needs have my lady Dnlcinea’s 
 house to be a castle, is this an hour to find the gates open? and is 
 it fit that we should stand thundering at them till they open and 
 let us in, putting the whole house in an uproar?” ‘‘ First, how- 
 ever, let us find this castle,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘and then I 
 will tell thee how it is proper to act; but look, Sancho—either my 
 eyes deceive me, or that huge dark pile we see yonder must be 
 Duleinea’s palace.” ‘‘ Then, lead on yourself, sir,” answered Sancho ; 
 ‘‘perhaps it may be so; though, if I were to see it with my eyes, 
 and touch it with my hands, I will believe it just as much as that 
 it is now day.” . 
 
 Don Quixote led the way, and having gone about two hundred 
 paces, he came up to the edifice which cast the dark shade, and 
 perceiving a large tower, he soon found that the building was no 
 palace, but the principal church of the place: whereupon he said, 
 ‘* We are come to the church, Sancho.” ‘‘I see we are,” answered 
 Sancho; ‘‘and pray Heaven we be not come to our graves; for it 
 is no very good sign to be rambling about churchyards at such hours, 
 and especially since I have already told your worship, if I remem- 
 ber right, that this same lady’s house stands in a blind alley.” 
 ** Blockhead!” said the knight; ‘‘where hast thou ever found 
 castles and royal palaces built in blind alleys?” ‘‘ Sir,” replied 
 Sancho, “each country has its customs; so, perhaps, it is the 
 fashion here, in Toboso, to build your palaces and great edifices in 
 alleys: and, therefore, 1 beseech your worship to let me look about 
 among these lanes and alleys just before me; and, perhaps, in one 
 nook or other I may pop upon this same palace; which I wish I 
 may see devoured by dogs, for puzzling and bewildering us at this 
 rate.” ‘‘Speak with more respect, Sancho, of what regards my 
 lady,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘let us keep our holidays in peace, and 
 not throw the rope after the bucket.” ‘I will curb myself,” an- 
 swered Sancho; ‘‘ but I cannot bear to think, that though I have 
 seen our mistress’s house but once, your worship wilt needs have 
 me find it at midnight, when you cannot find it yourself, though 
 you must have seen it thousands of times!” ‘‘Thou wilt make 
 me desperate, Sancho,” quoth Don Quixote; ‘‘come hither, here- 
 tic; have I not told thee a thousand times that I never saw the 
 peerless Dulcinea in the whole course of my life, nor ever stepped 
 over the threshold of her palace, and that 1 am enamoured by 
 report alone, and the great fame of her wit and beauty?” ‘‘I hear 
 it now,” answered Sancho; ‘‘and to tell you the truth, I have seen 
 her just as much as your worship.” ‘‘ How can that be?” cried Don 
 Quixote; ‘‘didst thou not tell me that thou sawest her winnowing 
 wheat?” ‘Take no heed of that, sir,” replied the squire; ‘‘for the 
 fact is, her message, and the sight of her too, were both by hearsay ; 
 and I can no more tell who the lady Dulcinea is than I can buffet 
 the moon.” ‘‘Sancho, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘there is 
 a time to jest, and a time when jests are unseasonable. What, be- 
 cause I say that I never saw nor spoke to the mistress of my soul, 
 must thou say so likewise, when thou knowest it to be untrue?” 
 
828 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Their conversation was here interrupted by the approach of a man ~ 
 with two mules; and by the sound of a ploughshare which they 
 dragged along the ground, our travellers rightly guessed that he 
 was a husbandman. As he came near, they heard him singing the 
 ballad of the defeat of the French at Roncesvalles ; upon which Don 
 Quixote observed, ‘‘No good fortune to-night, Sancho—dost thou 
 not hear what that peasant is singing?” ‘‘ Yes, I do,” answered 
 Sancho; ‘‘ but what is the defeat of Roncesvalles to us? If he had 
 been singing the ballad of Calainos, it would have had just as much 
 to do with the good or bad ending of our business.” The country 
 fellow having now come up to them, Don Quixote said to him, 
 “‘Good-morrow, honest friend; canst thou direct me to the palace 
 of the peerless princess, Donna Dulcinea del Toboso?” ‘*Sir,” an- 
 swered the fellow, ‘‘I am a stranger here; for I have been but a 
 few days in the service of a farmer of this town. But the parish 
 priest, or the sexton, who live in yonder house, across the road can 
 either of them give your worship an account of that same lady 
 princess ; for they keep a register of all the inhabitants of Toboso ; 
 not that I think there is any princess living here, though there are 
 several great ladies, that may every one be a princess in her own 
 - house.” ‘‘ Among those, friend,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘may be her 
 for whom I am inquiring.” ‘‘ Not unlikely,” answered the plough- 
 man, ‘‘and so Heaven speed you; for it will soon be daybreak.” 
 Then, pricking on his mules, he waited for no more questions. 
 
 Sancho seeing his master perplexed and dissatisfied, said to him, 
 «Sir, the day comes on apace, and we shall soon have the sun upon 
 us, which will not be very pleasant in the streets ; so I think we had 
 better get out of this place; and, while your worship takes shelter 
 in some wood hereabouts, [ will return and leave not a corner in all 
 the town unsearched, for this house, castle, or palace of my lady; 
 and it shall go hard with me but I find it; and as soon as I have 
 done so, I will speak to her ladyship, and tell her where your wor- 
 ship is waiting for her orders and directions how you may see her, 
 without damage to her honour and reputation.” ‘‘Sancho,” quoth 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘thou hast uttered a thousand sentences in the com- 
 pass of a few words. Thy counsel I relish much, and shall most 
 willingly follow it. Come on, son, and let us seek for some shelter : 
 then shalt thou return and seek out my lady, from whose discretion 
 and courtesy I expect more than miraculous favours.” Sancho was 
 impatient till he got his master out of the town, lest his lies should 
 be detected : he therefore hastened on as fast as possible, and when 
 they had got about the distance of two miles, the knight retired 
 into a shady grove, while the squire returned in quest of the lady 
 Dulcinea ; on which embassy things occurred well worthy of credit 
 and renewed attention. 
 
SANCHO PANZA’S MISSION. 329 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Wherein ts related the cunning used by Sancho, in enchanting the 
 lady Dulcinea; with other events no less ludicrous than true. 
 
 Expressing: an apprehension that the contents of the present 
 chapter would not be believed, the author of this grand history 
 says he felt much inclined to suppress it, because the knight's frenzy 
 appears herein to be carried to an excess beyond all conception. 
 Notwithstanding this diffidence, he has, however, detailed the whole 
 truth, without adding or diminishing, determined not to regard any 
 doubts that might be entertained of his veracity ; and he wag in the 
 right, for truth will ever rise above falsehood, like oil above water: 
 he proceeds, therefore, as follows. 
 
 Don Quixote having retired into a grove near the city of Toboso, 
 despatched Sancho, with orders not to return into his presence till 
 he had spoken to his lady, beseeching her that she would be pleased 
 to grant her captive knight permission to wait upon her, and that 
 she would deign to bestow on him her benediction, whereby he 
 might secure complete success in all his encounters and arduous 
 enterprises. Sancho promised to execute his commands, and to 
 return with an answer no less favourable than that which he had 
 formerly brought him. ‘‘Go, then, son,” replied Don Quixote, 
 ‘and be not in confusion when thou standest in the blaze of that 
 sun of beauty. Happy thou above all the squires in the world! 
 Deeply impress on thy memory the particulars of thy reception— 
 whether she changes colour while thou art delivering thy embassy, 
 and betrays agitation on hearing my name; whether her cushion 
 cannot hold her, if perchance thou shouldst find her seated on the 
 rich Estrado ;* or, if standing, mark whether she is not obliged to 
 sustain herself sometimes upon one foot and sometimes upon the 
 other; whether she repeats her answer to thee three or four times ; 
 whether she changes it from soft to harsh, from harsh to soft again ; 
 whether she raises her hand to adjust her hair, though it be not 
 disordered—in short, observe all her actions and motions; for by an 
 accurate detail of them I shall be enabled to penetrate into the 
 secret recesses of her heart, touching the affair of my love; for let 
 me tell thee, Sancho, if thou knowest it not already, that with 
 lovers the external actions and gestures are courtiers, which bear 
 authentic tidings of what is passing in the interior of the soul. 
 Go, friend, and may better fortune than mine conduct thee; be 
 thou more successful than my anxious heart will bode, during the 
 painful period of thy absence.”  ‘‘I will go, and return quickly,” 
 quoth Sancho. ‘‘In the meantime, good sir, cheer up, and _re- 
 member the saying, that a good heart breaks bad luck ; and if 
 there is no hook, there is no bacon, and where we least expect it, 
 the hare starts; this I say, because though we could not find the 
 
 * That part of the floor at the upper end of the room which is raised, and 
 where tho ladies sit upon cushions to receive visits. 
 
- wad) 
 330 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 castle nor palace of my lady Dulcinea in the dark, now that it is 
 daylight I reckon I shall soon find it, and then—let me alone to 
 deal with her.” ‘‘ Verily, Sancho,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘ thou 
 dost apply thy proverbs most happily ; yet Heaven grant me better 
 luck in the attainment of my hopes!” 
 
 Sancho now switched his Dapple, and set off, leaving Don Quixote 
 on horseback, resting on his stirrups and leaning on his lance, full 
 of melancholy and confused fancies, where we will leave him, and 
 attend Sancho Panza, who departed no less perplexed and thought- 
 ful: insomuch that, after he had got out of the grove, and looked 
 behind him to ascertain that his master was out of sight, he alighted, 
 and sitting down at the foot of a tree he began to hold a parley 
 with himself. ‘‘ Tell me now, brother Sancho,” quoth he, ‘‘whither 
 is your worship going? Are you going to seek some ass that is 
 lost?” ‘*No, verily.” ‘‘Then what are you going to seek?” 
 ‘‘Why, I go to look for a thing of nothing—a princess, the sun of 
 beauty, and all heaven together!” ‘‘ Well, Sancho, and where 
 think you to find all this?” ‘*‘ Where? in the great city of 
 Toboso.” ‘‘ Very well; and pray who sent you on this errand ?” 
 ‘‘Why, the renowned knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, who 
 redresses wrongs, and gives drink to the hungry, and meat to the 
 thirsty.” ‘‘ All this is mighty well; and do you know her house, 
 Sancho?” ‘‘My master says it must be some royal palace or 
 stately castle.” ‘‘And have you ever seen her?” ‘‘ Neither I 
 nor my master have ever seen her.” ‘‘ And do you think it would 
 be right or advisable that the people of Toboso should know you 
 are coming to kidnap their princesses and lead their ladies astray ! 
 what if, for this offence, they should come and grind your ribs to 
 powder with true dry basting, and not leave you a whole bone in 
 your skin?” © ‘‘ Truly they would be much in the right of it, unless 
 they please to consider, that I, being only a messenger, am not in 
 fault.” ‘Trust not to that, Sancho; for the Manchegans are very 
 choleric, and their honour so ticklish that it will not bear touching.” 
 ‘* Tf we should be scented, woe be to us. But why do I go looking 
 for a cat with three legs for another man’s pleasure? Besides, to look 
 for Dulcinea up and down Toboso, is just as if one should look for 
 little Mary in Rabena, or a bachelor in Salamanca.” 
 
 This was Sancho’s soliloquy, the result of which was to return 
 to it again. ‘‘ Well,” continued he, ‘‘ there is a remedy for every- 
 thing but death, who, in spite of our teeth, will have us in his 
 clutches. This master of mine, I can plainly see, is mad enough 
 for a strait-waistcoat; and, in truth, I am not much better: 
 nay, I am worse, in following and serving him, if there is any truth 
 in the proverb, ‘Show me who thou art with, and I will tell thee 
 what thou art;’ or in the other, ‘ Not with whom thou wert bred, 
 but with whom thou art fed.’ He, then, being in truth a madman, 
 and so mad as frequently to mistake one thing for another, and not 
 know black from white; as plainly appeared when he called the 
 windmills giants, mules dromedaries, and the flock of sheep armies 
 of fighting men, with many more things to the same tune; this 
 being the case, I say, it will not be very difficult to make him believe 
 
# SANCHO PANZA’S RUSE. 331 
 
 that a country wench (the first I light upon) is the lady Dulcinea ; 
 and, should he not believe it, I will swear to it; and if he swears, 
 I will outswear him; and if he persists, I will persist the more, so 
 that mine shall still be uppermost, come what will of it. By this 
 plan I may, perhaps, tire him of sending me on such errands; or he 
 may take it into his head that some wicked enchanter has changed 
 his lady’s form, out of pure spite.” 
 
 This project set Sancho’s spirit at rest, and he reckoned his busi- 
 ness as good as half done; so he stayed where he was till towards 
 evening, that Don Quixote might suppose him travelling on his 
 mission. Fortunately for him, just as he was going to mount his 
 Dapple, he espied three country wenches coming from Toboso, each 
 mounted on a young ass; but whether male or female, the author 
 declares not: probably they were females, as the country-women 
 commonly rode upon she-asses: however, that being a matter of no 
 great importance, it is unnecessary to be at the trouble of ascer- 
 taining the point. Sancho no sooner got sight of them than he 
 rode back at a good pace to seek his master Don Quixote, whom 
 he found breathing a thousand sighs and amorous lamentations, 
 When Don Quixote saw him, he said, ‘‘ Well, friend Sancho, am I 
 to mark this day with a white ora black stone?” ‘‘ Your worship,” 
 answered Sancho, ‘‘ had better mark it with red ochre, as they do 
 the inscriptions on the professors’ chairs, to be the more easily read 
 by the lookers-on.” ‘‘ Thou bringest me good news then?” cried 
 Don Quixote. ‘‘So good,” answered Sancho, ‘‘that your worship 
 has only to clap spurs to Rozinante, and get out upon the plain, 
 to see the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, who, with a couple of her 
 damsels, is coming to pay your worship a visit.” ‘‘ Gracious 
 Heaven!” exclaimed Don Quixote, ‘‘what dost thou say? Take 
 care that thou beguilest not my real sorrow by a counterfeit joy.” 
 ‘¢ What should I get,” answered Sancho, ‘‘ by deceiving your wor- 
 ship, only to be found out the next moment? Come, sir, put on, 
 and you will see the princess our mistress all arrayed and adorned— 
 in short, like herself. She and her damsels are one blaze of flaming 
 gold; all strings of pearls, all diamonds, all rubies, all cloth of 
 tissue above ten hands deep; their hair loose about their shoulders, 
 like so many sunbeams blowing about in the wind; and what is 
 more, they come mounted upon three pied belfreys, the finest you 
 ever laid eyes on.” ‘‘ Palfreys, thou wouldst say, Sancho,” quoth 
 Don Quixote. ‘‘ Well, well,” answered Sancho, ‘‘ belfreys and 
 palfreys are much the same thing; but let them be mounted how 
 
 they will, they are sure the finest creatures one would wish to see ; 
 especially my mistress the princess Dulcinea, who dazzles one’s 
 senses.” ‘* Let us go, son Sancho,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘and 
 as a reward for this welcome news, I bequeath to thee the choicest 
 spoils I shall gain in my next adventure; and, if that will not 
 satisfy thee, I bequeath thee the colts which my three mares will 
 foal this year upon our village common.” ‘‘I stick to the colts,” 
 answered Sancho: ‘‘for we cannot yet reckon up the worth of the 
 spoils.” 
 
 They were now got out of the wood, and saw the three wenches 
 
882 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 very near. Don Quixote looked eagerly along the road towards 
 Toboso, and, seeing nobody but the three wenches, he asked Sancho, 
 in much agitation, whether they were out of the city when he left 
 them. ‘Out of the city!” answered Sancho; ‘‘ are your worship’s 
 eyes in the nape of your neck, that you do not see them now before 
 you, shining like the sun at noon-day ?” ‘‘ I see only three country 
 girls,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘on three asses.”’ ‘‘ Now,” answered 
 Sancho, ‘‘is it possible that three palfreys, or how do you call 
 them, white as the driven snow, should look to you like asses ? 
 You shall pluck off this beard of mine if it be so.” ‘‘I tell thee, 
 friend Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ that it is as certain they 
 are asses, as that I am Don Quixote and thou Sancho Panza ;—at 
 least, so they seem to me.” ‘‘Sir,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ say not such 
 a thing; but snuff those eyes of yours, and come and pay reverence 
 to the mistress of your soul.” So saying he advanced forward to 
 meet the peasant girls, and, alighting from Dapple, he laid hold of 
 one of their asses by the halter, and, bending both knees to the 
 ground, said to the girl, ‘‘ Queen, princess, and duchess of beauty, 
 let your haughtiness and greatness be pleased to receive into grace 
 and good-liking your captive knight, who stands turned there into 
 stone, all disordered and without any pulse, to find himself before 
 your magnificent presence. JI am Sancho Panza, his squire, and 
 he is that wayworn knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise 
 called the knight of the sorrowful figure.” 
 
 Don Quixote had now placed himself on his knees by Sancho, 
 and, with wild and staring eyes, surveyed her whom Sancho called 
 his queen; and, seeing nothing but a peasant girl, with a broad 
 face, flat nose, coarse and homely, he was so confounded that he 
 could not open his lips. The wenches were also surprised to find 
 themselves stopped by two men so different in aspect, and both on 
 their knees; but the lady who was stopped, breaking silence, said 
 in an angry tone, ‘‘ Get out of the road, plague on ye! and let us 
 pass by, for we are in haste.” ‘‘O princess, and universal lady of 
 Toboso !” cried Sancho, ‘‘is not your magnificent heart melting to 
 see on his knees, before your sublimated presence, the pillar and 
 prop of knight-errantry?” ‘‘ Hey day! what’s here to do?” cried 
 another of the girls; ‘‘look how your small gentry come to jeer us 
 poor country girls, as if we could not give them as good as they 
 bring—go ! get off about your business, and let us mind ours, and 
 so speed you well.” ‘‘ Rise, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, on hearing 
 this, ‘‘for I now perceive that fortune, not yet satisfied with 
 persecuting me, has barred every avenue whereby relief might 
 come to this wretched soul I bear about me in the flesh. And thou, 
 
 -O extreme of all that is valuable, summit of human perfection, thou 
 
 sole balm to this disconsolate heart that adores thee, though now 
 some wicked enchanter spreads clouds and cataracts over my eyes, 
 changing, and to them only, thy peerless beauty into that of a 
 poor rustic; if he has not converted mine also into that of some 
 goblin, to render it horrible to thy view, bestow on me one kind 
 and loving look, and let this submissive posture, these bended 
 knees, before thy disguised beauty, declare the humility with 
 
THE ENCHANTED DULCINEA. oOD 
 
 which my soul adores thee!” - ‘‘ Marry come up,” quoth the wench, 
 ‘‘with your idle gibberish ; get on with you, and let us go, and 
 we shall take it kindly.” Sancho now let go the halter, delighted 
 that he had come off so well with his contrivance. The imaginary 
 Dulcinea was no sooner set at liberty, than pricking her beast with 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 a sharp-pointed stick, which she held in her hand, she scoured 
 along the field; but the ass, smarting more than usual under the 
 goad, began to kick and wince in such a manner that down came 
 the lady Dulcinea to the ground. Don Quixote instantly ran to her 
 assistance, and Sancho to replace the pannel that had got under 
 
334 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the ass’s belly. Don Quixote was then proceeding to raise his 
 enchanted mistress, but the lady saved him that trouble; for 
 immediately upon getting up from the ground, she retired three or 
 four steps back, took a little run, then, clapping both hands upon 
 the ass’s crupper, jumped into the saddle lighter than a falcon, and 
 seated herself astride like a man. ‘‘ By Saint Roque?” cried 
 Sancho, ‘‘our lady mistress is lighter than a bird, and could teach 
 the nimblest Cordovan or Mexican how to mount; she springs into 
 a saddle at a jump, and without the help of spurs, makes her 
 palfrey run like a wild ass ; and her damsels are not a whit short of 
 her, for they all fly like the wind!” And this was the truth; for, 
 Dulcinea being remounted, the other two made after her, full 
 speed, without looking behind them for above half a league. 
 
 Don Quixote followed them with his eyes as far as he was able, 
 and when they were out of sight, turning to Sancho, he said, 
 *¢ What dost thou think now, Sancho? See how I am persecuted 
 by enchanters! Mark how far their malice extends, even to 
 depriving me of the pleasure of seeing my mistress in her own 
 proper form! Surely E was born to be an example of wretchedness, 
 and the butt and mark at which all the arrows of ill fortune are 
 aimed! And thou must have observed, too, Sancho, that these 
 traitors were not contented with changing and transforming the 
 countenance of my Dulcinea, but they must give her the base and 
 uncouth figure of a country wench; at the same time robbing her 
 of that which is peculiar to ladies of rank—the fragrant scent 
 which they imbibe from being always among flowers and sweet 
 perfumes ; for, if thou wilt believe me, Sancho, when I approached 
 to help Dulcinea upon her palfrey (as thou sayest, though it 
 appeared to me but an ass) she gave me such a whiff of undigested 
 garlic as almost poisoned my very soul.” ‘‘O base rabble !” cried 
 Sancho, ‘‘O barbarous and evil-minded enchanters! O that I 
 might see you all strung and hung up by the gills, like smoked 
 herrings! Cunning ye are, much ye can, and much evil ye do. 
 One would have thought it might have satisfied ye, rogues as ye 
 are! to have changed the pearls of my lady’s eyes into cork galls, 
 and her hair of the purest gold into bristles of a red cow’s tail, 
 and all her features from beauty to ugliness, without meddling with 
 her breath, by which we might have guessed at what was hid 
 beneath her ugly crust—though, to say the truth, to me she did 
 not appear in the least ugly, but rather all beauty, which was 
 raised to the highest pitch by a mole she had on her right lip, like 
 a whisker, with seven or eight red hairs on it, like threads of gold, 
 and above a span long!” ‘* As to the mole,” said Don Quixote, 
 ‘according to the correspondence subsisting between the moles of 
 the face and those of the body, Dulcinea should have another on 
 her person, on the same side as that on her face; but, indeed, hairs 
 of the length thou sayest are somewhat of the longest for moles.” 
 ‘‘Vet I can assure your worship,” answered Sancho, ‘‘ that there 
 they were, and looked as if they had been born with her.” ‘I 
 believe it, friend,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘for nature has placed 
 nothing about Dulcinea but what is finished and perfect; and 
 
THE KNIGHT'S DEJECTION. 835 
 
 therefore, had she an hundred moles, like those of which thou 
 speakest, in her they would not be moles, but moons and resplendent 
 stars. But tell me, Sancho, that which to me appeared to be a 
 pannel, was it a side-saddle ora pillion?” ‘‘It was a side-saddle,” 
 answered Sancho, ‘‘ with a field covering, worth half a kingdom 
 for the richness of it.” ‘‘ And that I should not see all this!” 
 exclaimed Don Quixote. ‘‘ Again I say, and a thousand times 
 will I repeat it, I am the most unfortunate of men!” The sly 
 rogue Sancho had much difficulty to forbear laughing, to think how 
 exquisitely his master was gulled. After more dialogue of the 
 same kind, they mounted their beasts again, and followed the 
 road to Saragossa, still intending to be present at a solemn festival 
 annually held in that city; but before they reached it, events 
 befell them, which for their importance, variety, and novelty, well 
 deserve to be recorded and read. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Of the strange adventure which befell the valorous Don Quixote, with 
 the cart, or wain, of the Cortes of Death.* 
 
 Don Quixote proceeded on his way at a slow pace, exceedingly 
 pensive, musing on the base trick the enchanters had played him, 
 in transforming his lady Dulcinea into the homely figure of a 
 peasant wench; nor could he devise any means of restoring her to 
 her former state. In these meditations his mind was so absorbed, 
 that without perceiving it, the bridle dropped on Rozinante’s neck, 
 who, taking advantage of the liberty thus given him, at every step 
 turned aside to take a mouthful of the fresh grass with which 
 those parts abounded. Sancho endeavoured to rouse him, 
 ‘‘Sorrow,” said he, ‘‘ was made for man, not for beasts, sir; but if 
 men give too much way to it, they become beasts. Take heart, 
 sir; recollect yourself, and gather up Rozinante’s reins ; cheer up, 
 awake, and show that you have courage befitting a knight-errant! 
 What is the matter? Why are you so cast down? Are we here, 
 or in France? Away with all the Dulcineas in the world! The 
 welfare of a single knight-errant is of more consequence than all 
 the enchantments and transformations on earth.” ‘‘ Peace, 
 Sancho,” cried Don Quixote in no very faint voice, ‘‘ peace, I say, 
 and utter no blasphemies against that enchanted lady, of whose 
 disgrace and misfortune I am the sole cause, since they proceed 
 entirely from the envy that the wicked bear to me.” ‘‘So say I,” 
 quoth Sancho, ‘‘ for who saw her then and sees her now, his heart 
 must melt with grief, | vow.” ‘‘ Well, indeed, mayest thou say so,” 
 replied Don Quixote ; ‘‘ thou who sawest her in the full lustre of her 
 
 * These Autos are dramatic allegories, symbolical of religious mysteries; they 
 were represented on the festival of the Corpus Christi, and the Octave, not only at 
 the theatres, but before the councils of state, and even the tribune of the Holy 
 Inquisition. These allegorical shows are now wisely prohibited. 
 
336 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXUTE. 
 
 beauty ; as the enchantment affected not thy sight, nor concealed 
 her perfections from thee. Against me alone, and against my eyes, 
 was the force of its poison directed. Nevertheless, Sancho, I sus- 
 pect that thou didst not give me a true description of her beauty ; 
 tor, if 1 remember right, thou saidst her eyes were of pearl; now 
 eyes that look like pearl are rather those of a fish than of a lady. 
 I imagine the eyes of Dulcinea must be of verdant emeralds, arched 
 over with two celestial bows, that serve for eyebrows. Thou must, 
 therefore, take those pearls from her eyes and apply them to her 
 teeth; for, doubtless, Sancho, thou hast mistaken teeth for eyes.” 
 “‘Tt may be so,” answered Sancho, ‘‘for her beauty confounded 
 me, as much as her ugliness did your worship. But let us recom- 
 mend all to God, who alone knows what shall befall us in this vale 
 of tears—this evil world of ours, in which there is scarcely anything 
 to be found without some mixture of wickedness, imposture, and 
 knavery. One thing, dear sir, troubles me more than all the rest ; 
 which is, to think what must be done when your worship shall over- 
 come some giant or knight-errant, and send him to present himself 
 before the beauty of the lady Dulcinea. Where shall this poor 
 giant, or miserable vanquished knight, be able to find her? Me- 
 thinks I see them sauntering up and down Toboso, and gaping 
 about, like fools, for my lady Dulcinea; and though they should 
 meet her in the middle of the street, they will know her no more 
 than they would my father.” ‘‘ Perhaps, Sancho,” answered Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘the enchantment may not extend to the vision of van- 
 quished knights or giants ;—however, we will make the experiment 
 upon one or two of the first I overcome, and send them with orders 
 to return and give me an account of their reception.” ‘‘ Your wor- 
 ship is quite in the right,” replied Sancho, ‘‘for by this trial we 
 shall surely come at the knowledge; andif she is hid from your wor- 
 ship alone, the misfortune will be more yours than hers; and so 
 that the lady Dulcinea hath health and contentment, we, for our 
 parts, ought to make shift and bear it as well as we can, seeking 
 our adventures, and leaving it to time to do his work, who is the 
 best doctor for these and worse grievances.” 
 
 Don Quixote would have answered Sancho, but was prevented 
 by the passing. of a cart across the road, full of the strangest-look- 
 ing people imaginable; it was without any awning above, or cover- 
 ing to the sides, and the carter who drove the mules had the ap- 
 pearance of a frightful demon. ‘The first figure that caught Don 
 Quixote’s attention was that of Death, with a human visage; close 
 to him sat an angel, with large painted wings; on the other side 
 stood an emperor, with a crown, seemingly of gold, upon his head. 
 At Death’s feet sat the god Cupid, not blindfold, but with his bow, 
 quiver, and arrows; a knight also appeared among them, in com- 
 plete armour; only instead of a morion, or casque, he wore a hat 
 witha large plume of feathers of divers colours; and there were 
 several other persons of equal diversity in appearance. Such a 
 sight, coming thus abruptly upon them, somewhat startled Don 
 Quixote, and the heart of Sancho was struck with dismay. But 
 with the knight, surprise soon gave place to joy; for he anticipated 
 
 * 
 
#, 
 
 THE CORTES OF DEATH. S37 
 
 some new and perilous adventure ; and under this impression, with 
 a resolution prepared tor any danger, he planted himself just before 
 the cart, and cried out, in a loud menacing voice, ‘‘ Carter, coach- 
 man, or devil, or whatever be thy denomination, tell me instantly 
 what thou art, whither going, and who are the persons thou con- 
 veyest in that vehicle, which, by its freight, looks like Charon’s 
 ferry-boat?” To which the devil calmly replied, ‘‘ Sir, we are tra- 
 velling players, belonging to Angulo el Malo’s company. To-day, 
 bemg the Octave of Corpus Christi, we have been performing a 
 piece representing the ‘Cortes of Death; this evening we are to 
 play it again in the village just before us; and, not having far to go, 
 we travel in the dresses of our parts to save trouble. ‘This young 
 man represents Death ; he an angel; that woman, who is our author’s 
 wife, plays a queen; the other a soldier; this one is an emperor, 
 and I am the devil, one of the principal personages of the drama; 
 for in this company I have all the chief parts. If your worship 
 desires any further information, I amready to answer your questions ; 
 for, being a devil, 1 know everything.” ‘‘ Upon the faith of a knight- 
 errant,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘when I first espied this cart, I 
 imagined some great adventure offered itself; but appearances are 
 not always to be trusted. Heaven be with you, good people; go 
 and perform your play, and if there be anything in which I may be 
 of service to you, command me, for I will do it most readily, having 
 been, from my youth, a geat admirer of masques and theatrical re- 
 resentations. ” 
 
 While they were speaking, one of the motley crew came up caper- 
 ing towards them, in an antic dress, frisking about with his morris- 
 bells, and three full-blown ox bladders tied to the end of a stick: 
 Approaching the knight, he flourished his bladders in the air, and 
 bounced them against the ground close under the nose ot Rozinante, 
 who was so startled by the noise that Don Quixote lost all command 
 over him, and having got the curb between his teeth, away he 
 scampered over the plain, with more speed than might have been 
 expected from such an assemblage of dry bones. Sancho, seeing 
 his master’s danger, leaped from Dapple and ran to his assistance ; 
 but, before his squire could reach him, he was upon the ground, 
 and close by him Rozinante, who fell with his master, the usual 
 termination of Rozinante’s frolics. Sancho had no sooner dis- 
 mounted, to assist Don Quixote, than the bladder-dancing devil 
 jumped upon Dapple, and thumping him with the bladders, fear at 
 the noise, more than the smart, set him also flying over the field 
 towards the village where they were going to act. Thus Sancho, 
 beholding at one and the same moment Dapple’s flight and his mas- 
 ter’s fall, was at a loss to which of the two duties he should first 
 attend, but, like a good squire and faithful servant, the love he bore 
 to his master prevailed over his affection for his ass; though as 
 often as he saw the bladders hoisted in the air, and fall upon the 
 body of his Dapple, he felt the pangs and tortures of death, and 
 he would rather those blows had fallen on the apple of his own 
 eyes than on the least hair of his ass’s tail. 
 
 In this tribulation he came up to Don Quixote, who was ina 
 
 ¥ 
 
838 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 much worse plight than he could have wished; and, as he helped 
 him to get upon Rozinante, he said, ‘‘ Sir, the devil has run away 
 with Dapple.” ‘‘ What devil,” demanded Don Quixote. ‘‘ He 
 with the bladders,” answered Sancho. ‘‘I will recover him,” re- 
 plied Don Quixote, ‘‘ though he should hide himself in the deepest 
 and darkest dungeon of the earth. Follow me, Sancho; for the 
 cart moves but slowly, and the mules shall make compensation for 
 the loss of Dapple.” ‘‘ Stay, sir,” cried Sancho, ‘‘ you may cool 
 your anger, for I see the devil has left Dapple, and gone his way.” 
 And so it was; for Dapple and the devil having tumbled, as well 
 as Rozinante and his master, the merry imp left him, and made off 
 on foot to the village, while Dapple turned back to his rightful 
 owner. ‘‘ Nevertheless,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘it will not be amiss 
 to chastise the insolence of this devil on some of his company, 
 even upon the emperor himself.” ‘‘Good, your worship,” quoth 
 Sancho; ‘‘do not think of such a thing, but take my advice, and 
 never meddle with players; for they are a people mightily beloved. 
 J have seen a player taken up for two murders, and get off 
 scot-free. As they are merry folks and give pleasure, everybody 
 favours them, and is ready to stand their friend ; particularly if 
 they are of the king’s or some nobleman’s company, who look and 
 dress like any princes.” ‘‘That capering buffoon shall not escape 
 with impunity, though he were favoured by the whole human race !” 
 cried Don Quixote, as he rode off in pursuit of the cart, which was 
 now very near the town, and he called aloud, ‘‘ Halt a little, merry ~ 
 sirs; stay, and let me teach you how to treat cattle belonging to 
 the squires of knights-errant.” Don Quixote’s words were loud 
 enough to be heard by the players, who, perceiving his adverse de- 
 signs upon them, instantly jumped out of the cart, Death first, and 
 after him the emperor, the carter-devil, and the angel; nor did the 
 queen or the god Cupid stay behind; and, all armed with stones, 
 waited in battle-array, ready to receive Don Quixote at the points 
 of their pebbles, Don Quixote, seeing the gallant squadron, with 
 arms uplifted, ready to discharge such a fearful volley, checked 
 Rozinante with the bridle, and began to consider how he might 
 most prudently attack them. While he paused, Sancho came up, 
 and seeing him on the point of attacking that well-formed brigade, 
 remonstrated with him. ‘‘]t is mere madness, sir,” said he, ‘‘ to 
 attempt such an enterprise. Pray consider there is no armour 
 proof against stones and brick, unless you could thrust yourself 
 into a bell of brass. Besides, it is not courage, but rashness, for 
 one man singly to encounter an army, where Death is present and 
 where emperors fight in person, assisted by good and bad angels. 
 But if that is not reason enough, remember that, though these 
 people all look like princes and emperors, there is not a real knight 
 among them.” ‘‘ Now, indeed,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ thou hast 
 hit the point, Sancho, which can alone shake my resolution; I 
 neither can, nor ought to draw my sword, as I have often told thee, 
 against those who are not dubbed knights. To thee it belongs, 
 Sancho, to revenge the affront offered to thy Dapple; and from 
 this spot I will encourage and assist thee by my voice and salutary 
 
SANCHO’S CHRISTIAN RESOLVE. 339 
 
 instructions.” ‘‘Good Christians should never revenge injuries,” 
 answered Sancho; ‘‘and I dare say that Dapple is as forgiving as 
 myself, and ready to submit his case to my will and pleasure, which 
 is, to live peaceably with all the world, as long as Heaven is pleased 
 to grant me life.” ‘Since this is thy resolution, good Sancho, dis- 
 creet Sancho, Christian Sancho, and honest Sancho,” replied Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘let us leave these phantoms, and seek better and more 
 substantial adventures; for this country, I see, is likely to afford 
 us many and very extraordinary ones.” He then wheeled Rozin- 
 ante about, Sancho took his Dapple, and Death, with his flying 
 squadron, having returned to their cart, each pursued their way. 
 Thus happily terminated the awful adventure of Death’s caravan-— 
 thanks to the wholesome advice that Sancho Panza gave his 
 master; who, the next day, encountering an enamoured knight- 
 errant, met with an adventure not a whit less important than the 
 one just related. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Of the strange adventure which befell the valorous Don Quixote wtth 
 the brave knight of the mirrors. 
 
 Don Quixote and his squire passed the night following their en- 
 counter with Death under some tall, umbrageous trees; and as 
 they were refreshing themselves, by Sancho’s advice, from the 
 store of provisions carried by Dapple, he said to his master, ‘‘ What 
 a fool, sir, should I have been had I chosen for my reward the 
 spoils of your worship’s first adventure, instead of the three ass- 
 colts! It is a true saying, ‘A sparrow in the hand is better than a 
 vulture upon the wing.’” ‘‘ However, Sancho,” answered Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘ hadst thou suffered me to make the attack which I had 
 premeditated, thy share of the booty would have been at least the 
 emperor’s crown of gold, and Cupid’s painted wings; for I would 
 have plucked them off perforce, and delivered them into thy hands.” 
 ‘«The crowns and sceptres of your theatrical emperors,” answered 
 Sancho, ‘‘are never pure gold, but tinsel or copper.” ‘‘'That is 
 true,” replied Don Quixote; ‘‘ nor would it be proper that the de- 
 corations of a play should be otherwise than counterfeit, like the 
 drama itself, which I would have thee hold in due estimation, as 
 well as the actors and authors, for they are all instruments of much 
 benefit to the commonwealth, continually presenting a mirror before 
 our eyes, in which we see lively representatives of the actions of 
 human life; nothing, indeed, more truly portrays to us what we 
 are, and what we should be, than the drama. ‘Tell me, hast thou 
 never seen a play in which kings, emperors, popes, lords, and ladies 
 are introduced, with divers other personages ; one acting the ruffian, 
 another the knave; one the merchant, another the soldier; one a 
 designing fool, another a foolish lover; and observed that, when 
 the play is done, and the actors undressed, they are all again upon 
 
3840 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 a level?” ‘Yes, marry have I,” quoth Sancho. ‘‘ The very same 
 thing, then,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ happens on the stage of this 
 world, on which some play the part of emperors, others of popes, 
 —in short, every part that can be introduced ina comedy; but at 
 the conclusion of the drama of life, death strips us of the robes 
 which make the difference between man and man, and leaves us 
 all on one level in the grave.” ‘‘ A brave comparison!” quoth 
 Sancho; ‘‘though not so new but that I have heard it many 
 times, as well as that of the game at chess; which is, that while 
 the game is going, every piece has its office, and when it is ended, 
 they are all huddled together, and put into a bag—just as we are 
 put together into the ground when we are dead.” ‘‘ Sancho,” said 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘thou art daily improving in sense.” ‘And so I 
 ought,’’ answered Sancho; ‘‘for some of your worship’s wisdom 
 must needs stick to me; as dry and barren soil, by well dunging 
 and digging, comes at last to bear good fruit. My meaning is, that 
 your worship’s conversation has been laid upon the barren soil of 
 my poor wit, and the tillage has been the time I have been in your 
 service and company; by which I hope to produce fruit like any 
 blessing, and such as will not disparage my teacher, nor let me stray 
 from the paths of good-breeding, which your worship has made in 
 my shallow understanding.” Don Quixote smiled at Sancho’s 
 affected style; but he really did think him improved, and was 
 frequently surprised by his observations, when he did not display 
 his ignorance by soaring too high. His chief strength lay in 
 proverbs, of which he had always abundance ready, though perhaps 
 not always fitting the occasion, as may often have been remarked 
 in the course of this history. 
 
 In this kind of conversation they spent great part of the night, till 
 Sancho felt disposed to let down the portcullises of his eyes, as he 
 used to say when he was inclined to sleep. So, having unrigged his 
 Dapple, he turned him loose into pasture; but he did not take off 
 the saddle from Rozinante’s back, it being the express command of 
 his master that he should continue saddled whilst they kept the 
 field, and were not sleeping under a roof, in conformity to an 
 ancient established custom religiously observed among knights- 
 errant, which was, to take off the bridle, and hang it on the pom- 
 mel of the saddle, but by no means to remove the saddle. Sancho 
 observed this rule, and gave Rozinante the same liberty he had 
 given to Dapple. And here it may be noticed that the friendship 
 subsisting between this pair was so remarkable, that there was a 
 tradition handed down from father to son, that the author of this 
 faithful history compiled several chapters expressly upon that sub- 
 ject; but to maintain the decorum due to an heroic work, he would 
 not insert them. Nevertheless, he occasionally mentions these ° 
 animals, and says, that when they came together they always fell 
 to scratching one another with their teeth, and when they were 
 tired, or satisfied, Rozinante would stretch his neck at least half a 
 yard across that of Dapple; and both fixing their eyes attentively 
 on the ground, would stand three days in that posture—at least as 
 long as they were undisturbed, or till hunger compelled them to 
 
THE KNIGHT OF THE WOOD. 841 
 
 seek food. The author is said to have compared their friendship ta 
 that of Nisus and Euryalus, or that of Pylades and Orestes. ow 
 steady, then, must have been the friendship of these two peaceable 
 animals—to the shame of men, whoaresoregardless of its laws ! Hence 
 the sayings, ‘‘A friend cannot find a friend;” ‘‘ Reeds become 
 darts ;” and ‘‘ From a friend to a friend, the bug,” &c.* Nor let it 
 be taken amiss that any comparison should be made between the 
 mutual cordiality of animals and that of men; for much useful know- 
 ledge, and many salutary precepts have been taught by the brute 
 creation. We areindebted, for example, to the stork for the clyster, 
 and for emetics to the dog; from which animal we may also learn 
 gratitude, as well as vigilance from cranes, foresight from ants, 
 modesty from elephants, and loyalty from horses. 
 
 At length Sancho fell asleep at the foot of a cork-tree, while Don 
 Quixote slumbered beneath a branching oak. But it was not long 
 before he was disturbed by a noise near him; he started up, and 
 looking in the direction whence the sounds proceeded, could discern 
 two men on horseback, one of whom, dismounting, said to the other, 
 ‘* Alioht friend, and unbridle the horses; for this place will afford 
 them pasture, and offers to me that silence and solitude which my 
 amorous thoughts require.” As he spoke, he threw himself on the 
 ground, and in this motion a rattling of armour was heard, which 
 convinced Don Quixote that this was a knight-errant ; and going to 
 Sancho, who was fast asleep, he pulled him by the arm, and having 
 with some difficulty aroused him, he said, in a low voice, ‘‘ Friend 
 Sancho, we have got an adventure here.” ‘‘ Heaven send it be a good 
 one,” answered Sancho; ‘‘and pray, sir, where may this same ad- 
 venture be?” ‘‘ Where, sayest thou, Sancho?” replied Don Quixote, 
 “turn thine eyes that way, and thou wilt see a knight-errant lying 
 extended, who seems to me not over happy in his mind; for I just 
 now saw him dismount and throw himself upon the ground, as if 
 much oppressed with grief, and his armour rattled as he fell.” 
 ‘* But how do you know,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘that this is an adven- 
 ture?” ‘‘Though I cannot yet positively call it an adventure, it 
 has the usual signs of one—but listen, he is tuning an instrument, 
 and seems to be preparing to sing.” ‘* By my troth, so he is,” cried 
 Sancho, ‘‘and he must be some knight or other in love.” ‘‘ As all 
 knights-errant must be,”’ quoth Don Quixote ; ‘‘ but hearken, and we 
 shall discover his thoughts by his song, for out of the abundance of 
 the heart the mouth speaketh.’ Sancho would have replied, but 
 the knight of the wood, whose voice was only moderately good, 
 ree to sing, and they both attentively listened to the following 
 words :— 
 
 SU NaN bal. 
 
 Bright authoress of my good or ill, 
 Prescribe the law I must observe: 
 
 My heart, cbedient to thy will, 
 Shall never from its duty swerve. 
 
 * From a friend to a friend, a bug in the eye,” is a proverb applied to the false 
 professions of friendship. 
 
342 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 If you refuse my griefs to know, 
 The stifled anguish seals my fate 
 But if your ears would drink my woe, 
 Love shall himself the tale relate. 
 
 Though contraries my heart compose, 
 Hard as the diamond’s solid frame, 
 
 And soft as yielding wax that flows, 
 To thee, my fair, ’tis still the same. 
 
 Take it, for ev’ry stamp prepared : 
 Imprint what characters you choose: 
 The faithful tablet, soft or hard, 
 The dear impression ne’er shall lose. 
 
 With a deep sigh that seemed to be drawn from the very bottom 
 of his heart, the knight of the wood ended his song; and after some 
 pause, ina plaintive and dolorous voice, he exclaimed, ‘‘O thou 
 most beautiful and most ungrateful of woman-kind! Q divine 
 Casildea de Vandalia! Wilt thou then suffer this thy captive 
 knight to consume and pine away in continual peregrinations, and 
 in severest toils? Is it not enough that I have caused thee to be 
 acknowledged the most consummate beauty in the world, by all the 
 knights of Navarre, of Leon, of Tartesia, of Castile, and, in fine, by 
 all the knights of La Mancha?” ‘‘ Not so,” said Don Quixote, 
 ‘¢for I am of La Mancha, and never have made such an acknowledg- 
 ment, nor ever will admit an assertion so prejudicial to the beauty 
 of my mistress. Thou seest, Sancho, how this knight raves—but 
 let us listen; perhaps he will make some further declaration.” 
 ‘‘ Ay, marry will he,” replied Sancho, ‘‘for he seems to be ina 
 humour to complain for a month to come.” But they were mis- 
 taken; for the knight, hearing voices near them, proceeded no 
 further in his lamentations, but rising up, said aloud in a courteous 
 voice, ‘* Who goes there? What are ye? Of the number of the 
 happy, or of the afflicted?” ‘‘Of the afflicted,” answered Don 
 Quixote. ‘‘Come to me, then,” answered the knight of the wood, 
 ‘¢and you will find sorrow and misery itself!” These expressions 
 were uttered in so moving a tone that Don Quixote, followed by 
 Sancho, went up to the mournful knight, who, taking his hand, 
 said to him, ‘‘Sit down here, sir knight, for to be assured that you 
 profess the order of chivalry, it is sufficient that I find you here, 
 encompassed by solitude and the cold dews of night; the proper 
 station for knights-errant.” ‘‘ A knight Iam,” replied Don Quixote, 
 **and of the order you name; and, although my heart is the mar-. 
 sion of misery and woe, yet can I sympathise in the sorrows of 
 others; from the strain I just now heard from you, I conclude that 
 yours are of the amorous kind—arising, I mean, from a passion for 
 some ungrateful fair.” 
 
 Whilst thus discoursing, they were seated together on the ground, 
 peaceably and sociably, not as if, at daybreak, they were to fall 
 upon each other with mortalfury. ‘‘ Perchance you, too, are in 
 love, sir knight,” said he of the wood to Don Quixote. ‘‘ Such is 
 
THE TWO SQUIRES. 348 
 
 my cruel destiny;” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘though the sorrows 
 that may arise from well-placed affections ought rather to be ac- 
 counted blessings than calamities.” ‘‘That is true,” replied the 
 knight of the wood, ‘‘ provided our reason and understanding be 
 not affected by disdain, which, when carried to excess, is more like 
 vengeance.” ‘‘I never was disdained by my mistress,” answered 
 Don Quixote. ‘‘ No, verily,” quoth Sancho, who stood close by, 
 ‘‘for my lady is as gentle as a lamb, and as soft as butter.” ‘‘Is 
 this your squire?” demanded the knight of the wood. ‘‘ He is,” 
 replied Don Quixote. ‘‘I never in my life saw a squire,” said the 
 knight of the wood, ‘‘who durst presume to speak while his lord 
 was conversing: at least, there stands mine, as tall as his father, 
 and it cannot be proved that he ever opened his lips when I was 
 speaking.” ‘* I? faith!” quoth Sancho, ‘‘I have talked, and can 
 talk before one as good as—and perhaps,—but let that rest: per- 
 haps the less said the better.” The knight of the wood’s squire 
 now took Sancho by the arm, and said, ‘‘ Let us two go where we 
 may chat squire-like together, and leave these masters of ours to 
 talk over their loves to each other; for I warrant they will not 
 have done before to-morrow morning.” ‘‘ With all my heart,” 
 quoth Sancho, ‘‘and I will tell you who I am, that you may judge 
 whether I am not fit to make one among the talking squires.” The 
 squires then withdrew, and a dialogue passed between them as 
 lively as that of their masters was grave. 
 
 Celok boty Reel Lik 
 
 Wherein is continued the adventure of the knight of the wood, with 
 the wise and pleasant dialogue between the two squires. 
 
 Squires and knights being thus separated, the latter were en- 
 gaged on the subject of their loves, while the former gave an 
 account to each other of their lives. The history first relates the 
 conversation between the servants, and afterwards proceeds to that 
 of the masters. Having retired a little apart, the squire of the 
 wood said to Sancho, ‘‘ This is a toilsome life we squires to knights- 
 errant lead; in good truth, we eat our bread by the sweat of our 
 brows, which is one of the curses laid upon our first parents.” ‘‘ You 
 may say, too, that we eat it by the frost of our bodies,” added 
 Sancho; ‘‘for who has to bear more cold, as well as heat, than 
 your miserable squires to knights-errant? It would not be quite 
 so bad if we could always get something to eat; for good fare 
 lessens care; but how often we must pass whole days without 
 breaking our fast—unless it be upon air!” ‘All this may be en- 
 dured,” quoth he of the wood, ‘‘with the hopes of reward: for 
 that knight-errant must be unlucky indeed who does not speedily 
 recompense his squire, with at least a handsome government, or 
 some pretty earldom.” ‘‘I,” replied Sancho, ‘‘ have already told 
 my master that I should be satisfied with the government of an 
 
844 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 island ; and he is sonoble and so generous that he has prumised it me 
 a thousand times.” ‘‘ And I,” said he of the wood, ‘‘ should think 
 myself amply rewarded for all my services with a canonry, and I 
 have my master’s word for it, too.”’ ‘‘ Why, then,” quoth Sancho, 
 ‘‘belike your master is some knight of the church, and so can bex 
 stow rewards of that kind on his squires; mine is only a layman. 
 Some of his wise friends advised him once to be an archbishop, but 
 he would be nothing but an emperor, and [ trembled all the while, 
 lest he should take a liking to thechurch ; because, you must know, 
 I am not gifted that way—to say the truth, sir, though I look like 
 a man, I ama very beast in such matters.” ‘‘ Let me tell you, 
 friend,” quoth he of the wood, ‘‘ you are quite in the wrong; for 
 these island governments are often more plague than profit. Some 
 are crabbed, some beggarly, some—in short, the best of them are 
 sure to bring more care than they are worth, and are mostly too heavy 
 for the shoulders that have to bear them. I suspect it would be wiser 
 in us to quit this thankless drudgery and stay at home, where we 
 may find easier work and better pastime; for he must be a sorry 
 squire who has not his nag, his brace of greyhounds, and an any- 
 ling-rod to enjoy himself with at home.” ‘‘ I am not without these 
 things,” answered Sancho; *‘it is true I have no horse, but then I 
 have an ass which is worth twice as much as my master’s steed. 
 Heaven’send mea bad Easter, and may it be the first that comes, if I 
 would swap with him, though he should offer me four bushels of 
 barley to boot: no, faith, that would not I, though you may take 
 for a joke the price I set upon my Dapple; for dapple, sir, 1s the 
 colour of my ass. Greyhounds I cannot be in want of, as our town 
 is overstocked with them: besides, the rarest sporting is that we 
 find at other people's cost.” ‘‘ Really and truly, brother squire, ’ 
 answered he of the wood, ‘‘I have resolved with myself to quit 
 the frolics of these knights-errant, and get home again and look 
 after my children; for I have three like Indian pearls.” ‘‘And J 
 have two,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ fit to be presented to the Pope himselt 
 in person ; especially my girl, that I am breeding up for a countess, 
 if it please Heaven, in spite of her mother.” ‘‘ And pray, what 
 may be the age of the young lady you are breeding up for a coun- 
 tess?” demanded he of the wood. ‘‘ Fifteen years, or thereabouts,” 
 answered Sancho, ‘‘and she is as tall as a lance, as fresh as an 
 April morning, and as strong as a porter.” ‘‘ These are qualifica- 
 tions,” said he of the wood, ‘‘not only for a countess, but for a 
 wood-nymph! Ah, the young slut! How buxom must the jade 
 be!” To this Sancho answered, somewhat angrily, ‘‘ She is no slut, 
 nor was her mother one before her; nor whilst I live shall either 
 of them be so ; so pray speak more civilly, for such language is un- 
 becoming one brought up like you, among knights-errant, who are 
 good-breeding itself.” ‘‘Why! brother squire, you don’t under- 
 stand what praising is,” quoth he of the wood. ‘‘ What! do you not 
 know, that when some knight at a bull-feast gives the bull a home 
 thrust with his lance, or when a thing is well hit off, it is common 
 to say—‘ Ah! how cleverly the rascal did it?’ which, though it 
 seems to bea slander, is in fact great commendation! I would 
 
DISCOURSE OF THE TWO SQUIRES. 045 
 
 have you renounce every son or daughter whose actions do not 
 make them deserving of such compliments.” ‘‘I do renounce 
 them,” answered Sancho, ‘‘and, since you mean so well by it, you 
 may call my wife and children all the sluts and jades»you please; 
 for all they do or say is excellent, and well worthy of such praises ; 
 and that I may return and see them again, I beseech Heaven to 
 deliver me from mortal sin—that is, from this dangerous profession 
 of squireship, into which I have run a second time, drawn and 
 tempted by a purse of a hundred ducats which I found one day 
 among the mountains. In truth, the devil is continually setting 
 before my’ eyes, here, there, and everywhere, a bag full of gold pis- 
 joles, so that methinks at every step I am laying my hand upon it, 
 hugging it, and carrying it home, buying lands, settling rents, and 
 living lke a prince; and while this runs in my head, | can bear all 
 the toil which must be suffered with this foolish master of mine, 
 who, to my knowledge, is more of the madman than the knight.” 
 ** Indeed, friend,” said the squire of the wood, ‘‘ you verify the 
 proverb, which says ‘covetousness bursts the bag.’ Truly, friend, 
 now you talk of madmen, there is not a greater one in the world 
 than my master. The old saying may be applied to him, ‘Other 
 folks’ burdens break the ass’s back ;’ for he gives up his own wits to 
 recover those of another, and in searching after that which, when 
 found, may chance to hit him in the teeth.” ‘‘ By the way; he is 
 in love, it seems?” said Sancho. ‘‘ Yes,” quoth he of the wood, 
 ‘‘with one Casildea de Vandalia, one of the most whimsical dames 
 in the world; but that is not the foot he halts on at present; he 
 has some other crotchets in his pate, which we shall hear more of 
 anon.” ‘* There is no road so even but it has its stumbling places,” 
 replied Sancho; ‘‘in other folks’ houses they boil beans, but in 
 mine, whole kettles-full. Madness will have more followers than 
 discretion, but, if the common saying is true, that there is some 
 comfort in having partners in grief, I may comfort myself with 
 you, who serve as crack-brained a master as my own.” ‘‘ Crack- 
 brained but valiant,” answered he of the wood, ‘‘and more knay- 
 ish than either.” ‘‘ Mine,” answered Sancho, ‘‘ has nothing of the 
 
 knave in him; so far from it, he has a soul as pure as a pitcher, 
 
 and would not harm a fly; he bears no malice, and a child may 
 persuade him it is night at noonday; for which I love him as my 
 life, and cannot find in my heart to leave him, in spite of all his 
 
 ranks.” ‘For all that, brother,” quoth he of the wood, ‘‘if the 
 blind lead the blind, both may fall into the ditch. We had better 
 turn us fairly about, and go back to our homes: for they who seek 
 adventures find them sometimes to their cost,” 
 
 Here the squire of the wood observing Sancho to spit very often, 
 as if very thirsty, ‘‘ Methinks,” said he, ‘‘ we have talked till our 
 tongues cleave to the roofs of our mouths : but I have got, hanging 
 at my saddle-bow, that which will loosen them ;” when, rising up, 
 he quickly produced a large bottle of wine, and a pasty half a yard 
 long, without any exaggeration ; for it was made of so large a rabbit 
 that Sancho thought verily it must contain a whole goat, or at least 
 a kid; and, after due examination, ‘* How,” said he, ‘‘do you carry 
 
346 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 - such things about with you?” ‘‘Why, what did you think?” an- 
 swered the other; ‘‘did you take me for some starveling squire? 
 No, no, I have a better cupboard behind me on my horse than a 
 general carries with him upon a march.” Sancho fell to, without 
 waiting for entreaties, and swallowed down huge mouthfuls in the 
 dark. ‘‘ Your worship,” said he, ‘‘is indeed a squire, trusty and 
 loyal, round and sound, magnificent and great withal, as this ban- 
 quet proves (if it did not come by enchantment) ; and not a poor 
 wretch like myself, with nothing in my wallet but a piece of 
 cheese, and that so hard that you may knock out a giant’s brains 
 with it: and four dozens of carobes* to bear it company, with as 
 many filberts—thanks to my master’s stinginess, and to the fancy 
 he has taken, that knights-errant ought to feed, like cattle, upon 
 roots and wild herbs.” ‘‘Troth, brother,” replied he of the wood, 
 ‘‘T have no stomach for your wild pears, nor sweet thistles, nor 
 your mountain roots ; let our masters have them, with their fancies 
 and their laws of chivalry, and let them eat what they commend. 
 I carry cold meats and this bottle at the pommel of my saddle, 
 happen what will; and such is my love and reverence for it, that 
 I kiss and hug it every moment ;” and as he spoke he put it into 
 Sancho’s hand, who grasped it, and, applying it straightway to his 
 mouth, continued gazing at the stars for a quarter of an hour; then, 
 having finished his draught, he let his head fall on one side, and, 
 fetching a deep sigh, said, ‘‘O the rascal! How catholic it is !”’ 
 ‘*You see, now,” quoth he of the wood, ‘‘how properly you com- 
 mend this wine in calling it raseal.”” ‘‘ I agree with you now,” an- 
 swered Sancho, ‘‘and own that it is no discredit to be called rascal 
 when it comes in the way of compliment, But tell me, by all you 
 
 love best, is not this wine of Ciudad Real?” ‘‘ Thou art arare 
 taster,” answered he of the wood; ‘‘it is indeed of no other growth, 
 and has, besides, some years over its head.” ‘‘ Trust me for that,” 
 
 quoth Sancho; ‘‘depend upon it I always hit right, and can guess 
 toahair. And this is all natural in me; let me but smell them, 
 and I will tell you the country, the kind, the flavour, the age, 
 strength, and all about it; for you must know [ have had in my 
 family, by the father’s side, two of the rarest tasters that were 
 ever known in La Mancha; and I will give you a proof of their 
 skill. A certain hogshead was given to each of them to taste, and 
 their opinion asked as to the condition, quality, goodness, or bad- 
 ness of the wine. One tried it with the tip of his tongue; the other 
 only put it to his nose. The first said the wine savoured of iron; 
 the second said it had rather a twang of goat’s leather. The owner 
 protested that the vessel was clean, and the wine neat, so that it 
 could not taste either of iron or leather. Notwithstanding this, the 
 two famous tasters stood positively to what they had said. Time went 
 on; the wine was sold off, and, on cleaning the cask, a small key, 
 hanging to a leathern thong, was found at the bottom. Judge, 
 then, sir, whether one of that race may not be well entitled to give 
 his opinion in these matters.” ‘‘ That being the case,” quoth he of 
 
 * A pod so called in La Mancha, with a flat pulse in it, which green or ripe is 
 harsh, but sweet and pleasant after it is dried. 
 
THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS’ LABOURS. $47 
 
 the wood, ‘‘we should leave off seeking adventures, and, since we 
 have a good loaf, let us not look for cheesecakes, but make haste 
 and get home to our own cots, for there God will find us, if it be 
 His will.” ‘I will serve my master till he reaches Saragossa,” 
 quoth Sancho; ‘‘then mayhap we shall turn over a new leaf.” 
 
 Thus the good squires went on talking, and eating and drinking, 
 until it was full time that sleep should give their tongues a respite; 
 and allay their thirst, for to quench it seemed impossible ; and both 
 of them, still keeping hold of the almost empty bottle, fell fast 
 asleep ; in which situation we will leave them at present. 
 
 GeeAn PVT RX LV. 
 In which is continued the adventure of the knight of the wood. 
 
 Peaceably and amicably the two knights continued to converse ; 
 and among other things the history informs us that he of the wood 
 said to Don Quixote, ‘‘ In fact, sir knight, I must confess, that by 
 destiny, or rather by choice, I became enamoured of the peerless 
 Casildea de Vandalia,—peerless, I call her, because she is without 
 her peer, either in rank, beauty, orform. Casildea repaid my hon- 
 ourable and virtuous passion by employing me as Hercules was em- 
 ployed by his step-mother, in many and various perils; promising 
 me, at the end of each of them, that the next should crown my 
 hopes; but alas! she still goes on, adding link after link to the 
 chain of my labours, insomuch that they are now countless; nor © 
 can I tell when they are to cease, and my tender wishes be gratified. 
 One time she commanded me to go and challenge Uiralda,* the 
 famous giantess of Seville, who is as stout and strong as if she were 
 made of brass, and, though never stirring from one spot, is the most 
 changeable and unsteady woman: in the world. I came, I saw, I 
 conquered—lI made her stand still, and fixed herto a point ; for, dur- 
 ing a whole week, no wind blew but from the north. Another time 
 she commanded me to weigh those ancient statues, the fierce bulls 
 of Guisando,f an enterprise better suited to a porter than a knight. 
 Another time she commanded me to plunge headlong into Cabra’s 
 cave (direful mandate!), and bring her a particular detail of all the 
 lies enclosed within its dark abyss. I stopped the motion of Giralda, 
 I weighed the bulls of Guisanda, I plunged headlong into the 
 cavern of Cabra, and brought to light its hidden secrets; yet still 
 my hopes are dead—O how dead! And her commands and disdains 
 alive—O how alive! In short, she has now commanded me to travel 
 over all the provinces of Spain, and compel every knight whom I meet 
 to confess, that in beauty she excels all others now in existence; and 
 that I am the most valiant and the most enamoured knight in the uni- 
 verse, In obedience to this command I have already traversed the 
 
 * A brass statue on a steeple at Seville, which serves for a weathercock. 
 
 + Two large statues in that town, supposed to have been placed there by Mes 
 tellus, in the time of the Romans. 
 
348 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 greatest part of Spain, and have vanquished divers knights who have 
 had the presumption to contradict me. Butwhat I value myself most 
 upon is having vanquished, in single combat, that renowned knight, 
 Don Quixote de la Mancha, and made him confess that my Casildea 
 is more beautiful than his Dulcinea; and I reckon, that in this 
 conquest alone, I have vanquished all the knights in the world ; 
 for this Don Quixote has conquered them all, and I, having over- 
 come him, his glory, his fame, and his honour, are consequently 
 transferred to me. All the innumerable exploits of the said Don 
 Quixote I therefore consider as already mine, and placed to my 
 account.” 
 
 Don Quixote was amazed at the assertions of the knight of the 
 wood, and had been every moment on the point of giving him the 
 lie; but he restrained himself that he might*convict him of false- 
 hood from his own mouth; and therefore he said, very calmly, 
 ‘¢That you may have vanquished, sir knight, most of the knights- 
 errant of Spain, or even of the whole world, I will not dispute; but 
 that you have conquered Don Quixote de la Mancha I have much 
 reason to doubt. Some one resembling him, I allow, it might have 
 been, though, in truth, I believe there are not many like him.” 
 ‘¢ How say you ?” cried he of the wood: ‘‘ by the canopy of heaven, 
 I fought with Don Quixote, vanquished him, and made him sur- 
 render tome! He is aman of an erect figure, withered face, long 
 and meagre limbs, grizzle-haired, hawk-nosed, with large black 
 moustaches, and styles himself the ‘knight of the sorrowful figure.’ 
 The name of his squire is Sancho Panza; he presses the back, and 
 governs the reins, of a famous steed called Rozinante—in a word, 
 the mistress of his thoughts is one Dulcinea del Toboso, formerly 
 called Aldonzo Lorenzo, as my Casildea, being of Andalusia, is now 
 distinguished by the name of Casildea de Vandalia. And now, if 
 I have not sufficiently proved what I have said, here is my sword, 
 which shall make incredulity itself believe!” ‘‘ Softly, sir knight.” 
 said Don Quixote, ‘‘and hear what I have to say. You must 
 know that this Don Quixote you speak of is the dearest friend I 
 have in the world, insomuch that he is, as it were, another self; 
 and, notwithstanding the very accurate description you have given 
 of him, I am convinced, by the evidence of my senses, that you 
 have never subdued him. It is, indeed, possible, that, as he is 
 continually persecuted by enchanters, some one of these may have 
 assumed his shape, and suffered himself to be vanquished, in order 
 to defraud him of the fame which his exalted feats of chivalry have 
 acquired him over the whole face of the earth. -A proof of their 
 malice occurred but a few days since, when they transformed the 
 figure and face of the beautiful Dulcinea del Toboso into the form 
 of a mean rustic wench. And now, if, after all, you doubt the 
 truth of what I say, behold the true Don Quixote himself before 
 you, ready to convince you of your error, by force of arms, on foot, 
 or on horseback, or in whatever manner you please.” He then 
 rose up, and, grasping his sword, awaited the determination of the 
 knight of the wood, who, very calmly, said in reply, ‘‘ A good pay- 
 master wants no pledge: he who could vanquish Signor Don Quixote, 
 
 = 
 
THE CHALLENGE. 349 
 
 under transformation, may well hope to make him yield in his pro- 
 per person. But as knights-errant should by no means perform. 
 their feats in the dark, ike robbers and ruftians, let us wait for 
 daylight, that the sun may witness our exploits ; and let the con- 
 dition of our combat be, that the conquered shall remain entirely 
 at the merey and disposal of the conqueror; provided that he re- 
 quire nothing of him but what a knight may with honour submit 
 to.” Don Quixote, having expressed himself entirely satisfied with 
 these conditions, they went to seek their squires, whom they found 
 snoring, in the very same posture as that in which sleep had first 
 surprised them. They were soon awakened by their masters, and 
 ordered to prepare the steeds, so that they might be ready, at sun- 
 rise, for a bleody single combat. At this intelligence Sancho was 
 thunderstruck, and ready to swoon away with fear for his master, 
 from what he had been told, by the squire of the wood, of his 
 knight’s prowess. Both the squires, however, without saying a 
 word, went to seek their cattle; and the three horses and Dapple, 
 having smelt each other out, were found all very sociably together. 
 
 «You must understand, brother,” said the squire of the wood to 
 Sancho, ‘‘ that it is not the custom in Andalusia for the seconds to 
 stand idle, with their arms folded, while their godsons* are engaged 
 in combat, So this is to give you notice, that while our masters 
 are at it, we must fight too, and make splinters of one another.” 
 ‘‘This custom, signor squire,” answered Sancho, ‘‘may pass among 
 ruffians; but among the squires of knights-errant no such practice 
 is thought of—at least I have not heard my master talk of any 
 such custom ; and he knows by heart all the laws of knight-errantry. 
 But, supposing there is any such law, I shall not obey it. I would 
 rather pay the penalty laid upon such peaceable squires, which, I 
 daresay, cannot be above a couple of pounds of wax;f and that 
 will cost me less money than plasters to cure a broken head. Be- 
 sides, how can I fight when I have got no sword, and never had 
 one in my life?” ‘‘I know a remedy for that,” said he of the 
 wood ; ‘‘ here are a couple of linen bags of the same size; you shall 
 take one, and I the other, and so, with equal weapons, we will 
 have a bout at bag-blows.” ‘‘ With all my heart,” answered 
 Sancho; ‘‘for such a battle will only dust our jackets.” ‘‘It must 
 not be quite so, either,” replied the other ; ‘‘for, lest the wind should 
 blow them aside, we must put in them half-a-dozen clean and 
 smooth peebles, of equal weight ; and thus we may brush one another 
 without much harm or damage.” ‘‘ Body of my father!” answered 
 Sancho, ‘‘ what sable fur, what bottoms of carded cotton, forsooth, 
 you would put into the bags, that we may not break our bones to 
 powder! But I tell you what, master, though they should be 
 filled with balls of raw silk, I shall not fight. Let our masters 
 fight, and take the consequences ; but let us drink and live, for time 
 takes care to rid us of our lives, without our seeking ways to go 
 
 *Tn tilts and tournaments the seconds were a kind of godfathers to the principals, 
 and certain ceremonies were performed on those occasions. 
 
 + Small offences, in Spain, are fined at a pound or two of white wax, for the 
 tapers in churches, &c., and confessors frequently enjoin it as a penance. 
 
850 ._ ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 before our appointed term and season.” ‘‘ Nay,” replied he of the 
 wood, ‘‘do let us fight, if it be but for half an hour.” ‘‘ No, no,” 
 answered. Sancho, ‘‘I shall not be so rude nor ungrateful as to 
 have any quarrel with a gentleman after eating and drinking with 
 him. Besides, who can set about dry fighting without being pro- 
 voked to it?” ‘‘If that be all,” quoth he of the wood, ‘‘I can 
 easily manage it; for, before we begin our fight, I will come up, and 
 just give you three or four handsome cuffs, which will lay you flat at 
 my feet, and awaken your choler, though it slept sounder than a 
 dormouse.” ‘‘ Against that trick,” answered Sancho, ‘‘I have 
 another not a whit behind it; which is, to take a good cudgel, and, 
 before you can come near enough to waken my choler, I will bas- 
 tinado yours into so sound a sleep, that it shall never awake but in 
 another world. Let me tell you that I am not a man to suffer my 
 face to be handled, so let every one look to the arrow; though the 
 safest way would be to let that same choler sleep on—for one man 
 knows not what another can do, and some people go out for wool 
 and come home shorn. Jn all times, God blessed the peace-makers 
 and cursed the peace-breakers. If a baited cat turns into a lion, 
 Heaven knows what I, that am a man, may turn into: and there- 
 fore I warn you, master squire, that all the damage and mischief 
 that may follow from our quarrel must be placed to your account.” 
 ** Agreed,” replied he of the wood. ‘‘ Let us have daylight, and 
 we shall see what is to be done.” 
 
 And now a thousand sorts of birds, glittering in their gay attire, 
 began to chirp and warble in the trees, and in a variety of joyous 
 notes seemed to hail the blushing Aurora, who now displayed her 
 rising beauties from the bright arcades and balconies of the east, 
 and gently shook from her locks a shower of liquid pearls, sprink- 
 ling that reviving treasure over all vegetation. The willows 
 distilled their delicious manna, the fountains smiled, the brooks 
 murmured, the woods and meads rejoiced at her approach. But 
 scarcely had hill and dale received the welcome light of day, and 
 objects become visible, when the first thing that presented itself 
 to the eyes of Sancho Panza was the squire of the wood’s nose, 
 which was so large that it almost overshadowed his whole body. 
 Its magnitude was indeed extraordinary ; it was, moreover, a hawk- 
 nose, full of warts and carbuncles, of the colour of a mulberry, and 
 hanging two fingers’-breadth below his mouth. The size, the colour, 
 the carbuncles, and the crookedness, produced such a countenance 
 of horror, that Sancho, at the sight thereof, began to tremble from 
 head to foot, and he resolved within himself to take two hundred 
 cuffs before he would be provoked to attack such a hobgoblin. 
 
 Don Quixote also surveyed his antagonist, but, the beaver of his 
 helmet being down, his face was concealed; it was evident, how- 
 ever, that he was a strong-made man, not very tall, and that over 
 his armour he wore a kind of surtout or loose coat, apparently of 
 the finest gold cloth, besprinkled with little moons of polished 
 glass, which made a very gay and shining appearance; a large 
 pre of feathers, green, yellow, and white, waved about his 
 
 elmet. His lance, which was leaning against a tree, was very 
 
PREPARATIONS FOR THE ENCOUNTER. B51" 
 
 large and thick, and headed with pointed steel, above a span long. 
 All these circumstances Don Quixote attentively marked, and 
 inferred, from appearances, that he was a very potent knight, but 
 he was not therefore daunted, like Sancho Panza; on the contrary, 
 with a gallant spirit, he said to the knight of the mirrors, ‘‘ Sir 
 knight, if your eagerness for combat has not exhausted your 
 courtesy, I entreat you to lift up your beaver a little, that I may 
 see whether your countenance corresponds with your gallant 
 demeanour.” ‘‘ Whether vanquished or victorious in this enterprise 
 sir knight,” answered he of the mirrors, ‘‘ you will have time and 
 leisure enough for seeing me; and if I comply not now with your 
 request, it 1s because J think it would be an indignity to the 
 beauteous Casildea de Vandalia to lose any time in forcing you to 
 make the confession required.” ‘‘ However, while we are mount- 
 ing our horses,” said Don Quixote, ‘“‘ you can tell me whether I 
 resemble that Don Quixote whom you said you had vanquished.” 
 ‘* As like as one egg is to another,” replied he of the mirrors ; 
 **though, as you say you are persecuted by enchanters, I dare 
 not affirm that you are actually the same person.” ‘‘I am 
 satisfied that you acknowledge you may be deceived,” said 
 Don Quixote ; ‘‘however, to remove all doubt, let us to horse, and 
 in less time than you would have spent in raising your beaver, if 
 Heaven, my mistress, and my arm avail me, I will see your face, 
 and you shall be convinced I am not the vanquished Don Quixote.” 
 
 They now mounted without more words, and Don Quixote 
 wheeled Rozinante about, to take sufficient ground for the 
 encounter, while the other knight did the same; but before 
 Don Quixote had gone twenty paces, he heard himself called by 
 his opponent, who, meeting him half-way, said, ‘‘ Remember, sir 
 knight, our agreement ; which is, that the conquered shali remain 
 at the discretion of the conqueror.” ‘‘ I know it,” answered 
 Don Quixote; ‘‘ provided that which is imposed shall not trans- 
 gress the laws of chivalry.” ‘‘Certainly,” answered he of the 
 mirrors. At this juncture the squire’s strange nose presented itself 
 to Don Quixote’s sight, who was no less struck than Sancho, 
 insomuch that he looked upon him as a monster, or some creature 
 of a new species. Sancho, seeing his master set forth to take his 
 career, would not stay alone with Long-nose, lest, perchance, he 
 should get a filip from that dreadful snout, which would level him 
 to the ground, either by force or fright. So he ran after his 
 master, holding by the stirrup-leather, and when he thought it was 
 nearly time for him to face about, ‘‘I beseech your worship,” he 
 cried, ‘‘ before you turn, to help me into yon cork-tree, where I 
 can see better and more to my liking the brave battle you are 
 going to have with that knight.” ‘I rather believe, Sancho,” 
 ~ quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘that thou art for mounting a scaffold to see 
 the bull-sports without danger.” ‘‘ To tell the truth, sir,” answered 
 Sancho, ‘‘that squire’s monstrous nose fills me with dread, and 
 I dare not stand near him.” ‘‘It is indeed a fearful sight,” said 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘to any other but myself ; come, therefore, and I 
 will help thee up.” 
 
352, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 While Don Quixote was engaged in helping Sancho up inte 
 the cork-tree, the knight of the mirrors took as large a compass as 
 he thought necessary, and believing that Don Quixote had done. 
 the same, without waiting for sound of -trumpet, or any other 
 signal, he turned about his horse, who was not a whit more active 
 nor more sightly than Rozinante, and at his best speed, though’ not 
 exceeding a middling trot, he advanced to encounter the enemy ; 
 but seeing him employed with Sancho, he reigned in his steed and 
 stopped in the midst of his career ; for which his horse was most 
 thankful, being unable to stir any further. Don Quixote, thinking 
 his enemy was coming full speed against him, clapped spurs to 
 Rozinante’s lean flanks, and made him so bestir himself, that, as 
 the history relates, this was the only time in his life that he 
 
 
 
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 approached to something like a gallop ; and with this unprecedenteu 
 fury he soon cameup to where his adversary stood, striking his spurs 
 rowel-deep into the sides of his charger, without being able to make ~ 
 him stir a finger’s-length from the place where he had been checked — 
 in his career. At this fortunate juncture, Don Quixote met his 
 adversary, embarrassed not only with his horse but his lance, 
 ** which he either knew not how, or had not time, to fix in its rest, 
 * and therefore our knight, who saw not these perplexities, assailed 
 him with perfect security, and with such force that he soon 
 brought him to the ground, over his horse’s crupper, leaving him 
 motionless and without any signs of life. Sancho, on seeing this, — 
 immediately slid down from the cork-tree, and in all haste ran to~ 
 his master, who alighted from Rozinante, and went up te the 
 
 a | 
 
UNEXPECTED APPEARANCE OF THE BACHELOR. 858 
 
 vanquished knight, when, unlacing his helmet to see whether 
 he was dead, or if yet alive, to give him air, he beheld—but who 
 ean relate what he beheld—without causing amazement, wonder, 
 and terror, in all that hear it? He saw, says the history, the 
 very face, the very figure, the very aspect, the very physiognomy, 
 the very effigy and semblance of the bachelor Sampson Carrasco ! 
 ‘Come hither, Sancho,” cried he aloud, ‘‘and see, but believe not ; 
 
 
 
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 make haste, son, and mark what wizards and enchanters can do!” 
 Sancho approached, and seeing the face of the bachelor Sampson _ 
 Carrasco, he began to cross and bless himself a thousand times over. , 
 All this time the overthrown cavalier showed no signs of life. 
 **My advice is,” said Sancho, ‘‘that, at all events, your worship 
 should thrust your sword down the throat of this man, who is so 
 like the bachelor. Sampson Carrasco ; for, in despatching him, you 
 may destroy one of those enchanters, your enemies.” ‘‘ Thou 
 sayest not amiss,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘ for the fewer enemies the 
 Zz 
 
854 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 better.” He then drew his sword to put Sancho’s advice into 
 execution, when the squire of the mirrors came running up, but 
 without the frightful nose, and cried aloud, ‘‘ Have a care, Signor 
 Don Quixote, what you do; for it is the bachelor Sampson 
 Carrasco, your friend, and I am his squire.” Sancho seeing his 
 face now shorn of its deformity, exclaimed, ‘‘ The nose! where is 
 the nose?”  ‘‘ Here it is,” said the other, taking from his right- 
 hand pocket a pasteboard nose, formed and painted in the manner 
 already described, and Sancho, now looking earnestly at him, made 
 another exclamation, ‘‘Blessed Virgin, defend me!” cried he, ‘‘is 
 not this Tom Cecial, my neighbour?” ‘‘ Indeed am I,” answered 
 the unnosed squire; ‘‘ Tom Cecial I am, friend Sancho Panza, and 
 I will tell you presently what tricks brought me hither ; but now, 
 good Sancho, entreat, in the meantime, your master not to hurt 
 the knight of the mirrors at his feet ; for he is truly no other than 
 the rash and ill-advised bachelor Sampson Carrasco, our townsman.” 
 
 By this time the knight of the mirrors began to recover his 
 senses, which Don Quixote perceiving, he clapped the point of his 
 naked sword to his throat, and said, ‘‘ You are a dead man, sir 
 knight, if you confess not that the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso 
 excels in beauty your Casildea de Vandalia; you must promise also, 
 on my sparing your life, to go to the city of Toboso, and present 
 yourself before her from me, that she may dispose of you as she 
 shall think fit; and if she leaves you at liberty, then shall you 
 return to me without delay—the fame of my exploits being your 
 guide—to relate to me the circumstances of your interview ; these 
 conditions being strictly conformable to the terms agreed on before 
 our encounter, and also to the rules of knight-errantry.” ‘‘I 
 confess,” said the fallen knight, ‘‘that the lady Dulcinea del To- 
 boso’s torn and dirty shoe is preferable to the ill-combed, though 
 clean locks of Casildea; and I promise to go and return from her 
 presence to yours, and give you the exact and particular account 
 which you require of me.” 
 
 ““You must likewise confess and believe,” added Don Quixote, 
 ‘‘that the knight you vanquished was not Don Quixote de 
 la Mancha, but some one resembling him; as I do confess 
 and believe, that though resembling the bachelor Sampson Car- 
 rasco, you are not he, but some other whom my enemies have 
 purposely transformed into his likeness to restrain the impetu- 
 osity of my rage, and make me use with moderation the glory of 
 my conquest.” ‘‘I confess, judge, and believe everything, pre- 
 cisely as you do yourself,” answered the disjointed knight; ‘‘and 
 now suffer me to rise, I beseech you, if my bruises do not prevent 
 me.” Don Quixote raised him with the assistance of his squire, 
 on whom Sancho still kept his eyes fixed; and though, from some 
 conversation that passed between them, he had much reason to be- 
 lieve it was really his old friend Tom Cecial, he was so prepos-. 
 sessed by all that his master had said about enchanters, that he 
 would not trust his own eyes. In short, both master and man per- 
 sisted in their error; and the knight of the mirrors, with his squire, 
 
TRUE ACCOUNT OF THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS. 855 
 
 much out of humour and in ill-plight, went in search of some conven- 
 ient place where he might searcloth himself, and splinter his ribs. 
 Don Quixote and Sancho continued their journey to Saragossa, 
 where the history leaves them to give some account of the knight 
 of the mirrors and his well-snouted squire. 
 
 Ceri A Play. Fue V4 
 Giving an account of the knight of the mirrors and his squire. 
 
 Don Quixote was exceedingly happy, elated, and vain-glorious at 
 his triumph over so valiant a knight as he imagined him of the 
 mirrors to be, and from whose promise he hoped to learn whether 
 his adored mistress still remained in a state of enchantment. But 
 Don Quixote expected one thing, and he of the mirrors intended 
 another; his only care at present being to get, as soon as possible, 
 plasters for his bruises. The history then proceeds to tell us, that 
 when the bachelor Sampson Carrasco advised Don Quixote to re- 
 sume his functions of knight-errantry, he had previously consulted 
 with the priest and the barber upon the best means of inducing 
 Don Quixote to stay peaceably and quietly at home; and it was 
 agreed by general vote, as well as by the particular advice of Car- 
 rasco, that they should let Don Quixote make another sally (since 
 it seemed impossible to detain him), and that the bachelor should 
 then also sally forth like a knight-errant, and take an opportunity 
 of engaging him to fight; and after vanquishing him, which they 
 held to be an easy matter, he should remain, according to a previous 
 agreement, at the disposal of the conqueror, who should command 
 him to return home, and not quit it for the space of two years, or 
 till he had received further orders from him. They doubted not 
 but that he would readily comply, rather than infringe the laws of 
 chivalry ; and they hoped, that during this interval, he might for- 
 get his follies, or that some means might be discovered of curing 
 his malady. Carrasco engaged in the enterprise, and Tom Cecial, 
 Sancho Panza’s neighbour, a merry, shallow-brained fellow, prof- 
 fered his service as squire. Sampson armed himself in the manner 
 already described, and Tom Cecial fitted the counterfeit nose to his 
 face, for the purpose of disguising himself; and following the same 
 road that Don Quixote had taken, they were not far off when the 
 adventure of Death’s car took place; but it was in the wood they 
 overtook him, which was the scene of the late action, and where, 
 had it not been for Don Quixote’s extraordinary conceit that the 
 bachelor was not the bachelor, that gentleman, not meeting even so 
 much as nests, where he thought to find birds, would have been 
 incapacitated for ever from taking the degree of licentiate. 
 
 Tom Cecial, after the unlucky issue of their expedition, said to 
 the bachelor, ‘‘Most certainly, Signor Carrasco, we have been 
 rightly served. It is easy to plan a thing, but very often difficult 
 to get through with it. Don Quixote is mad, and we are in our 
 
e ~ 
 356 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 senses ; he gets off sound and laughing, and your worship remains 
 sore and sorrowful: now, pray, which is the greater madman, he 
 who is so because he cannot help it, or he who is so on purpose?”’ 
 ‘‘ The difference between these two sorts of madmen is,” replied 
 Sampson, ‘‘ that he who cannot help it will remain so, and he who 
 deliberately plays the fool may leave off when he thinks fit.” 
 ‘‘That*being the case,” said Tom Cecial, ‘‘I was mad when I de- 
 sired to be your worship’s squire, and now I desire to be so no 
 longer, but shall hasten home again.” ‘‘That you may do,” an- 
 swered Sampson, ‘‘ but, for myself, I cannot think of returning to 
 mine, till I have soundly banged this same Don Quixote. It is not 
 now with the hope of curing him of his madness, that I shall seek 
 him, but a desire for revenge; the pain of my ribs will not allow 
 me to entertain a more charitable purpose.” In this humour they 
 went on talking till they came to a village, where they luckily met 
 with a bone-setter, who undertook to cure the unfortunate Samp- 
 son. Tom Cecial now returned home, leaving his master meditat- 
 ing schemes of revenge; and though the history will have occasion 
 to mention him again hereafter, it must now attend the motions of 
 our triumphant knight. 
 
 
 
 (Odd gx titel oe Cee VS 
 Of what befell Don Quixote with a worthy gentleman of La Mancha, 
 
 Don Quixote pursued his journey with pleasure, satisfaction, and 
 self-complacency, as already described: imagining, because of his 
 late victory, that he was the most valiant knight the world could 
 then boast of. He cared neither for enchantments nor enchanters, 
 and looked upon all the adventures which should henceforth befall 
 him as already achieved and brought to a happy conclusion. He 
 no longer remembered his innumerable sufferings during the pro- 
 gress of his chivalries ; the stoning that demolished half his grinders, 
 the ingratitude of the galley-slaves, nor the audacity of the Yan- 
 guesian carriers and their shower of pack-staves—in short, he in- 
 wardly exclaimed, that could he devise any means of disenchant- 
 ing his lady Dulcinea, he should not envy the highest fortune that 
 ever was, or could be attained by the most prosperous knight- 
 errant of past ages. 
 
 He was wholly absorbed in these reflections, when Sancho said to 
 him, ‘‘ Is it not strange, sir, that I have still before my eyes the 
 monstrous nose of my neighbour Tom Cecial?” ‘‘And dost thou 
 really believe, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ that the knight of the 
 mirrors was the bachelor Sampson Carrasco, and his squire thy 
 friend Tom Cecial?” ‘I know not what to say about it,” answered 
 Sancho; ‘‘I only know that the marks he gave me of my house, 
 wife, and children, could be given by nobody else; and his face, 
 when the nose was off, was Tom Cecial’s, just as I have often seen 
 it—for he lives in the next house to my own; the tone of his voice, 
 
 
 
iS 
 
 oF . Fy 
 ~~» REFLECTIONS ON THE VICTORY. B57 
 
 > akin 
 
 too, wasthe very same.” ‘‘Come, come, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, 
 “let us reason upon this matter. Howcan it be imagined that the 
 bachelor Sampson Carrasco should come as a knight-errant, armed at 
 all points, to fight with me? Was I ever his enemy? Have I ever 
 given him occasion to bear me ill-will? Am TI hisrival? Or has 
 he embraced the profession of arms, envying the fame I have ac- 
 quired bythem?” ‘‘ But then, what are we to say, sir,” answered 
 Sancho, ‘‘to the likeness of that knight, whoever he may be, to the 
 bachelor Sampson Carrasco, and his squire to my neighbour Tom 
 Cecial? If it be enchantment, as your worship says, why were 
 they to be made like those two above all others in the world?” 
 ‘<Trust me, Sancho, the whole is an artifice,” answered Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘and a trick of the wicked magicians who persecute me. 
 Knowing that I might be victorious, they cunningly contrived that 
 my vanquished enemy should assume the appearance of the worthy 
 bachelor, in order that the friendship which I bear him might in- 
 terpose between the edge of my sword and the vigour of my arm, 
 and by checking my just indignation, the wretch might escape with 
 life, who, by fraud and violence, sought mine. Indeed, already 
 thou knowest by experience, Sancho, how easy a thing it is for en- 
 chanters to change one face into another, making the fair foul, and 
 the foul fair; since, not two days ago, thou sawest with thine own 
 eyes the grace and beauty of the peerless Dulcinea in their highest 
 perfection, while to me she appeared under the mean and disgusting 
 exterior of a rude country-wench, with cataracts on her eyes, anda 
 bad smell in her mouth. If, then, the wicked enchanter durst 
 make so foul a transformation, no wonder at this deception of his, 
 in order to snatch the glory of victory out of my hands! However, 
 I am gratified in knowing, that whatever was the form he pleased 
 to assume, my triumph over him was complete.” ‘‘ Heaven knows 
 the truth of all things,” answered Sancho ; who, well knowing the 
 transformation of Dulcinea to have been a device of his own, was 
 not quite satisfied with his master’s elucidations; but he would 
 make no reply, lest he should betray himself. 
 
 While thus discoursing, they were overtaken by a gentleman, 
 mounted on a very fine flea-bitten mare, and dressed in a green 
 eloth riding-coat, faced with murry-coloured velvet, and a hunter’s 
 cap of the same; the mare’s furniture corresponded in colour with 
 his dress, and was adapted to field sports; a Moorish scimitar hung 
 at his shoulder-belt, which was green and gold; his buskins were 
 wrought like the belt, and his spurs were not gilt, but green, and 
 polished so neatly, that, as they suited his clothes, they looked 
 better than if they had been of pure gold. He saluted them cour- 
 teously, and, spurring his mare, was passing on, when Don Quixote 
 said to him, ‘‘ If you are travelling our road, signor, and are not 
 in haste, will you favour us with your company?”  ‘‘ Indeed, 
 signor, ” replied he, ‘‘ I should not have passed on, but I was afraid 
 your horse might prove unruly.” ‘‘ Sir,” answered Sancho, ‘‘if 
 that be all, ours is the noblest and best-behaved horse in the world ; 
 and was never guilty of a trick in his life. I say, again, your wor- 
 ship need not fear.”” The traveller checked his mare, his curiosity 
 
“hg 
 B58 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 being excited by the appearance of Don Quixote, who rode without 
 his helmet, which Sancho carried like a cloak-bag, at the pommel 
 of his ass’s pannel; but if he stared at Don Quixote, he was him- 
 self surveyed with no less attention by the knight, who conceived 
 him to be some person of consequence. His age seemed to be about 
 fifty, though he had but few grey hairs; his face was of the ac- 
 quiline form, of a countenance neither too gay nor too grave, and 
 by his whole exterior it was evident that he was no ordinary per- 
 son. It was not less manifest that the traveller, as he contemplated 
 Don Quixote, thought he had never seen any one like him before. 
 With wonder he gazed upon his tall person, his meagre, shallow 
 visage, his lank horse, his armour, and stately deportment ; alto- 
 gether presenting a figure, like which nothing, for many centuries 
 past, had been seen in that country. 
 
 Don Quixote perceived that he had attracted the attention of the 
 traveller, and being the pink of courtesy, and always desirous of 
 pleasing, he anticipated his questions, by saying, ‘‘ You are pro- 
 bably surprised, signor, at my appearance, which is certainly un- 
 common in the present age; but this will be explained when I tell 
 you that I am a knight in search of adventures. I left my country, 
 mortgaged my estate, quited ease and pleasures, and threw myself 
 into the arms of fortune. I wished to revive chivalry, so long de- 
 ceased; and for some time past, exposed to many vicissitudes, 
 stumbling in one place, and rising again in another, I have prose- 
 cuted my design; succouring widows, protecting damsels, aiding 
 wives and orphans—all the natural and proper duties of knights- 
 errant. And thus, by many valorous and Christian exploits, I have 
 acquired the deserved honour of being in print throughout all, or 
 most of the nations in the world. ‘Thirty thousand copies are 
 already published of my history, and, Heaven permitting, thirty 
 thousand thousands more are likely to be printed. Finally, to 
 sum up all in a single word, know that I am Don Quixote de la 
 Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, 
 Though self-praise depreciates, I am compelled sometimes to pro- 
 nounce my own commendations, but it is only when no friend is © 
 present to perform that office forme. And now, my worthy sir, 
 that you know my profession, and who I am, you will cease to won- 
 der at.my appearance.” 
 
 After an interval of silence, the traveller in green said, in reply, 
 ‘You are indeed right, signor, in conceiving me to be struck by 
 your appearance; but you have rather increased than lessened my 
 wonder by the account you give of yourself. How! Is it possibie 
 that there are knights-errant now in the world, and that there are 
 histories printed of real chivalries? I had no idea that there was 
 anybody now upon earth who relieved widows, succoured damsels, 
 aided wives, or protected orphans; nor should yet have believed it, 
 had I not been now convinced with my own eyes. Thank Heaven! 
 the history you mention of your exalted and true achievements must 
 surely cast into oblivion all the fables of imaginary knights-errant, 
 which abound so much, to the detriment of good morals, and the 
 prejudice and neglect of genuine history.” ‘‘There is much to be 
 
al 
 
 THE TRAVELLER’S DESCRIPTION OF HIS LIFE. 859 
 
 - 
 
 said,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘upon the question of the truth or 
 fiction of the histories of knights-errant.” ‘‘Why, is there any 
 one,” answered he in green, ‘‘ who doubts the falsehood of those 
 histories?” ‘‘I doubt it,” replied Don Quixote—‘‘ but no more of 
 that at present; for, if we travel together much further, I hope to 
 convince you, sir, that you have been wrong in suffering yourself 
 to be carried in the stream with those who cavil at their truth.” 
 The traveller now first began to suspect the state of his companion’s 
 intellect, and watched for a further confirmation of his suspicion; 
 but, before they entered into any other discourse, Don Quixote said, 
 that since he had so freely described himself, he hoped he might 
 be permitted to ask who he was. To which the traveller answered, 
 “‘T, sir knight of the sorrowful figure, am a gentleman, and native 
 of a village where, if it please Heaven, we shall dine to-day. My 
 fortune is affluent, and my name is Don Diego de Miranda. I spend 
 my time with my wife, my children, and my friends ; my diversions 
 are hunting and fishing ; but I keep neither hawks nor greyhounds, 
 only some decoy partridges, and a stout ferret. I have about six 
 dozen of books, Spanish and Latin, some of history, and some of 
 devotion ; those of chivalry have not come over my threshold. I 
 am more inclined to the reading of profane, than devout authors, 
 provided that they are well written, ingenious, and harmless in their 
 tendency, though, in truth, there are very few books of this kind in 
 Spain. Sometimes I eat with my neighbours and friends, and fre- 
 quently I invite them; my table is neat and clean, and not parsi- 
 moniously furnished. I slander no one, nor do I lsten to slander 
 from others. I pry not into other men’s lives, nor scrutinize their 
 actions. I hear mass every day; I share my substance with the 
 poor, making no parade of my good works, lest hypocrisy and 
 vain-glory, those insidious enemies of the human breast, should 
 find access to mine. It is always my endeavour to make peace 
 between those who are at variance. I am devoted to our blessed 
 Lady, and ever trust in the infinite mercy of God our Lord.” 
 
 Sancho was very attentive to the account of this gentleman’s life, 
 which appeared to him to be good and holy ; and thinking that one 
 of such a character must needs work miracles, he flung himself off 
 his Dapple, and, running up to him, he laid hold of his right stir- 
 rup; then, devoutly, and almost with tears, he kissed his feet more 
 than once. ‘‘ What mean you by this, brother?” said the gentle- 
 man: ‘‘why these embraces?” ‘‘ Pray let me kiss on,” answered 
 Sancho; ‘‘for your worship is the first saint on horseback I ever 
 saw in ali my life.”. ‘‘I am not a saint,” answered the gentleman, 
 **but a great sinner ; you, my friend, must indeed be good, as your 
 simplicity proves.” Sancho retired, and mounted his ass again; 
 having forced a smile from the profound gravity of his master, and 
 caused fresh astonishment in Don Diego. 
 
 Don Quixote then asked him how many children he had, at the 
 same time observing that the ancient philosophers, being without 
 the true knowledge of God, held supreme happiness to consist in 
 the gifts of nature and fortune, in having many friends and many 
 good children. ‘‘I have one son,” answered the gentleman; ‘‘ and 
 
ie 
 860 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. * 
 
 if I had him ‘not, perhaps I should think myself happier; not that 
 he is bad, but because he is not all that I would have him. He is 
 eighteen years old, six of which he has spent at Salamanca, learning 
 the Latin and Greek languages, and, when I wished him to proceed 
 to other studies, 1 found him infatuated with poetry, and could not 
 prevail upon him to look into the law, which it was my desire he 
 should study; nor into theology, the queen of all sciences. 1 was 
 desirous that he should be an honour to his family, since we live in 
 an age in which useful and virtuous literature is rewarded by the 
 sovereign—I say virtuous, for letters without virtue are pearls on a 
 dunghill. He passes whole days in examining whether Homer ex- 
 pressed himself well in such a verse of the Iliad; whether such a 
 line in Virgil should be understood this or that way,—in a word, 
 all his conversation is with these and other ancient poets, such as 
 Horace, Persius, Juvenal, and Tibullus; for the modern Spanish 
 authors he holds in no esteem. At the same time, in spite of the 
 contempt he seems to have for Spanish poetry, his thoughts are at 
 this time entirely engrossed by a paraphrase on four verses sent him 
 from Salamanca, and which, I believe, is intended for a scholastic 
 prize.” 
 
 **Children, my good sir,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘are the flesh 
 and blood of their parents, and, whether good or bad, must be loved 
 and cherished as part of themselves. It is the duty of parents to 
 train them up from their infancy in the paths of virtue and good 
 manners, and in Christian discipline, so that they may become the 
 staff of their age and an honour to their posterity. As to forcin 
 them to this or that pursuit, I do not hold it to be right, though i 
 think there is a propriety in advising them; and when the student 
 is so fortunate as to have an inheritance, and therefore not com- 
 pelled to study for his subsistence, I should be for indulging him in 
 the pursuit of that science to which his genius is most inclined ; and 
 although that of poetry be less useful than delightful, it does not 
 usually reflect disgrace on its votaries. Poetry I regard as a tender 
 virgin, young and extremely beautiful, whom divers other virgins— 
 namely, all the other sciences—are assiduous to enrich, to polish, 
 and adorn. She is to be served by them, and they are to be en- 
 nobled through her. But this same virgin is not to be rudely 
 handled, nor dragged through the streets, nor exposed in the 
 market place, nor posted on the corners of gates of palaces. She is 
 of so exquisite a nature that he who knows how to treat her will 
 convert her into gold of the most inestimable value. He who pos- 
 sesses her should guard her with vigilance, neither suffering her to 
 be polluted, nor to be degraded by dull and frivolous works. A1- 
 though she must be in no wise venal, she is not, therefore, to de- 
 spise the fair reward of honourable labours, either in heroic or 
 dramatic composition. Buffoons must not come near her, neither 
 must she be approached by the ignorant vulgar, who have no sense 
 of her charms ; and this term is equally applicable to all ranks; for 
 whoever is ignorant is vulgar. He, therefore, who, with the quali- 
 fications I have named, devotes himself to poetry, will be honoured 
 and esteemed by all nations distinguished for intellectual cultivation. 
 
 ? 
 
s HIS RATIONAL DISCOURSE, o61 
 
 ‘‘With regard to your son’s contempt for Spanish poetry, I 
 think he is therein to blame. The great Homer, being a Greek, 
 did not write in Latin, nor did Virgil, who was a Roman, write in 
 Greek. In fact, all the ancient poets wrote in the language of 
 their native country, and did not hunt after foreign tongues to ex- 
 press their own sublime conceptions. This custom, therefore, 
 should prevail among all nations; the German poet should not be 
 undervalued for writing in his own tongue ; nor the Castilian—nor 
 even the Biscayan—for writing the language of his province. But 
 your son, I should imagine, does not dislike the Spanish poetry, 
 but poets who are unacquainted with other languages, and deficient 
 in that knowledge which might enrich, embellish, and invigorate 
 their native powers; although, indeed, it is generally said that the 
 gift of poesy is innate—that is, a poet is born a poet, and thus en- 
 dowed by Heaven, apparently without study or art, composes 
 things which verify the saying, Est deus in nobis, &c. Thus the 
 poet of nature, who improves himself by art, rises far above him 
 who is merely the creature of study; art may improve, but cannot 
 surpass nature ; and therefore it is the union of both which produces 
 the perfect poet. Suffer, then, your son to proceed in the career 
 which the star of his genius points out; for being so good a scholar, 
 and having already happily mounted the first step of the sciences 
 —that of the learned languages—he may, by their aid, attain the 
 summit of literary eminence, which is no less an honour and an 
 ornament to a gentleman, than a mitre to the ecclesiastic, or the 
 long robe to the lawyer. If your son write personal satires, chide 
 him, and tear his performances: but if he write like Horace, re- 
 prehending vice in general, commend him; for it is laudable in a 
 poet to employ his pen in a virtuous cause. Let him direct the 
 shafts of satire against vice, in all its various forms, but not level 
 them at individuals, like some who, rather than not indulge their 
 mischievous wit, will hazard a disgraceful banishment to the Isles 
 of Pontus.* If the poet be correct in his morals, his verse will 
 partake of the same purity ; the pen is the tongue of the mind, and 
 what his conceptions are, such will be his productions. The wise 
 and virtuous subject who is gifted with a poetic genius is ever 
 honoured and enriched by his sovereign, and crowned with the 
 leaves of the tree which the thunderbolt hurts not, as a token that 
 all should respect those brows which are so honourably adorned.” 
 
 Here Don Quixote paused, having by his rational discourse made 
 his companion waver in the opinion he had formed of his insanity. 
 Sancho, in the meantime, not finding the conversation to his taste, 
 had gone a short distance out of the road, to beg a little milk of 
 some shepherds whom he saw milking their ewes: and just as the 
 traveller, highly satisfied with Don Quixote’s ingenuity and good 
 sense, was about to resume the conversation, Don Quixote perceived 
 a cart with royal banners advancing on the same road, and believ- 
 ing it to be something that fell under his jurisdiction, he called 
 aloud to Sancho to bring him his helmet. Sancho immediately 
 
 * Alluding to Ovid. 
 
362 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 left the shepherds, and pricking up Dapple, hastened to his master, 
 who was about to be engaged in a most terrific and stupendous 
 adventure. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 Wherein is set forth the extreme and highest point at which the un- 
 heard-of courage of Don Quixote ever did, or ever could arrive ; 
 with the happy conclusion of the adventure of the lions. 
 
 Little expecting a fresh adventure, Sancho, as the history care- 
 fully relates, was leisurely buying some curds of the shepherd ; and, 
 being summoned in such haste to his master, he knew not what to 
 do with them, nor how to-carry them; so that, to prevent their 
 being wasted, he poured them into the helmet; and satisfied with 
 this excellent device, he hurried away to receive the commands of 
 his lord. ‘‘Sancho,” said the knight, ‘‘ give me my helmet: for 
 either I know little of adventures, or that which I descry yonder 
 is one that will oblige me to have recourse to arms.” He of the 
 green riding-coat, hearing this, looked on all sides, and could see > 
 nothing but a cart coming towards them, with two or three small 
 flags, by which he thought it probable that it was conveying some 
 of the king’s money. He mentioned his conjecture to Don Quixote ; 
 but he heeded him not—his imagination was too much possessed 
 by adventures, and his only reply was, ‘‘ Fore-warned, fore-armed ; 
 to be prepared is half the victory. I know by experience that I 
 have enemies both visible and invisible, and I know not when, nor 
 from what quarter, nor at what time, nor in what shape, they may 
 attack me.” He then took his helmet from Sancho’s hand before 
 he had discharged the curds, and without observing its contents, 
 clapped it hastily upon his head. The curds being squeezed and 
 
 ressed, the whey began to run down the face and beard of the 
 
 night, to his great consternation. ‘‘ What can this mean, Sancho?” 
 said he; ‘‘methinks my skull is softening, or my brains melting, 
 or I sweat from head to foot! If so, it is certainly not through 
 fear, though I verily believe that this will prove a terrible adven- 
 ture. Give me something to wipe myself, Sancho; for this copious 
 sweat blinds me.” Sancho said nothing, but gave him a cloth; at 
 the same time thanking Heaven that his master had not found out 
 the truth. Don Quixote wiped himself, and took off his helmet to 
 see what it was, so cool to his head: and, observing some white 
 lumps in it, he put them to his nose, and smelling them, ‘‘ By the 
 lady of my soul,” he exclaimed, ‘‘ these are curds which thou hast 
 put here, thou base unmannerly squire!” Sancho replied with 
 much coolness and cunning, ‘‘If they are curds, sir, give them to 
 me and [ will eat them—no, now [ think of it, I won’t. What! I 
 offer to foul your worship’s helmet! LEgad! it seems as if I had 
 my enchanters too, who persecute me as a creature and member of 
 your worship, and have put that filthiness there to provoke your 
 
THE ADVENTURE WITH THE LIONS. 863 
 
 wrath against me. But truly this time they have missed their 
 aim; for I trust to my master’s good judgment, who will consider 
 that I have neither curds, nor cream, nor anything like it; and 
 that if I had, I should sooner have put them into my stomach than 
 into your worship’s helmet.” ‘‘ Well,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ there 
 may be something in that.’”” The gentleman, who had been observ- 
 ing all that had passed, was astonished; and still more so at what 
 followed ; for Don Quixote, after having wiped his head, face, beard, 
 and helmet, again put it on, and fixing himself firm in his stirrups, 
 adjusting his sword, and grasping his lance, he exclaimed, ‘‘ Now, 
 come what may, I am prepared to encounter Satan himself!” 
 They were soon overtaken by the cart with flags, which was at- 
 tended only by the driver, who rode upon one of the mules, and a 
 man sitting upon the fore part of it. Don Quixote planted himself 
 just before them, and said, ‘‘ Whither go ye, brethren? What 
 carriage is this? What does it contain, and what are those banners?” 
 ‘‘ The cart is mine,’ answered the carter, ‘‘ and in it are two fierce 
 lions, which the general of Oran is sending to court as a present to 
 his majesty; the flags belong to our liege the king, to show that 
 what is in the cart belongs to him.” ‘‘ And are the lions large?” 
 demanded Don Quixote. ‘‘ Larger never came from Africa to Spain,” 
 said the man on the front of the cart; ‘‘I am their keeper, and 
 in my time have had charge of many lions, but never of any so 
 large as these. They are a male and a female; the male is in the 
 first cage, and the female is in that behind. Not having eaten to- 
 day, they are now hungry; and therefore, sir, stand aside, for we 
 must make haste to the place where they are to be fed.” ‘‘What!” 
 said Don Quixote, with a scornful smile, ‘‘ Lion-whelps against 
 me! Against me, your puny monsters! and at this time of day! 
 By yon blessed sun! those who sent them hither shall see whether 
 I-am aman to be scared by lions. Alight, honest friend! and, 
 since you are their keeper, open the cages and turn out your 
 savages of the desert: for in the midst of this field will I make 
 them know who Don Quixote de la Mancha is, in spite of the en- 
 chanters that sent them hither to me.” ‘‘So, so,” quoth the 
 gentleman to himself, ‘‘our good knight has now given us a speci- 
 men of what he is; doubtless the curds have softened his skull, 
 and made his brains mellow.” Sancho now coming up to him, 
 ‘For Heaven’s sake, sir,” cried he, ‘‘hinder my master from med- 
 dling with these lions ; for if he does, they will tear us all to pieces.” 
 ‘‘ What, then, is your master so mad,” answered the gentleman, 
 ‘‘that you really fear he will attack such fierce animals?” ‘‘ Heis 
 not mad,” answered Sancho, ‘‘but daring.” ‘‘I will make him 
 desist,” replied the gentleman; and going up to Don Quixote, who 
 was importuning the keeper to open the cages, ‘‘ Sir,” said_he, 
 ‘‘knights-errant should engage in adventures, that at least afford 
 some prospect of success, and not such as are altogether desperate ; 
 for the valour which borders on temerity has in it more of madness 
 than courage. Besides, sir knight, these lions do not come to 
 assail you: they are going to be presented to his majesty ; and it 
 is, therefore, improper to detain them, or retard their journey.” 
 
864 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ‘‘Sweet sir,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ go hence, and mind your 
 
 decoy partridge and your stout ferret, and leave every one to his 
 functions. This is mine, and I shall see whether these gentlemen 
 lions will come against me or not.” Then, turning to the keeper, 
 he said, ‘‘ I vow to Heaven, Don Rascal, if thou dost not instantly 
 open the cages, with this lance I will pin thee to the cart.” The 
 carter, seeing that the armed lunatic was resolute, ‘‘ Good sir,” said 
 he, ‘‘for charity’s sake, be pleased to let me take off my mules, 
 and get with them out of danger, before the lions are let loose: for 
 should my cattle be killed, [ am undone for ever, as I have no 
 other means of living than by this cart and these mules.” ‘‘ In- 
 credulous wretch!” cried Don Quixote, ‘‘unyoke and do as thou 
 wilt; but thou shalt soon see that thy trouble might have been 
 spared.” 
 
 The carter alighted and unyoked in great haste. The keeper 
 then said aloud, ‘‘ Bear witness, all here present, that against my 
 will, and by compulsion, I open the cages and let the lions loose. 
 I protest against what this gentleman is doing, and declare all the 
 mischief done by these beasts shall be placed to his account, with 
 my salary and perquisites over and above. Pray, gentlemen, take 
 care of yourselves. before I open the door; as to myself, [am sure 
 they will do me no hurt.” Again the gentleman pressed Don 
 Quixote to desist from so mad an action; declaring to him that he 
 was thereby provoking God’s wrath. Don Quixote replied that he 
 knew what he was doing. The gentleman rejoined, and entreated 
 him to consider well of it, for he was certainly deceived. ‘‘ Nay, 
 sir,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘if you will not be a spectator of what 
 you think will prove a tragedy, spur your flea-bitten, and save 
 yourself.” Sancho, too, besought him, with tears in his eyes, to 
 desist from an enterprise compared with which that of the wind- 
 mills, the dreadful one of the fulling-mills, and, in short, all the 
 exploits he had performed in the whole course of his life, were mere 
 tarts and cheesecakes. ‘‘ Consider, sir,” added Sancho, ‘‘here is 
 no enchantment, nor anything like it; for I saw, through the 
 grates and chinks of the cage, the paw of a true lion; and I guess, 
 by the size of its claw, that it is bigger than a mountain.” ‘Thy 
 fears,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘would make it appear to thee larger 
 than half the world. Retire, Sancho, and leave me; and if I 
 perish here, thou knowest our old agreement: repair to Dulcinea— 
 I say no more.” To these he added other expressions, which 
 showed the firmness of his purpose, and that all argument would 
 be fruitless. The gentleman would fain have compelled him to 
 desist, but thought himself unequally matched in weapons and 
 armour, and that it would not be prudent to engage with a mad- 
 man, whose violence and menaces against the keeper were now 
 redoubled; the gentleman therefore spurred his mare, Sancho his 
 -Dapple, and the carter his mules, and all endeavoured to get as far 
 off as possible from the cart, before the lions were let loose. 
 Sancho bewailed the death of his master; verily believing it would 
 now overtake him between the paws of the lions; he cursed his 
 hard fortune, and the unlucky hour when he again entered into his 
 
THE ADVENTURE WITH THE LIONS. 365 
 
 service. But, notwithstanding his tears and lamentations, he kept 
 urging on his Dapple to get far enough from the cart, The keeper, 
 seeing that the fugitives were at a good distance, repeated his 
 arguments and entreaties, but to no purpose ; Don Quixote answered 
 that he heard him, and desired he would trouble himself no more, 
 but immediately obey his commands, and open the door. 
 
 Whilst the keeper was unbarring the first gate, Don Quixote 
 deliberated within himself whether it would be best to engage on 
 horseback or not; and finally determined it should be on foot, as 
 Rozinante might be terrified at the sight of the lions. He there- 
 fore leaped from his horse, flung aside his lance, braced on his 
 shield, and drew his sword; then slowly advancing, with marvel- 
 lous intrepidity, and an undaunted heart, he planted himself before 
 the lion’s cage, devoutly commending himself first to God, and 
 then to his mistress Dulcinea. 
 
 Here the author of this faithful history breaks out into the 
 following exclamation:—‘‘O most magnanimous, potent, and, 
 beyond all expression, courageous Don Quixote de la Mancha! 
 Thou mirror of heroes, and grand exemplar of valour! Thou new 
 and second Don Manuel de Leon—the glory and pride of Spanish 
 knights! In what words shall I describe this tremendous exploit— 
 how render it credible to succeeding ages? What praise or panegyric 
 can be imagined, though above all hyperboles hyperbolical, that does 
 not belong to thee? Thou who, alone, firm, fearless, and intrepid, 
 armed with a single sword, and that none of the sharpest, defended 
 with a single shield, and that neither broad nor bright, stoodest 
 expecting and braving two of the fiercest lions that ever roared in 
 Libyan desert! But let thine own unrivalled deeds speak thy 
 pene, valorous Manchegan! for I have no words equal to the 
 ofty theme.”” Here the author ends his exclamation, and resumes 
 the thread of the history. 
 
 The keeper seeing Don Quixote fixed in his posture, and that he 
 could not avoid letting loose the lion without incurring the resent- 
 ment of the angry and daring knight, set wide open the door of 
 the first cage, where the monster lay, which appeared to be of an 
 extraordinary size, and of a hideous and frightful aspect. The 
 first thing the creature did was to turn himself round in the cage, 
 reach out a paw, and stretch himself at full length. Then he 
 opened his mouth and yawned very leisurely; after which he 
 threw out some half yard of tongue, wherewith he licked and 
 washed his face. This done, he thrust his head out of the cage, 
 and stared round on all sides with eyes like red-hot coals; a sight 
 to have struck temerity itself with terror! Don Quixote observed 
 him with fixed attention, impatient for him to leap out of his den, 
 that he might grapple with him and tear him to pieces; to sucha 
 height of extravagance wasthe transported by his unheard-of frenzy. 
 But the generous lion, more gentle than arrogant, taking no notice ~ 
 of his vapouring and brayadoes, after having stared about him, 
 turned himself round, and, calmly and quietly, laid himself down in 
 the cage. Upon which Don Quixote ordered the keeper to give him 
 some blows, and provoke him to come forth. ‘‘ That I will not do,” 
 
866 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 answered the keeper, ‘‘for, should I provoke him, I shall 
 be the first whom he will tear to pieces. Be satisfied, signor 
 cavalier, with what is done, which is everything in point of 
 courage, and do not tempt fortune a second time. The lion has the 
 door open to him, and the liberty to come forth; and since he has 
 not yet done so, he will not come out to-day. The greatness of 
 your worship’s courage is already sufficiently shown; no brave 
 combatant, as I take it, is bound to do more than to challenge his 
 foe, and wait his coming in the field; and if the antagonist does 
 not meet him, the disgrace falls on him, while the challenger is 
 entitled to the crown of victory.” ‘‘ That is true,” answered Don 
 Quixote; ‘‘shut the door, and give me a certificate, in the best 
 form you can, of what you have here seen me perform. It should 
 be known that you opened the door to the lion; that I waited 
 
 for him; that he came not out; again I waited for him; again 
 
 he came not out; and again he laid himself down. I am bound 
 to do no more—enchantments avaunt! So Heaven prosper right 
 and justice, and true chivalry! Shut the door, as I told thee, 
 while I make a signal to the fugitive and absent, that from 
 your own mouth they may have an account of this exploit.” 
 
 The keeper closed the door, and Don Quixote having fixed the 
 Jinen cloth with which he had wiped the curds from his face upon 
 the point of his lance, began to hail the troop in the distance, who, 
 with the gentleman in green at their head, were still retiring, but 
 looking round at every step, when suddenly, Sancho observed the 
 signal of the white cloth. ‘‘May I be hanged,” cried he, ‘‘if my 
 master has not vanquished the wild beasts, for he is calling to us!” 
 They all stopped, and saw that it was Don Quixote that had made 
 the sign; and, their fear in some degree abating, they ventured to 
 return slowly, till they could distinctly hear the words of Don 
 Quixote, who continued calling to them. When they had reached the 
 cart again, Don Quixote said to the driver, ‘‘ Now, friend, put on 
 your mules again, and in Heaven’s name proceed; and Sancho, 
 give two crowns to him and the keeper, to make them amends for. 
 this delay.” ‘‘'That I will, with all my heart,” answered Sancho ; 
 ‘‘ but what is become of the lions? are they dead or alive?” The 
 keeper then very minutely, and with due pauses, gave an account 
 of the conflict, enlarging, to the best of his skill, on the valour of 
 Don Quixote, at sight of whom the daunted lion would not, or 
 durst not, stir out of the cage, though he had held open the door 
 a good while; and, upon his representing to the knight that it was 
 tempting God to provoke the lion, and to force him out, he had at 
 length, very reluctantly, permitted him to close it again. ‘‘ What 
 sayest thou to this, Sancho?” said Don Quixote: ‘‘ can any enchant- 
 ment prevail against true courage? Enchanters may, indeed, de- 
 prive me of good fortune; but of courage and resolution they never 
 can.” Sancho gave the gold crowns ; the carter yoked his mules; 
 the keeper thanked Don Quixote for his present, and promised to 
 relate this valorous exploit to the king himself, when he arrived 
 at court. ‘If, perchance, his majesty,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ should 
 inquire who performed it, tell him the Knight of the Lions: for 
 
~ 
 
 THE KNIGHT OF THE LIONS. 367 
 
 henceforward I resolve that the title I have hitherto borne, of the 
 Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, shall be thus changed, converted, 
 and altered: and herein I follow the ancient pract.ce of knights- 
 errant, who changed their names at pleasure.” 
 
 The cart now went forward, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and Don 
 Diego de Miranda (which was the name of the traveller in green) 
 pursued their way. This gentleman had not spoken a word for 
 some time, his attention having been totally engrossed by the sin- 
 gular conduct and language of Don Quixote, whom he accounted a 
 sensible madman, or one whose madness was mingled with good 
 sense. He had never seen the first part of our knight’s history, or 
 he would have felt less astonishment at what he had witnessed ; 
 but now he knew not what to think, seeing him, in his conversation, 
 so intelligent and sensible, and in his actions so foolish, wild, and 
 extravagant. ‘‘ What,” thought he, ‘‘ could be more absurd than 
 to put a helmet full of curds upon his head, and then believe that 
 enchanters had softened his skull? Or what could equal his ex- 
 travagance in seeking a contest with lions?” 
 
 Don Quixote interrupted these reflections by saying, ‘‘ Doubtless, 
 signor, you set me down as extravagant and mad; and no wonder 
 if such should be your thoughts, for my actions indicate no less: 
 Nevertheless, I would have you know that I am not quite so irra- 
 tional as I possibly may appear to you. Itis a gallant sight to 
 see a cavalier in shining armour, prancing over the lists, at some 
 gay tournament, in sight of the ladies; itis a gallant sight when, 
 in the middle of a spacious square, a brave cavalier, before the eyes 
 of his prince, transfixes, with his lance, a furious bull; and a gal- 
 lant show do all those knights make who, in military or other ex- 
 ercises, entertain, enliven, and do honour to their prince’s court ; 
 but far above all these is the knight-errant who, through deserts 
 and solitudes, through crossways, through woods, and over moun- 
 tains, goes in quest of perilous adventures, which he undertakes 
 and accomplishes, only to obtain a glorious and immortal fame. 
 It is a nobler sight, I say, to behold a knight-errant in the act of 
 succouring a widow in some desert, than a courtier-knight compli- 
 menting a damsel in the city. All knights have their peculiar 
 functions. Let the courtier serve the ladies, adorn his prince’s 
 court with rich liveries, entertain the poorer cavaliers at his 
 splendid table, order jousts, manage tournaments, and show him- 
 self great, liberal, and magnificent, above all, a good Christian, and 
 thus will he fulfil his duties; but let the knight-errant search the 
 remotest corners of the world; enter the most intricate labyrinths ; 
 assail, at every step, impossibilities ; brave, in wild uncultivated 
 deserts, the burning rays of the summer sun and the keen incle- 
 mency of the winter’s wind and frost; let not lions daunt him, nor 
 spectres affright, nor dragons terrify him; for to seek, to attack, to 
 conquer them all, is hisparticular duty. Therefore, sir, as it has fallen 
 to my lot to be one of the number of knights-errant, I cannot de- 
 cline undertaking whatever seems to me to come within my depart- 
 ment; which was obviously the case in regard to the lions, 
 although, at the same time, I know it to be the excess of temerity. 
 
368 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Well I know that fortitude is a virtue placed between the two ex- 
 tremes of cowardice and rashness: but it is better the valiant should 
 rise to the extreme of temerity than sink to that of cowardice ; for, 
 as it is easier for the prodigal than the miser to become liberal, so 
 it is much easier for the rash than the cowardly to become truly 
 brave. In enterprises of every kind, believe me, Signor Don 
 Diego, it is better to lose the game by a card too much than one 
 too little; for it sounds better to be called rash and daring than 
 timorous and cowardly.” 
 
 ‘* All that you have said and done, Signor Don Quixote,” an- 
 swered Don Diego, ‘‘is levelled by the line of right reason; and I 
 think if the laws and ordinances of knight-errantry should be lost, 
 they might be found in your worship’s breast, as their proper de- 
 pository and register. But, as it grows late, let us quicken our 
 pace, and we shall soon reach my habitation, where you may re- 
 pose yourself after your late toil, which, if not of the body, must 
 have been a labour of the mind.” ‘‘I accept your kind offer with 
 thanks,” said the knight; then, proceeding a little faster than be- 
 fore, they reached, about two o’clock in the afternoon, the mansion 
 of Don Diego, whom Don Quixote called the Knight of the Green 
 Riding Coat. 
 
 Hook Second, 
 CH OA.P. TERE ge XtVal dale 
 
 Of what befell Don Quixote in the castle, or house, of the knight of the 
 green riding-coat; with other extraordinary matters. 
 
 Don Quixote, on approaching Don Diego’s house, observed it to 
 be a spacious mansion, having, after the country fashion, the arms 
 of the family roughly carved in stone over the great gates, the 
 buttery in the court-yard, the cellar under the porch, and likewise 
 several earthen wine-jars placed around it, which, being of the 
 ware of Toboso, recalled to his memory his enchanted and meta- 
 morphosed Dulcinea ; whereupon, sighing deeply, he broke out into 
 the following exclamation :— 
 
 ‘*O pledges, once my comfort and retief, 
 Though pleasing still, discovered now with grief ! 
 
 O ye Tobosian jars, that bring back to my remembrance the sweet 
 pledge of my most bitter sorrow!” This was overheard by the 
 poetical scholar, Don Diego’s son; he having, with his mother, 
 come out to receive him; and both mother and son were nota little 
 astonished at the appearance of their guest, who, alighting from 
 Rozinante, very courteously desired leave to kiss the lady’s hands. 
 
DON DIEGO’S HOUSEHOLD. 369 
 
 ‘* Madam,” said Don Diego, ‘‘ this gentleman is Don Quixote de la 
 Mancha, the wisest and most valiant knight-errant in the world ; 
 receive him, I pray, with your accustomed hospitality.” The lady, 
 whose name was Donna Christina, welcomed him with much kind- 
 ness and courtesy, which Don Quixote returned in expressions of 
 the utmost politeness. The same kind of compliments passed be- 
 tween him and the student, with whom Don Quixote was much 
 pleased, judging him, by his conversation, to be a young man of 
 wit and good sense. . 
 
 Here the original author gives a particular account of Don Diego’s 
 house, describing all that is usually contained in the mansion of a 
 wealthy country gentleman; but the translator of the history 
 thought fit to pass over in silence these minute matters, as incon- 
 sistent with the general tenor of the work, which, while it carefully 
 admits whatever is essential to truth, rejects all uninteresting and 
 superfluous details. 
 
 Don Quixote was led into a hall, and Sancho having unarmed 
 him, he remained in his wide Walloon breeches, and in a chamois 
 doublet, stained all over with the rust of his armour; his band was 
 of the college cut, unstarched, and without lace: his buskins were 
 date-coloured, and his shoes waxed. He girt on his trusty sword, 
 which was hung at a belt made of a sea-wolf’s skin, on account of 
 a weakness he was said to have been troubled with in his loins; 
 and over the whole he wore a cloak of good grey cloth. But first 
 of all, with five or six kettles of water (for there are doubts as to 
 the exact number) he washed his head and face. The water still 
 continued of a whey colour—thanks to Sancho’s gluttony, and his 
 foul curds, that had so defiled his master’s visage. Thus accoutred, 
 with a graceful and gallant air, Don Quixote walked into another 
 hall, where the student was waiting to entertain him till the table 
 was prepared; for the lady Donna Christina wished to show her 
 noble guest that she knew how to regale such visitors. 
 
 While the knight was unarming, Don Lorenzo (for that was the 
 name of Don Diego’s son) had taken an opportunity to question his 
 father concerning him. ‘‘ Pray, sir,” said he, ‘‘ who is this gentle- 
 man? for my mother and I are completely puzzled both by his 
 strange figure and the title you give him.” ‘‘I scarcely know how 
 to answer you, son,” replied Don Diego; ‘‘and can only say, that 
 from what I have witnessed, his tongue belies his actions; for he 
 converses like a man of sense, and acts like an outrageous madman. 
 Talk you to him, and feel the pulse of his understanding, and exer- 
 cise all the discernment you possess, to ascertain the real state of 
 his intellects; for my part, I suspect them to be rather in a dis- 
 tracted condition.” 
 
 Don Lorenzo accordingly addressed himself to Don Quixote ; and, 
 among other things, in the course of their conversation, Don Quixote 
 said to Don Lorenzo, ‘‘ Signor Don Diego de Miranda, your father, 
 sir, has informed me of the rare talents you possess, and particularly, 
 that you are a great poet.” ‘Certainly not a great poet,” replied 
 Lorenzo: ‘it is true I am fond of poetry, and honour the works of 
 good poets; but have no claim to the title my father is pleased to 
 
 2A 
 
870 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 confer upon me.” ‘‘I do not dislike this modesty,” answered Don 
 Quixote ; ‘‘ for poets are usually very arrogant, each thinking him- 
 self the greatest in the world.” ‘‘ There is no rule without an ex- 
 ception,” answered Don Lorenzo ; ‘‘ and surely there may be some 
 who do not appear too conscious of their real merits.” ‘‘ Very few, 
 I believe,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘ but I pray, sir, tell me what verses 
 are those you have now in hand, which your father says engross 
 your thoughts; for if they be some gloss or paraphrase, I should 
 be glad to see them, as I know something of that kind of writing. 
 If they are intended for a poetical prize, I would advise you to en- 
 deavour to obtain the second. ‘The first is always determined by 
 favour, or the high rank of the candidate ; but the second is bestowed 
 according to merit: so that the third becomes the second, and the 
 first no more than the third, according to the usual practice in our 
 universities. The first, however, I confess, makes a figure in the 
 list of honours.” ‘‘ Hitherto,” said Don Lorenzo to himself, ‘I 
 have no reason to judge thee to be mad ;—but let us proceed. I 
 presume, sir,” said he, ‘‘ you have frequented the schools ;—what 
 science, pray, has been your particular study?” ‘‘ That of knight- 
 errantry,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ which is equal to poetry, and 
 even somewhat beyond it.” ‘‘I am ignorant what science that is,” 
 replied Don Lorenzo, ‘‘ never having heard of it before.” ‘‘ It is a 
 science,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘ which comprehends all, or most 
 of the other sciences; for he who professes it must be learned in 
 the law, and understand distributive and commutative justice, that 
 he may know not only how to assign to each man what is truly his 
 own, but what is proper for him to possess; he must be conversant 
 in divinity, in order to be able to explain, clearly and distinctly, 
 the Christian faith which he professes; he must be skilled in medi- 
 cine, especially in botany, that he may know both how to cure the 
 diseases with which he may be afflicted, and collect the various 
 remedies which Providence has scattered in the midst of the 
 wilderness, nor be compelled on every emergency to be run- 
 ning in quest of a physician to heal him ; he must be an astron- 
 omer, that he may, if necessary, ascertain by the stars the 
 exact hour of the night, and what part or climate of the world he 
 is in; he must understand mathematics, because he will have oc- 
 casion for them; and, taking it for granted that he must be adorned 
 with all the cardinal and theological virtues, I descend to other 
 more minute particulars, and say that he must know how to swim 
 as well as it 1s reported of Fish Nicholas ;* he must know how to 
 shoe a horse and repair his saddle and bridle; and to return to 
 higher concerns, he must preserve his faith inviolable towards 
 Heaven, and also to his mistress ; he must be chaste in his thoughts, 
 modest in his words, liberal in good works, valiant in exploits, 
 patient in toils, charitable to the needy, and steadfastly adhering to 
 the truth, even at the hazard of his life. Of all these great and 
 
 * A Sicilian, native of Catania, who lived in the latter part of the sixteenth cén- 
 tury. He was commonly cal ed Pesce-cola, or the Fish-Nicholas, and is said to 
 have lived so much in the water, from his infancy, that he could cleave the waves in 
 the midst of a storm like a marine animal. 
 
HIS FAVOURITE THEME. 371 
 
 small parts, a good knight-errant is composed. Consider, then, 
 Signor Don Lorenzo, whether the student of knight-errantry hath 
 an easy task to accomplish, and whether such a science may not 
 rank with the noblest that are taught in the schools.” ‘‘If your 
 description be just, I maintain that it is superior to all others,” re- 
 plied Don Lorenzo. ‘‘ How! if it be just?” cried Don Quixote. 
 ‘¢What I mean, sir,” said Don Lorenzo, ‘‘is, that I question 
 whether knights-errant do, or ever did, exist ; and especially adorned 
 with so many virtues.” ‘‘ How many are there in the world,” ex- 
 claimed the knight, ‘‘ who entertain such doubts; and I verily be- 
 lieve, that unless Heaven would vouchsafe, by some miracle, to 
 convince them, every exertion of mine to that end would be fruit- 
 less! I shall not, therefore, waste time in useless endeavours, but 
 will pray Heaven to enlighten you, and lead you to know how 
 useful and necessary knight-errantry was in times past, and how 
 beneficial it would be now were it restored—yes, now, in these sin- 
 ful times, when sloth, idleness, gluttony, and luxury triumph.” 
 ‘Our guest has broke loose,” quoth Don Lorenzo to himself ; 
 ‘* still, it must be acknowledged he is a most extraordinary mad- 
 man.” 
 
 Their conversation was now interrupted, as they were summoned 
 to the dining-hall; but Don Diego took an opportunity of asking his 
 son what opinion he had formed of his guest. ‘‘ His madness, sir, 
 is beyond the reach of all the doctors in the world,” replied Don Lo- 
 renzo ; ‘‘ yet it is full of lucid intervals.”” They now sat down to the 
 repast, which was such as Don Diego had said he usually gave to 
 his visitors; neat, plentiful, and savoury. Don Quixote was, more- 
 over, particularly pleased with the marvellous silence that pre- 
 vailed throughout the whole house, as if it had been a convent of 
 Carthusians. 
 
 The cloth being taken away, grace said, and their hands washeé_ 
 Don Quixote earnestly entreated Don Lorenzo to repeat the verses 
 which he intended for the prize. ‘‘ I will do as you desire,” replied 
 he, ‘‘that I may not seem like those poets, who, when entreated, 
 refuse to produce their verses; but, if unasked, often enforce them 
 upon unwilling hearers; mine, however, were not written with any 
 view to obtain a prize, but simply as an exercise.” ‘‘ It is the opin- 
 ion of an ingenious friend of mine,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ that these 
 kinds of composition are not worth the trouble they require ; because 
 the paraphrase can never equal the text ; they seldom exactly agree 
 in sense, and often deviate widely. He says that the rules for this 
 species of poetry are much too strict: suffering no interrogations, 
 nor such expressions as ‘said he,’ ‘I skall say,’ and the like; nor 
 changing verbs into nouns, nor altering the sense; with other re- 
 strictions, which, you well know, confine the writer.” ‘‘ Truly, 
 Signor Don Quixote,” said Don Lorenzo, ‘‘I would fain catch your 
 worship tripping in some false Latin, but I cannot; for you slide 
 through my fingers like an eel.” ‘‘I do not comprehend your mean- 
 ing,” said Don Quixote. ‘‘I will explain myself another time,” 
 replied Don Lorenzo, ‘‘and will now recite the text and its com- 
 ment.” 
 
872 
 
 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTH. 
 
 THE TEXT, 
 
 Could I recall departed joy, @ 
 Though barred the hopes of greater gain, 
 Or now the future hours employ 
 That must succeed my present pain. 
 
 THE PARAPHRASE. 
 
 All fortune’s blessings disappear, 
 She’s fickle as the wind ; 
 And now I find her as severe 
 As once I thought her kind. 
 How soon the fleeting pleasures passed ! 
 How long the lingering sorrows last ! 
 Unconstant goddess, in thy haste, 
 Do not thy prostrate slave destroy ; 
 I'd ne’er complain, but bless my fate, 
 Could I recall departed joy. 
 
 Of all thy gifts I beg but this ; 
 Glut all mankind with more, 
 Transport them with redoubled bliss, 
 But only mine restore. 
 With thought of pleasure once possessed, 
 I’m now as curs’t as I was blessed : 
 Oh, would the charming hours return, 
 How pleas’d I'd live, how free from pain ; 
 I ne’er would pine, I ne’er would mourn, 
 Though barred the hopes of greater gain. 
 
 -But oh, the blessing I implore 
 
 Not fate itself can give! 
 Since time elapsed exists no more, 
 No power can bid it live. 
 Our days soon vanish into nought, 
 And have no being but in thought. 
 Whate’er began must end at last, 
 In vain we twice would youth enjoy, 
 In vain would we recall the past, 
 Or now the future hours employ. 
 
 Deceived by hope, and racked by fear, 
 No longer life can please ; 
 
 I'll then no more its torments bear, 
 Since death so soon can ease, 
 
 This hour I’ll die—but, let me pause— 
 
 A rising doubt my courage awes, 
 Assist, ye powers that rule my fate, 
 
 Alarm my thoughts, my rage restrain, 
 Convince my soul there’s yet a state 
 
 That must succeed my present pain. 
 
% 
 THE KNIGHT’S ECSTACY. 878 
 
 As goon as Don Lorenzo had recited his verses, Don Quixote 
 started up, and grasping him by the hand, exclaimed in a loud 
 voice, ‘‘ By Heaven, noble youth, there is not a better poet in the 
 universe, and you deserve to wear the laurel, not of Cyprus, nor of 
 Gaéta, as a certain poet said, whom Heaven forgive, but of the 
 universities of Athens, did they now exist, and those of Paris, Bo- 
 logna, and Salamanca! If the judges deprive you of the first prize, 
 may they be transfixed by the arrows of Apollo, and may the Muses 
 never cross the threshold of their doors! Be pleased, sir, to repeat 
 some other of your more lofty verses; for I would fain have a 
 further taste of your admirable genius.” 
 
 How diverting that the young poet. should be gratified by the 
 praises of one whom he believed to be a madman! O flattery, how 
 potent is thy sway! how wide are the bounds of thy pleasing juris- 
 diction! ‘This was verified in Don Lorenzo, who, yielding to the 
 request of Don Quixote, repeated the following sonnet on the story 
 of Pyramus and Thisbe :— 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 The nymph who Pyramus with love inspired 
 Pierces the wall, with equal passion fired : 
 Cupid, from distant Cyprus thither flies, 
 
 And views the secret breach with laughing eyes. 
 
 Here silence, vocal, mutual vows conveys, 
 
 And, whisp’ring eloquent, their love betrays: 
 Though chained by fear, their voices dare not pass, 
 Their souls, transmitted through the chink, embrace. 
 
 Ah, woeful story of disastrous love! 
 
 Ill-fated haste that did their ruin prove! 
 
 One death, one grave, unite the faithful pair, 
 And in one common fame their mem’ries share. 
 
 ‘*Now Heaven be thanked,” exclaimed Don Quixote, ‘‘ that, 
 among the infinite number of rhymers now in being, I have at last 
 met with one who is truly a poet, which you, sir, have proved 
 yourself by the composition of that sonnet.” 
 
 Four days was Don Quixote nobly regaled in Don Diego’s house ; 
 at the end of which he begged leave to depart, expressing his 
 thanks for the generous hospitality he had experienced; but as in- 
 activity and repose, he said, were unbecoming knights errant, the 
 duties of his function required him to proceed in quest of adven- 
 tures, which he was told might be expected in abundance in those 
 parts, and sufficient to occupy him until the time fixed for the 
 tournament of Saragossa, where it was his intention to be present, 
 Previously, however, he meant to visit the cave of Montesinos, 
 concerning which so many extraordinary things were reported, and 
 at the same time to discover, if possible, the true souree of the 
 seven lakes, commonly called the lakes of Ruydera. Don Diego 
 and his son applauded his honourable resolution, desiring him to 
 
 - 
 
874 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 furnish himself with whatever their house afforded for his accom- 
 modation, since his personal merit and noble profession justly 
 claimed their services. 
 
 At length the day of his departure came—a day of joy to Don 
 Quixote, but of sorrow to Sancho Panza, who was too sensible of 
 the comforts and abundance that reigned in Don Diego’s house not to 
 feel great unwillingness to return to the hunger of forests and wil- 
 dernesses, and to the misery of ill-provided wallets. However, 
 these he filled and stuffed with what he thought most necessary ; 
 and Don Quixote, on taking leave of Don Lorenzo, said, ‘‘ I know 
 not whether [ have mentioned it to you before, but if I have, I re- 
 peat it, that whenever you. may feel disposed to shorten your way 
 up the rugged steep that leads to the temple of fame, you have 
 only to turn aside from the narrow path of poetry, and follow the 
 still narrower one of knight-errantry, which may, nevertheless, 
 raise you in a trice to imperial dignity.” With these expressions 
 Don Quixote completed, as it were, the evidence of his madness, 
 especially when he added, ‘‘ Heaven knows how willingly I would 
 take Signor Don Lorenzo with me to teach him how to spare tke 
 lowly, and trample the oppressor under foot—virtues inseparable 
 from my profession; but since your laudable exercises, as well as 
 your youth, render that impossible, I shall content myself with 
 admonishing you, in order to become eminent as a poet, to be 
 » guided by other men’s opinions rather than your own: for no 
 parents can see the deformity of their own children, and still 
 stronger is this self-deception with respect to the offspring of the 
 mind.” The father and son again wondered at the medley of ex- 
 travagance and good sense which they observed in Don Quixote, 
 and the unfortunate obstinacy with which he persevered in the 
 disastrous pursuit that seemed to occupy his whole soul. After 
 repeating compliments and offers of service, and taking formal 
 leave of the lady of the mansion, the knight and the squire—the 
 one mounted upon Rozinante, the other upon Dapple—quitted 
 their friends and departed. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ' Wherein are related the adventures of the enamoured shepherd, with 
 other truly pleasing incidents. 
 
 Don Quixote had not travelled far, when he overtook two per- 
 sons like ecclesiastics or scholars, accompanied by two country fel- 
 lows, all of whom were mounted upon asses. One of the scholars 
 carried behind him a small bundle of linen and two pair of thread 
 stockings, wrapped up in green buckrum like a portmanteau; the 
 other appeared to have nothing but a pair of new black fencing 
 foils, with their points guarded. The countrymen carried other 
 things which showed that they had been making purchases in some 
 large town, and were returning with them to their own village. 
 
THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD. 375 
 
 But the scholars and the countrymen were astonished, as all others 
 had been, on first seeing Don Quixote, and were curious to know 
 what man this was so different in appearance from other men. 
 Don Quixote saluted them, and hearing they were travelling the 
 same road, he offered to bear them company, begging them to 
 slacken their pace, as their asses went faster than his horse; and, 
 to oblige them, he briefly told tiiem who he was, and that his em- 
 ployment and profession was that of a knight-errant, seeking adven- 
 tures over the world. He told them his proper name was Don 
 Quixote de la Mancha, and his appellative ‘“‘the knight of the 
 lions.” 
 
 All this to the countrymen was Greek or gibberish ; but not so 
 to the scholars, who soon discovered the soft part of Don Quixote’s 
 skull; they nevertheless viewed him with respectful attention, and 
 one of them said, ‘‘If, sir knight, you are not fixed to one 
 particular road, as those in search of adventures seldom are, come 
 with us, and you will see one of the greatest and richest weddings 
 that has ever been celebrated in La Mancha, or for many leagues 
 round.” ‘‘The nuptials of some prince, I presume?” said Don 
 Quixote. ‘‘No,” replied the scholar, ‘‘ only that of a farmer and 
 a country maid; he the wealthiest in this part of the country, and 
 she the most beautiful that eyes ever beheld. The preparations 
 are very uncommon, for the wedding is to be celebrated in a 
 meadow near the village where the bride lives, who is called 
 Quiteria the Fair, and the bridegroom Camacho the Rich; she is 
 about the age of eighteen, and he twenty-two, both equally 
 matched ; though some nice folks, who have all the pedigrees in 
 the world in their head, pretend that the family of Quiteria the 
 Fair has the advantage over that of Camacho; but that is now 
 little regarded, for riches are able to solder up abundance of flaws. 
 In short, this same Camacho is as liberal as a prince; and, 
 intending to be at some cost in this wedding, has taken it into his 
 head to convert a whole meadow into a kind of arbour, shading it 
 so that the sun itself will find some difficulty to visit the green 
 grass beneath. He will also have morris-dances, both with swords 
 and bells; for there are people in the village who jingle and clatter 
 them with great dexterity. As to the number of shoe-clappers * 
 invited, it 1s impossible to count them; but what will give the 
 greatest interest to this wedding is the effect it is expected to have 
 on the slighted Basilius. 
 
 ‘“‘This Basilius is a swain. of the same village as Quiteria; his 
 house is next to that of her parents, and separated only by a wall, 
 whence Cupid took occasion to revive the ancient loves of Pyramus 
 and Thisbe; for Basilius was in love with Quiteria from his child- 
 hood, and she returned his affection with a thousand modest 
 favours, insomuch that the loves of the two children Basilius and 
 Quiteria became the common talk of the village. When they were 
 grown up, the father of Quiteria resolved to forbid Basilius the 
 usual access to his family ; and to relieve himself of all fears on his 
 
 * “ Zapateadores.” Dancers that strike the soles of their shoes with the palms 
 of their hands, in time and measura- 
 
376 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 account, he determined to marry his daughter to the rich Camacho ; 
 not choosing to bestow her on Basilius, whose endowments are less 
 
 
 
 
 
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 Ses AY) 
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 the gifts of fortune than of nature; in truth, he is the most active 
 youth we know—a great pitcher of the bar, an excellent wrestler, 
 a great player at cricket, runs like a buck, leaps like a wild goat, 
 
THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD. SVT 
 
 nd plays at ninepins as if by witchcraft, sings like a lark, and 
 couches a guitar delightfully; and, above all, he handles a sword 
 like the most skilful fencer.” ‘‘ For this accomplishment alone,” 
 said Don Quixote, ‘‘the youth deserves to marry not only the 
 fair Quiteria, but Queen Genebra herself, were she now alive, in 
 spite of Sir Launcelot and all opposers.”” ‘*To my wife with that,” 
 quoth Sancho, who had hitherto been silent and listening; ‘‘ for 
 she will have everybody marry their equal, according to the 
 proverb, ‘ Every sheep to its like.’ I shall take the part, too, of 
 honest Basilius, and would have him marry the lady Quiteria; and 
 Heaven send them good luck and a blessing”— meaning the 
 contrary—‘‘ light on all that would keep true lovers asunder.” 
 ‘* Tf love only were to be considered,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ parents 
 would no longer have the privilege of judiciously matching their 
 children. Were daughters left to choose for themselves, there are 
 those who would prefer their father’s serving-man, or throw them- 
 selves away on some fellow they might chance to see in the street ; 
 mistaking, perhaps, an impostor and swaggering poltroon for a 
 gentleman, since passion too easily blinds the understanding, so 
 indispensably necessary in deciding on that most important point, 
 matrimony, which is peculiarly exposed to the danger of a mistake, 
 and therefore needs all the caution that human prudence can 
 supply, aided by the particular favour of Heaven. A person 
 who proposes to take a long journey, if he is prudent, before he 
 sets forward, will look out for some safe and agreeable companion ; 
 and should not he who undertakes a journey for life use the 
 same precaution, especially as his fellow-traveller is to be his 
 companion at bed and board, and in all other situations? The 
 wife is not a commodity which, when once bought, you can ex- 
 change or return; the marriage bargain, once struck, is irrevoc- 
 able. It is a noose which, once thrown about the neck, turns 
 to a Gordian knot, and cannot be unloosed till cut asunder by 
 the scythe of death. I could say much upon this subject, were 
 I not prevented by my curiosity to hear something more from 
 signor licentiate, concerning the history of Basilius.” 'To which 
 the bachelor—or licentiate, as Don Quixote called him—answered, 
 ‘‘T have nothing to add but that from the moment Basilius 
 heard of the intended marriage of Quiteria to Camacho the Rich, 
 he has never been seen to smile, nor speak coherently; he is 
 always pensive and sad, and talking to himself—a certain and 
 clear proof that he is distracted. He eats nothing but a little 
 fruit ; and if he sleeps, it is in the fields, like cattle upon the 
 hard earth. Sometimes he casts his eyes up to heaven; and 
 then fixes them on the ground, remaining motionless like a statue. 
 In short, he gives such indications of a love-stricken heart, that 
 we all expect that Quiteria’s fatal ‘ Yes’ will be the sentence of 
 his death.” 
 
 ‘* Heaven will order it better,” said Sancho, ‘‘ for God, who gives 
 the wound, sends the cure. Nobody knows what is to come. A 
 great many hours come in between this and to-morrow ; and in one 
 hour, yea, in one minute, down falls the house. I have seen rain 
 
878 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 wud sunshine at the same moment; a man may go to bed well at 
 night, and not be able to stir next morning ; and tell me, who can 
 boast of having driven a nail in fortune’s wheel? Between the 
 Yes and the No of a woman I would not undertake to thrust the 
 point of a pin. Grant me only that Quiteria loves Basilius with all 
 her heart, and I will promise him a bagful of good fortune ; for love, 
 as I have heard say, wears spectacles, through which copper looks 
 like gold, rags like rich apparel, and specks in the eye like pearls.” 
 ‘¢A plague on thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘ what wouldst 
 thou be at? When once thy stringing of proverbs begins, Judas 
 alone—I wish he had thee !—can have patience to the end. Tell 
 me, animal, what knowest thou of nails and wheels, or of anything 
 else?” ‘*O, if Lam not understood,” replied Sancho, ‘‘no wonder 
 that what I say passes for nonsense. But no matter for that—I 
 understand myself; neither have I said many foolish things, only 
 your worship is such a great cricket.” ‘‘Critic—not cricket, fool! 
 thou corrupter of good language,” said the knight. ‘‘Pray, sir, do not 
 be be so sharp upon me,” answered Sancho, ‘‘ for I was not bred at 
 court, nor studied in Salamanca, to know whether my words have 
 a letter short, or one too many. It is unreasonable to expect that 
 beggarly Sayagues * should talk like Toledans—nay, even some of 
 them are not over nicely spoken.” ‘‘ You are in the right, friend,” 
 quoth the licentiate, ‘‘for how should they, who live among the 
 tanyards, or stroll about the market of Zocodover, speak so well ag 
 those who are all day walking up and down the cloisters of the 
 great church? Yet they are all Toledans. Purity, propriety, and 
 elegance of style, will always be found among polite, well-bred, 
 and sensible men, though born in Majalahonda ;—sensible, I say, 
 because, though habit and example do much, good sense is the 
 foundation of good language. I, gentlemen, for my sins, have 
 studied the canon law in Salamanca, and pique myself a little upon 
 expressing myself in clear, plain, and significant terms.” ‘‘If you 
 had not piqued yourself still more upon managing those foils,” 
 said the other scholar, ‘‘ you might by this time have been at the 
 head of your class, whereas now you are at its tail.” 
 
 ‘‘ Look you, bachelor,” answered the licentiate, ‘‘if you fancy 
 dexterity in the use of the sword of no moment, you are grossly 
 mistaken.” ‘‘I do not only fancy so,” replied Corchuelo, ‘‘ but 
 what is more, I am convinced of it, and, if you please, will convince 
 you also by experience ; try your foils against my nerves and 
 bodily strength, and you will soon confess that I am in the right. 
 Alight, and make use of your measured steps, your circles, and 
 angles, and science, yet I hope to make you see the stars at noon- 
 day with my artless and vulgar dexterity; for I trust, under 
 Heaven, that the man is yet unborn who shall make me turn my 
 back, or be able to stand his ground against me.” *‘ As to turning 
 your back, or not, I say nothing,” replied the adept, ‘‘ though it 
 may happen, that in the first spot you fix your foot on, your grave 
 may be opened, were it only for your contempt of skill.” ‘‘We 
 
 * The people about Zamora, the poorest in Spain. 
 
A FURIOUS COMBAT. ‘ 379 
 
 shall see that presently,” answered Corchuelo; and, hastily alight- 
 ing, he snatched one of the foils, which the licentiate carried upon 
 his ass. ‘‘ Hold, gentlemen,” cried Don Quixote at this moment, 
 ‘‘my interposition may be necessary here ; let me be judge of the 
 field, and see that this long-controverted question is decided 
 fairly.” 
 
 Then, dismounting from Rozinante, and grasping his lance, he 
 planted himself in the midst of the road, just as the licentiate had 
 placed himself in a graceful position to receive his antagonist, who 
 flew at him like a fury; cut and thrust, back-strokes and fore- 
 strokes, single and double: layihg it on thicker than hail, and 
 with all the rage of a provoked lion. But the licentiate not only 
 warded off the tempest, but checked its fury by making his adver- 
 sary kiss the button of his foil, though not with quite so much 
 devotion as if it had been a relic. In short, the licentiate, by dint 
 of clean thrust, counted him all the buttons of a little cassock he 
 had on, and tore the skirts so that they hung in rags like the tails 
 of the polypus. Twice he struck off his hat, and so worried and 
 wearied him, that through spite, choler, and rage, he flung away the 
 foil into the air, with such force that one of the country-fellows pre- 
 sent, who happened to be a notary, and went himself to fetch it, 
 made oath that it was thrown near three-quarters of a league; 
 which testimony has served, and still serves, to show and demon- 
 strate that strength is overcome by art. Corchuelo sat down, quite 
 spent, and Sancho, going up to him, said, ‘‘ Take my advice, master 
 bachelor, and henceforth let your challenges be only to wrestle or 
 pitch the bar; but as to fencing, meddle no more with it: for I 
 have heard it said of your fencers that they can thrust you the 
 point of a sword through the eye of a needle.” ‘‘I am satisfied,” 
 answered Corchuelo, ‘‘and have learned, by experience, a truth I 
 could not otherwise have believed.” He then got up, embraced 
 the licentiate, and they were better friends than ever. Being un- 
 willing to wait for the scrivener who was gone to fetch the foil, 
 they determined to go forward, that they might reach betimes the 
 village of Quiteria, whither they were all bound. On their way, 
 the licentiate explained to them the merits of the fencing art, which 
 he so well defended by reason and by mathematical demonstration, 
 that all were convinced of the usefulness of the science, and Cor- 
 chuelo was completely cured of his incredulity. 
 
 It now began to grow dark, and as they approached the village, 
 there appeared before them a new heaven, blazing with innumer- 
 able stars. At the same time they heard the sweet and mingled 
 sounds of various instruments—such as flutes, tambourines, psal- 
 ters, cymbals, drums, and bells; and, drawing still nearer, they 
 perceived a spacious arbour, formed near the entrance into the 
 town, hung round with lights, that shone undisturbed by the 
 breeze ; for it was so calm, that not a leaf was seen to move. ‘The 
 musicians, who are the life and joy of such festivals, paraded in 
 bands up and down this delightful place, some dancing, others sing- 
 ing, and others playing upon different instruments ; in short, nothing 
 was there to be seen but mirth and pleasure. Several were em- 
 
380. * ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 vloyed in raising scaffolds, from which they might commodiously 
 behold the shows and entertainments of the following day, that 
 were to be dedicated to the nuptial ceremony of the rich Camacho, 
 and the obsequies of poor Basilius. Don Quixote refused to enter 
 the town, though pressed by the countrymen and the bachelor ; 
 pleading what appeared to him a sufficient excuse, the practice of 
 knights-errant to sleep in fields and forests, rather than in towns, 
 though under gilded roofs: he therefore turned a little out of the 
 road, much against Sancho’s will, who had not yet forgotten the 
 good lodging he had met with in the hospitable mansion of Don 
 Diego. 
 
 
 
 GAA ACR THER 3 Xeok: 
 
 Giving an account of the marriage of Camacho the Rich, and also the 
 adventure of Basilius the Poor. 
 
 Scarcely had the beautiful Aurora appeared, and given bright 
 Pheebus time, by the warmth of his early rays, to exhale the liquid 
 pearls that hung glittering on his golden hair, when Don Quixote, 
 shaking off sloth from his drowsy members, rose up, and proceeded 
 to call his squire Sancho Panza; but, finding him still snoring, he 
 paused, and said, ‘‘O happy thou above all that live on the face of 
 the earth, who, neither envying nor envied, canst take thy needful 
 rest with tranquillity of soul: neither persecuted by enchanters, nor | 
 affrighted by their machinations! Sleep on—a hundred times I 
 say, sleep on! No jealousies on thy lady’s account keep thee in per- 
 petual watchings, nor do anxious thoughts of debts unpaid awake 
 thee; nor care how on the morrow thou and thy little straitened 
 family shall be provided for. Ambition disquiets thee not, nor 
 does the vain pomp of the world disturb thee: for thy chief con- 
 cern is the- care of thy ass; since to me is committed the comfort 
 and protection of thine own person: a burthen imposed on the 
 master by nature and custom. The servant sleeps, and the master 
 lies awake, considering how he is to maintain, assist, and do 
 him kindness. The pain of seeing the heavens obdurate in with- 
 holding the moisture necessary to refresh the earth, touches only 
 the master, who is bound to provide in times of sterility and 
 famine, for those wbo served him in the season of fertility and 
 abundance.” 
 
 To all this Sancho answered not a word, for he was asleep; nor 
 would he have soon awaked had not Don Quixote jogged him with 
 the butt-end of his lance. At last he awoke, drowsy and yawning, 
 and after turning his face on all sides, he said, ‘‘From yonder 
 bower, if I mistake not, there comes a steam and smell that savours 
 more of broiled rashers than of herbs and rushes :—by my faith, a 
 wedding that smells so well in the beginning, must needs be a 
 dainty one!” ‘‘ Peace, glutton,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘and let us 
 go and see this marriage, and what becomes of the disdained Basil- 
 
PREPARATIONS FOR THE WEDDING. 881 
 
 ius.” ‘‘ Hang him,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘it matters not what becomes 
 of him: if he is poor he cannot think towed Quiteria. A pleasant 
 fancy, forsooth, for a fellow who has not a groat in his pocket to 
 look for a yoke-mate above the clouds. Sir, in my opinion a poor 
 man should be contented with what he finds, and not be seeking 
 for truffles at the bottom of the sea. I dare wager an arm that 
 Camacho can cover Basilius with reals from head to foot ; and if so, 
 Quiteria would be a pretty jade, truly, to leave the fine clothes and 
 jewels that Camacho can give her for the bar-pitching and fencing 
 of Basilius! The bravest pitch of the bar or cleverest push of the 
 foil will not fetch me a pint of wine from the vintner’s: such talents 
 and graces are not marketable ware—let Count Dirlos have them 
 for me; but should they light on a man that has wherewithal— 
 may my life show as well as they do when so coupled! Upona 
 good foundation a good building may be raised; and the best 
 bottom and foundation in the world is money.” ‘‘ Pray, Sancho,” 
 quoth Don Quixcte, ‘‘put an end to thy harangue. I verily be- 
 lieve, wert thou suffered to go on, thy prating would leave thee no 
 time either to eat or sleep.” ‘‘ Be pleased to remember, sir,” said 
 Sancho, ‘‘ the articles of our agreement before we sallied from home 
 this last time; one of which was, that you were to let me talk as 
 much as I pleased, so it were not anything against my neighbour, 
 nor against your worship’s authority, and, to my thinking, I have 
 made no breach yet in the bargain.” ‘‘I do not remember any 
 such article, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘and, though it 
 were so, it is my pleasure that thou shouldst now hold thy peace, 
 and come along; for already the musical instruments which we 
 heard last night begin again to cheer the valleys, and, doubtless, 
 the espousals will be celebrated in the cool of the morning.” 
 Sancho obeyed his master’s commands ; and saddling and pannell- 
 ing their steeds, they both mounted, and at a slow pace entered the 
 artificial shade. The first thing that presented itself to Sancho’s 
 sight, was a whole bullock, spitted upon a large elm. ‘The fire by 
 which it was roasted was composed of a mountain of wood, and 
 round it were placed six huge pots—not cast in common moulds, 
 but each large enough to contain a whole shamble of flesh. Entire 
 sheep were swallowed up in them, and floated like so many pigeons. 
 The hares ready flayed, and the fowls plucked. that hung about the 
 branches, in order to be buried in these cauldrons, were without 
 number. Infinite was the wild-fowl and vension hanging about the 
 trees to receive the cool air. Sancho counted above three-score 
 skins, each holding above twenty-four quarts, and all, as appeared 
 afterwards, full of generous wines. Haillocks, too, he saw, of the 
 whitest bread, ranged like heaps of wheat on the threshing-floor, 
 and cheeses, piled up in the manner of bricks, formed a kind of 
 wall. Two cauldrons of oil, larger than dyer’s vats, stood ready for 
 frying all sorts of batter-ware; and, with a couple of stout peels, 
 they shovelled them up when fried, and forthwith immersed 
 them in a kettle of prepared honey that stood near. The men and 
 women cooks were about fifty in number, all clean, all active, and 
 all in good humour. In the bullock’s distended belly were sewed 
 
332 _ ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 up a dozen sucking-pigs, to make it savoury and tender. ‘The spices 
 of various kinds, which seemed to have been bought, not by the 
 pound, but by the hundred weight, were deposited in a great chest, 
 and open to every hand. In short, the preparation for the wedding 
 was all rustic, but in sufficient abundance to have feasted an army. 
 
 Sancho beheld all with wonder and delight. The first that cap- 
 tivated and subdued his inclinations were the flesh-pots, out of which 
 he would have been glad to have filled a moderate pipkin: next the 
 wine-skins drew his affections ; and, lastly, the products of the frying- 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 pans—if such capacious vessels might be socalled ; and, being unable 
 any longer to abstain, he ventured to approach one ofthe busy cooks, 
 and, in persuasive and hungry terms, begged leave to sop a luncheon 
 of bread in one of the pots. To which the cook answered, ‘‘ This, 
 friend, is not a day for hunger to be abroad—thanks to rich Camacho, 
 Alight, and look about you for a ladle to skim out a fowl or two, 
 
 and much good may they do you.” ‘‘I see no ladle,” answered 
 Sancho. ‘‘Stay,’” quoth the cook: ‘‘ Heaven save me, what a help- 
 less varlet!” So saying, he laid hold of a kettle, and, sowsing it 
 
 into one of the half jars, he fished out three pullets, and a couple 
 
NUPTIAL PRELIMINARIES. 383 
 
 of geese, and said to Sancho, ‘‘ Hat, friend, and make a breakfast 
 of this scum, to stay your stomach till dinner-time.” ‘‘I have no- 
 thing to put it in,” answered Sancho. ‘‘ Then take ladle and all,” 
 quoth the cook ; ‘‘ for Camacho’s riches and joy supply everything.” 
 
 While Sancho was thus employed, Don Quixote stood observing 
 the entrance of a dozen peasants at one side of the spacious arbour, 
 each mounted upon a beautiful mare, in rich and gay caparisons, 
 hung round with little bells. They were clad in holiday apparel, 
 and, in a regular troop, made sundry careers about the meadow, 
 with a joyful Moorish cry of ‘‘ Long live Camacho and Quiteria ! he 
 as rich as she is fair, and she the fairest of the world!” Don 
 Quixote hearing this, said to himself, ‘‘'These people, it is plain, 
 have never seen my Dulcinea del 'Toboso ; otherwise they would have 
 been less extravagant in the praise of their Quiteria.” Soon after, 
 there entered, on different sides of the arbour, various sets of 
 dancers, among which was one consisting of four-and-twenty sword- 
 dancers ; handsome, sprightly swains, all arrayed in fine white linen, 
 and handkerchiefs wrought with several colours of fine silk. One 
 of those mounted on horseback inquired of a young man who led 
 the sword-dance, whether any of his comrades were hurt. ‘‘ No,” 
 replied the youth: ‘‘thank Heaven, as yet we are all well;” and 
 instantly he twined himself in among his companions with so many 
 turns, and so dexterously, that though Don Quixote had often seen 
 such dances before, none had ever pleased him so well. Another 
 dance, also, delighted him much, performed by twelve damsels, 
 young and beautiful, all clad in green stuff of Cuenza, having their 
 hair partly plaited, and partly flowing, all of golden hue, rivalling 
 the sun itself, and covered with garlands of jessamine, roses, and 
 woodbine. They were led up by a venerable old man and an ancient 
 matron, to whom the occasion had given more agility than might 
 have been expected from their years. A Zamora bagpipe regulated 
 their motions, which, being no less sprightly and graceful than 
 their looks were modest and maidenly, more lovely dancers were 
 never seen in the world. 
 
 A pantomimic dance now succeeded, by eight nymphs, divided 
 into two ranks—‘‘ Cupid” leading the one, and ‘‘ Interest” the 
 other: the former equipped with wings, bow, quiver, and 
 arrows ; the latter gorgeously apparelled with rich and variously 
 coloured silks, embroidered with gold. ‘The nymphs in Cupid’s 
 band displayed their names, written in large letters on their backs. 
 ** Poetry” was the first; then succeeded ‘‘ Discretion,” ‘‘ Good 
 Lineage;” and ‘‘Valour.” The followers of ‘‘ Interest” were 
 ‘‘ Liberality,” ‘‘ Bounty,” ‘‘ Wealth,” and ‘‘Security.” This band 
 was preceded by a wooden castle, drawn by savages, clad so natur- 
 ally in ivy, and green cloth coarse and shaggy, that Sancho was 
 startled. On the front and sides of the edifice was written, ‘‘ The 
 Castle of Reserve.” Four skilful musicians played on the tabor and 
 ey ; Cupid began the dance, and, after two movements, he raised 
 
 is eyes, and, bending his bow, pointed an arrow towards a damsel 
 that stood on the battlements of the castle; at the same time ad- 
 dressing to her the following verses :— 
 
884 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 I am the god whose power extends 
 Through the wide ocean, earth, and sky ; 
 
 To my soft sway all nature bends, 
 Compelled by beauty to comply. 
 
 Fearless I rule, in calm and storm, 
 Indulge my pleasure to the full; 
 
 Things deemed impossible perform, 
 Bestow, resume, ordain, annul. 
 
 Cupid, having finished his address, shot an arrow over the castle, 
 and retired to his station; upon which Interest stepped forth, and, 
 after two similar movements, the music ceasing, he said— 
 
 My power exceeds the might of love, 
 For Cupid bows to me alone ; 
 
 Of all things framed by heaven 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 then withdrew, and Poetry advanced; and, fixing her 
 eyes on the damsel of the castle, she said— 
 
 Let Poetry, whose strain divine 
 The wond’rous power of song displays, 
 Her 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 having retired from the side of Interest, Liberality ad- 
 vanced ; and, after making her movements, said— 
 
 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 each personage of the two parties advanced and 
 retreated, performing a movement and reciting verses, some elegant 
 and some ridiculous ; of which Don Quixote, though he had a very 
 good memory, only treasured up the foregoing. Afterwards the 
 groups mingled together in a lively and graceful dance; and when 
 
SANCHO’S TWO LINEAGES. 885 
 
 Cupid passed before the castle, he shot his arrows aloft, but Interest 
 flung gilded balls against it. After having danced for some time, 
 Interest drew out a large purse of Roman cat-skin, which seemed 
 to be full of money, and throwing it at the castle, it separated and 
 fell to pieces, leaving the damsel exposed and without defence. 
 Whereupon Interest, with his followers casting a large golden chain 
 about her neck, seemed to take her prisoner and lead her away 
 captive, while Love and his party endeavoured to rescue her: all 
 their motions, during this contest, being regulated by the musical 
 accompaniments. The contending parties were at length separated 
 by the savages, who, with great dexterity, repaired the shattered 
 castle, wherein the damsel was again enclosed as before; and thus 
 the piece ended, to the great satisfaction of the spectators. 
 
 Don Quixote asked one of the nymphs, who had composed and 
 arranged the show? She told him that it was a clergyman of that 
 village, who had a notable head-piece for such kind of inventions. 
 ‘*] would venture a wager,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ that this bachelor, 
 or clergyman, is more a friend to Basilius than to Camacho, and 
 understands satire better than vespers; for in his dance he has in- 
 geniously opposed the talents of Basilius to the riches of Camacho.” 
 ‘*T hold with Camacho,” quoth Sancho, who stood listening ; ‘‘ the 
 king is my cook.” ‘‘It is plain,” said Don Quixote ‘‘that thou art 
 an arrant bumpkin, and one of those who always cry, long live the 
 conqueror !’? ‘‘I know not who I am one of,” answered Sancho; 
 ‘* but this I know, I shall never get such elegant scum from Basilius’s 
 pots as I have done from Camacho’s.” And showing his kettleful of 
 geese and hens, he laid hold of one and began to eat with notable 
 good-will and appetite. ‘‘ A fig for the talents of Basilius !” said 
 he, ‘‘for so much thou art worth as thou hast, and so much thou 
 hast as thou art worth. There are but two lineages in the world, 
 as my grandmother used to say; ‘the Have’s and the Have-not’s,’ 
 and she stuck to the Have’s. Now-a-days, Master Don Quixote, 
 people are more inclined to feel the pulse of Have than of Know. 
 An ass with golden furniture makes a better figure than a horse with 
 a pack-saddle; so that I tell you again, I hold with Camacho, for 
 the plentiful scum of his kettles are geese and hens, hares and 
 coneys; while that of Basilius, if he has any, must be mere dish- 
 water.”’ 
 
 ‘* Is thy speech finished, Sancho?” quoth Don Quixote. ‘‘ I must 
 have done,” replied Sancho, ‘‘ because I see your worship is about 
 to be angry at what I am saying; were it not for that, I have work 
 cut out for three days.” ‘‘ Heaven grant that I may see thee dumb 
 before I die!” said Don Quixote. ‘‘ At the rate we go on,” quoth 
 Sancho, ‘‘ before you die, I shall be mumbling clay ; in which case 
 I may not speak a word to the end of the world, or at least till 
 doomsday.” ‘‘ Though it be so ordered,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ thy 
 silence, O Sancho, will never balance thy past, present, and future. 
 
 rating. Besides, according to the course of nature, I must die 
 
 fateee thee, and therefore it will never be my fate to see thy tongue 
 
 at rest, not even when drinking or sleeping.” ‘‘In truth, sir,” 
 
 quoth Sancho, ‘‘there is no trusting to goodman Death, who de- 
 2B 
 
886 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 vours lambs as well as sheep; and I have heard our vicar say, ‘ he 
 tramples just the same upon the high towers of kings, and the low 
 cottages of the poor.’ Thatsame ghastly gentleman is more power- 
 ful than dainty: far from being squeamish, he eats of everything, 
 and snatches at all; stuffing his wallets with people of all ages and 
 degrees. Heis not a reaper that sleeps away the mid-day heat, for 
 he cuts down and mows at all hours, the dry grass as well as the 
 green. Nor does hestand to chew, but devours and swallows down 
 all that comes in his way; having a wolfish appetite that is never 
 satisfied ; and though he hasno belly, he seems to have a perpetual 
 dropsy, and a raging thirst for the lives of all that live, whom he 
 ree down just as one would drink a jug of cold water.” ‘‘ Hold, 
 
 ancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ while thou art well, and do not spoil 
 thy work by over-doing; for, in truth, what thou hast said of death, 
 in thy rustic phrase, might become the mouth of a good preacher. 
 If thou hadst but discretion, Sancho, equal to thy natural abilities, 
 thou mightest take to the pulpit, and go preaching about the 
 world.” ‘‘A good liver is the best preacher,” replied Sancho, ‘‘ and 
 that is all the divinity I know.” ‘{Or need know,” said Don 
 Quixote; ‘‘but I can in nowise comprehend how, since the fear 
 of Heaven is the beginning of wisdom, thou who art more afraid 
 of a lizard than of Him, shouldst know so much as thou dost.” 
 **Good, your worship, judge of your own chivalries, I beseech you,” 
 answered Sancho, ‘‘and meddle not with other men’s fears or 
 valours; for [ am as pretty a fearer of God as any of my neigh- 
 bours; so pray let me whip off this scum, for all besides is idle 
 talk, which one day or other we must give an account of in the 
 next world.” Whereupon, he began afresh assault upon his kettle, 
 with so long-winded an appetite as to awaken that of Don Quixote, 
 who doubtless would have assisted him had he not been prevented 
 by that which must forthwith be related. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 In which is continued the history of Camacho’s wedding, with other 
 delightful incidents. 
 
 As Don Quixote and Sancho were engaged in the conversation 
 mentioned in the preceding chapter, they suddenly heard a great 
 outcry and noise raised by those mounted on the mares, shouting 
 as they galloped to meet the bride and bridegroom, who were enter- 
 ing the bower, saluted by a thousand musical instruments of all 
 kinds and inventions, accompanied by the parish priest and kindred 
 on both'sides, and by a number of the better class of people from 
 the neighbouring towns, all in their holiday apparel. When Sancho 
 espied the bride, he said, ‘In good faith, she is not clad like a 
 country girl, but like any court lady! By the mass! her breast- 
 
 iece seems to me at this distance to be of rich coral, and her gown, 
 instead of green stuff of Guenza, is no less than a thirty-piled vel- 
 
SANCHO’S DESCRIPTION OF THE BRIDE. 387 
 
 vet! Besides, the trimming, I vow, is of satin! Do but observe 
 her hands—instead of rings of jet, let me never thrive but they are 
 of gold, ay, and of real gold, with pearl as white as a curd, every 
 one of them worth an eye of one’s head. Ah, jade! and what fine 
 hair she has! If it be not false, I never saw longer nor fairer in all 
 my life. Then her sprightliness and mein, why, she is a very mov- 
 ing palm-tree, laden with branches of dates; for just so look the 
 trinkets hanging at her hair and about her neck; by my soul, the 
 
 irl is so covered with plate that she might pass the banks of the 
 
 landers.” * 
 
 Don Quixote smiled at Sancho’s homely praises; at the same 
 time he thought, that excepting the mistress of his soul, he had 
 never seen a more beautiful woman. The fair Quiteria looked a 
 little pale, occasioned, perhaps, by a want of rest the preceding 
 rica which brides usually employ in preparing their wedding 
 
 nery. 
 
 The bridal pair proceeded towards a theatre on one side of the 
 arbour, decorated with tapestry and garlands, where the nuptial 
 ceremony was to be performed, and whence they were to view the 
 dances and shows prepared for the occasion. Immediately on their 
 arrival at that place, a loud noise was heard at a distance, amidst 
 which a voice was distinguished calling aloud, ‘‘ Hold a little, rash 
 and thoughtless people!” On turning their heads they saw that 
 these words were uttered by a man who was advancing towards 
 them, clad in a black doublet, welted with flaming crimson. He 
 was crowned with a garland of mournful cypress, and held in his 
 hand a large truncheon; and, as he drew near, all recognized the 
 gallant Basilius, and waited in fearful expectation of some disas- 
 trous result from this unseasonable visit. At length he came up, 
 tired and out of breath, and placed himself just before the be- 
 trothed couple; then, pressing his staff, which was pointed with 
 steel, into the ground, he fixed his eyes on Quiteria, and, in a 
 broken and tremulous voice, thus addressed her :— ‘‘ Ah, false and 
 forgetful Quiteria, well thou knowest, that by the laws of our holy 
 religion, thou canst not marry another man whilst I am living ; 
 neither art thou ignorant, that, while waiting till time and mine 
 own industry should improve my fortune, I have never failed in 
 the respect due to thee. But thou hast cast aside every obligation 
 due to my lawful love, and art going to make another man master 
 of what is mine: a man who is not only enriched, but rendered 
 eminently happy by his wealth; and in obedience to the will of 
 Heaven, the only impediment to his supreme felicity I will remove, 
 by withdrawing this wretched being. Long live the rich Camacho 
 with the ungrateful Quiteria—long and happily may they live, and 
 let poor Basilius die, who would have risen to good fortune had 
 not poverty clipped his wings and laid him in an early grave!” 
 
 So saying, he plucked his staff from the ground, and, drawing 
 out a short tuck, to which it had served as a scabbard, he fixed 
 
 * To pass the bank of Flanders is a phrase commonly used to express the at- 
 
 tempt or execution of an arduous enterprise, They are dangerous sand-banks 
 formed by the wayes of the sea, 
 
488 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 what might be called the hilt into the ground, and, with a nimble 
 spring and resolute air, he threw himself on the point, which, in- 
 stantly appearing at his back, the poor wretch lay stretched on the 
 ground, pierced through and through, and weltering in his blood. 
 
 His friends, struck with horror and grief, rushed forward to 
 help him, and Don Quixote, dismounting, hastened also to lend 
 his aid, and taking the dying man in his arms, found that he was 
 still alive. They would have drawn out the tuck, but the priest 
 who was present thought that it should not be done till he had 
 made his confession; as, the moment it was taken out of his 
 body, he would certainly expire. But Basilius, not having quite 
 lost the power of utterance, in a faint and doleful voice, said, ‘‘ If, 
 cruel Quiteria, in this my last and fatal agony, thou wouldst give me 
 thy hand, as my spouse, I should hope my rashness might find 
 pardon in heaven, since it procured me the blessing of being thine.” 
 Upon which the priest advised him to attend rather to the salva- 
 tion of his soul than to his bodily appetites, and seriously implore 
 pardon of God for his sins, especially for this last desperate action. 
 Basilius replied that he could not make any confession till Quite- 
 ria had given him her hand in marriage, as that would be a solace 
 to his mind, and enable him to confess his sins. 
 
 Don Quixote, hearing the wounded man’s request, said, in a loud 
 voice, that Basilius had made a very just and reasonable request, 
 and moreover, a very practicable one; and that it would be equally 
 honourable for Signor Camacho to take Quiteria, a widow of the 
 brave Basilius, as if he received her at her father’s hand; nothing 
 being required but the simple word, ‘‘ Yes,” which could be of no 
 consequence, since, from these espousals, he must be carried to the 
 grave. Camacho heard all this, and was perplexed and undecided 
 what to do or say; but so much was he importuned by the friends 
 of Basilius to permit Quiteria to give him her hand, and thereby 
 save his soul from perdition, that they at length moved, nay 
 forced, him to say, that if it pleased Quiteria to give it to him, he 
 
 should not object, since it was only delaying for a moment the ac- 
 complishment of his wishes. They all immediately applied to 
 Quiteria, and with entreaties, tears, and persuasive arguments, 
 ea and importuned her to give her hand to Basilius; but she, 
 arder than marble, and more immovable than a statue, returned 
 no answer, until the priest told her that she must decide promptly, 
 as the soul of Basilius was already between his teeth, and there 
 
 was no time for hesitation. 
 
 Then the beautiful Quiteria, in silence, and to all appearance 
 troubled and sad, approached Basilius, whose eyes were already 
 turned in his head, and he breathed short and quick, muttering 
 the name of Quiteria, and giving tokens of dying more like a 
 heathen than a Christian. At last, Quiteria, kneeling down by 
 him, made signs to him for his hand. Basilius unclosed his eyes, and 
 fixing them steadfastly upon her, said, ‘‘O Quiteria, thou relentest at 
 a time when thy pity is a sword to puta final period to this wretched 
 life: for now I have not strength to bear the glory thou conferrest 
 upon me in making me thine, nor will it suspend the pain which 
 
BASILIUS’S STRATAGEM, 889 
 
 shortly will veil my eyes with the dreadful shadow of death. What 
 I beg of thee, O fatal star of mine! is that thou give not thy hand 
 out of compliment, or again to deceive me, but to declare that thou 
 bestowest it upon me as thy lawful husband, without any compul- 
 sion on thy will—for it would be cruel in this extremity to deal 
 falsely, or impose on him who has been so true to thee.” Here he 
 fainted, and the bystanders thought his soul was just departing. 
 Quiteria, all modesty and bashfulness, taking Basilius’s right hand 
 in hers, said, ‘‘ No force would be sufficient to bias my will; and 
 therefore, with all the freedom I have, I give thee my hand to be 
 thy lawful wife, and receive thine, if it be as frecly given, and if 
 the anguish caused by thy rash act doth not trouble and prevent 
 thee.” ‘‘ Yes, I give it thee,” answered Basilius, ‘‘ neither discom- 
 posed nor confused, but with the clearest understanding that Hea- 
 ven was ever pleased to bestow on me; and so I give and engage 
 myself to be thy husband.” ‘‘And I to be thy wife,” answered 
 Quiteria, ‘‘ whether thou livest many years, or art carried from my 
 
 
 
 arms to the grave.” ‘‘For one so much wounded,” observed 
 Sancho, ‘‘this young man talks a great deal. Advise him to leave 
 off his courtship, and mind the business of his soul ; though, to my 
 thinking, he has it more on his tongue than between his teeth.” 
 Basilius and Quiteria being thus, with hands joined, the tender 
 hearted priest, with tears in his eyes, pronounced the benediction 
 upon them, and prayed to Heaven for the repose of the bridegroom’s 
 soul; who, as soon as he had received the benediction, suddenly 
 started up, and nimbly drew out the tuck which was sheathed in 
 his body. All the spectators were astonished, and some more 
 simple than the rest cried out, ‘‘A miracle, a miracle!” But 
 Basilius replied, ‘‘ No miracle, no miracle, but a stratagem, a 
 stratagem!” The priest, astonished and confounded, ran to feel, 
 with both his hands, the wound, and found that the sword had 
 passed, not through Basilius’s flesh and ribs, but through a hollow 
 iron pipe, cunningly fitted to the place, and filled with blood, so 
 prepared as not to congeal. In short, the priest, Camacho, and the 
 
890 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 rest of the spectators, found they were imposed upon, and com- 
 pletely duped. The bride showed no signs of regret at the 
 artifice ; ‘on the contrary, hearing it said the marriage, as being 
 fraudulent, was not valid, she said that she confirmed it anew; 
 it was, therefore, generally supposed that the matter had been 
 concerted with the privity and concurrence of both parties; 
 which so enraged Camacho and his friends, that they immedi- 
 ately had recourse to vengeance, and unsheathing abundance of 
 swords, they fell upon Basilius, in whose behalf as many more 
 were instantly drawn ; but Don Quixote, leading the van on horse- 
 back, his lance couched, and well covered with his shield, made 
 them all give way. Sancho, who took no pleasure in such kind 
 of frays, retired to the jars out of which he had gotten his 
 charming skimmings; regarding that place as a sanctuary which 
 none would dare to violate. 
 
 Don Quixote cried aloud, ‘‘ Hold, sirs, hold! It is not right to 
 avenge the injuries committed against us by love. Remember that 
 the arts of warfare and courtship are in some points alike; in war, 
 stratagems are lawful, so likewise are they in the conflicts and 
 rivalships of love, if the means employed be not dishonourable. 
 Quiteria and Basilius were destined for each other by the just and 
 favouring will of Heaven. Camacho is rich, and may purchase his 
 pleasure when, where, and how he pleases; Basilius has but this 
 one ewe-lamb, and no one, however powerful, has a right to take it 
 from him; for those whom God hath joined, let no man sunder ; 
 and whoever shall attempt it must first pass the point-of this lance.” 
 Then he brandished it with such vigour and dexterity that he struck 
 terror into all those who did not know him. 
 
 Quiteria’s disdain made such an impression upon Camacho, that 
 he instantly banished her from his heart. The persuasions, there- 
 fore, of the priest, who was a prudent, well-meaning man, had 
 their effect; Camacho and his party sheathed their weapons, and 
 remained satisfied ; blaming rather the fickleness of Quiteria thar 
 the cunning of Basilius. With much reason Camacho thought 
 within himself, that if Quiteria loved Basilius when a virgin, she 
 would have loved him also when married; and that he had more 
 cause to thank Heaven for so fortunate an escape than to repine at 
 the loss he had sustained. The disappointed bridegroom and his 
 followers, being thus consoled and appeased, those of Basilius 
 were so likewise; and the rich Camacho, to show that his mind 
 was free from resentment, would have the diversions and enter- 
 tainments go on as if they had been really married. The happy | 
 pair, however, not choosing to share in them, retired to their own 
 dwelling, accompanied by their joyful adherents; for if the rich 
 man can draw after him his attendants and flatterers, the poor man 
 who is virtuous and deserving, is followed by friends who honour 
 and support him. Don Quixote joined the party of Basilius, having 
 been invited by them as a person of worth and bravery; while 
 Sancho, finding it impossible to remain and share the relishing de- 
 lights of Camacho’s festival, which continued till night, with a 
 heavy heart accompanied his master, leaving behind the flesh-pots 
 
THE KNIGHT'S COUNSEL TO BASILIUS. 391 
 
 of Egypt, the skimmings of which, though now almost consumed, 
 still reminded him of the glorious abundance he had lost; pensive 
 and sorrowful, therefore, though not hungry, without alighting 
 from Dapple, he followed the track of Rozinante. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXIiL 
 
 Wherein is related the grand adventure of the cave of Montesinos, 
 situated in the heart of La Mancha, which the valorous Don 
 Quixote happily accomplished. 
 
 Looking upon themselves as greatly obliged for the valour he 
 had shown in defending their cause, the newly married couple made 
 much of Don Quixote; and judging of his wisdom by his valour, 
 they accounted him a Cid in arms, and a Cicero in eloquence; and 
 during three days honest Sancho solaced himself at their expense. 
 The bridegroom explained to them his stratagem of the feigned 
 wound, and told them it was a device of his own, and had been 
 concerted with the fair Quiteria. He confessed, too, that he had 
 let some of his friends into the secret, that they might support his 
 deception.» ‘‘ That ought not to be called deception which aims at 
 a virtuous end,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘and no end is more excellent 
 than the marriage of true lovers; though love,” added he, ‘‘ has: 
 its enemies, and none greater than hunger and poverty, for love 
 js all gaiety, joy, and content.” 
 
 This he intended as a hint to Basilius, whom he wished to draw 
 from the pursuit of his favourite exercises ; for, though they pro- 
 cured him fame, they were unprofitable ; and it was now his duty 
 to exert himself for the improvement of his circumstances, by law- 
 ful and praiseworthy means, which are never wanting to the prudent 
 and active. ‘‘The poor, yet honourable man,” said he, ‘‘admit- 
 ting that honour and poverty can be united, in a beautiful wife 
 possesses a precious jewel, and whoever deprives him of her, de- 
 spoils him of his honour. The chaste and beautiful wife of an in- 
 digent man deserves the palm and laurel crowns of victory and 
 triumph. Beauty of itself attracts admiration and love, and the 
 royal eagles and other towering birds stoop to the tempting lure; 
 but if it is found unprotected and exposed to poverty, kites and vul- 
 tures are continually hovering round it, and watching it as their 
 natural prey. Well, therefore, may she be called the crown of her 
 husband who maintains her ground in so perilous a situation. It 
 was the opinion of a certain sage, O discreet Basilius, that the 
 world contained only one good woman, and he advised every man 
 to persuade himself that she was fallen to his lot, and he would 
 then live contented. Although unmarried myself, I would venture 
 to offer my counsel to one who should require it in the choice of a 
 wife. In the first place I would advise him to consider the purity 
 of her fame more than her fortune; a virtuous woman seeks a fair 
 reputation, not only by being good, but by appearing to be so. If 
 
892 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the woman you bring to your house be virtuous, it is an easy matter 
 to keep her so, and even to improve her good qualities; but if she 
 be otherwise, you will have much trouble to correct her; for it is 
 not easy to pass from one extreme to the other; it may not be 
 impossible, but certainly it is very difficult.” 
 
 To all this Sancho listened, and said to himself, ‘‘ This master of 
 mine tells me when I speak of things of marrow and substance, 
 that I might take a pulpit in my hand, and go about the world 
 preaching ; and well may I say to him, that whenever he begins to 
 string sentences and give out his advice, he may not only take a 
 pulpit in his hand, but two upon each finger, and stroll about your 
 market-places, crying out, ‘Mouth, what will you have?’ Certes, 
 a knight-errant knows everything! I verily thought that he only 
 knew what belonged to his chivalries, but he pecks at everything, 
 and thrusts his spoon into every dish.” Sancho muttered this so 
 very loud that he was overheard by his master, who said, ‘‘ Sancho, 
 what art thou muttering?” ‘‘ Nothing at all,” answered Sancho ; 
 ‘“‘T was only saying to myself that I wished I had heard your 
 worship preach in this way before I was married; then, perhaps, I 
 should have been able to say now, ‘The ox that is loose is best 
 licked.’” ‘‘Is thy Teresa, then, so bad, Sancho?” quoth Don 
 Quixote. ‘‘She is not very bad,” answered Sancho; ‘‘ neither is 
 she very good, at least not quite so good as I would have her.” 
 ‘‘Thou art in the wrong, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘to speak ill 
 of thy wife, who is the mother of thy children.” ‘‘ We owe each 
 other nothing upon that score,” answered Sancho, ‘‘ for she speaks 
 as ill of me, whenever the fancy takes her—especially when she is 
 jealous.” . 
 
 Three days they remained with the new-married couple, where 
 they were served and treated like kings; at the end of which time, 
 Don Quixote requested the student, who was so dexterous a fencer, 
 . to procure him a guide to the cave of Montesinos; for he had a 
 great desire to descend into it, in order to see with his own eyes, 
 if the wonders reported of it were really true. The student told 
 him he would introduce him to a young relation of his, a good 
 scholar, and much given to reading books of chivalry, who would 
 very gladly accompany him to the very mouth of the cave, and also 
 show him the lakes of Ruydera, so famous in La Mancha, and even 
 all over Spain; adding that he would find him a very entertaining 
 companion, as he knew how to write books and dedicate them to 
 princes. In short, the cousin appeared, mounted on an ass with 
 foal, whose pack-saddle was covered with a double piece of old 
 carpet or sacking ; Sancho saddled Rozinante, pannelled Dapple, 
 and replenished his wallets; those of the scholar being also well 
 provided; and thus, after taking leave of their friends, and com- 
 mending themselves to Heaven, they set out, bending their course 
 directly towards the famous cave of Montesinos. 
 
 Upon the road, Don Quixote asked the scholar what were his 
 exercises, his profession, and his studies. He replied that his 
 studies and profession were literary, and his employment, com- 
 posing books for the press, on useful and entertaining subjects. 
 
> peel 
 
 THE STUDENT'S PUBLICATIONS. * 3938 
 
 Among others, he said he bad published one that was entitled, ‘‘ A 
 Treatise on Liveries,” wherein he had described seven hundred and 
 three liveries; with their colours, mottoes, and cyphers; forming 
 a collection from which gentlemen, without the trouble of invent- 
 ing, might select according to their fancy; for, being adapted to 
 all occasions, the jealous, the disdained, the forsaken, and the 
 absent, might all there be united. ‘‘I have, likewise,” said he, 
 ‘*just produced another book, which I intend to call, ‘The Meta- 
 morphoses; or, Spanish Ovid.’ The idea is perfectly novel; for, in 
 a burlesque imitation of Ovid, I have given the origin and history 
 of the Giralda of Seville, the Angel of La Magdalena,* the Conduit 
 of Vecinguerra at Cordova, the bulls of Guisando, the Sierra 
 Morena, the fountains of Deganitos, and the Lavapies in Madrid, 
 not forgetting the Piojo, the golden pipe, and the Priory; and all 
 these, with their several transformations, allegories, and metaphors, 
 in such a manner as at once to surprise, instruct, and entertain, 
 Another book of mine I call, ‘A Supplement to Virgil Polydore,’ + 
 which treats of the invention of things—a work of vast erudition 
 and study; because I have there supped many important matters 
 omitted by Polydore, and explained them in a superior style. 
 Virgil, for instance, forgot to tell us who was the first in the world 
 that caught a cold, and who was first anointed for the French 
 disease. These points I settle with the utmost precision, on the 
 testimony of above five-and-twenty authors, whom I have cited ; 
 so that your worship may judge whether I have not laboured well, 
 and whether the whole world is not likely to profit by such a per- 
 formance.” 
 
 Sancho, who had been attentive to the student’s discourse, said, 
 **Tell me, sir—so may Heaven send you good luck with your 
 books—can you resolve me—but I know you can, since you know 
 everything—who was the first man that scratched his head? 
 I, for my part, am of opinion that it must have been our father 
 Adam.” ‘‘Certainly,” answered the scholar, ‘‘for there is no. 
 doubt but Adam had a head and hair ; and this being granted, he, 
 being the first man in the world, must needs have been the first 
 who scratched his head.” ‘‘ That is what I think,” said Sancho; 
 “but tell me now who was the first tumbler in the world?” 
 “Truly, brother,” answered the scholar, ‘‘I cannot determine 
 that point till I have given it some consideration, which I will 
 surely do when [I return to my books, and will satisfy you when 
 we see each other again; for I hope this will not be the last time.” 
 ‘‘Look ye, sir,” replied Sancho, ‘‘be at no trouble about the 
 
 _matter, for I have already hit upon the answer to my question. 
 
 Know, then, that the first tumbler was Lucifer, when he was cast 
 or thrown headlong from heaven, and came tumbling down to the 
 
 * The Angel of La Magdalena is a shapeless figure placed for a weathercock 
 on the steeple of the chureh of St Magdalen at Salamanca. The conduit of 
 Vecinguerra carries the rain-water from the streets of Cordova to the Guadalquiver. 
 The fountaius of Leganitos, &c., are all situated in the promenades and public 
 places of Madrid. : ‘ 
 
 + He should have said Polydore Virgil. He was a learned Italian, who published, 
 in 1499, the treatise De Rerum Inventoribus. 
 
394 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 lowest abyss.” ‘‘ You are in the right, friend,” quoth the scholar. 
 ‘*That question and answer are not thine, Sancho,” said Don 
 Quixote; ‘‘thou hast heard them before.” ‘‘Say no more, sir,” 
 replied Sancho, ‘‘for, in good faith, if we fall to questioning and 
 answering, we shall not have done before to-morrow morning ; 
 besides, for foolish questions and foolish answers I need not be 
 obliged to any of my neighbours.” ‘‘Sancho,” quoth Don Quixote, 
 *‘thou hast said more than thou art aware of ; for some there are 
 who bestow much labour in examining and explaining things which, 
 when known, are not worth recollecting.” 
 
 In such conversation they pleasantly passed that day, and at 
 night took up their lodging in a small village, which the scholar 
 told Don Quixote was distant but two leagues from the cave of 
 Montesinos, and that if he persevered in his resolution to enter into 
 it, it was necessary to be provided with rope, by which he might 
 let himself down. Don Quixote declared, that if it reached to the 
 abyss, he would see the bottom. They procured, therefore, near a 
 hundred fathom of cord; and about two in the afternoon of the 
 following day arrived at the mouth of the cave, which they found 
 to be wide and spacious, but so much overgrown with briars, thorns, 
 and wild fig-trees, as to be almost concealed, On perceiving the 
 cave, they alighted, and the scholar and Sancho proceeded to bind 
 the cord fast round Don Quixote, and, while they were thus em- 
 ployed, Sancho said, ‘‘ Have a care, sir, dear sir, what you are 
 about; do not bury yourself alive, nor hang yourself dangling like a 
 flask of wine let down to cool in a well: for it is no business of your 
 worship to pry into that hole, which must needs be worse than any 
 dungeon.” ‘Tie on,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘and hold thy peace ; 
 for such anenterprise as this, friend Sancho, was reserved for me 
 alone.” The guide then said, ‘‘I beseech your worship, Signor Don 
 Quixote, to be observant, and with a hundred eyes see, explore, and 
 examine what is below; perhaps many things may there be dis- 
 covered worthy of being inserted in my book of Metamorphoses.” 
 “The drum,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ isin a hand that knows full well how 
 to rattle it.” 
 
 The knight being well bound—not over his armour, but his 
 doublet—he said, ‘‘ We have been careless in neglecting to provide 
 a bell, to be tied to me with this rope, by the tinkling of which 
 you might have heard me still descending, and thereby have known 
 that I was alive; but since that is now impossible, be Heaven my 
 guide!” Kneeling down, he first supplicated Heaven for protec- 
 tion and success in an adventure so new, and seemingly so perilous ; 
 then raising his voice, he said, ‘‘O mistress of every act and move- 
 ment of my life, most illustrious and peerless Dulcinea del Toboso ! 
 if the prayers and requests of thy adventurous lover reach thy ears, 
 by the power of thy unparalleled beauty, I conjure thee to listen to 
 them, and grant me thy favour and protection in this moment of 
 fearful necessity, when Iam on the point of plunging, ingulphing, and 
 precipitating myself into the profound abyss before me, solely to 
 prove to the world, that if thou favourest me, there is no impos- 
 sibility I will not attempt and overcome.” 
 
THE KNIGHT DESCENDS INTO THE CAVE. 895. 
 
 So saying, he drew near tothe cavity, and observing that the en- 
 trance was so choked with vegetation as to be almost impene- 
 table, he drew his sword, and began to cut and hew down the 
 brambles and bushes with which it was covered: whereupon, dis- 
 turbed at the noise and rustling which he made, presently out 
 rushed such a flight of huge daws and ravens, as well as bats and 
 other night birds, that he was thrown down, and had he been as 
 superstitious as he was catholic, he would have taken it for an ill 
 omen, and relinquished the enterprise. Rising again upon his legs, 
 and seeing no more creatures fly out, the scholar and Sancho let 
 him down into the fearful cavern; and, as he entered, Sancho gave 
 him his blessing, and making a thousand crosses over him, said, 
 ‘**God, and the rock of France, together with the trinity of Gaeta, * 
 speed thee, thou flower, and cream, and skimming of knights-errant ! 
 There thou goest, Hector of the world, heart of steel and arm of 
 brass! Once more, Heaven guide thee, and send thee back safe 
 and sound to the light of this world which thou art now forsaking 
 for that horrible den of darkness.” The scholar also added his 
 prayers to those of Sancho for the knight’s success and happy re- 
 turn. 
 
 Don Quixote went down, still calling as he descended for more 
 rope, which they gave him by little and little; and when the voice, 
 owing to the windings of the cave, could be heard no longer, and 
 the hundred fathom of cordage was all let down, they thought that 
 they should pull him up again, since they could give him no more 
 rope. However, after the lapse of about half an hour, they began 
 to gather up the rope, which they did so easily that it appeared to 
 have no weight attached to it, whence they conjectured that Don 
 Quixote remained in the cave ; Sancho, in this belief, wept bitterly, 
 and pulled up the rope in great haste, to know the truth ; but 
 having drawn it to a little above eight fathoms, they had the satis- 
 faction again to feel the weight. In short, after raising it up to 
 about the tenth fathom, they could see the knight very distinctly ; 
 upon which Sancho immediately called to him, saying, ‘‘ Welcome 
 back again to us, dear sir, for we began to fear you meant to stay 
 below!” But Don Quixote answered not a word; and being now 
 drawn entirely out, they perceived that his eyes were shut, as if 
 he were asleep. They then laid him along the ground, and un- 
 bound him; and as he still did not awake, they turned, pulled, and 
 shook him so much, that at last he came to himself, stretching and 
 yawning just as if he had awaked out of a deep and heavy sleep ; 
 and looking wildly about him, he said, ‘‘ Heaven forgive ye, my 
 friends, for having brought me away from the most delicious and 
 charming state that ever mortal enjoyed! In truth, I am now 
 thoroughly satisfied that all the pleasures of this life pass away like 
 a shadow or dream, or fade like a flower of the field. O unhappy 
 Montesinos! O desperately wounded Durandarte! O unhappy 
 
 * The Rock of France is a lofty mountain in the district of Alberca. The Trinity 
 of Gaeta is a chapel and convent founded by King Ferdinand V. of Arragon, on 
 the summit of a promontory before the Port of Gaeta, and dedicated to the Holy 
 Trinity. 
 
896 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Balerma! O weeping Guadiana! And ye unfortunate daughters 
 Ruydera, whose waters show what floods of tears have streamed 
 from your fair eyes!” 
 
 The scholar and Sancho listened to Don Quixote’s words, which 
 he uttered as if drawn with excessive pain from his entrails. They 
 entreated him to explain, and to tell them what he had seen in that 
 bottomless pit. ‘*‘ Pit, do youcall it?” said Don Quixote; ‘‘call it 
 so no more, for it deserves not that name, as you shall presently 
 hear.” He then told them that he wanted food extremely, and de- 
 sired they would give him something to eat. The scholar’s carpet 
 was accordingly spread upon the grass, and they immediately ap- 
 plied to the pantry of his wallets, and being all three seated in loving 
 and social fellowship, they made their dinner and supper at one 
 meal. When all were satisfied, and the carpet removed, Don Quixote 
 de la Mancha said, ‘‘ Remain where you are, my sons, and listen to 
 me with attention.” 
 
 ———_____ 
 
 CHAPTER XXIIIL 
 
 Of the wonderful things which the accomplished Don Quixote de la 
 Mancha declared he had seen in the cave of Montesitnos, from 
 the extraordinary nature of which this adventure is held to be 
 apocryphal. 
 
 It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, when the sun being 
 covered by clouds, its temperate rays gave Don Quixote an oppor- 
 tunity, without heat or fatigue, of relating to his two illustrious 
 hearers what he had seen in the cave of Montesinos ; and he began 
 in the following manner :— 
 
 *¢ About twelve or fourteen fathoms deep, in this dungeon, there 
 is on the right hand a hollow space, wide enough to contain a large 
 waggon, together with its mules, and faintly lighted by some dis- 
 tant aperture above. This cavity I happened to see, as I journeyed 
 on through the dark, without knowing whither I was going: and, as 
 ] was just then beginning to be weary of hanging by the rope, I deter- 
 mined to enter, in order to rest a little. I cailed out to you aloud, 
 and desired you not to let down more rope till I bid you; but it 
 seems you heard me not. I then collected the cord you had let 
 down, and coiling it up in a heap, or bundle, I sat down upon it, 
 full of thought, meditating how I might descend to the bottom, 
 having nothing to support my weight. In this situation, pensive 
 and embarrassed, a deep sleep suddenly came over me, from which, 
 I know not how, I as suddenly awoke, and found that I had been 
 transported into a verdant lawn, the most delightful that Nature 
 could create, or the liveliest fancy imagine. I rubbed my eyes, 
 wiped them, and perceived that I was not asleep, but really awake. 
 Nevertheless I felt my head and breast, to be assured that it was I 
 myself, and not some empty and counterfeit illusion; but sensation, 
 feeling, and the coherent discourse I held with myself, convinced me 
 
WHAT THE KNIGHT SAW IN THE CAVE. 597 
 
 that I was the identical person which I am at this moment. I 
 soon discovered a royal and splendid palace or castle, whereof the 
 walls and battlements seemed to be composed of bright and trans- 
 parent crystal; and as I gazed upon it, the great gates of the portal 
 opened, and a venerable old man issued forth and advanced towards 
 me. He was clad in a long mourning cloak of purple baize, which- 
 trailed upon the ground ; over his shoulders and breast he wore a 
 kind of collegiate tippet of green satin; he had a black Milan cap 
 on his head, and his hoary beard reached below his girdle. Hecar- 
 ried no weapons, but held a rosary of beads in his hand, as large as 
 walnuts, and every tenth bead the size of an ordinary ostrich egg. 
 His mien, his gait, his gravity, and his goodly presence, each singly 
 and conjointly, filled me with surprise and admiration. On coming 
 up, he embraced me, and said, ‘'The day is at length arrived, most 
 renowned and valiant Don Quixote de la Mancha, that we who are 
 enclosed in this enchanted solitude have long hoped would bring | 
 thee hither, that thou mayest proclaim to the world the things 
 prodigious and incredible that lie concealed in this subterranean 
 place, commonly called the cave of Montesinos—an exploit reserved 
 for your invincible heart and stupendous courage ; come with me, 
 illustrious sir, that I may show you the wonders contained in this 
 transparent castle, of which I am the warder and perpetual guard : 
 for I am Montesinos himself, from whom this cave derives its name.’ 
 He had no sooner told me that he was Montesinos than I asked him 
 whether it was true what was reported in the world above, that 
 with a little dagger he had taken out the heart of his great friend 
 Durandarte, and conveyed it to the lady Belerma, agreeable to his 
 dying request. He replied that the whole was true, excepting as 
 to the dagger; for it was not a small dagger, but a bright poniard,,. 
 sharper than an awl.” 
 
 ‘That poniard,” interrupted Sancho, ‘‘ must have been made by 
 Raymond de Hozes, of Seville.” ‘‘ I know not who was the maker,” 
 said Don Quixote: ‘‘ but on reflection, it could not have been Ray- 
 mond de Hozes, who lived but the other day, whereas the battle 
 of Roncesvalles, where this misfortune happened, was fought some 
 ages ago. But that question is of no importance, and does not 
 
 affect the truth and connection of the story.” ‘‘ True,” answered 
 the scholar; ‘‘ pray go on, Signor Don Quixote, for I listen to your 
 account with the greatest pleasure imaginable.” ‘‘ And I relate it 
 
 with no less,” answered Don Quixote: ‘‘and so to proceed—the 
 
 venerable Montesinos conducted me to the crystalline palace, where, 
 in a lower hall, formed of alabaster, and extremely cool, there stood 
 a marble tomb of exquisite workmanship, whereon I saw extended 
 a knight, not of brass, or marble, or jasper, as is usual with other 
 monuments, but of pure flesh and bones. His right hand, which 
 seemed to me somewhat hairy and nervous (a token of great strength), 
 was laid on the region of his heart; and before 1 could ask any 
 question, Montesinos, perceiving my attention fixed on the sepulchre, 
 said, ‘This is my friend Durandarte, the flower and model of all 
 the enamoured and valiant knights-errant of his time. He is kept 
 here enchanted, as well as myself and many others of both sexes, 
 
* 
 
 398 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 by that French enchanter Merlin. How, or why, we are thus en- 
 chanted no one can tell; but time will explain it, and that, too, I 
 imagine, at no distant period. What astonishes me is, that I am 
 as certain as that it is now day, that Durandarte expired in my 
 arms, and that, after he was dead, with these hands I pulled out 
 his heart, which could not have weighed less than two pounds: 
 confirming the opinion of naturalists that a man’s valour is in pro- 
 portion to the size of his heart. Yet, certain as it is that this 
 cavalier is really dead, how comes it to pass, that ever and anon 
 he sighs and moans as if he were alive ?’—Scarcely were these 
 words uttered, than the wretched Durandarte, crying aloud, said, 
 ‘O my cousin Montesinos! at the moment my soul was departing, 
 my last request of you was, that after ripping my heart out of my 
 breast with either a poniard or a dagger, you should carry it to 
 Belerma.’ The venerable Montesinos hearing this, threw himself 
 on his knees before the complaining knight, and with tears in his 
 eyes, said to him, ‘ long, long since, O Durandarte, dearest cousin ! 
 long since did I fulfil what you enjoined on that said day when you 
 expired. I took out your heart with all imaginable care, not leav- 
 ing the smallest particle of it within your breast; I then wiped it 
 with a lace handkerchief, and set off at full speed with it for France, 
 having first laid your dear remains in the earth, shedding as many 
 tears as sufficed to wash my hands and clean away the blood with 
 which they were smeared by raking into your entrails ; and further- 
 more, dear cousin of my soul, at the first place I stopped, after 
 leaving Roncesvalles, I sprinkled a little salt over your heart, and 
 thereby kept it, if not fresh, at least from emitting any unpleasant 
 odour, until it was presented to the lady Belerma; who, together 
 with you and myself, and your squire Guadiana, and the duenna 
 Ruydera, with her seven daughters, and two nieces, as well as 
 several others of your friends and acquaintance, have been long 
 confined here, enchanted by the sage Merlin; and though it is now 
 above five hundred years since, we are still alive. It is true, Ruy- 
 dera and her daughters and nieces have left us, having so far moved 
 the compassion of Merlin, by their incessant weeping, that he turned 
 them into as many lakes, which at this time, in the world of the 
 living, in the province of La Mancha, are called the lakes of Ruy- 
 dera. ‘The seven sisters belong to the kings of Spain, and the two 
 nieces to the most holy order of St John. Guadiana, also, your 
 squire, bewailing your misfortune, was in like manner changed into 
 a river, still retaining his name: but when he reached the surface 
 of the earth, and saw the sun of another sky, he was so grieved at 
 the thought of forsaking you that he plunged again into the bowels 
 of the earth: nevertheless he was compelled by the laws of nature 
 to rise again, and occasionally show himself to the eyes of men and 
 the light of heaven. The lakes which I have mentioned supply 
 him with their waters, and with them, joined by several others, he 
 makes his majestic entrance into the kingdom of Portugal. Yet, 
 wherever he flows, his grief and melancholy still continue, breeding 
 only coarse and unsavoury fish, very different from those of the 
 golden Tagus. All this, 0 my dearest cousin! T have often told 
 
HE CONVERSES WITH MONTESINOS. 899 
 
 before, and since you make me no answer, I fancy you either do 
 not believe, or do not hear me, which afflicts me very much. But 
 now [ have other tidings to communicate, which if they do not 
 alleviate, will in nowise increase your sorrow. Open your eyes and 
 behold here, in your presence, that great knight, of whom the sage 
 Merlin has foretold so many wonders—that same Don Quixote de 
 la Mancha, I say, who has revived with new splendour the long- 
 neglected order of knight-errantry, and by whose prowess and 
 favour it may perhaps, be our good fortune to be released from 
 the spells by which we are here held in confinement: for great ex- 
 ploits are reserved for great men.’ ‘And though it should not be 
 so,’ answered the wretched Durandarte in a faint and low voice— 
 ‘though it should prove otherwise, O cousin! I can only say, 
 parents and shuffle the cards.’ Then turning himself on one side, 
 e relapsed into his accustomed silence. 
 
 ** At that moment, hearing loud cries and lamentations, with 
 other sounds of distress, I turned my head, and saw, through the 
 crystal walls of the palace, a procession in two lines, of beautiful 
 damsels, all attired in mourning, and with white turbans, in the 
 Turkish fashion. These were followed by a lady—for so she seemed 
 by the gravity of her air—clad also in black, with a white veil, so 
 long that it reached the ground. Her turban was twice the size of 
 the largest of the others; she was beetle-browed, her nose was 
 somewhat flattish, her mouth wide, but her lips red; her teeth, 
 which she sometimes displayed, were thin-set and uneven, though 
 as white as blanched almonds. She carried in her hand a fine linen 
 handkerchief, in which I could discern a human heart, withered 
 and dry like that of amummy. Montesinos told me that the 
 damsels whom I saw were the attendants of Durandarte and Be- 
 lerma—all enchanted like their master and mistress—and that the 
 female who closed the procession was the lady Belerma herself, who 
 four days in the week walked in that manner with her damsels, 
 singing, or rather weeping, dirges over the body and piteous heart 
 of his cousin ; and that, if she appeared tome less beautiful than fame 
 reported, it was occasionad by the bad nights and worse days she passed 
 in that state of enchantment, as might be seen by her sallow complex- 
 ion, and thedeep furrows inher face. ‘The hollowness of her eyes and 
 pallid skin areto be attributed merely tothat deep affliction which in- 
 cessantly preys on her heart for the untimely death of her lover, still 
 renewed and kept alive by what she continually carries in her hands : 
 indeed, had it not been for this, the great Dulcinea del Toboso her- 
 self, so much celebrated here and over the whole world, would 
 scarcely have equalled her in beauty of person or sweetness of 
 manner.’ ‘Softly,’ said I, ‘good Signor Montesinos; comparisons 
 you know are odious, and therefore let them be spared, I beseech 
 you. The peerless Dulcinea is what she is, and the lady Donna 
 Belerma is what she is, and what she has been, and there let it 
 rest.’ ‘Pardon me, Signor Don Quixote,’ said Montesinos, ‘I 
 might have guessed that your worship was the lady Dulcinea’s 
 knight, and ought to have bit my tongue off rather than it should 
 have compared her to anything less than heaven itself.’ This 
 
400 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 satisfaction bemg given me by the great Montesinos, my heart re- 
 covered from the shock it had sustained on hearing my mistress 
 compared with Belerma.” ‘‘I wonder,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ that 
 your worship did not give the old fellow a hearty kicking, and 
 pluck his beard for him till you had not left a single hair on his 
 chin.” ‘‘No, friend Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘it did 
 not become me to do so; for we are all bound to respect the aged, 
 although not of the order of knighthood; still more those who are 
 so, and who, besides, are enchanted ; but trust me, Sancho, in other 
 discourse which we held together, I fairly matched him.” 
 
 Here the scholar said, ‘‘ I cannot imagine, Signor Don Quixote, 
 how it was possible, having been so short a space of time below, 
 that your worship should have seen so many things, and have 
 heard and said so much.” ‘‘ How long, then, may it be since I 
 descended?” quoth Don Quixote. ‘‘ A little above an hour,” an- 
 swered Sancho. ‘‘That cannot be,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘ for 
 night came on, and was followed by morning three times succes- 
 sively ; so that I must have sojourned three days in these remote 
 and hidden parts.” ‘‘ My master,” said Sancho, ‘‘ must needs be 
 in the right; for, as everything has happened to him in the way 
 of enchantment, what seems to us but an hour may there seem fall 
 three days and three nights.” ‘‘ Doubtless it must be so,” an- 
 
 swered Don Quixote. ‘‘I hope,” said the scholar, ‘‘ your worship 
 was not without food allthistime?” ‘‘ Not one mouthful did I taste,” 
 said the knight, ‘‘nor was I sensible of hunger.” ‘‘ What, then, 
 
 do not the enchanted eat?” said the scholar. ‘‘ No,” answered 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘although some think that their nails and beards 
 still continue to grow.” ‘*And pray, sir,” said Sancho, ‘‘do 
 they never sleep?” ‘‘ Certainly never,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘at 
 least, during the three days that I have been amongst them, 
 not one of them has closed an eye, nor have I slept myself.” 
 ‘Here,’ said Sancho, ‘‘the proverb is right; ‘tell me thy com- 
 pany, and I will tell thee what thou art.’ If your worship keeps 
 company with those who fast and watch, no wonder that you neither 
 eat nor sleep yourself. But pardon me, good master of mine, if I tell 
 your worship, that of all you have been saying, I don’t believe one 
 word.” ‘*‘How!” said the scholar, ‘‘do you think that Signor 
 Don Quixote would lie? But were he so disposed, he has not had 
 time to invent or fabricate such a tale.” ‘*I do not think my 
 master lies,” answered Sancho. ‘‘ What, then, dost thou think?” 
 said Don Quixote. ‘‘I think,” answered Sancho, ‘‘ that the necro- 
 mancers, or that same Merlin who enchanted all those whom your 
 worship says you saw and talked with there below, have crammed 
 into your head all the stuff you have told us, and all that you have 
 yet to say.’ 
 
 ‘¢ All that is possible,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ only that it happens 
 not to be so: for what I have related I saw with my own eyes and 
 touched with myownhands. But what wilt thou say when I tell thee, 
 that among an infinite number of wonderful and surprising things 
 shown to me by Montesinos, whereof I will give an account here- 
 after (for this is not the time or place to speak of them), he pointed 
 
DULCINEA IN THE CAVE. 401 
 
 out to me three country wenches, dancing and capering like kids 
 about those charming fields, and no sooner did I behold them than 
 I recognized in one of the three the peerless Dulcinea herself, and 
 in the other two the very same wenches that attended her, and 
 with whom we held some parley on the road from Toboso! Upon 
 my asking Montesinos whether he knew them, he said they were 
 strangers to him, though he believed them to be some ladies of 
 quality lately enchanted, having made their appearance there but 
 afew days before. Nor should that excite my wonder, he said, 
 for many distinguished ladies, both of the past and present times, 
 were enchanted there under different forms ; among whom he had 
 discovered Queen Ginebra, and her duenna Quintannona, cup- 
 bearer to Lancelot when he came from Britain.” ‘ 
 
 When Sancho heard his master say all this, he was ready to run 
 distracted, or to die with laughter; for knowing that he was him- 
 self Dulcinea’s enchanter, he now made no doubt that his master 
 had lost his senses, and was raving mad, ‘‘In an evil hour anda 
 woeful day, dear master of mine,” said he, ‘‘did you go down to 
 the other world ; and in a Juckless moment did you meet with Sig- 
 nor Montesinos, who has sent you back to us in this plight. Your 
 worshin left us in your right senses, such as Heaven had given you, 
 speaking sentences, and giving advice at every turn; but now, how 
 you talk!” ‘‘AsI know thee, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, 
 “J heed not thy words.” ‘‘Nor I your worship’s,” replied 
 Sancho; ‘‘ you may kill or strike me, if you please, for all those 
 I have said, or shall say, without you correct and mend your own. 
 But tell me, sir, now we are at peace, how, or by what token, did 
 you know the lady your mistress; and, if you spoke to her, what 
 said you, and what did she answer?” ‘‘I knew her,” answered 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘ because her apparel was the same that she wore 
 when you showed her tome. 1 spoke to her, but she answered me 
 not a word; on the contrary, she turned her back upon me, and fled 
 with the speed of an arrow. I would have followed her, but Mon- 
 tesinos dissuaded me from the attempt, as I should certainly lose 
 my labour; and besides, the hour approached when I must quit the 
 cave and return to the upper world; he assured me, however, that 
 in due time I shouldbe informed of the means of disenchanting 
 himself, Belerma, Durandarte, and all the rest who were there. 
 While we were thus talking, a circumstance occurred that gave me 
 much concern. Suddenly, one of the two companions of the un- 
 fortunate Dulcinea came up to my side, all in tears, and, in a low and 
 troubled voice, said to me, ‘My lady Dulcinea del Toboso_ kisses 
 your worship’s hands, and desires to know how you do: and being 
 at this time a little straitened for money, she earnestly entreats 
 your worship would be pleased to lend her, upon this new cotton 
 petticoat that I have brought here, six reals, or what you can spare, 
 which she promises to return very shortly.’ This message as- 
 tonished me, and turning to Montesinos, I said to him, ‘Is it pos- 
 sible, Signor Montesinos, that persons of quality under enchant- 
 ment, are exposed to necessity?’ To which he answered, ‘ Believe, 
 Signor Don Quixote de la Mancha, that what 1s called necessity 
 
 2c 
 
40Y ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 prevails everywhere, and extends to all, not sparing even those 
 who are enchanted: and since the lady Dulcinea sends to request a 
 loan of six reals, and the pledge seems to be unexceptionable, give 
 them to her, for without doubt she is in great need.’ ‘I will take 
 no pawn,’ answered I; ‘nor can I send her what she desires, for I 
 have but four reals in my pocket. I therefore send her those four 
 reals,’ being the same thou gavest me the other day, Sancho, to 
 bestow in alms on the poor we should meet with upon the road: 
 and I said to the damsel, ‘Tell your lady friend, that I am grieved 
 to the soul at her distresses, and wish I were as rich as a Fucar,* 
 to remedy them. But pray let her be told that I neither can, nor 
 will, have health while deprived of her amiable presence and dis- 
 ~ ereet conversation: and that I earnestly beseech that she will 
 vouchsafe to let herself be seen and conversed with by this her 
 captive and wayworn knight; tell her, also, that when she least 
 expects it, she will hear that I have made a vow like that made by 
 the marquis of Mantua, when he found his nephew Valdovinos ready 
 to expire on the mountain; which was, not to eat bread upon a 
 tablecloth, and other matters of the same kind, till he had re- 
 venged his death. In like manner will I take no rest, but traverse 
 the seven parts of the universe with more diligence than did the 
 infant Don Pedro of Portugal, until her disenchantment be accom- 
 plished.’ ‘All this, and more, your worship owes my lady,’ an- 
 swered the damsel; and, taking the four reals, instead of making 
 Be a curtsey, she cut a caper, full two yards high in the air, and 
 fled.” 
 
 ‘‘ Now!” cried Sancho; ‘‘is it possible there should be anything 
 like this in the world, and that enchanters and enchantment should 
 so bewitch and change my master’s good understanding! O sir! 
 sir! look to ycurself, take care of your good name, and give no 
 credit to these vanities which have robbed you of your senses.” 
 ‘¢Thou lovest me, Sancho, I know,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ and there- 
 fore I am induced to pardon thy prattle. To thy imexperienced 
 mind, whatever is uncommon, appears impossible; but, as I have 
 said before, a time may come when I will tell thee of some things 
 which I have seen below, whereof the truth cannot be doubted, and 
 that will make thee give credit to what I haye already related.” 
 
 ee 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 In which are recounted a thousand trifling matters, equally pertinent 
 and necessary to the right understanding of this grand history. 
 
 Cid Hamet Benengeli, the translator of this great work from the 
 original of its first author, says, that when he came to the chapter 
 that records the adventure of the cave of Montesinos, he found on 
 the margin these words in Hamet’s own handwriting :— 
 
 “‘T cannot persuade myself that the whole of what is related in 
 
 * A rich German family of the name of Fugger, ennobled by Charles V. 
 
THE STUDENT’S FOUR ACQUISITIONS. 408 
 
 this chapter, as having happened to Don Quixote in the cave of 
 Montesinos, is really true: because the adventures in which he has 
 hitherto been engaged are all natural and probable, whereas this of 
 the cave is neither one nor the other, but exceeds all reasonable 
 bounds, and therefore cannot be credited. On the other hand, if 
 we recollect the honour and scrupulous veracity of the noble Don > 
 Quixote, it seems utterly impossible that he could be capable of 
 telling a lie: sooner, indeed, would he submit to be transfixed with 
 arrows than be guilty of a deviation from truth. Besides, if we 
 consider the minute and circumstantial details that he entered into, 
 it seems a still greater impossibility that he could, in soshort a time, 
 have invented such a mass of extravagance. Should this adventure, 
 however, be considered as apocryphal, let it be remembered that 
 the fault is not mine. I write it without affirming either its truth 
 or falsehood ; therefore, discerning and judicious reader, judge for 
 thyself, as [ neither can nor ought to do more—unless it be just to 
 apprise thee that Don Quixote, on his death-bed, is said to have ac- 
 knowledged that this adventure was all a fiction, invented only be- 
 oause it accorded and squared with the tales he had been accustomed 
 to read in his favourite books.” But to proceed with our history. 
 The scholar was astonished no less at the boldness of Sancho 
 Panza than at the patience of his master, but attributed his present 
 taildness to the satisfaction he had just received in beholding his 
 mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, though enchanted ; for, had it not 
 been so, he conceived that Sancho’s freedom of speech would have 
 had what it richly deserved—a manual chastisement. In truth, he 
 thought him much too presuming with the knight, to whom now 
 addressing himself, he said, ‘‘ For my own part, Signor Don Quixote, 
 I account myself most fortunate in having undertaken this journey, 
 as I have thereby made four important acquisitions. The first is | 
 the honour of your worship’s acquaintance, which I esteem a great 
 happiness ; the second is a knoWSedge of the secrets enclosed in this 
 wonderful cave, the metamorphoses of Guadiana, and the lakes of 
 Ruydera, which will be of notable use in my Spanish Ovid now in 
 hand ; my third advantage is the discovery of the antiquity of cards, 
 which, it now appears, were in use at least in the days of the Km- 
 eror Charlemagne, as may be gathered from the words that fell from 
 urandarte, when, after that long speech of Montesinos, he awaked, 
 and said, ‘Patience, and shuffle the cards.’ Now, as he could not 
 have learnt this phrase during his enchantment, he must have learnt 
 it in France, in the days of Charlemagne; and this discovery also 
 comes in opportunely for my ‘Supplement to Polydore Virgil on 
 Antiquities ;’ for I believe that in his treatise he has wholly ne- 
 glected the subject of cards—a defect that will now be supplied by 
 me, which will be of great importance, especially as I shall be able 
 to quote an authority so grave and authentic as that of Signor 
 Durandarte. And finally, it has, in the fourth place, been my good 
 fortune thus to come at the knowledge of the true source of the 
 river Guadiana, which has hitherto remained unknown.” 
 ‘‘There is much reason in what you say,” quoth the knight; 
 *‘but if, by Heaven’s will, you should obtain a license for printing 
 
404 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 your. books, which I much doubt, to whom*would you inscribe 
 them?” ‘QO, sir,” said the scholar, ‘‘ we have lords and grandees 
 ia abundance, and are therefore in no want of patrons.” ‘‘ Not so 
 many as you may imagine,” said Don Quixote; ‘for all those who 
 are worthy of such a token of respect are not equally disposed to 
 make that generous return which seems due to the labour, as well 
 as the politeness of the author. It is my happiness to know of one 
 exalted personage* who makes ample amends for what is wanting 
 in the rest, and with so liberal a measure, that if I might presume 
 to make it known, I should infallibly stir up envy in many a noble 
 breast. But let this rest till a more convenient season; for it is 
 now time to consider where we shall lodge to-night.” ‘* Not far 
 hence,” said the scholar, ‘‘is a hermitage, the dwelling of a recluse, 
 who, they say, was once a soldier, and is now accounted a pious 
 Christian, wise and charitable. Near his hermitage he has built, 
 at his own cost, a small house, which, however, is large enough to 
 accommodate the strangers who visit him.” ‘‘ Does that same hermit 
 keep poultry?” said Sancho. ‘‘ Few hermits are without them,” 
 answered Don Quixote; ‘“‘for such holy men now are not like the 
 hermits of old in the deserts of Egypt, who were clad with leaves 
 of the palm tree, and fed on roots of the earth. By commending 
 these, however, I do not mean to reflect upon the hermits of our 
 times; I would only infer that the penances of these days do not 
 equal the austerities and strictness of former times; but this is no 
 reason why they may not be good; at least I account them so: and, 
 at the worst, he who only wears the garb of piety does less harm 
 than the audacious and open sinner.” 
 
 While they were thus discoursing, they perceived a man coming 
 towards them, walking very fast, and switching on a mule laden 
 with lances and halberds. When he came up to them he saluted 
 them, and passed on. ‘‘ Hold, honest friend,” said Don Quixote to 
 him, ‘‘ methinks you go faster than is convenient for that mule.” 
 ‘**T cannot stay,” answered the man; ‘‘as the weapons which I am 
 carrying are to be made use of to-morrow; I have no time to lose, 
 and so adieu. But, if you would know for what use they are in- 
 tended, | shall lodge to-night at the inn beyond the hermitage, and 
 should you be travelling on the same road, you will find me there, 
 where I will tell you wonders; and, once more, Heaven be with 
 you.” Hethen pricked on his mule at such a rate that Don Quixote 
 had no time to inquire after the wonders which he had to tell; but, 
 as he was not a little curious, and eager for anything new, he deter- 
 mined immediately to hasten forwards to the inn, and pass the 
 night there, without touching at the hermitage. They accordingly 
 mounted, and took the direct road to the inn, at which they arrived 
 a little before night-fall. The scholar proposed calling at the her- 
 mitage just to allay their thirst ; upon which Sancho Panza instantly 
 steered Dapple in that direction, and Don Quixote and the scholar 
 followed his example: but, as Sancho’s ill-luck would have it, the 
 hospitable sage was not at home, as they were told by the under- 
 
 * The Count de Lemos, Don Pedgo Fernandes de Castro. 
 
SANCHO BEWAILS THE WANT OF WINE. 405 
 
 hermit, of whom they requested some wine. He told them that 
 his master had no wine, but, if they would like water, he would 
 give them some with great pleasure. ‘‘If I had wanted water,” 
 quoth Sancho, ‘‘ there are wells in abundance on the road—O the 
 wedding of Camacho, and the plenty of Don Diego’s house! When 
 shall I meet with your like again !” 
 
 Quitting the hermitage, they spurred on towards the inn, and 
 soon overtook a lad who was walking leisurely before them. He 
 carried a sword upon his shoulder and upon it a roll or bundle that 
 seemed to contain his apparel, such as breeches, a cloak, and a 
 shirt or two; for he had on an old velvet jerkin, with some tatters 
 of a satin lining, below which his shirt hung out at large, his 
 stockings were silk, and his shoes square-toed, after the court 
 fashion. He seemed to be about eighteen or nineteen years of 
 age, his countenance was lively, and his body active. He went on 
 gaily singing, to cheer him on his way; and just as they overtook 
 him, they heard the following lines, which the scholar failed not 
 to commit to memory :— 
 
 For want of the pence to the wars I must go: 
 Ah! had I but money it would not be so. 
 
 ‘You travel very airily, sir,” said Don Quixote to him, ‘“‘ pray, 
 may I ask whither you are bound?” ‘‘ Heat and poverty,” replied 
 the youth, make me travel in this way: and my intention, sir, is 
 to jointhearmy.” ‘‘From heat it may well be; but why poverty?” 
 said Don Quixote. ‘‘ Sir,” replied the youth, ‘‘I carry in this 
 bundle a pair of velvet trousers, fellows to my jacket; if I wear 
 them out upon the road, they will do me no credit in the city, and 
 I have no money to buy others; for this reason, sir, as well as for 
 coolness, I go thus till I overtake some companies of infantry, which 
 are not twelve leagues hence, where I mean to enlist myself, and 
 then shall be sure to meet with some baggage waggon to convey me 
 to the place of embarkation, which, they say, is Carthagena: for I 
 had rather serve the king in his wars abroad, than be the lacquey 
 of any beggarly courtier at home.” ‘‘ And pray, sir, have you no 
 appointment ?” said the scholar. ‘‘ Had I served some grandee or 
 other person of distinction,” answered the youth, ‘‘ possibly I might 
 have been so rewarded ; for in the service of such masters it is no 
 uncommon thing to rise into ensigns or captains, from the servants’ 
 hall; but it was always my scurvy fate to be dangling upon foreigners 
 or fellows without a home, who allow so pitiful a salary that half of 
 it goes in starching a ruff; and it would be a miracle indeed for a poor 
 page to meet with preferment in such situations.” ‘‘ But tell me, 
 friend,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘is it possible, that during all the time 
 you have been in service, you could not procure yourself a livery ?” 
 *‘T have had two,” answered the page; ‘‘ but as he who quits a 
 monastery before he confesses, is stripped of his habit and his old 
 clothes are returned him, just so did my masters treat me, for when 
 the business for which they came to court was done, they hurried 
 back into the country, taking away the liveries which they had 
 only given to make a flourish in the town.” 
 
406 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ‘‘ 4 notable espilorcheria,* as the Italians say,” quoth Don 
 Quixote: ‘‘ however, consider yourself fortunate in having quitted 
 your former life, with so laudable an intention ; for there is nothing 
 more honourable, next to the service which you owe to God, than 
 to serve your king and natural lord, especially in the profession of 
 
 -arms, which, if less profitable than learning, far exceeds it in glory. 
 More great families, it is true, have been established by learning, 
 yet there isin the martial character a certain splendour, which 
 seems to exalt it far above all other pursuits. But allow me, sir, 
 to offer you a piece of advice, which, believe me, you will find 
 worth your attention. Never suffer your mind to dwell on the 
 adverse events of your life; for tne worst that can befall you is 
 death, and when attended with honour there is no event so glorious. 
 Julius Cesar, that valorous Roman, being asked which was the 
 kind of death to be preferred, ‘That,’ said he, ‘which is sudden 
 and unforeseen!’ Though he answered like a heathen, who knew 
 not the true God, yet considering human infirmity, it was well said. 
 For, supposing you should be cut off in the very first encounter, 
 either by cannon-shot or the springing of a mine, what does it 
 signify? it is but dying, which is inevitable, and, being over, there 
 it ends. Terence observes that the corpse of the man who is slain 
 in battle looks better than the living soldier who has saved himself 
 by flight; and the good soldier rises in estimation according to the 
 measure of his obedience to those who command him. Observe, 
 moreover, my son, that a soldier had better smell of gunpowder 
 than of musk ; and if old age overtakes you in this noble profession, 
 though lame and maimed, and covered with wounds, it will find 
 you also covered with honour; and of such honour as poverty 
 itself cannot deprive you. From poverty, indeed, you are secure ; 
 for care is now taken that veteran and disabled soldiers shall not 
 be exposed to want, nor be treated as many do their negro slaves, 
 when old and past service, turning them out of their houses, and, 
 under pretence of giving them freedom, leave them slaves to 
 hunger, from which they can have no relief but in death. I will 
 not say more to you at present ;—but get up behind me and go with 
 us tothe inn, where you shall sup with me, and to-morrow morning 
 pursue your journey; and may Heaven prosper and reward your 
 good intentions.” The page declined Don Quixote’s offer of 
 riding behind him, but readily accepted his invitation to supper ; 
 Sancho now muttered to himself, ‘‘ Who would believe that one 
 who can say so many good things, should tell us such nonsense and 
 riddles about that cave? Well, we shall see what will come of it.” 
 
 They reached the inn just at the close of day, and Sancho was 
 pleased that his master did not, as usual, mistake it for a castle. 
 Don Quixote immediately inquired for the man with the lances and 
 halberts, and was told by the landlord that he was in the stable 
 attending his mule. There also the scholar and Sancho disposed of 
 their beasts, failing not to honour Rozinante with the best manger 
 and best stall in the stable. 
 
 * A mean and sordid action. 
 
THE BRAYYNG ALDERMAN. 407 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Wherein is begun the braying adventure, and the diverting one of the 
 puppet-show, with the memorable divinations of the wonderful ape. . 
 
 Don Quixote being all impatience to hear the wonders which had 
 been promised him by the arms-carrier, immediately went in search 
 of him, and having found him in the stable, he begged him to 
 relate without delay what he had promised on the road. ‘‘ My 
 wonders,” said the man, ‘‘ must be told at leisure, and not on the 
 wing. Wait, good sir, till 1 have done with my mule, and then I 
 will tell you things that will amaze you.” ‘‘It shall not be delayed 
 on that account,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘for I will help you.” 
 And so in truth he did, winnowing the barley and cleaning the 
 manger, which condescension induced the man the more willingly 
 to tell his tale. Seating himself, therefore, on a stone bench at the 
 outside of the door, and having Don Quixote (who sat next to him), 
 and the scholar, the page, Sancho Panza, and the innkeeper, for his 
 senate and auditors, he began in the following manner :— 
 
 “* You must know, gentlemen, that in a town four leagues and a 
 half from this place, a certain alderman happened to lose his ass, 
 all through the artful contrivance (too long to be told) of a wench, 
 his maid-servant ; and though he tried every means to recover his 
 beast, it was to no purpose. Fifteen days passed, as public fame 
 reports, after the ass wags missing, and while the unlucky alderman 
 was standing in the market-place, another alderman of the same 
 town came up to him and said, ‘ Pay me for my good news, gossip, 
 for your ass has made its appearance.’ ‘ Most willingly, neighbour,’ 
 answered the other; ‘ but tell me, where has he been seen?’ ‘On 
 the mountain,’ answered the other; ‘Isaw him there this morning, 
 with no pannel or furniture upon him of any kind, and so lank that 
 it was grievous to behold him. I would have driven him before 
 me and brought him to you, but he is already become so shy that 
 when I went near him, ke took to his heels and fled to a distance 
 from me. Now, if you like it, we will both go seek him; but first, 
 let us put up this of mine at home, and J will return instantly.’ 
 ‘You will do me a great favour,’ said the owner of the lost ass, 
 ‘and I shall be happy at any time to do as much for you.’ 
 
 ‘‘With all these particulars, and in these very words, is the 
 story told by all who are thoroughly acquainted with the truth of 
 the affair. In short, the two aldermen, hand in hand, and side by 
 side, trudged together up the hill; and on coming to the place 
 where they expected to find the ass, they found him not, nor was 
 he anywhere to be seen, though they made diligent search. Being 
 thus disappointed, the alderman who had seen him, said to the 
 other, ‘Hark you, friend, I have thought of a stratagem by which 
 we shall certainly discover this animal, even though he had crept 
 into the bowels of the earth, instead of the mountain; and it is 
 this: I can bray marvellously well, and if you can do a little in 
 
408 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 that way, the business is done.’ ‘A little, say you, neighbour?’ 
 quoth the other, ‘in braying, I yield to none—no, not to asses 
 themselves.’ ‘We shall soon see that,’ answered the second 
 alderman ; ‘go you on one side of the mountain, while I take the 
 other, and let us walk: round it, and every now and then you shall 
 bray, and I will bray ; and the ass will certainly hear and answer 
 us, if he still remains in these parts.’ ‘ Verily, neighbour, your 
 device is excellent, and worthy your good parts,’ said the owner 
 of the ass. They then separated, according to agreement, and 
 both began braying at the same instant, with such marvellous 
 truth of imitation that, mutually deceived, each ran towards the 
 other, not doubting but that the ass was found; and on meeting, 
 the loser said, ‘Is it possible, friend, that it was not my ass 
 that brayed?’ ‘No, it was I,’ answered the other. ‘I declare, 
 then,’ said the owner, ‘that, as far as regards braying, there is 
 not the least difference between you and an ass; for in my life 
 I never heard anything more natural.’ ‘These praises and com- 
 pliments,’ answered the author of the stratagem, ‘belong rather 
 to you than to me, friend; for you could give the odds of two 
 brays to the greatest and most skilful brayer in the world; for 
 your tones are rich, your time correct, your notes well sustained, 
 and cadences abrupt and beautiful; in short, I own myself van- 
 quished, and yield to you the palm in this rare talent.’ ‘Truly,’ 
 answered the ass owner, ‘I shall value and esteem myself the 
 more henceforth, since I am not without some endowment. It is 
 true, I fancy that I brayed indifferently well, yet never flattered 
 myself that I excelled so much as you are pleased to say.’ ‘I 
 tell you,’ answered the second, ‘there are rare abilities often lost to 
 the world, and they are ill-bestowed on those who know not how 
 to employ them to advantage.’ ‘ Right, brother,’ quoth the owner, 
 ‘though, except in cases like the present, ours may not turn to 
 much account; and even in this business, they may prove of 
 service.’ 
 
 “‘This said, they separated again, to resume their braying; and 
 each time were deceived as before, and met again, till at length 
 they agreed as a signal, to distinguish their own voices from that of 
 the ass, that they should bray twice together, one immediately 
 after the other. Thus, doubling their brayings, they made the 
 tour of the whole mountain, without having any answer from the 
 stray ass, not even by signs. How, indeed, could the poor creature 
 answer, whom at last they found in a thicket, half devoured by 
 wolves? On seeing the body, the owner said, ‘Truly, I wondered 
 at his silence; for, had he not been dead, he certainly would 
 have answered us, or he were no true ass; nevertheless, 
 neighbour, though I have found him dead, my trouble in the search 
 has been well repaid in listening to your exquisite braying.’ ‘It is 
 in good hands, friend,’ answered the other; ‘for, if the abbot sings 
 well, the novice comes not far behind him.’ 
 
 ‘‘Hereupon they returned home hoarse and disconsolate, and 
 told their*friends and neighbours all that happened to them in 
 their search after the ass; each of them extolling the other for his 
 
ARRIVAL OF MASTER PETER. 409 
 
 excellence in braying. ‘The story spread all over the adjacent villages, 
 and so it was, that mischief rising out of nothing, all the neighbouring 
 villagers, at the sight of any of our townspeople, would immediately 
 begin to bray, as it were, hitting us in the teeth with the notable 
 talent of our aldermen. ‘The boys fell to it, which was the same as 
 falling into the hands and mouths of a legion of demons; and thus 
 braying spread far and wide, insomuch that the natives of the town 
 of Bray are as well known and distinguished as the negroes are 
 from white men. And this unhappy jest has been carried so far 
 that our people have often sallied out in arms against their scoffers, 
 and given them battle ; neither king nor rook, nor fear nor shame, 
 being able to restrain them. To-morrow, I believe, or next day, 
 those of our town will take the field against the people of another 
 village, about two leagues from us, being one of those which perse- 
 cute us most; and I have brought the lances and halberds which 
 you saw, that we may be well prepared for them. Now these are 
 the wonders I promised you ; and if you do not think them such, I 
 have no better for you.” And here the honest man ended his 
 story. 
 
 At this juncture a man entered the inn, clad from head to foot 
 in chamois-skin, hose, doublet, and breeches, and calling with a 
 loud voice, ‘‘ Master Host, have you any lodging? for here come 
 the divining ape and the puppet-show of ‘Melisendra’s deliverance.’” 
 ‘‘ What, Master Peter!” quoth the innkeeper, ‘‘ Body of me! then 
 we shall have \a rare night of it.” This same Master Peter, it 
 should be observed, had his left eye, and almost half his cheek, 
 covered with a patch of green taffeta, a sign that something was 
 wrong on that side of his face. ‘‘ Welcome, Master Peter,” con- 
 tinued the landlord ; ‘‘where is the ape and the puppet-show? I do 
 notsee them.” ‘‘ They are hard by,” answered the man in leather ; 
 ‘*T came before, to see if we could find lodging here.” ‘‘I would 
 turn out the duke of Alva himself to make room for Master Peter,” 
 answered the innkeeper—‘‘let the ape and the puppets come; for 
 there are guests this evening in the inn who will be good customers 
 to you, I warrant.” ‘‘ Be it so,” answered he of the patch; ‘‘ and 
 I will lower the price, and reckon myself well paid with only bear- 
 ing my charges. I shall now go back and bring on the cart with 
 my ape and puppets ;” for which purpose he immediately hastened 
 away. 
 
 Don Quixote now inquired of the landlord coneerning this Master 
 Peter. ‘‘He is,” said the landlord, ‘‘a famous puppet-player, who 
 has been some time past travelling about these parts with a show 
 of the deliverance of Melisendra by the famous Don Gayferos; one 
 of the best stories and the best performance that has been seen 
 for many a day. He has also an ape whose talents go beyond all 
 other apes, and even those of men; for if a question be put to him 
 he listens attentively, then leaps upon his master’s shoulders, and 
 putting his mouth to his ear, whispers the answer to the question 
 he has been asked, which Master Peter repeats aloud. He can 
 tell both what is to come and what is past, and though, in foretelling 
 things to come, he does not always hit the mark exactly, yet for the 
 
410 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 most part he is not so much out; so that we are inclined to believe 
 the devil must be in him. His fee is two reals for every question 
 the ape answers, or his master answers for him, which is all the 
 same; so that Master Peter is thought to be rich. He is a rare 
 fellow, too, and lives the merriest life in the world; talks more 
 than six, and drinks more than a dozen, and all by the help of his 
 tongue, his ape, and his puppets.” 
 
 By this time Master Peter had returned with his cart, in which 
 he carried his puppets, and also his ape, which was large, and with- 
 out a tail, and a countenance most ugly. Don Quixote immediately 
 began to question him, saying, ‘‘ Signor diviner, pray tell me what 
 fish do we catch, and what will be our fortune? See, here are my 
 two reals,” bidding Sancho give them to Master Peter, who, answer- 
 ing for the ape, said, ‘‘ My ape, signor, gives no reply nor informa- 
 tion regarding the future; he knows something of the past, and a 
 little of the present.” ‘‘ Bodkins,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘I would not 
 give a brass farthing to be told what has happened to me; for who 
 can tell that better than myself? and I am not such a fool as to 
 pay for hearing what I already know. But since he knows what is 
 now passing, here are my two reals—and now, good master ape, 
 tell me what my wife Teresa is doing at this moment—I say, what 
 is she busied about?” Master Peter would not take the money, 
 saying, ‘‘I will not be paid beforehand, nor take your reward be- 
 fore the service is performed.” Then, giving with his right hand 
 two or three claps upon his left shoulder, at one spring the ape 
 jumped upon it, and laying its mouth to his ear, chattered and 
 grated his teeth. Having made these grimaces for the space of a 
 credo, at another skip down it jumped on the ground, and straight- 
 way Master Peter ran and threw himself on his knees before Don 
 Quixote, and embracing his legs, said, ‘‘ These legs I embrace, just 
 as I would embrace the two pillars of Hercules, O illustrious re- 
 viver of the long-forgotten order of chivalry! O, never-sufficiently 
 extolled knight, Don Quixote de la Mancha! Thou reviver of 
 drooping hearts, the prop and stay of the falling, the raiser of the 
 fallen, the staff and comfort to all who are unfortunate !” 
 
 Don Quixote was thunderstruck, Sancho confounded, the scholar 
 surprised,—in short, the page, the braying-man, the innkeeper, 
 and every one present, were astonished at this harangue of the 
 puppet-player, who proceeded, saying, ‘‘ And thou, O good Sancho 
 Panza, the best squire to the best knight in the world, rejoice, for 
 thy good wife Teresa is well, and at this instant is dressing a 
 pound of flax. Moreover, by her left side stands a broken-mouthed 
 pitcher, which holds a very pretty scantling of wine, with which 
 ever and anon she cheers her spirits at her work.” ‘‘Egad, I 
 verily believe it!” answered Sancho, ‘‘for she is a blessed one; 
 and, were she not a little jealous, I would not swap her for the 
 giantess Andandona, who, in my master’s opinion, was a brave 
 lady, and a special housewife; though my Teresa, I warrant is one 
 of those who take care of themselves, though others whistle for it.” 
 
 ‘* Well,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘he who reads and travels much 
 sees and learns much. What testimony but that of my own eyes . 
 
THE KNIGHT’S OPINION OF THE APE. 411 
 
 could have persuaded me that there are apes in the world which 
 have the power of divination? Yes, I am indeed Don Quixote de 
 la Mancha, as this good animal has declared, though he has rather 
 exaggerated in regard to my merits; but, whatever I may be, I 
 thank Heaven for endowing me with a tender and compassionate 
 heart, inclined to do good to all, and harm to none.” ‘‘If I had 
 money,” said the page, ‘‘ I would ask master ape what is to befall 
 me in my intended expedition.” To which master Peter, who had 
 now risen from Don Quixote’s feet, answered, ‘‘I have already 
 told you that this little beast gives no answers concerning things 
 to come; otherwise, your being without money should have been 
 no hindrance ; for to serve Signor Don Quixote here present I will- 
 ingly give up all views of profit. And now, as in duty bound to 
 give pleasure, [ intend to put my puppet-show in order, and enter- 
 tain all the company in the inn gratis.” The innkeeper rejoiced at 
 hearing this, and pointed out a convenient place for setting up the 
 show—which was done in an instant. 
 
 Don Quixote was not entirely satisfied with the ape’s divinations, 
 thinking it very improbable that such a creature should, of itself, 
 know anything either of future or past: therefore, whilst Master 
 Peter was preparing his show, he drew Sancho aside to a corner of 
 the stable, where, in a low voice, he said to him, ‘‘I have been 
 considering, Sancho, the strange power of this ape, and am con- 
 vinced that Master Peter, his owner, must have made a tacit or 
 express pact with the devil.” ‘‘ Nay,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘if the pack 
 be express from the devil, it must needs be a very sooty pack: but 
 what advantage would it be to this same Master Peter to have such 
 a pack?” ‘*Thou dost not comprehend me, Sancho,” said Don 
 Quixote: ‘‘I only mean that he must certainly have made some 
 agreement with the devil to infuse this power into the ape, whereby 
 he gains much worldly wealth, and in return for the favour, he gives 
 up his soul, which is the chief aim of that great enemy of mankind. 
 What induces me to this belief is finding that the ape answers only 
 questions relative to things past or present, which is exactly what is 
 known by the devil, who knows nothing of the future except by 
 conjecture, wherein he must be often mistaken; for it is the pre- 
 rogative of God alone truly to comprehend all things; to Him no- 
 thing is past or future, everything is present. This being the fact, 
 it is plain the ape is inspired by the devil: and I marvel much he 
 has not been questioned by our holy Inquisition, and examined by 
 torture till he acknowledges the authority under which he acts. 
 It is certain that this ape is no astrologer: neither he nor his 
 master know how to raise one of those figures called judicial, 
 although now so much in fashion that there is scarcely a maid- 
 servant, page, or labouring mechanic, who does not pretend to 
 raise a figure, and draw conclusions from the stars as if it were no 
 more than a trick at cards; thus degrading, by ignorance and im- 
 posture, a science no less wonderful than true. I know a lady who 
 asked one of these pretenders about her little lap-dog, what would 
 be the number and colour of its offspring. ‘To which master astro- 
 loger, after raising his figure, answered that she would certainly 
 
442. © ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 have three whelps, one green, one carnation, and the other mottled. 
 It happened that the animal died some two days after, of a surfeit ; 
 yet was the master figure-raiser still accounted, like the rest of his 
 brethren, an infallible astrologer.” 
 
 ‘¢ But for all that,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘I should like your worship 
 to desire Master Peter to ask his ape whether all that was true 
 which you told about the cave of Montesinos; because, for my own 
 part, begging your worship’s pardon, I take it to be all fibs and 
 nonsense, or at least only adream.” ‘‘ Thou mayest think what 
 thou wilt,” answered Don Quixote: ‘‘ however, I will do as thou 
 advisest, although I feel some scruples on the subject.” 
 
 Here they were interrupted by Master Peter, who came to inform 
 Don Quixote that the show was ready, and to request he would 
 come to see it, assuring him that he would find it worthy of his at- 
 tention. The knight told him that he had a question to put to the 
 ape first, as he desired to be informed by it whether the things 
 which happened to him in the cave of Montesinos were realities, or 
 only sleeping fancies; though he had a suspicion himself that they 
 were a mixture of both. Master Peter immediately brought his 
 ape, and placing him before Don Quixote and Sancho, said, ‘‘ Look 
 you, master ape, this worthy knight would know whether certain 
 things which befell him in the cave of Montesinos were real or 
 visionary.” Then making the usual signal, the ape leaped upon 
 his left shoulder, and, after seeming to whisper in his ear, Master 
 Peter said, ‘‘ The ape tells me that some of the things your worship 
 saw, or which befell you in the said cave, are not true, and some 
 probable; which is all he now knows concerning this matter—for 
 his virtue has just left him; but if your worship desires to hear 
 more, on Friday next, when his faculty will return, he will answer 
 to your heart’s content.” ‘‘There now,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ did I 
 not say you would never make me believe all you told us about 
 that same cave ?—no, nor half of it.” ‘‘That will hereafter appear,” 
 answered Don Quixote ; ‘‘ for time brings all things to light, though 
 hidden within the bowels of the earth; and now we will drop the 
 subject for the present, and see the puppet-play, for I am of opinion 
 there must be scme novelty in it.” ‘‘Some!” exclaimed Master 
 Peter ; ‘‘ sixty thousand novelties shall you see in this play of mine! 
 ~ Lassure you, Signor Don Quixote, it is one of the rarest sights that 
 the world affords this day; Operibus credite et non verbis; so let us 
 to work, for it grows late, and we have a great deal to do, to say, 
 and to show.” 
 
 Don Quixote and Sancho complied with his request, and repaired 
 to the place where the show was set out, filled in every part with 
 small wax candles, so that it made a gay and brilliant appearance. 
 Master Peter, who was to manage the figures, placed himself be- 
 hind the show, and in front of the scene stood his boy, whose office 
 it was to relate the story and expound the mystery of the piece ; 
 holding a wand in his hand, to point to the several figures as they 
 entered, | 
 
 All the people of the inn being fixed, some standing opposite to 
 the show, and Don Quixote, Sancho, the page, and the scholar, 
 
THE PUPPET SHOW. 418 
 
 seated in the best places, the young interpreter began to say what 
 will be heard or seen by those who may choose to read or listen to 
 what is recorded in the following chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Wherein is continued the pleasant adventure of the puppet-player, 
 with sundry other matters, all, in truth, sufficiently good. 
 
 Tyrians and Trojans were all silent :—that is, all the spectators 
 of the show hung upon the lips of the expounder of its wonders, 
 when from behind the scene their ears were saluted with the sound 
 of drums and trumpets, and discharges of artillery. These flourishes 
 being over, the boy raised his voice and said, ‘‘ Gentlemen, we here 
 present you with a true story, taken out of the French chronicles 
 and Spanish ballads, which are in everybody’s mouth, and sung by 
 the boys about the streets. It tells you how Don Gayferos delivers 
 his spouse Melisendra, who was imprisoned by the Moors, in the 
 city of Sansuenna, now called Saragossa; and there you may see 
 how Don Gayferos is playing at tables, according to the ballad,— 
 
 Gayferos now at tables plays, 
 Forgetful of his lady dear. 
 
 That personage whom you see with a crown on his head and a 
 sceptre in his hands, is the emperor Charlemangne, the fair 
 Melisendra’s reputed father, who, vexed at the idleness and negli- 
 gence of his son-in-law, comes forth to chide him: and pray mark 
 with what passion and vchemence he rates him—one would think 
 he had a mind to give him half a dozen raps over the pate with his 
 sceptre ; indeed, there are some authors who say he actually gave 
 them, and sound ones, too, and, after having laid it on roundly 
 about the injury his honour had sustained in not delivering his 
 spouse, it is reported that he made use of these very words— ‘I 
 have said enough—look to it.’ Pray observe, gentlemen, how the 
 emperor turns his back, and leaves Don Gayferos in a fret.” 
 
 **See him now in a rage, tossing the table-board one way, and 
 pieces another! Now calling hastily for his armour, and now ask- 
 ing Don Orlando, his cousin, to lend him his sword Durindana, which 
 Don Orlando refuses, though he offers to bear him company in his 
 perilous undertaking ; but the furious knight will not accept of his 
 help, saying that he is able alone to deliver his spouse, though she 
 were thrust down tothe centre of the earth. Hereupon he goes out 
 to arm himself, in order to set forward immediately. Now, gentle- 
 men, turn your eyes towards that tower which appears yonder, 
 which you are to suppose to be one of the Moorish towers of Sara- 
 gossa, now called the Aljaferia; and that lady in a Moorish habit, 
 who appears in the balcony, is the peerless Melisendra, who, from 
 that window, has cast many a wistful look towards the road that 
 leads to France, and soothed her captivity by thinking of the city 
 
414 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 of Paris and her dear husband. Now behold astrange incident, the 
 like perhaps you never heard of before. Do you not see that Moor 
 stealing along softly, and how, step by step, with his finger on his 
 mouth, he comes behind Melisendra? Hear what a smack he gives 
 on her sweet lips, and see how she spits and wipes her mouth with 
 her white smock-sleeves, and how she frets, and tears her beauteous 
 hair from pure vexation !—as if that was to blame for the indignity. 
 Observe, also, the grave Moor, who stands in that open gallery—he 
 is Marsilius, king of Sansuenna, who, seeing the insolence of the 
 Moor, though he is a kinsman and a great favourite, orders him to 
 be seized immediately, and two hundred stripes given him, and to 
 be led through the principal streets of the city, with criers before, 
 to proclaim his crime, followed by the public whippers with their 
 rods ; and see now how all this is put in execution, almost as soon 
 as the fault is committed ; for among the Moors there are no cita- 
 tions, nor indictments, nor delays of the law, as among us.” 
 
 ‘* Boy, boy,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ on with your story in a straight 
 line, and leave your curves and transversals: I can tell you there 
 is often much need of formal process and deliberate trial to come at 
 the truth.” 
 
 Master Peter, also, from behind, said, ‘*‘ None of your flourishes, 
 boy, but do what the gentleman bids you, and then you cannot be 
 wrong; sing your song plainly, and meddle not with counterpoints, 
 for they will only put you out.” ‘‘ Very well,” quoth the boy; and 
 proceeded, saying :— 
 
 ‘The figure you see there on horseback, muffled up in a Gas- 
 coigne cloak, is Don Gayferos himself, whom his lady (after being 
 revenged on the impertinence of the Moor) sees from the battle- 
 ments of the tower, and, taking him for a stranger, holds that dis- 
 course with him which is recorded in the ballad :— 
 
 If towards France your course you bend, 
 Let me entreat you, gentle friend, 
 
 Make diligent inquiry there 
 
 For Gayferos, my husband dear. 
 
 The rest I omit, because length begets loathing. It is sufficient 
 that Don Gayferos makes himself known to her, as you may per- 
 ceive by the signs of joy she discovers, and especially now that you 
 see how nimbly she lets herself down from the balcony, to get on 
 horseback behind her loving spouse. But alas, poor lady! the 
 border of her under petticoat has caught one of the iron rails of the 
 balcony, and there she hangs dangling in the air, without being able 
 to reach the ground. But see how Heaven is merciful, and sends 
 relief in the greatest distress! For now comes Don Gayferos, and, 
 without caring for the richness of her petticoat, see how he lays 
 hold of her, and, tearing her from the hooks, brings her at once to 
 the ground, and then, at a spring, sets her behind him on the 
 crupper, astride like a man, bidding her hold very fast, and clasp 
 her arms about him till they cross and meet over his breast, that 
 she may not fall; because the lady Melisendra was not accustomed 
 to that way of riding. 
 
EFFECT OF THE PUPPET SHOW ON THE KNIGHT. 415 
 
 “Now, gentleman, observe ; hear how the horse neighs and shows 
 how proud he is of the burthen of his valiant master and his fair 
 mistress, See how they now wheel about, and, turning their backs 
 upon the city, scamper away merrily and joyfully to Paris. Peace 
 be with ye, O ye matchless pair of faithful lovers! Safe and sound 
 may you reach your desired country, without impediment, acci- 
 dent, or ill-luck on your journey! May you live as long as 
 Nestor, among friends and relations rejoicing in your happiness, 
 and——” 
 
 «Stay, stay, boy,” said Master Peter, ‘‘none of your flights, I 
 beseech you.” The boy, making no reply, went on with his story. 
 
 “‘ Now, sirs,” said he, ‘‘ quickly as this was done, idle and evil 
 eyes, that pry into everything, are not wanting to mark the descent 
 and mounting of the fair Melisendra, and to give notice to King 
 Marsilius, who immediately ordered an alarm to be sounded; and 
 now observe the hurry and tumult which follow! See how the 
 whole city shakes with the ringing of bells in the steeples of the 
 mosques 3 . 
 
 ** Not so,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘ Master Peter is very much out 
 as to the ringing of bells, which were not used by the Moors, but 
 kettle-drums and a kind of dulcimer, like our waits; and, there- 
 fore, to introduce the ringing of bells in Sansuenna is a gross ab- 
 surdity.” 
 
 Upon which, Master Peter left off ringing, and said, ‘‘ Signor 
 Don Quixote, if you stand upon these trifles we shall never please 
 you; do not be so severe a critic. Have we not thousands of 
 comedies full of such mistakes and blunders, and yet are they not 
 everywhere listened to, not only with applause, but admiration ?—. 
 Go on, boy, and let these folks talk; for, so that my bags are 
 tilled, I care not if there be as many absurdities as there are motes 
 in the sun.” ‘* Youare in the right,” quoth Don Quixote; and the 
 boy proceeded : 
 
 “See, gentlemen, the squadrons of glittering cavalry that now 
 rush out of the city, in pursuit of the two Catholic lovers! How 
 many trumpets sound, how many dulcimers play, and how many 
 drums and kettle-drums rattle! Alack, I fear the fugitives will be 
 overtaken and brought back tied to their own horse’s tail, which 
 would be a lamentable spectacle.” 
 
 Don Quixote, roused at the din, and seeing such a number of 
 Moors, thought it incumbent on him to succour the flying pair ; 
 and, rising up, said in a loud voice, ‘‘ It shall never be said while L 
 live that I suffered such a wrong to be committed against so famous 
 a knight and so daring a lover as Don Gayferos. Hold, base-born 
 rabble !—follow him not, or expect to feel the fury of my resent- 
 ment !” R 
 
 ’T'was no sooner said than done; he unsheathed his sword, and, 
 at one spring, he planted himself close to the show, and with the 
 utmost fury began to rain hacks and slashes on the Moorish puppets, 
 overthrowing some, and beheading others, laming this, and demol- 
 ishing that; and among other mighty strokes, one fell with mortal 
 force in such a direction, that had not Master Peter dexterously 
 
 
 
a 
 
 416 - ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 slipped aside, he would have taken off his head as clean as if it 
 had been made of sugar-paste. 
 
 ‘*Hold, Signor Don Quixote !” cried out the showman, ‘hold, 
 for pity’s sake !—these are not real Moors that you are cutting and 
 destroying, but puppets of pasteboard. Think of what you are 
 doing: sinner that Iam! you will ruin me for ever.” These re- 
 monstrances were lost upon the exasperated knight, who still laid 
 about him, showering down and redoubling his blows, fore-stroke 
 and back-stroke, with such fury, that in less than the saying of 
 two credos he demolished the whole machine, hacking to pieces all 
 the tackling and figures. King Marsilius was in a grievous con- 
 dition, and the Emperor Charlemagne’s head, a3 well as crown, 
 cleft in twain! The whole auaience was in a consternation; the 
 ape flew to the top of the house, the scholar and the page were 
 panic-struck, and Sancho trembled exceedingly; for, as he after- 
 wards declared, when the storm was over, he had never seen his 
 master in such a rage before. 
 
 After this chastisement of the Moors, and the general destruction 
 which accompanied it, Don Quixote’s fury began to abate, and he 
 calmly said, ‘‘ I wish all those were at this moment present who 
 obstinately refuse to be convinced of the infinite benefit that knights- 
 errant are to the world; for, had I not been fortunately at hand, 
 what would have become of good Don Gayferos and the fair 
 Melisendra? No doubt these infidel dogs would have overtaken 
 them by this time, and treated them with their wonted cruelty.— 
 Long live knight-errantry, above all things in the world.” ‘‘ In 
 Heaven’s name let it live, and let me die!” replied Master Peter, 
 in a dolorous tone, ‘‘ for such is my wretched fate that I can say 
 with King Roderigo, ‘ Yesterday I was a sovereign of Spain, and 
 to-day { have not a foot of land to call my own.’ It is not half an 
 hour ago, nor scarcely half a minute, since I was master of kings 
 and emperors, my stalls full of horses, and my trunks and sacks 
 full of fine things; now I am destitute and wretched, poor and a 
 beggar; and to aggravate my grief, I have lost my ape, who, in 
 truth, will make me sweat for it before I catch him again; and all 
 this through the rash fury of this doughty knight, who is said to 
 protect orphans, redress wrongs, and do other charitable deeds ; 
 but he has failed in all these good offices towards my wretched self. 
 Well may he be called the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, for, 
 alas! J am undone for ever by the sorrowful disfigurement I se 
 before me.” 
 
 Sancho Panza was moved to compassion by Master Peter’s 
 lamentations, and said to him, ‘‘ Come, do not weep, Master Peter ; 
 for it breaks my heart to see you grieve and take on so. I can 
 assure you my master Don Quixote is too catholic and scrupulous a 
 Christian to let any poor man come to loss by him: when he finds 
 out that he has done you wrong he will certainly make you amends 
 with interest.” ‘‘ Truly,” said Master Peter, ‘‘if his worship 
 
 - would but make good part of the damage he has done me I should 
 be satisfied, and he would acquit his conscience: for he that takes 
 _. from his neighbour, and does not make restitution, can never be 
 i ; 
 
 we. 
 
Hold, Signor Don Quixote! cried out the showman, Hold,for pity’s 
 sake! these are not real Moors but puppets of pasteboard. p,46 
 
 
 

 
VALUATION OF THE PUPPETS. 417 
 
 saved, that’s certain.” ‘I allow it,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘ but as 
 yet Lam not aware that I have anything of yours, Master Peter.” 
 ‘* How!” answered Peter: ‘‘see the relics that lie on the hard and 
 barren ground! How were they scattered and annihilated but by 
 the invincible force of your powerful arm? To whom did their 
 bodies belong but to me? How did L maintain myself but by 
 them?” ‘‘ Here,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘is a fresh confirmation of 
 what I have often thought, and can now no longer doubt, that 
 those enchanters who persecute me are continually leading me into 
 error, by first allowing me to see things as they really are, and then 
 transforming them to my eyes into whatever shape they please. I 
 protest to you, gentlemen, that the spectacle we have just beheld 
 seemed to me a real occurrence, and I doubted not the identity of 
 Melisendra, Don Gayferos, Marsilius, and Charlemagne.. I was 
 therefore moved with indignation at what I conceived to be injus- 
 tice, and, in compliance with the duty of my profession as a knight- 
 errant, I wished to assist and succour the fugitives: and with this 
 good intention I did what you have witnessed. If I have been 
 deceived and things have fallen out unhappily, it is not [ who am 
 to blame, but my wicked persecutors. Nevertheless, though this 
 error of mine proceeded not from malice, yet I will condemn myself 
 in costs—consider, Master Peter, your demand for the damaged 
 figures, and I will pay it you down in current and lawful money of 
 Castile.” 
 
 Master Peter made him a low bow, saying, ‘‘I expected no less 
 from the unexampled Christianity of the valorous Don Quixote de 
 la Mancha, the true protector of all needy and distressed wanderers, 
 and let master innkeeper and the great Sancho be umpires and 
 appraisers between your worship and me, of what the demolished 
 figures are or might be worth.” 
 
 The innkeeper and Sancho consented, whereupon Master Peter, 
 taking up Marsilius, king of Saragossa, without a head, ‘‘ You see,” 
 said he, ‘‘ how impossible it is to restore this king to his former 
 state, and therefore I think, with submission to better judgment, 
 that you must award me for his death and destruction four reals 
 and a half.” ‘‘ Proceed,” quoth Don Quixote. ‘‘Then for this 
 gash from top to bottom,” continued Master Peter, taking up the 
 imperor Charlemagne, ‘‘I think five reals and a quartillo would 
 
 not be too much.” ‘‘ Nor too little,” quoth Sancho. ‘‘ Nor yet 
 too much,” added the innkeeper ; ‘‘ but split the difference and set 
 him down five reals.” ‘‘Give him the whole of his demand,” 
 
 quoth Don Quixote: ‘‘ for a quartillo more or less is immaterial on 
 this disastrous occasion: but be quick, Master Peter, for supper- 
 time approaches, and I feel symptoms of hunger.” ‘‘ For this 
 figure,” quoth Master Peter, ‘‘ wanting a nose and an eye, which 
 is the fair Melisendra, I must have, and can abate nothing of two 
 reals and twelve maravedis.” ‘‘ Nay,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ Meli- 
 sendra, with her husband, is by this time at least upon the 
 borders of France: for the horse they rode seemed to me to fly 
 rather than gallop; and therefore do not pretend to sell me a cat 
 for a coney, showing me here Melisendra without a nose, whereas 
 2D 
 
418 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 at this very instant, the happy pair are probably solacing themselves 
 at their ease, far out of the reach of their enemies. Heaven help 
 every one to what is their just due: proceed, Master Peter, but let 
 us have plain dealing.” Master Peter finding that Don Quixote 
 began to waver, and was returning to his old theme, and not 
 choosing that he should escape, he changed his ground and said, 
 ‘* No, now I recollect, this cannot be Melisendra, but one of her 
 waiting-maids, and so, with sixty maravedis I shall be content and 
 well enough paid.” 
 
 Thus he went on, setting his price upon the dead and wounded, 
 which the arbitrators moderated to the satisfaction of both parties ; 
 and the whole amounted to forty reals and three quartillos, which 
 Sancho having paid down, Master Peter demanded two reals more 
 for the trouble he should have in catching his ape. ‘‘Give him 
 the two reals, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘and now would I 
 give two hundred more to be assured that the lady Melisendra and 
 Signor Don Gayferos are at this time in France and among their 
 friends.” ‘‘ Nobody can tell us that better than my ape,” said 
 Master Peter; ‘‘but none of us can catch him now; though, per- 
 haps, either his love for me, or hunger, will force him to return at 
 night. However, to-morrow is a new day, and we shall then see 
 each other again.” 
 
 The bustle of the puppet-show being quite over, they all supped 
 together in peace and good fellowship, at the expense of Don Quixote, 
 whose liberality was boundless. The man who carried the lances 
 and halberds left the inn before day-break, and after the sun had 
 risen the scholar and the page came to take leave of Don Quixote ; 
 the former to return home, and the latter to pursue his intended 
 journey: Don Quixote having given him a dozen reals to assist in 
 defraying his expenses. Master Peter had no mind for any further 
 intercourse with Don Quixote, whom he knew perfectly well, and 
 therefore he also arose before the sun, and, collecting the fragments 
 of his show, he set off with his ape in quest of adventures of his 
 own; while the innkeeper, who was not so well acquainted with 
 Don Quixote, was equally surprised at his madness and liberality. 
 In short, Sancho, by order of his master, paid him well, and about 
 eight in the morning, having taken leave of him, they left the inn 
 and proceeded on their journey, where we will leave them, to relate 
 other things necessary to the elucidation of this famous history. 
 
 
 
 OHA PTE BR RKVIL 
 
 Wherein is related who Master Peter and his ape were; with Don 
 Quixote’s ill-success in the braying adventure, which terminated 
 neither as he wished nor intended. 
 
 Cid Hamet, the author of this great work, begins the present 
 chapter with these words, ‘‘I swear as a catholic Christian.” On 
 which his translator observes that Cid Hamet’s swearing as a catho- 
 
HISTORY OF MASTER PETER. 419 
 
 lic Christian, although he was a Moor, meant only, as a catholic 
 Christian, when he swears, utters nothing but the truth, so he, 
 with equal veracity, will set down nothing in writing of Don Quix- 
 ote but what is strictly true; especially in the account that is now 
 to be given of the person hitherto called Master Peter, and of the 
 divining ape, whose answers created such amazement throughout 
 all that part of the country. He says, then, that whoever has 
 read the former part of this history must well remember Gines de 
 Passamonte, who among other galley-slaves was liberated by Don 
 Quixote in the Sierra Morena—a benefit for which he was but ill 
 requited by that mischievous and disorderly crew. This Gines de 
 Passamonte, whom Don Quixote called Ginesillo de Parapilla, was 
 the person who stole Sancho Panza’s Dapple; and the time and 
 manner of that theft not having been inserted in the former part of 
 this history, through the neglect of the printers, many have as- 
 eribed the omission to want of memory in the author. But, in 
 fact, Gines stole the animal while Sancho Panza was asleep upon 
 his back, by the same artifice which Brunello practised when he 
 carried off Sarcripante’s horse from between his legs, at the siege 
 of Albraca; although Sancho afterwards recovered his Dapple, as 
 hath already been related. 
 
 This Gines, then (whose rogueries and crimes were so numerous 
 _ and flagrant as to fill a large volume, which he compiled himself), 
 being afraid of falling into the hands of justice, passed over into 
 the kingdom of 'Arragon, and there, after covering his left eye, he 
 set up the trade of showman, in which, as well as the art of leger- — 
 demain, he was a skilful practitioner. From a party of Christians 
 just redeemed from slavery, whom he chanced to meet with, he 
 purchased his ape, which he forthwith instructed to leap upon his 
 shoulder and mutter in his ear, as before described. ‘Thus pre- 
 pared, he commenced his avocation; and his practice was, before 
 he entered any town, to make inquiries in the neighbourhood con- 
 cerning its inhabitants and passing events, and, bearing them care- 
 fully in his memory, he first exhibited his show, which represented 
 sometimes one story and sometimes another, but all pleasant, gay, 
 and popular. After this he propounded to his auditors the rare 
 talents of his ape, assuring them of his knowledge of the past and 
 present, at the same time confessing his ignorance of the future. 
 Though his regular fee was two reals, he was always disposed to 
 accommodate his customers ; and if he found people unwilling to 
 pay the expense of his oracle, he sometimes poured forth his know- 
 ledge gratuitously, which gained him unspeakable credit and 
 numerous followers. Even when perfectly ignorant of the queries 
 proposed to him, he contrived so as to adapt his answers, that as 
 people were seldom troublesome in their scruples, he was able to 
 deceive all, and fill his pockets. 
 
 No sooner had Master Peter Passamonte entered the inn than he 
 recognised the knight and squire, and therefore had no difficulty in 
 exciting their astonishment; but the adventure would have cost 
 him dear had he not been so lucky as to elude the sword of Don 
 Quixote, when he sliced off the head of King Marsilius and demo- 
 
420 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 lished his cavalry, as related in the foregoing chapter. This may 
 suffice concerning Master Peter and his ape. 
 
 Let us now return to our illustrious knight of La Mancha, who, 
 after quitting the inn, determined to visit the banks of the river 
 Ebro and the neighbouring country; finding that he would have 
 time sufficient for that purpose before the tournaments at Saragossa 
 began. With this intention he pursued his journey, and travelled 
 two days without encountering anything worth recording, till, on 
 the third day, as he was ascending a hill, he heard a distant sound 
 of drums, trumpets, and other martial instruments, which at first 
 he imagined to proceed from a body of military on the march; and 
 spurring Rozinante, he ascended a rising ground, whence he per- 
 ceived, as he thought, in the valley beneath, above two hundred 
 men, armed with various weapons, as spears, cross-bows, partisans, 
 halberds, and spikes, with some fire-arms. He then descended, and 
 advanced so near the troop, that he could distinguish their banners 
 with the devices they bore; especially one upon a banner or pen- 
 nant of white satin, on which an ass was painted to the life, of the 
 small Sardinian breed, with its head raised, its mouth open, in the 
 very posture of braying, and over it written, in large characters, 
 
 The bailiffs twain 
 Brayed not in vain. 
 
 From this motto Don Quixote concluded that these were the in- 
 habitants of the braying town, which opinion he communicated to 
 Sancho, and told him also what was written on the banner. He 
 likewise said that the person who had given them an account of 
 this affair, was mistaken in calling the two brayers aldermen, 
 since, according to the motto, it appeared they were not aldermen, 
 but bailiffs. ‘‘That breaks no squares, sir,” answered Sancho 
 Panza, ‘‘for it might happen that the aldermen who brayed have 
 in process of time became bailiffs of their town, and therefore may 
 properly be called by both titles; though it signifies nothing to 
 the truth of the history whether they were bailiffs or aldermen; for 
 one is as likely to bray as the other.” 
 
 They soon ascertained that it was the derided town sallying 
 forth to attack another, which had ridiculed them more than was 
 reasonable or becoming good neighbours. Don Quixote advanced 
 towards them—to the no small concern of Sancho, who never had 
 any liking to meddle in such matters—and he was presently sur- 
 rounded by the motley band, who supposed him to be some friend 
 to their cause. Don Quixote then, raising his vizor with an easy 
 and graceful deportment, approached the ass-banner, and all the 
 chiefs of the army collected around him, being struck with the 
 same astonishment which the first sight of him usually excited. Don 
 Quixote, seeing them gaze so earnestly at him, without being 
 spoken to by any of the party, took advantage of this silence, and 
 addressed them in the following manner :— 
 
 ‘*It is my intention, worthy gentlemen, to address you, and I 
 earnestly entreat you not to interrupt my discourse, unless you 
 find it offensive or tiresome ; for, in that case, upon the least sign 
 
DON QUIXOTE’S SPEECH. 491 
 
 from you, I will put a seal on my lips and a bridle on my tongue.” 
 They all desired him to say what he pleased, and promised to hear 
 him with attention. With this license Don Quixote proceeded. 
 “‘Gentlemen,” said he, ‘‘I am a knight-errant; arms are my ex- 
 ercise, and my profession is that of relieving the distressed, and 
 giving aid to the weak. J am no stranger to the cause of your 
 agitation, nor to the events which have provoked your resentment 
 and impelled you to arms. I have, therefore, often reflected on 
 your case, and find, that according to the laws of duel, you are mis- 
 taken in thinking yourselves insulted ; for no one person can insult 
 a whole city, unless, when treason has been committed within it, 
 not knowing the guilty person, he should accuse the whole body. 
 Of this we have an example in Don Diego Ordonnez de Lara, who 
 challenged the whole people of Zamora, because he did not know 
 that Vellido Dolfos alone had murdered his king ; and, therefore, 
 every individual being charged with that crime, it belonged to the 
 whole to answer and revenge the imputation. It is true that 
 Signor Don Diego went somewhat too far, and exceeded the just 
 limits of challenge ; for certainly it was not necessary to include in 
 it the dead and the unborn, the waters, the bread, and several other 
 particulars therein mentioned. But let that pass, for when choler 
 overflows, the tongue is under no government. Since, then, it is 
 impossible that an individual should affront a whole kingdom, pro- 
 vince, or city, it is clear that there is no reason for your marching 
 out to take revenge upon what cannot be considered as an offence 
 worthy of your resentment. It would be a fine business, truly, if 
 allthosetowns which, by the vulgar, are nicknamed from their trades, 
 and called the cheesemongers, the costermongers, the fishmongers, 
 the soapboilers, and other such appellations,* should be so absurd 
 as to think themselves insulted, and to seek vengeance with their 
 swords upon this and every slight provocation! No, no; such 
 doings Heaven neither wills nor permits. In well-ordered states, 
 men are required to unsheath their swords and hazard their lives 
 and property upon four different accounts: first, to defend the holy 
 Catholic faith; secondly, in self-defence, which is agreeable to 
 natural and Divine law; thirdly, in defence of personal honour, 
 family reputation, and worldly wealth; fourthly, in obedience to 
 the commands of their sovereign, in a just war; to these may be 
 added a fifth (which, indeed, will properly rank with the second) 
 and that is, the defence of our country. These are the principal 
 occasions upon which an appeal to the sword is justifiable ; but to 
 have recourse to it for trifles, and things rather to excite mirth than 
 anger, is equally wicked and senseless. Besides, to take unjust re- 
 venge (and no revenge can be just) is acting MM direct opposition to 
 our holy religion, by which we are enjoined to forgive our enemies, 
 and do good to those who hate us—a precept which, though it seems 
 difficult to obey, yet is it only so to the worldly-minded, who have 
 more of the flesh than the spirit; for the Redeemer of mankind, 
 whose words could never deceive, said that His yoke was easy and 
 
 * The cities so called are Valladolid, Toledo, Madrid, and probably Getafe. 
 
4292, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 His burden light; and therefore He would not require from us what 
 was impossible to be performed. So that, gentlemen, by every law, 
 human and divine, you are bound to sheathe your swords, and let 
 your resentment sleep.” 
 
 ‘‘ This master of mine,” quoth Sancho to himself, ‘‘is a perfect 
 priest ; or, if not, he is as like one as one egg is like another.” Don 
 Quixote took breath a little, and perceiving his auditors were still 
 attentive, he would have continued his harangue, had he not been 
 prevented by the zeal of his squire, who seized the opportunity 
 offered him by a pause, to make a speech in his turn. 
 
 ‘¢Gentlemen,” said he, ‘‘my master Don Quixote de la Mancha, 
 once called the ‘Knight of the Sorrowful Figure,’ and now the 
 ‘Knight of the Lions,’ is a choice scholar, and understands Latin, 
 and talks the vulgar tongue like any bachelor of arts; and in all 
 he meddles and advises, proceeds like an old soldier, having all the 
 laws and statutes of what is called duelling at his fingers’ ends ; and 
 so you have nothing to do but to follow his advice, and while you 
 abide by that, let the blame be mine if ever you make a false step. 
 And, indeed, as you have already been told, it is mighty foolish in 
 you to be offended at hearing any one bray; when I was a boy I 
 well remember nobody ever hindered me from braying as often as 
 I pleased; and I could do it so rarely that all the asses in town an- 
 swered me ; yet for allthat I was still the son of my parents, who were 
 very honest people; and though I must say a fewof the proudest 
 ef my neighbours envied me the gift, yet 1 cared not a rush; and, 
 to convince you that I speak the truth, do but listen to me; for 
 this art, like that of swimming, once learned, is never forgotten.” 
 
 Then, putting his hands to his nostrils, he began to bray so 
 strenuously that the adjacent valleys resounded again; whereupon 
 a man who stood near him, supposing that he was mocking them, 
 raised his pole, and gave him such a blow that it brought the un- 
 lucky squire to the ground. Don Quixote, seeing him so ill-treated, 
 made at the striker with his lance, but was instantly opposed by so 
 many of his comrades, that he saw it was impossible for him to be 
 revenged: on the contrary, feeling a shower of stones come thick 
 upon him, and seeing a thousand crossbows presented, and as many 
 guns levelled at him, he turned Rozinante about, and, as fast as he 
 could gallop, got out from among them, heartily recommending 
 himself to Heaven, and praying, as he fled, to be delivered from so 
 imminent a danger; at the same time expecting, at every step, to 
 be pierced through and through with bullets, he went on drawing 
 his breath at every moment, to try whether or notit failed him. The 
 rustic battalion, however, seeing him fly, were contented to save 
 their ammunition. As for Sancho, they set him again upon his ass, 
 though scarcely recovered from the blow, and suffered him to fol- 
 low his master—not that he had power to guide him, but Dapple, 
 unwilling to be separated from Rozinante, naturally followed his 
 steps. Don Quixote, having got to a considerable distance, at 
 length ventured to look back, and, seeing only Sancho slowly fol- 
 lowing, he stopped, and waited till he came up. The army kept 
 the field till nightfall, when no enemy coming forth to battle, they 
 
SANCHO’S WOFUL CONDITION. 423 
 
 joyfully returned home; and had they known the practice of the 
 ancient Greeks, they would have erected a trophy in that place. 
 
 re 
 ° 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Concerning things which, Benengeli says, he who reads of them witl 
 know if he reads them with attention. 
 
 When the valiant man flies he must have discovered foul play ; 
 and it is then the part of the wise to reserve themselves for a better 
 occasion. ‘The truth was verified in Don Quixote, who, not choos- 
 ing to expose himself to the fury of an incensed and evil-disposed 
 multitude, prudently retired out of their reach, without once re- 
 collecting his faithful squire, or the perilous situation in which he 
 left him; nor did he stop till he got as far offas he deemed sufii- 
 cient for his safety. Sancho followed the track of his master, 
 hanging, as before described, athwart his ass, and, having recovered 
 his senses, at length came up to him; when, unable to support him- 
 self, he dropped from his pack-saddle at Rozinante’s feet, over- 
 come with the pain of the bruises and blows he had received. 
 
 Don Quixote dismounted to examine the state of Sancho’s body ; 
 but, finding no bones broken, and the skin whole from head to 
 foot, he said, angrily, ‘‘ In an evil hour, Sancho, must thou needs 
 show thy skill in braying: where didst thou learn that it was 
 proper to name a halter in the house of aman that was hanged? 
 To thy braying music what counterpoint couldst thou expect but 
 that of a cudgel? Return thanks to Heaven, Sancho, that, instead 
 of crossing thy back with a cudgel, they did not make the sign of 
 the cross on thee with a scimitar.” ‘‘ I am not now in a condition to 
 answer,” replied Sancho, ‘‘for methinks I speak through my 
 shoulders. Let us mount, and be gone from this place. As for 
 braying, I will have done with it for ever; but not with telling 
 that knights-errant can fly, and leave their faithful squires to be 
 beaten to powder in the midst of their enemies.” ‘‘ To retire is 
 not to fly,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘ for thou must know, Sancho, 
 that the valour which has not prudence for its basis is termed rash- 
 ness, and the successful exploits of the rash are rather to be as- 
 cribed to good fortune than to courage. I confess I did retire, but 
 not fly ; and herein I imitated sundry valiant persons who have 
 reserved themselves for better purposes, whereof history furnishes 
 abundance of examples; but being of no profit to thee, or pleasure 
 to myself, I shall not now mention them.” 
 
 By this time Sancho had mounted again, with the assistance of 
 his master, who likewise got upon Rozinante, and they proceeded 
 slowly towards a grove of poplars which they discovered about a 
 quarter of a league off, Sancho every now and then heaving most 
 profound sighs, accompanied by dolorous groans; and, when asked 
 the cause of his distress, he said, that from the nape of his neck to 
 the lowest point of his back-bone, he was so bruised and sore that 
 
494 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the pain made him mad.” ‘‘ Doubtless,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ this 
 pain must have been caused by the pole with which they struck 
 thee, and which, being long, extended over the whole of thy back, 
 including all the parts which now grieve thee so much; and had 
 the weapon been still larger, thy pain would have been increased.” 
 “Truly,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ your worship has relieved me from a 
 mighty doubt; and explained it, forsooth, in notable terms! Body 
 o’ me! was the cause of my pain so hidden that it was necessary to 
 tell me that I felt pain in all those parts which the pole reached? 
 If my ancles had ached, then might you have tried to unriddle the 
 cause; but to find out that I am pained because I was beaten is, 
 truly, no great matter. In faith, master of mine, other men’s 
 harms are easily borne ; I descry land more and more every day, 
 and see plainly how little Iam to expect from following your wor- 
 ship; for, if this time you could suffer me to be basted, I may reckon 
 upon returning, again and again, to our oid blanketing and other 
 pranks. My back bears the mischief now, but next it may fall on 
 my eyes. It would be much better for me, only that I ama beast, 
 and shall never in my life do anything that is right—hbetter, I say, 
 would it be for me to return home to my wife and children, and 
 strive to maintain and bring them up with the little Heaven shall 
 be pleased to give me, and not be following your worship through 
 roads without a road, and pathless paths, drinking ill and eating 
 worse. And as for sleeping—good squire, measure out seven feet 
 of earth, and, if that be not sufficient, prithee take as many more 
 and welcome, and stretch out to your heart’s content! I should 
 like to see the first who set on foot knight-errantry burnt to ashes ; 
 or, at least, the first that would needs be squire to such idiots as 
 all the knights-errant of former times must have been—of the pre- 
 sent I say nothing, for, your worship being one of them, I am 
 bound to pay them respect, and because I know, that in regard to 
 talking and understanding, your worship knows a point or two.” 
 ‘*T would lay a good wager with thee, Sancho,” quoth Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘that now thou art talking, and without interruption, 
 thou feelest no pain in thy body. Go on, my son, and say all that 
 comes into thy head, or to thy tongue; for, so thou art relieved 
 from pain, I shall take pleasure even in the vexation thy imper- 
 tinence occasions me—nay more, if thou hast really so great a de- 
 sire to return home to thy wife and children, I shall not hinder 
 thee. ‘Thou hast money of mine in thy hands; see how long it is 
 since we made this third sally from our town, and how much thou 
 couldst have earned monthly, and pay thyself.” ‘* When I served 
 Thomas Carrasco,” replied Sancho, ‘‘ father of the bachelor Samp- 
 son Carrasco, whom your worship knows full well, I got two ducats 
 a month, besides my victuals; with your worship I cannot tell 
 what I may get; but Iam sure it is a greater drudgery to be squire 
 to a knight-errant than servant to a farmer; for, if we work for 
 husbandmen, though we labour hard in the day, at night we are 
 sure of supper from the pot, and a bed to sleep on, which is more 
 than I have found since [ have been in your worship’s service—the 
 scum of Camacho’s pots excepted, and the short time we were at 
 
 —— 
 
SANCHO RECKONS HIS WAGES. 495 
 
 the houses of Don Diego and Basilius; all the rest of the time I 
 have had no other bed than the hard ground, and no other cover- 
 ing than the sky, whether foul or fair; living upon scraps of bad 
 bread, and worse cheese, and drinking such water as chance put in 
 our way.” 
 
 ‘*1I confess, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘that all thou sayest is 
 true—how much dost thou think I ought to pay thee more than 
 what thou hadst from Thomas Carrasco?” ‘I think,” quoth 
 Sancho, ‘‘if your worship adds two reals a month, I should reckon 
 myself well paid. This is for the wages due for my labour; but 
 as to the promise your worship made of the government of an 
 island, it would be fair that you add six reals more, making thirty 
 in all.” ‘* Very well,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘it is five-and-twenty 
 days since we sallied from our village, and, according to the wages 
 thou hast allotted thyself, calculate the proportion and see what I owe 
 thee, and pay thyself as I said before with thine own hand.” ‘‘ Body 
 o’ me,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ your worship is clean out of the reckoning, 
 for, as to the promised island, we must reckon from the day you 
 promised me to the present hour.” ‘‘ How long then is if since | 
 promised it to thee?” said Don Quixote. ‘‘If I remember right,” 
 answered Sancho, ‘‘it is about:twenty years and three days, more 
 or less.” 
 
 Here Don Quixote, clapping his forehead with the palm of his 
 hand, began to laugh heartily, and said, ‘‘ Why, all my sallies, in- 
 cluding the time 1 sojourned in the Sierra Morena, have scarcely 
 taken up more than two months, and dost thou say, Sancho, it is 
 twenty years since [ promised thee anisland? I perceive that thou 
 art determined to lay claim to all the money thou hast of mine; if 
 such be thy wish, take it, and much good may it do thee ; for to 
 rid myself of so worthless a squire I will gladly be left poor and 
 penniless. But tell me, thou perverter of the squirely ordinances 
 of knight-errantry ! where hast thou seen or read that any squire 
 to knight-errant ever presumed to bargain with his master, and 
 say, so much per month you must give me to serve you? Launch, 
 launch out, thou base reptile! thou hobgoblin !—for such thou art 
 —launch out, I say, into the mare. magnum of their histories, and 
 if thou canst find that any squire has ever said, or thought, as thou 
 hast done, I will give thee leave to nail it on my forehead, and 
 write fool upon my face in capitals. Turn about the bridle, or 
 halter, of Dapple, and get home! for not one single step farther 
 shalt thou go with me. O bread ill-bestowed! O promises ill- 
 placed ! Oman, that hast more of the beast than of the human 
 creature! Now, when I thought of establishing thee, and in such 
 a way that, in spite of thy wife, thou shouldst have been styled 
 ‘your lordship,’ now dost thou leave me? now, when I had just 
 taken a firm and effectual resolution to make thee lord of the best 
 island in the world? But, as thou thyself hast often said, ‘ honey 
 is not for the mouth of an ass.?- An ass thou art, an ass thou wilt 
 continue to be, and an ass thou wilt die; for I verily believe thou 
 wilt never acquire even sense enough to know that thou art a beast !” 
 
 Sancho looked at his master with a sad and sorrowful counten- 
 
426 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ance, all the time he thus reproached and rated him ; and when the 
 storm was passed, with tears in his eyes and in a faint and doleful 
 voice, he said, ‘‘I confess, dear sir, that to be a complete ass I 
 want nothing but a tail, and if your worship will be pleased to put 
 one on me, I shall deem it well placed, and will then serve you as 
 your faithful ass all the days I have yet to live. Pardon me, sir, 
 LT entreat you; have pity on my ignorance, and consider, that if 
 my tongue runs too fast, it is more from folly than evil-meaning: 
 ‘he who errs and mends, himself to Heaven commends.’” ‘‘I 
 should have wondered much,. Sancho,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘if thy 
 proverbs had been wanting on such an occasion. Well, I forgive 
 thee, on the promise of thy amendment, and in the hope that hence- 
 forth thou mayest prove less craving and selfish. I would hope 
 also to see thy mind prepared to wait with becoming patience the 
 due accomplishment of my promises, which, though deferred, are 
 not on that account the less certain.” Sancho promised compli- 
 ance, though, to do it, he should have to draw strength out of 
 weakness. 
 
 They now entered the poplar-grove, and Don Quixote seated him- 
 self at the foot of an elm, and Sancho under a beech :—for it is ad- 
 mitted that such trees are always provided with feet but never 
 with hands. In that situation they passed the night—Sancho 
 suffering from the pain of his bruises, and his master indulging his 
 wonted meditations ; nevertheless they both slept, and in the morn- 
 ing pursued their way towards the banks of the famous Ebro, 
 where that befell them which shall be related in the ensuing 
 chapter. 
 
 * GHA PAaweRy eX TX 
 Of the famous adventure of the enchanted bark. 
 
 After travelling leisurely for two days, Don Quixote and his 
 squire reached the banks of the river Ebro, and the knight ex- 
 perienced much pleasure while he contemplated the verdure of its 
 margin, the smoothness of its current, and the abundance of its 
 crystal waters. Cheered and delighted with the scene, a thousand 
 tender recollections rushed upon his mind, and particularly what 
 he had witnessed in the cave of Montesinos; for although Master 
 Peter’s ape had pronounced a part only of those wonders to be 
 true, he rather inclined to believe the whole than allow any part 
 to be doubtful: quite the reverse of Sancho, who held them all to 
 be false. 
 
 Thus musing and sauntering along, they observed a small vessel 
 without oars or any kind of tackle, fastened by a rope to the shore. 
 Don Quixote looked round him on all sides, and, seeing nobody, he 
 alighted, and ordered Sancho to do the same, and make fast both 
 their beasts to the trunk of a poplar or willow that grew by the 
 side of the river. On Sancho’s requesting to know why he was to 
 
 ee 
 
ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED BARK. 42.7 
 
 do so, ‘‘ Thou must know,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ that this vessel is 
 placed here expressly for my reception, and in order that I might 
 proceed therein to the succour of some knight or other person of 
 high degree who is in extreme distress: for such is the practice of 
 enchanters, as we learn in the books of chivalry, when some knight 
 happens to be involved in a situation of extraordinary peril, from 
 which he can only be delivered by the hand of another knight. 
 Then, although distant from each other two or three thousand 
 leagues, and even more, they either snatch him up in a cloud, or, 
 as thus, provide him with a boat, and in less than the twinkling of 
 an. eye convey him through the air, or over the surface of the ocean, 
 wherever they list, or where his aid is required. This bark, there- 
 fore, O Sancho, must be placed here for that sole purpose, as cer- 
 tainly as it is now day; haste then, before it is spent, tie Dapple 
 and Rozinante together, and the hand of Providence be our guide! 
 for embark I will, although holy friars themselves should entreat 
 me to desist.” ‘‘Since it must be so,” said Sancho, ‘‘and that 
 your worship is determined to be always running into these va- 
 garies, there is nothing left for me but to obey: following the 
 proverb, ‘do your master’s bidding, and sit down with him at his 
 table.’ But for all that, to discharge my conscience, I am bound 
 to tell your worship, that to my mind, this same boat belongs to no 
 enchanter, but to some fisherman on this part of the river: for 
 here, it is said, they catch the best shads in the world.” 
 
 This caution\ Sancho ventured to give, while, with much grief of 
 soul, he was tying the cattle, where they were to be left under the 
 protection of enchanters. Don Quixote told him to be under no 
 concern about forsaking those animals; for he, by whom they were 
 themselves to be transported to far distant longitudes, would take 
 ‘care that they should not want food. ‘‘I do not understand your 
 logitudes,” said Sancho, ‘‘nor have I ever heard of such a word in 
 all my life.” ‘‘ Longitude,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘ means length ;— 
 but no wonder thou dost not understand it, for thou are not bound 
 to know Latin: though some there are who pretend to know it, and 
 are as ignorant as thyself.” ‘‘ Now they are tied,” quoth Sancho, 
 ‘what is next to be done?” ‘‘What?” answered Don Quixote ; 
 ‘‘why, cross ourselves and weigh anchor—I mean embark, and cut 
 the rope with which the vessel is now tied.” ‘Then, leaping into it, 
 followed by Sancho, he cut the cord, and the boat floated gently 
 from the shore; and when Sancho saw himself a few yards from 
 the bank, he began to quake with fear; but on hearing his friend 
 Dapple bray, and seeing Rozinante struggle to get loose, he was 
 quite overcome. ‘‘The poor ass,” said he, ‘‘ brays for pure grief at 
 being deserted, and Rozinante is endeavouring to get loose, that he 
 may plunge into the river and follow us. O, dearest friends ! abide 
 where you are in peace, and may the mad freak which is the cause 
 of our doleful parting, be quickly followed by a repentance that 
 will bring us back again to your sweet company !” 
 
 Here be began to weep so bitterly that Don Quixote lost all 
 patience. ‘‘Of what art thou afraid, cowardly wretch !” cried he, 
 ‘‘heart of butter! Why weepest thou! Who pursues, who annoys 
 
& 
 
 4938 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 thee—soul of a house-rat? Of what dost thou want, poor wretch, 
 in the very bowels of abundance? Peradventure thou art trudging 
 barefoot over the Ripheam mountains. No, seated like an archduke, 
 thou art gently gliding down the stream of this charming river, 
 whence in a short space we shall issue out into the boundless ocean, 
 which doubtless we have already entered, and must have gone at 
 least seven or eight hundred leagues. If I had but an astrolabe 
 here to take the elevation of the pole, I would tell thee what 
 distance we have gone; though, if I am not much mistaken we are 
 already past, or shall presently pass, the equinoctial line, which 
 divides and cuts the world in equal halves.” ‘‘ And when we come 
 to that line your worship speaks of,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ how far 
 shall we have travelled?” ‘‘A mighty distance,” replied Don 
 Quixote; ‘‘for, of the three hundred and sixty degrees into which 
 the terraqueous globe is divided, according to the system and com- 
 
 utation of Ptolemy, the greatest of all geographers, we shall at 
 east have travelled one half when we come to that line.” ‘‘ Your 
 worship,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘has brought a pretty fellow to witness, 
 that same Tolomy—how dye call him? with his amputation, to 
 vouch for the truth of what you say.” 
 
 Don Quixote smiled at Sancho’s blunders, and said, ‘‘ Thou must 
 know, Sancho, that one of the signs by which the Spaniards and 
 those who travel by sea to the East Indies, discover they have 
 passea the line of which I told thee is, that all the vermin upon every 
 man in the ship die; nor after passing it, is one to be found in the 
 vessel, though they would give its weight in gold for it; and, there- 
 fore, Sancho, pass thy hand over thy body, and if thou findest any 
 live thing, we shall have no doubts upon that score, and if not, we 
 shall then know that we have certainly passed the line.” ‘‘ Nota 
 word of that do I believe,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘ however, I will do as 
 your worship bids me, though I know not what occasion there is 
 for making this experiment, since I see with mine own eyes that 
 we have not got five yards from the bank, for yonder stand Rozi- 
 nante and Daypple in the very place where we left them ; and from 
 points which I now mark, I vow we do not move an ant’s pace.” 
 *¢ Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ make the trial I bid thee, and take 
 no further care; thou knowest not what colours are, nor the lines, 
 parallels, zodiacs, ecliptics, poles, solstices, equinoctials, planets, 
 signs, and other points and measures of which the celestial and 
 terrestrial globes are composed, for if thou knewest all these things, 
 or but a part of them, thou wouldst plainly perceive what parallels 
 we have cut, what signs we have seen, and what constellations we 
 have left behind us, and are just now leaving. Once more, then, I bid 
 thee feel thyself all over, and fish ; for I, for my part, am of opinion 
 that thou art as clean as a sheet of smooth white paper.” Accord- 
 ingly Sancho passed his hand lightly over his left arm, then lifting 
 up his headand looking significantly at his master, he said, ‘‘ Either 
 the experiment is false, or we are not yet arrived where your wor- 
 ship says,—no, not hy many leagues.” ‘‘ Why,” said Don Quixote, 
 ‘hast thou met with something then?” ‘‘ Aye, sir, several some- 
 things,” replied Sancho, and, shaking his fingers, he washed his 
 
VALOROUS EXPLOIT AT THE CORN MILLS. 499 
 
 whole hand in the river, on the surface of which the boat was gently 
 gliding—not moved by the secret influence of enchantment, but by 
 the current, which was then gentle, and the whole surface smooth 
 and calm, : 
 
 At this time several corn mills appeared before them in the midst 
 of the stream, which Don Quixote no sooner espiec than he ex- 
 claimed, in a loud voice, ‘‘ Behold, O Sancho! seest thou yon city, 
 castle, or fortress?—there lies some knight under oppression, or 
 some queen, infanta, or princess, confined in evil plight; to whose 
 relief | am brought hither.” ‘‘ What city, fortress, or castle do 
 you talk of, sir?” quoth Sancho; ‘‘do you not see that they are 
 mills standing in the river for the grinding of corn?” ‘‘ Peace, 
 Sancho,” quoth Don Quixote; ‘‘ for though they seem to be mills, 
 they are not so. How often must I tell thee that enchanters have 
 the power to transform whatever they please? I do not say that 
 things are totally changed by them, but to our eyes they are made 
 to appear so; whereof we have had a woeful proof in the transfor- 
 mation of Dulcinea, the sole refuge of my hopes.” 
 
 The boat having now got into the current of the river, was car- 
 ried on with more celerity than before; and, as it approached the 
 mill, the labourers within, seeing it drifting towards them, and 
 just entering the mill-stream, several of them ran out in haste with 
 long poles to stop it; and, their faces and clothes being all covered 
 with meal-dust, they had a ghostly appearance. ‘‘ What do you 
 there?” said they, bawling aloud. ‘‘Are you mad, or do you intend 
 to drown yourselves, or be torn to pieces by the wheels?” 
 
 ‘*PDid I not tell thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘that we 
 should certainly arrive where it would be necessary for me to dis- 
 play the valour of my arm? Look, what assassins and hobgoblins 
 come out to oppose us! See their horrid visages with which they 
 think to scare us! Now, rascals, have at you!” Then, standing up 
 in the boat, he began to threaten the millers aloud. ‘* Ill-advised 
 scoundrels!” said he, ‘‘set at liberty the person ye keep under 
 oppression in that castle or fortress of yours, whether he be of high 
 or low degree; for I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise 
 called the Knight of the Lions, for whom, by Heaven’s high destiny, 
 the happy accomplishment of this adventure is reserved.” So 
 saying, be drew his sword and began to flourish with it in the air, as 
 if he would smite the millers, who, not understanding his menaces, 
 endeavoured to stop the boat, now on the point of entering into the 
 swift current that rushed under the wheels. Sancho fell upon his 
 knees and prayed devoutly to Heaven for his deliverance, which 
 was accomplished by the agility and adroitness of the millers with 
 their poles,—but not without oversetting the boat, whereby the 
 knight and squire were plunged into the water. Although Don 
 Quixote could swim lke a goose, the weight of his armour now 
 earried him twice tothe bottom ; and, had it not been for the millers, 
 who leaped into the river, and hauled them both out, they must 
 have inevitably perished. 
 
 After having been dragged on shore, much more wet than thirsty, 
 Sancho again fell on his knees, and long and devoutly prayed that 
 
430 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 Heaven would thenceforward protect him from the dangers to which 
 
 _ he was likely to be exposed through the rash enterprises of his 
 
 ah 
 
 master. Now came the fishermen, owners of the boat which had 
 been entirely destroyed by the mill-wheels, and loudly demanded 
 reparation for the loss they had sustained, and for that purpose 
 began to strip Sancho, when Don Quixote, with as much unconcern 
 as if nothing had happened, gravely told the millers and fishermen 
 that he would willingly pay for the boat, on condition of their de- 
 livering up, free, and without ransom, the person or persons whom 
 
 they unjustly detained in their castle. ‘‘ What persons, or what 
 
 castles, madman! do you mean?” said one of the millers; ‘‘ would 
 you carry off those who come to have their corn ground at our 
 mills?” <‘‘There let it rest,” thought Don Quixote to himself: ‘it 
 is only preaching to the desert to endeavour, either by argument or 
 entreaty, to incite these dregs of human kind to a generous action ! 
 In this adventure it is manifest that two powerful enchanters 
 must have engaged, the one frustrating what the other attempts ; 
 the one providing me a bark and the other oversetting it. Heaven 
 help me! in this world there is nothing but plots and counter-plots, 
 mines and counter-mines!—I can do no more.” ‘Then, casting a 
 look of melancholy towards the mills, ‘‘ Friends,” he said, ‘‘ who- 
 
 ever ye are that live immured in that prison, pardon me, I beseech 
 
 you, for not having delivered you from affliction ; by your ill fate 
 and mine it is ordained that this adventure should be reserved for 
 some more fortunate knight!” He then compounded with the 
 fishermen, and agreed to give them fifty reals for the boat, which 
 sum Sancho with much reluctance, paid down, saying, ‘‘ A couple 
 more of such embarkations as this will sink our whole capital.” 
 The fishermen and miliers stood gazing with astonishment at two 
 figures so far out of the fashion and semblance of other men, and were 
 quite ata loss to find out the meaning of Don Quixote’s speeches ; 
 but, conceiving their intellects to be disordered, they left them; the 
 millers retiring to their mills, and the fishermen to their cabins ; 
 whereupon Don Quixote and Sancho, like a pair of senseless animals 
 themselves, returned to the animals they had left ; and thus ended 
 the adventure of the enchanted bark. 
 
 ‘ ~ 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER “XXX, 
 Of what befell Don Quixote with a fair huntress. 
 
 Low-spirited, wet, and out of humour, the knight and squire 
 reached their cattle; Sancho more especially was grieved to the 
 very soul to have encroached so much upon their stock of money: 
 all that was taken thence seeming to him as so much taken from 
 the apples of his eyes. In short, they mounted, without exchang- 
 ing a word, and silently quitted the banks of that famous river: 
 Don Quixote buried in amorous meditations, and Sancho in those 
 ot his preferment, which seemed at that moment to be very dim 
 
SANCHO PANZA’S EMBASSY. 481 
 
 and remote; for, dull as he was, he saw clearly enough that his 
 master’s actions were for the most part little better than crazy, and . 
 he only waited for an opportunity, without coming to accounts and 
 reckonings, to steal off and march home. But fortune was kinder 
 to him than he expected. . 
 
 It happened on the following day, near sunset, as they were 
 issuing from a forest, that Don Quixote espied sundry persons at a 
 distance, who, it appeared, as he drew nearer to them, were tak- 
 ing the diversion of hawking; and among them he remarked a gay _ 
 lady mounted on a palfrey, or milk-white pad, with green furni- 
 ture and a side-saddle of cloth of silver. Her own attire was also 
 green, and so rich and beautiful that she was elegance itself. On 
 her left hand she carried a hawk; whence Don Quixote conjectured 
 that she must be a lady of high rank, and mistress of the hunting- 
 party (as in truth she was), and therefore he said to his squire, 
 ‘* Hasten, Sancho, and make known to the lady of the palfrey and 
 the hawk, that I, ‘the Knight of the Lions,’ humbly salute her 
 highness, and with her gracious leave, would be proud to kiss her 
 fair hands, and serve her to the utmost of my power and her 
 highness’s commands; but take especial care, Sancho, how thou 
 deliverest my message, and be mindful not to interlard thy em- 
 bassy with any of thy proverbs.” ‘‘ So, then,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ you 
 must twit the interlarder !—but why this to me? as if this, forsooth, 
 were the first time I had carried messages to high and mighty 
 
 ladies!” ‘‘ Excepting that to the lady Dulcinea,” replied Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘I know of none thou hast carried—at least, none from 
 me.” ‘* That is true,” answered Sancho; ‘‘ but a good paymaster 
 
 needs no surety: and where there is plenty, dinner is soon dressed : 
 I mean, there is no need of schooling me; for I am prepared for all, 
 and know something of everything.” ‘‘I believe it, Sancho,” quoth 
 Don Quixote; ‘‘ go, then, and Heaven direct thee.” 
 
 Sancho set off at a good rate, forcing Dapple out of his usual 
 pace, and went up to the fair huntress; then alighting, and kneel- 
 ing before her, he said, ‘‘Beauteous lady, that knight yonder, 
 called ‘the Knight of the Lions,’ is my master, and I am his squire, 
 Sancho Panza by name. That same Knight of the Lions, lately 
 called ‘the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure,’ sends me to beg your 
 grandeur would be pleased to give leave, that with your liking and 
 good-will, he may approach and accomplish his wishes, which, as 
 he says, and I believe, are no other than to serve your exalted 
 beauty, which if your ladyship grant, you will do a thing that will 
 redound to the great benefit of your highness; and to him it will 
 be a mighty favour and satisfaction.” $ 
 
 ‘Truly, good squire,” answered the lady, ‘‘ you have delivered 
 your message with all the circumstances which such embassies re- 
 quire; rise up, I pray; for it is not fit the squire of so renowned a 
 knight as he of the Sorrowful Figure, of whom we have already 
 heard much in these parts, should remain upon his knees—rise, 
 friend, and desire your master, by all means, to honour us with his 
 company, that my lord duke and I may pay him our respects at a 
 rural mansion we have here, hard by.” Sancho rose up, no less 
 
 *e 
 
432, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 amazed at the lady’s beauty than at her affability and courteous 
 deportment, and yet more that her ladysh?p should have any know- 
 ledge of his master, the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure! And if 
 she did not give him his true title, he concluded it was because he 
 had assumed it so lately. ‘‘ Pray,” said the duchess (whose title 
 is yet unknown), ‘‘is not your master the person of whom there is 
 a history in print, called, ‘The ingenious gentleman Don Quixote 
 de la Mancha,’ and who has for the mistress of his affections a cer- 
 tain lady named Dulcinea del Toboso?” ‘‘ The very same,” an- 
 swered Sancho; ‘‘and that squire of his, called Sancho Panza, 
 who is, or ought to be, spoken of in the same history, am I, unless 
 I was changed in the cradle—I mean in the printing.” ‘‘I am 
 much delighted by what you tell me,” quoth the duchess: ‘‘ go to 
 your master, good Panza, and give him my invitation and hearty 
 welcome to my house; and tell him that nothing could happen to 
 me which would afford me greater pleasure.” 
 
 Sancho, overjoyed at this gracious answer, hastened back to his 
 master, and repeated to him all that the great lady had said to 
 him; extolling to the skies, in his rustic phrase, her extra- 
 ordinary beauty and courteous behaviour. Don Quixote seated 
 himself handsomely in his saddle, adjusted his visor, enlivened 
 Rozinante’s mettle, and assuming a polite and stately deportment, 
 advanced to kiss the hand of the duchess. Her grace in the mean- 
 time having called the duke her husband, had already given him 
 an account of the embassy she had just received; and, as they had 
 read the first part of this history, and were, therefore, aware of the 
 extravagant humour of Don Quixote, they waited for him with in- 
 finite pleasure and the most eager desire to be acquainted with 
 him: determined to indulge his humour to the utmost, and, while 
 he remained with them, treat him as a knight-errant, with all the 
 ceremonies described in books of chivalry, which they took plea- 
 sure in reading. 
 
 Don Quixote now arrived, with his beaver up; and signifying his 
 intention to alight, Sancho was hastening to hold his stirrup, but 
 unfortunately in dismounting from Dapple, his foot caught in one | 
 of the rope-stirrups, in such a manner that it was impossible for 
 him to disentangle himself; and he hung by it, with his face and 
 breast on the ground. Don Quixote, who was not accustomed to 
 alight without having his stirrup held, thinking that Sancho was 
 already there to do his office, threw his body off with a swing of 
 his right leg, that brought down Rozinante’s saddle; and the girth 
 giving way, both he and the saddle, to his great shame and morti- 
 fication, came to the ground, where he lay, muttering between his 
 teeth many a heavy execration against the unfortunate Sancho, 
 who was still hanging by the leg. The duke having commanded 
 some of his attendants to relieve the knight and squire, they raised 
 Don Quixote, who, though much discomposed by his fall, and limp- 
 ing, made an effort to approach and kneel before the lord and lady. 
 The duke, however, would by no means suffer it; on the contrary, 
 alighting from his horse, he immediately went up and embraced 
 him, saying, ‘‘I am very sorry, sir knight, that such a mischance 
 
HIS UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENT. 483 
 
 should happen to you on your first arrival on my domains; but the 
 negligence of squires is often the occasion of even greater disasters.” 
 **''he moment cannot be unfortunate that introduces me to your 
 highness,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘and, had my fall been to the 
 centre of the deep abyss, the glory of seeing your highness would 
 have raised me thence. My squire is better at letting loose his 
 tongue to utter impertinence than at securing asaddle: but whether 
 down or up, on horseback or on foot, I shall always be at the ser- 
 vice of your highness, and that of my lady duchess your worthy 
 consort—the sovereign lady of beauty, and universal princess of all 
 courtesy.” So saying, with a graceful bow, he kissed her hand. 
 
 
 
 The Duke. 
 
 ‘* Softly, dear Signor Don Quixote de la Mancha,” quoth the duke, 
 *‘for while the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso exists, no other 
 
 beauty can be named.” 
 Sancho Panza had now got freed from the noose, and being near, 
 before his master could answer, he said, ‘‘ It cannot be denied— 
 nay, it must be declared, that my lady Dulcinea del Toboso is a 
 rare beauty; but, ‘ where we are least aware, there starts the hare.’ 
 I have heard say that what they call nature is like a potter who 
 makes earthen vessels, and he who makes one handsome vessel may 
 also make two, and three, and a hundred. This I say, because, 
 by my faith, her highness there comes not a whit behind my mis- 
 25 ' 
 
~ 484 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 tress the lady Dulcinea del Toboso.” Don Quixote here turned to 
 the duchess, and said, ‘‘I assure your grace, never any knight- 
 errant in the world had a more conceited and troublesome prater 
 for his squire than I have; of this he will give ample proof, if it 
 please your highness to accept.of my service for some days.” ‘‘I 
 am glad to hear that my friend Sancho is conceited,” replied the 
 duchess, ‘‘it is a sign he has good sense; for wit and gay conceits, 
 as you well know, Signor Don Quixote, proceed not from dull 
 heads; and since you acknowledge that Sancho has wit and 
 pleasantry, I shall henceforth pronounce him to be wise” ‘And 
 a prater,” added Don Quixote. ‘‘So much the better,” said the 
 duke, ‘‘for many good things cannot be expressed in a few words ; 
 and, that we may not throw away all our time upon them, come 
 on, Sir Knight of the Sorrowful Figure.” ‘‘Of the Lions, your 
 highness should say,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘ the Sorrowful Figure is no 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 more.” ‘‘Of the Lions then let it be,’ continued the duke; ‘‘1 
 say, come on, Sir Knight of the Lions, to a castle of mine hard by, 
 where you shall be received in a manner suitable to a person of your 
 distinction, and as the duchess and I are accustomed to receive all 
 knights-errant who honour us with their society.” ; 
 
 . By this time, Sancho having adjusted and well-girthed Rozinante’s 
 saddle, Don Quixote remounted, and thus he and the duke, who 
 rode a stately courser, with the duchess between them, proceeded 
 towards the castle. The duchess requested Sancho to be near her, 
 being mightily pleased with his arch observations ; nor did Sancho 
 require much entreaty, but joining the other three, made a fourth 
 in the conversation, to the great satisfaction of the duke and 
 duchess, who looked upon themselves as highly fortunate in having 
 to introduce such guests to their castle, and the prospect of en- 
 joying the company of such a knight-errant, and such an errant- 
 squire, ; 
 
SANCHO PANZA’S MODEST REQUEST. 435 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 Which treats of many and great things. 
 
 Sancho’s joy was excessive on seeing himself, as he thought, a 
 favourite with the duchess: not doubting but that he should find 
 in her castle the same abundance that prevailed in the mansion of 
 Don Diego and Basilius ; for good cheer was the delight of his heart, 
 and therefore he always took care to seize by the forelock every 
 opportunity to indulge that passion. Now the history relates, that 
 before they came to the rural mansion, or castle, of the duke, his 
 highness rode on before and gave directions to his servants in what 
 manner they were to behave to Don Quixote; therefore, when he 
 arrived with the duchess at the castle-gate, there immediately 
 issued out two lacqueys or grooms, clad in a kind of robe or gown of 
 fine crimson satin reaching to their feet; and, taking Don Quixote 
 in their arms, they privately said to him, ‘‘Go, great sir, and assist 
 our lady the duchess to alight.” 
 
 The knight accordingly hastened to offer his services, which, after 
 much ceremony and many compliments, her grace positively de- 
 clined, saying that she would not alight from her palfrey, but into 
 the duke’s arms, as she did not think herself worthy to charge so 
 great a knight with so unprofitable a burthen. At length the duke 
 came out and lifted her from her horse; and on their entering into 
 a large inner-court of the castle, two beautiful damsels advanced 
 and threw over Don Quixote’s shoulders a large mantle of the finest 
 scarlet, and in an instant all the galleries of the courtyard were 
 crowded with men and women—the domestic household of his grace 
 crying aloud, ‘‘ Welcome the flower and cream of knights-errant !” 
 Then they sprinkled whole bottles of sweet-scented waters upon 
 the knight, and also on the duke and duchess; all which Don 
 Quixote observed with surprise and pleasure: being now, for the 
 first time, thoroughly convinced that he was a true knight, and no 
 imaginary one, since he was treated just like the knights-errant of 
 former times. 
 
 Sancho, abandoning Dapple, attached himself closely to the 
 duchess, and entered with her into the castle: but his conscience 
 soon reproached him with having left his ass alone, and unprovided 
 for. He therefore approached a reverend duenna, who amongst 
 others came out to receive the duchess, and said to her in a low 
 voice, ‘‘ Mistress Gonzalez, or pray, madam, what may your name 
 be?” ‘Donna Rodriguez de Grijalva,” answered the duenna ; 
 ‘‘what would you have with me, friend?” ‘‘1 wish, Madam 
 Donna Rodriguez,” replied Sancho, ‘‘you would be so good as to 
 step to the castle-gate, where you will find a dapple ass of mine ; 
 and be so kind as to order him to he put into the stable, or put him 
 there yourself ; for the poor thing is a little timorous, and cannot 
 abide to be alone.” ‘‘If the master be of the same web as the 
 man,” answered the duenna, “‘ we are finely thriven! Go, brother— 
 
* 
 
 436 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 it was an evil hour for you and him that brought you hither—and 
 look after your beast yourself, for the duennas of this house are not 
 accustomed to do such offices.” ‘*‘ How now!” answered Sancho ; 
 ‘*T have heard my master say—and he is a notable hand at history— 
 that when Launcelot came from Britain ladies took care of his 
 person, and duennas of his horse: and as for my ass, whatever you 
 may think, faith, I would not swap him for Signor Launcelot’s 
 steed.” ‘‘Hark ye, friend, if you are a dealer in jests, take your 
 wares to another market, here they will not pass—a fig, say I, for 
 your whole budget!” ‘‘I thank you for that,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ for 
 JI am sure it will be a ripe one :—if sixty’s the game, you will not 
 lose it for want of a trick.” 
 
 “‘You beast!” cried the duenna, foaming with rage; ‘‘ whether 
 I am old or not, to Heaven I account, and not to thee—rascal, 
 garlic-eating scamp!” This she uttered so loud that the duchesg 
 turned towards them, and, seeing the duenna in such agitation, an¢ 
 her face and eyes in a flame, asked her with whom she was sa 
 angry. ‘‘ With this man here,” answered the duenna, ‘‘who has 
 desired me, in good earnest, to go and put into the stable an ass of 
 his that stands at the castle-gate; raking up, as an example, the 
 tale of one Launcelot, whose steed was attended by ladies; and, to 
 complete his impertinence, he coolly tells methatIamold!” ‘*‘' That, 
 indeed,” said the duchess, ‘‘is an affront which cannot be endured.” 
 Then, turning to Sancho, ‘‘ Be assured, friend Sancho,”’ said she, 
 ‘‘yvou are mistaken on that point ; the veil which Donna Rodriguez 
 wears is more for authority and fashion than on account of her 
 years.” ‘‘ May I never again know a prosperous one,” quoth Sancho, 
 ‘if I meant her any offence! I only spoke because of the great 
 love I bear to my ass, and I thought that I could not do better than 
 recommend him to the charitable care of the good Signora Donna 
 Rodriguez.”” Don Quixote, hearing this altercation, now interfered. 
 ‘*Sancho,” said he, ‘‘is this a fit place for such discourse?” ‘‘ Sir,” 
 answered Sancho, ‘‘every one must speak of his wants, let him be 
 where he will. Here I bethought me of Dapple, and here I spoke 
 of him; and if I had thought of him in the stable I should have 
 spoken of him there.” ‘To which the duke said, ‘‘ Sancho is very 
 much in the right, and deserves no censure. Dapple shall have 
 provender to his heart’s content; and let Sancho take no further 
 care, for he shall be treated like his own person.” 
 
 With this conversation—pleasing to all but Don Quixote-—they 
 ascended the great stairs, and conducted the knight into a spacious 
 hall, sumptuously hung with cloth of gold and rich brocade. Six 
 damsels attended to take off his armour and serve as pages, all 
 tutored by the duke and duchess in their behaviour towards him, 
 in order to confirm his delusion. Don Quixote, being now unarmed, 
 remained in his straight breeches and chamois doublet, lean, tall, 
 and stiff, with his cheeks shrunk into his head ; making such a figure 
 that the damsels who waited on him had much difficulty to restrain 
 their mirth, and observe in his presence that decorum which had 
 been strictly enjoined by their lord and lady. They begged he 
 would suffer himself to be undressed, for the purpose of changing 
 
THE KNIGHT’S REBUKE. 437 
 
 his linen; but he would by no means consent, saying that modesty 
 was as becoming a knight-errant as courage. However, he bade 
 them give the shirt to Sancho; and, retiring with him to an apart- 
 ment where there was a rich bed, he pulled off his clothes and there 
 put it on, 
 
 Being thus alone with Sancho, he said to him, ‘‘ Tell me, buffoon 
 and blockhead! dost thou imagine it a becoming thing to abuse and 
 insult a duenna so venerable and so worthy of respect? Was that 
 a time to think of Dapple? Or is it probable that these noble per- 
 sons would suffer our beasts to fare poorly, when they treat their 
 owners so honourably? Restrain thyself, Sancho, and discover not 
 the grain, lest it should be seen how coarse the web is of which 
 thou art spun. Remember, sinner, the master is esteemed in pro- 
 portion as his servants are respectable and well-behaved ; and 
 one of the greatest advantages which the great enjoy over other 
 men is that they are served by domestics of a superior mould. 
 Dost thou not consider—plague to thyself, and torment to me !— 
 that if it is perceived that thou art a rude clown or a conceited 
 fool, they will be apt to think that I am an impostor, or some 
 knight of the sharping order? Avoid, friend Sancho, pray avoid, 
 these impertinences, for whoever sets up for a talker and a wit 
 sinks, at the first trip, into a contemptible butfoon. Bridle thy 
 tongue; consider and deliberate upon thy words before they quit 
 thy lips; and recollect that we are now in a place whence, by the 
 help of Heaven and the valour of my arm, we may depart bettered 
 by three, or perhaps five-fold, in fortune and reputation.” Sancho 
 promised him faithfully to sew up his mouth, or bite his tongue | 
 before he spoke a word that was not duly considered, and to the 
 purpose; and assured him that he need be under no fear of his say- 
 ing anything that would tend to his worship’s discredit. 
 
 Don Quixote then dressed himself, girt on his sword, threw the 
 scarlet mantle over his shoulders, put on a green satin cap which 
 the damsels had given him, and thus equipped marched out into 
 the great saloon, where he found the damsels drawn up on each 
 side in two equal ranks, and all of them provided with an equipage 
 for washing his hands, which they administered with many rever- 
 ences and much ceremony. Then came twelve pages, with the 
 major domo, to conduct him to dinner,the lord and lady being now 
 waiting for him; and, having placed him in the midst of them with 
 great pomp and ceremony, they proceeded to another hall, where a 
 rich table was spread with four covers only. The duke and duchess 
 came to the door to receive him, accompanied by a grave ecclesias- 
 tic—one of those who govern great men’s houses ; one of those who, 
 not being nobly born themselves, are unable to direct the conduct 
 of those who are so; who would have the liberality of the great 
 measured by the narrowness of their own souls; making those 
 whom they govern penirious, under the pretence of teaching them 
 to be prudent. One of this species was the grave ecclesiastic who” 
 came out with the duke to receive Don Quixote. After a thou- 
 sand courtly compliments mutually interchanged, Don Quixote 
 advanced towards the table, between the duke and duchess, 
 
4388 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and, on preparing to seat themselves, they offered the upper 
 end to Don Quixote, who would have declined it but for the 
 pressing importunities of the duke. The ecclesiastic seated him- 
 self opposite to the knight, and the duke and duchess on each 
 side. 
 
 Sancho was present all the while, in amazement to see the hon- 
 our paid by those great people to his master, and, whilst the nu- 
 merous entreaties and ceremonies were passing between the duke 
 and Don Quixote, before he would sit down at the head of the 
 table, he said, ‘‘ With your honour’s leave I will tell you a story of 
 what happened in our town about seats.” Don Quixote immedi- 
 ately began to tremble, not doubting that he was going to say 
 something absurd. Sancho observed him, and, understanding his 
 looks, he said, ‘‘ Be not afraid, sir, of my breaking loose, or saying 
 anything that is not pat to the purpose. I have not forgotten the 
 advice your worship gave me awhile ago, about talking much or 
 little, well or ill.” ‘‘ I remember nothing, Sancho,” answered Don 
 Quixote; ‘‘say what thou wilt, so as thou sayest it quickly.” 
 ‘* What I would say,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘is very true, for my master 
 Don Quixote, who is present will not suffer me to lie.” ‘‘ Lie as 
 much as thou wilt for me, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘I shall 
 not hinder thee; but take heed what thou art going to say.” ‘<I 
 have heeded it over and over again, so that it is as safe as if I had 
 the game in my hand, as you shall presently see.” ‘‘ Your graces 
 will do well,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ to order this blockhead to retire, 
 that you may get rid of his troublesome folly.” ‘‘ Sancho shall not 
 stir a jot from me,” quoth the duchess; ‘‘I have a great regard 
 for him, and am assured of his discretion.” ‘‘ Many happy years 
 may your holiness live,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ for the good opinion 
 you have of me, little as I deserve it. But the tale I would tell is 
 this :— . 
 
 ‘* A certain gentleman of our town, very rich, and of a good 
 family—for he was descended from the Alamos of Medina del 
 Campo, and married Donna Mencia de Quinnones, who was daugh- 
 ter to Don Alonzo de Maranon, knight of the order of St James, 
 the same that was drowned in the Herradura, about whom that 
 quarrel happened in our town, in which it was said my master, Don 
 Quixote, had a hand, and Tommy the mad-cap, son of Balvastro 
 the blacksmith, was hurt—pray, good master of mine, is not all 
 this true? Speak, I beseech you, that their worships may not 
 
 take me for some lying prater.” ‘‘ As yet,” said the ecclesiastic, 
 ‘‘T take you rather for a prater than for a liar; but I know not 
 what I shall next take you for.” ‘‘Thou hast produced so many 
 
 witnesses and so many proofs,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ that I cannot 
 but say thou mayest probably be speaking truth; but shorten 
 thy story, or it will last these two days.” ‘‘He shall shorten 
 nothing,” quoth the duchess; ‘‘and, to please me, he shall tell 
 it his own way, although he were not to finish these six days; 
 ite should it last so long, they would be to me days of de- 
 ight.” 
 
 **T must tell you, then,” proceeded Sancho, ‘‘that this same 
 
 Se ee 
 
SANCHO PANZA’S STORY. 4389 
 
 gentleman—whom I know as well as I do my right hand from my 
 left, for it is not a bowshot from my house to his—invited a hus- 
 bandman to dine with him—a poor man, but mainly honest.” ‘‘ On, 
 friend,” said the chaplain, ‘‘ for at the rate you proceed, your tale 
 will not reach its end till you reach the other world.” ‘‘ Ishall stop,” 
 replied Sancho, ‘‘ before I get half-way thither. This same farmer, 
 coming to the house of the gentleman his inviter—he is dead and 
 gone; and, moreover, died like an angel, as it is said—for I was 
 not by myself, being, at that time, gone a reaping to Tembleque.” 
 ‘*Prithee, son,” said the ecclesiastic, ‘‘come back quickly from 
 
 
 
 Tembleque, and stay not to bury the gentleman, unless you are 
 determined upon more burials ;—pray make an end of your tale.” 
 ‘*The business, then,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ was this, that, they being 
 ready to sit down to table—methinks I see them plainer than ever.” 
 The duke and duchess were highly diverted at the impatience of 
 the good ecclesiastic, and at the length and pauses of Sancho’s tale ; 
 but Don Quixote was almost suffocated with rage and vexation. 
 ‘‘T say, then,” quoth Sancho, ‘that, as they were both standing 
 before the dinner table, just ready to sit down, the farmer insisted 
 that the gentleman should take the upper end of the table, and the 
 gentleman as positively pressed the farmer to take it, saying he 
 
440 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ought to be master in his own house. But the countryman, piquing 
 himself upon his good breeding, still refused to comply, till, the 
 gentleman losing all patience, laid both his hands upon the farmer’s 
 shoulders, and made him sit down by main force, saying, ‘ Sit thee 
 down, clod-pole! for in whatever place I am seated, that is the 
 upper end to thee.’ This is my tale, and truly I think it comes in 
 here pretty much to the purpose.” ' 
 
 The natural brown of Don Quixote’s face was flushed with anger 
 and shame at Sancho’s insinuations, so that the duke and duchess, 
 seeing his distress, endeavoured to restrain their laughter; and, to 
 prevent further impertinence from Sancho, the duchess asked Don 
 Quixote what news he had last received of the lady Dulcinea, and 
 whether he had lately sent her any presents of giants or caitiffs, since 
 he must certainly have vanquished many. ‘‘ Alas, madam!” 
 answered he, ‘‘ my misfortunes have had a beginning, but they will 
 never have an end. Giants I have conquered, and robbers, and 
 wicked caitiffs; and many have I sent to the mistress of my soul ; 
 but where should they find her, transformed as she now is into the 
 homeliest rustic wench that the imagination ever conceived?” ‘‘I 
 know not, sir, how that can be,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ for to me she ap- 
 peared the most beautiful creature in the world: at least for nimble- 
 ness, or in a kind of a spring she has with her, Iam sure no stage 
 tumbler can go beyond her. In good faith, my lady duchess, she 
 springs from the ground upon an ass as if she were a cat.” ‘‘ Have 
 you seen her enchanted, Sancho?” quoth the duke. ‘‘ Seen her!” 
 answered Sancho; ‘‘ who was it but I that first hit upon the busi- 
 ness of her enchantment? Yes, she is as much enchanted as my 
 father.” 
 
 The ecclesiastic, when he heard talk of giants, caitiffs, and en- 
 chantments, began to suspect that this must be the Don Quixote 
 de la Mancha whose history the duke was often reading; and he 
 had as frequently reproved him for so doing; telling him it was idle 
 to read such fooleries. Being assured of the truth of his suspicion, 
 with much indignation he said to the duke, ‘‘ Your excellency will 
 be accountable to Heaven for the actions of this poor man—this 
 Don Quixote, or Don Coxcomb, or whatever you are pleased to call 
 him, cannot be quite so mad as your excellency would make him by 
 thus encouraging his extravagant fancies.” Then turning to Don 
 Quixote, he said —‘‘ And you, signor addle-pate, who has thrust it 
 into your brain that you are a knight-errant, and that you vanquish 
 giants and robbers? Go, get you home in a good hour, and in such 
 are you now admonished ; return to your family, and look to your 
 children, if you have any; mind your affairs, and cease to bea 
 vagabond about the world, sucking the wind, and drawing on your- 
 self the derision of all that know you, or know you not. Where, 
 with a murrain, have you ever found that there are, or ever were, 
 in the world such creatures as knights-errant? Where are there 
 giants in Spain, or caitiffs in La Mancha, or enchanted Dulcineas, 
 or all the rabble rout of follies that are told of you?” Don Quixote 
 was very attentive to the words of the reverend gentleman, and, 
 finding that he was now silent, regardless of the respect due to the 
 
THE KNIGHT S ANSWER TO THE LICENTIATE. 441 
 
 duke and duchess, up he started, with indignation and fury in his 
 looks, and said——— but his answer deserves a chapter to itself. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 Of the answer Don Quixote gave to his reprover; with other grave 
 and pleasing events. 
 
 Springing to his feet, Don Quixote, trembling like quicksilver 
 from head to foot, in an agitated voice, said, ‘‘The place where I 
 am, and the presence of the noble personages before whom I stand, 
 as well as the respect which I have ever entertained for your pro- 
 fession, restrain my just indignation ; for these reasons, and because 
 I know, as all the world knows, that the weapons of gownsmen, 
 like those of women, are their tongues, with the same weapon, in 
 equal combat, I will engage your reverence, from whom good 
 counsel might have been expected, rather than scurrility. Charit- 
 able and wholesome reproof requires a different language; at least 
 it must be owned that reproach so public, as well as rude, exceeds 
 the bounds of decent reprehension. Mildness, sir, would have been 
 better than asperity ; but was it either just or decent, at once, and 
 without knowledge of the fault, plainly to proclaim the offender 
 madman and idiot? Tell me, I beseech your reverence, for which 
 of the follies you have observed in me do you thus condemn and 
 revile me, desiring me to go home and take care of my house, and 
 of my wife and children, without knowing whether I have either? 
 
 What! there is nothing more to do, then, but boldly enter into 
 other men’s houses, and govern the masters, fora poor pedagogue, 
 who never saw more of the world than twenty or thirty leagues 
 around him, rashly to presume to give laws to chivalry, and pass 
 judgment upon knights-errant! It is, forsooth, idleness, or time 
 mis-spent, to range the world, not seeking its pleasures, but its 
 hardships, through which good men aspire to the seat of immor- 
 tality! If men, high born, and of liberal minds, were to proclaim 
 me a madman, I should regard it as an irreparable affront; but to 
 be esteemed a fool by pedants who never trod the path of chivalry, 
 I value it notarush. A knight I am, and a knight I will die, if it 
 be Heaven’s good will. Some choose the spacious field of proud 
 ambition ; others the mean path of servile and base flattery ; some 
 seek the way of deceitful hypocrisy, and others that of true religion ; 
 but I, directed by the star that rules my fate, take the narrow path 
 of knight-errantry ; despising wealth, but thirsting for honour. [ 
 have redressed grievances, righted wrongs, chastised insolence, van- 
 quished giants, and trampled upon hobgoblins: I am enamoured— 
 for knights-errant must be so ; but my love is of the chaste Platonic 
 kind. My intentions are always directed to virtuous ends—to do 
 good to all, and injury to none. Whether he who thus means, thus 
 acts, and thus lives, deserves to be called fool, let your highnesses 
 judge, most excellent duke and duchess.” 
 
449 -* ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 **Well said, 1 faith!” quoth Sancho. ‘‘Say no more for your- 
 self, good lord and master; for there is nothing more in the world 
 to be said, thought, or done. And, besides, this gentleman deny- 
 ing, as he has denied, that there neither are, nor never were, 
 knights-errant, no wonder if he knows nothing of what he has been 
 talking about.” ‘‘So then,” said the ecclesiastic, ‘‘ you, I suppose, 
 are the same Sancho Panza they talk of, to whom it is said your 
 master has promised an island?” ‘‘J am that Sancho,” replied the 
 squire, ‘‘and deserve it too, as well as any other he whatever. Of 
 such as me, it is said, ‘ Keep company with the good, and thou wilt 
 be one of them;’ and, ‘ Not with whom thou wert bred, but with 
 whom thou hast fed ;’ and, ‘ He that leaneth against a good tree, 
 a good shelter findeth he.’ I have leaned and stuck close to a good 
 master these many months, and shall be such another as he, if it 
 be God’s good pleasure; and, if he lives, and I live, neither shall 
 he want kingdoms to rule, nor I islands to govern.” 
 
 ‘¢That you shall not, friend Sancho,” said the duke, ‘‘ for in the 
 name of Signor Don Quixote, I promise you the government of one 
 of mine now vacant, and of no inconsiderable value.” 
 
 **Kneel, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘and kiss his excellency’s 
 feet for the favour he has done thee.” Sancho did so; upon which 
 the ecclesiastic got up from the table in great wrath, saying, ‘‘ By 
 the habit I wear, I could find in my heart to say that your ex- 
 cellency is as simple as these sinners; no wonder they are mad, 
 since wise men authorize their follies! Your excellency may stay 
 with them, if youplease; but while they are in this house I will remain 
 in my own, and save myself the trouble of reproving where I cannot 
 amend.” Then, without saying another word, and leaving his 
 meal unfinished, away he went, in spite of the entreaties of the 
 duke and duchess: though, indeed, the duke could not say much, 
 through laughter at his foolish petulance. 
 
 As soon as his laughter would allow him, the duke said to Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘ Sir Knight of the Lions, you have answered so well for 
 yourself and your profession, that you can require no further satis- 
 faction of the angry clergyman; especially if you consider, that 
 whatever he might say, it was impossible for him, as you well 
 know, to affront a person of your character.” ‘‘It is true, my 
 lord,” ‘answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ whoever cannot receive an affront 
 cannot give one. Women, children, and churchmen, as they cannot 
 defend themselves if attacked, so they cannot be affronted, because, 
 as your excellency better knows, there is this difference between 
 an injury and an affront: an affront must come from a person who 
 not only gives it, but who can maintain it when it is given: an in- 
 jury may come from any hand. A man, for example, walking in the 
 street, is unexpectedly set upon by ten armed men, who beat him: 
 he draws his sword to avenge the injury, but the assailants over- 
 powering him by numbers, he is compelled to forego the satisfaction 
 he desired: this person is injured, but not affronted. Again, let 
 us suppose one man to come secretly behind another and strike 
 him with a cudgel, then run away: the man pursues him, but the 
 offender escapes: he who received the blow is injured, it is true, 
 
DISCOURSE ON THE LAWS OF DUELLING. 448 
 
 but has received no affront, because the violence offered is not 
 maintained. If he who gave the blow, though it was done basely, 
 stands his ground to answer for the deed, then he who was struck 
 is both injured and affronted: injured because he was struck in a 
 secret and cowardly manner, and affronted because he who gave 
 the blow stood bis ground to maintain what he had done. Accord- 
 ing to the laws of duel, therefore, I may be injured, but not 
 affronted ; for, as women and children can neither resent nor main- 
 tain opposition, so it is with the clergy, who carry no weapons, 
 either offensive or defensive; and though they have a right to 
 ward off all violence offered to themselves, they can offer no affront 
 that demands honourable satisfaction. Upon consideration, there- 
 fore, although I before said I was injured, I now affirm that it 
 could not be; for he who can receive no affront can give none; and, 
 consequently, I neither ought, nor do, feel any resentment for what 
 that good man said to me—only I could have wished he had stayed 
 a little longer, that I might have convinced him of his error in sup- 
 posing that knights-errant never existed in the world. Indeed, 
 had Amadis, or any of his numerous descendants, heard so strange 
 an assertion, I am persuaded it would have gone hard with his 
 reverence.” ‘* That I will swear,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘at one slash 
 they would have cleft him from top to bottom like a pomegranate ; 
 they were not folks to be so jested with. Had Reynaldos de Montal- 
 van heard the little gentleman talk at that rate, he would have 
 given him such a’ gag as would have stopped his mouth for three 
 years at least. Ay, ay, let him fall into their clutches, and see 
 how he will get out again!” The duchess was overcome with 
 laughter at Sancho’s zeal, and thought him more diverting and mad 
 than his master; indeed, many others at that time were of the same 
 opinion. 
 
 At length, Don Quixote being pacified and calm, and the dinner 
 ended, the cloth was removed; whereupon four damsels entered, 
 one with a silver ewer, another with a basin, also of silver, a third 
 with two fine clean towels over her shoulder, and the fourth with 
 her sleeves tucked up to her elbows, and in her white hands (for 
 doubtless they were white) a wash-ball of Naples soap. The damsel 
 who held the basin now respectfully approached the knight, and 
 placed it under his beard, while he, wondering at the ceremony, 
 yet believing it to be the custom of that country to wash beards 
 instead of hands, obediently thrust out his chin as far as he could ; 
 whereupon the ewer began to rain upon his face, while the damsel 
 of the wash-ball lathered his beard with great dexterity, covering 
 with a snow-white froth, not only the beard, but the whole face of 
 the submissive knight, even over his eyes, which he was compelled 
 to close. The duke and duchess, who were not in the secret, were 
 eager to know the issue of this extraordinary ablution. The barber- 
 damsel having raised a lather a span high, pretended that the water 
 was all used, and ordered the girl with the ewer to fetch more, 
 telling her that Signor Don Quixote would stay till she came back. 
 Thus he was left, the strangest and most ridiculous figure imagin- 
 able, to the gaze of all that were present; and, seeing him with his 
 
444 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. — 
 
 neck half an ell long, more than moderately swarthy, his eyes half- 
 shut, and his whole visage under a covering of white foam, it was 
 
 
 
 2 
 eS 
 % 
 
 ANS 
 
 a 
 
 
 
 
 
 marvellous, and a sign of great discretion, that they were able to 
 preserve their gravity. 
 
THE WASHING CEREMONY. 445 
 | 
 
 The damsels concerned in the jest hung down their eyes, not 
 daring to look.at their lord or lady, who were divided between 
 anger and mirth, not knowing whether to chastise the girls for 
 their boldness, or reward them for the amusement their device had 
 afforded. The water-nymph returned, and the beard-washing was 
 finished, when she who was charged with the towels performed the 
 office of wiping and drying with much deliberation; and thus the 
 ceremony being concluded, the four damsels at once, making him a 
 profound reverence, were retiring, when the duke, to prevent Don 
 Quixote from suspecting the jest, called the damsel with the basin, 
 and said, ‘‘Come and do your duty, and take care that you have 
 water enough.” The girl, who was shrewd and active, went up, 
 and applied the basin to the duke’s chin in the same manner she 
 had done to that of Don Quixote; and with equal adroitness, but 
 more celerity, repeated the ceremony of lathering, washing, and 
 wiping; and the whole being done, they made their curtsies, and 
 retired. The duke, however, had declared, as it afterwards ap- 
 peared, that he would have chastised them for their pertness if 
 they had refused to serve him in the same manner. 
 
 Sancho was very attentive to this washing ceremony. ‘‘Is it the 
 custom of this place, I wonder,” said he, muttering to himself, ‘‘to 
 wash the beards of squires, as well as of knights? On my con- 
 science and soul, I need it much; and if they would give mea 
 stroke of a razor, I should take it for a still greater favour.” 
 ‘¢ What are you saying to yourself, Sancho ?” quoth the duchess. 
 ‘*T say, madam,” answered Sancho, ‘‘that in other houses of the 
 great, | have always heard, that when the cloth is taken away, the 
 custom is to bring water to wash hands, but not suds to scour 
 beards; and therefore one must live long to see much. It is also 
 said, ‘he who lives long must suffer much ;’ though, if Iam not mis- 
 taken, to be so scoured must be rather a pleasure than a pain.” ‘‘ Be 
 under no concern, friend Sancho,” quoth the duchess; ‘‘ for I will 
 order my damsels to see to your washing, and to lay you a bucking 
 too, if that be needful.” ‘‘For the present, if my beard geta 
 scouring I shall be content,” said Sancho; ‘‘for the rest, Heaven 
 will providé hereafter.” ‘‘ Here, steward,” said the duchess, ‘‘at- 
 tend to the wishes of good Sancho, and do precisely as he would have 
 you.” He answered that Signor Sancho should in all things be 
 punctually obeyed; and then he went to dinner, and took Sancho 
 along with him. 
 
 Meantime, Don Quixote remained with the duke and duchess, 
 discoursing on divers matters relating to arms and knight-erran- 
 try. The duchess entreated Don Quixote, since he seemed to have 
 so happy a memory, that he would delineate and describe the 
 beauty and accomplishments of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso: for, 
 if fame, spoke the truth, she must needs be the fairest creature in 
 the world, and, consequently, in La Mancha. ‘‘ Madam, said 
 Don Quixote, heaving a deep sigh, ‘‘if I could pluck out my heart 
 and place it before you on this table, your highness would there 
 behold her painted to the life, and I might save my tongue the 
 fruitless labour of describing that which can scarcely be conceived: 
 
446 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 for how am I to delineate or describe the perfections of that para- 
 gon of excellence? My shoulders are unequal to so mighty a 
 burden ; itis a task worthy of the pencils of Parrhasius, Timantes, 
 and Apelles, and the chisel of Lysippus, to produce, in speaking 
 pictures, or statues of bronze, or marble, a copy of her beauties ; 
 and Ciceronian and Demosthenian eloquence to describe them.”’ 
 
 “‘ Pray, Signor Don Quixote,” said the duchess, ‘‘ what do you 
 mean by Demosthenian ?—a word I do not recollect ever hearing.” 
 ** Demosthenian eloquence,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘means the 
 eloquence of Demosthenes, as Ciceronian is that of Cicero, who were 
 the two greatest orators and rhetoricians in the world.” ‘That 
 is true,” said the duke, ‘‘ and you betrayed your ignorance in ask- 
 ing such a question ; nevertheless, Signor Don Quixote would give 
 us great pleasure by endeavouring to paint her to us; for, though 
 it be only a rough sketch, doubtless she will appear such as the 
 most beautiful may envy.” ‘‘Ah! my lord, so she certainly would,” 
 answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ had not the misfortune which lately befell 
 her, blurred and defaced the lovely idea, and razed it from my 
 memory :—such a misfortune, that I ought rather to bewail what 
 she suffers than describe what she is; for your excellencies must 
 know, that going, not many days since, to kiss her hands and re- 
 ceive her benediction, with her commands and licence for this third 
 sally, I found her quite another person than her I sought for. I 
 found her enchanted and transformed from a princess into a country 
 wench, from beautiful to ugly, from an angel to a fiend, from frag- 
 rant to pestiferous, from courtly to rustic, from light to darkness, 
 from a dignified lady to a jumping Joan—in fine, from Dulcinea del 
 Toboso to an unsightly bumpkin of Sayago.” ‘*‘ What villain,” ex- 
 claimed the duke, elevating his voice, ‘‘can have done the world 
 so much injury? who has deprived it of the beauty that delighted 
 it, the grace that charmed, and the modesty that did it honour?” 
 ‘““ Who?” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ who could it be but some mali- 
 cious enchanter, of the many that persecute me:—that wicked 
 brood that was sent into the world only to obscure and annihilate 
 the exploits of the good, and to blazon forth and to magnify the 
 actions of the wicked? Enchanters have hitherto persecuted me ; 
 enchanters now persecute me, and so they will continue to do, 
 until they have overwhelmed me and my lofty chivalries into the 
 profound abyss of oblivion. Yes, even in the most sensible part 
 they injure and wound me; well knowing that to deprive a knight- 
 errant of his mistress, is to deprive him of the eyes he sees with, 
 the sun that enlightens him, and the food that sustains him; for, 
 as I have often said, and now repeat it, a knight-errant, without a 
 mistress is like a tree without leaves, an edifice without cement, 
 and a shadow without the material substance by which it should 
 be cast.” 
 
 ‘* All this,” said the duchess, “‘is not to be denied; yet, if the 
 published history of Don Quixote, so much applauded by all na- 
 tions, be worthy of credit, we are bound by that authority, if Iam 
 not mistaken, to think that there is no such lady in the world, she 
 being only an imaginary lady, begotten and born of your own 
 
 a 
 
HIS DESCRIPTION OF DULCINEA. 447 
 
 brain, and dressed out with all the graces and perfections of your 
 fancy!” ‘‘There is much to be said upon this point,” answered 
 Don Quixote: ‘‘ Heaven knows whether there be a Dulcinea in the 
 world or not; and whether she be imaginary or not imaginary: 
 these things are not to be too nicely inquired into, though I con- 
 template her as a lady endowed with all those qualifications which 
 may spread the glory of her name over the whole world :—such as, 
 possessing beauty without blemish, dignity without pride, love 
 with modesty, politeness springing from courtesy, and courtesy 
 from good-breeding, and, finally, of illustrious descent; for the 
 beauty that is of a noble race, shines with more splendour than 
 that which is meanly born.” ‘‘ That cannot be doubted,” quoth 
 the duke; ‘‘ but Signor Don Quixote must here give me leave to 
 speak on the authority of the history of his exploits; for there, 
 although it be allowed, that either in or out of Toboso, there is 
 actually a Dulcinea, and that she is no less beautiful and accom- 
 plished than your worship has described her, it does not appear 
 that in respect to high descent, she is upon a level with the Orianas, 
 the Alastrajareas, Madasimas, and many others whose names, as. 
 you well know, are celebrated in history.” 
 
 ‘* The lady Dulcinea,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘is the daughter of 
 her own works; and your grace will acknowledge that virtue en- 
 nobles blood, and that a virtuous person of humble birth is more 
 estimable than a vicious person of rank. Besides, that incompar- 
 able lady has endowments which may raise her to a crown and 
 sceptre ; for still greater miracles are within the power of a beauti- 
 ful and virtuous woman; and, although she may not, in form, 
 possess the advantage you question, the want is more than compen- 
 sated by that mine of intrinsic worth which is her true inheritance.” 
 ‘Certainly, Signor Don Quixote,” cried the duchess, ‘‘ you tread 
 with great caution, and, as the saying is, with the plummet in 
 hand; nevertheless, J am determined to believe, and make all my 
 family, and even my lord duke, if necessary, believe, that there is 
 a Dulcinea del Toboso, and that she is at this moment living, 
 beautiful, highly-born, and well deserving that such a knight as 
 Signor Don Quixote should be her servant, which is the highest 
 commendation I can bestow upon her. But there yet remains a 
 small matter on my mind, concerning which I cannot entirely ex- 
 cuse my friend Sancho, and it is this: in the history of your deeds 
 we are told, that when Sancho Panza took your worship’s letter to 
 the lady Dulcinea, he found her winnowing a sack of wheat, and 
 that, too, of the coarsest kind—a circumstance that seems incom- 
 patible with her high birth.” 
 
 To this Don Quixote replied, ‘‘ Your grace must know, that 
 whether directed by the inscrutable will of fate, or contrived by 
 the malice of envious enchanters, it is certain that all or the greater 
 part, of what has befallen me, is of a more extraordinary nature 
 than what usually happens to other knights-errant ; and it is well 
 known that the most famous of that order had their privileges: 
 one was exempt from the power of enchantment; the flesh of an- 
 other was impenetrable to wounds, as was the case with the re- 
 
448 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 nowned Orlando, one of the twelve peers of France, who, it is said, 
 was invulnerable except in the heel of the left foot, and that, too, 
 accessible to no weapon but the point of a large pin; so that Ber- 
 nardo del Carpio (who killed him at Roncesvalles), perceiving that 
 he could not wound him with steel, snatched him from the ground, 
 and squeezed him to death betwixt his arms; recollecting, pro- 
 bably, that the giant Antzeus was so destroyed by Hercules. It 
 may fairly be presumed, therefore, that I have some of those privi- 
 leges—not that of being invulnerable, for experience has often 
 shown me that I am made of tender flesh, and by no means im- 
 penetrable ; nor that of being exempt from the power of enchant- 
 ment, for I have already been confined in a cage, into which, but 
 for that power, the whole world could never have forced me. How- 
 ever, since I freed myself thence, I am inclined to believe no other 
 can reach me; and therefore these enchanters, seeing they cannot 
 practise their wicked artifices upon my person, wreak their ven- 
 geance upon the object of my affections; hoping, by their evil 
 treatment of her in whom I exist, to take that life which was, 
 _otherwise, proof against their incantations. I am convinced, there- 
 fore, that, when Sancho delivered my message to the lady Dulcinea, 
 they presented her to him in the form of a.country wench engaged 
 in the mean employment of winnowing wheat. But, as I have 
 said before, what she seemed to winnow was not wheat, but grains 
 of oriental pearl: and, in confirmation of this, I must tell your ex- 
 cellencies, that passing lately through Toboso, I could nowhere 
 find the palace of Dulcinea;—nay more, not many days ago she 
 was seen by my squire, in her proper figure, the most beautiful 
 that éan be imagined, while at the same moment she appeared to 
 me a coarse, ugly, country wench, and her language, instead of 
 being discretion itself, was no less offensive. Thus, then, it appears, 
 that since I am not, and probably cannot be, enchanted, she is 
 made to suffer: she is the enchanted, the injured, the metamor- 
 phosed, and transformed; in her my enemies have revenged them- 
 selves on me, and for her I shall live in perpetual tears till I see her 
 restored to her pristine state. 
 
 ‘All this I say, that nothing injurious to my lady may be in- 
 ferred from what Sancho has related of her sifting and winnowing ; 
 for, if she appeared so changed to me at one time, no wonder that 
 she should seem transformed to him at another. Assuredly, the 
 peerless Dulcinea is highly-born, and allied in blood to the best and 
 most ancient families of Toboso, which town will, from her name, 
 be no less famous in after-ages than Troy is for its Helen, and Spain 
 for its Cava; though on a more honourable account. And in re- 
 gard to my squire Sancho Panza, I beg your highness will do him 
 the justice to believe that never was knight-errant served by a 
 squire of more pleasantry. His shrewdness and simplicity appear 
 at times so curiously mingled, that it is amusing to consider which 
 of the two prevails: he has cunning ononglilt be suspected of 
 knavery, and absurdity enough to be thought a fool. He doubts 
 everything, yet he believes everything; and, when I imagine him 
 about to sink into a downright idiot, out comes some observation 
 
HIS UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENT. 483 
 
 should happen to you on your first arrival on my domains; but the 
 negligence of squires is often the occasion of even greater disasters.” 
 **' he moment cannot be unfortunate that introduces me to your 
 highness,” replied. Don Quixote, ‘‘and, had my fall been to the 
 centre of the deep abyss, the glory of seeing your highness would 
 have raised me thence. My squire is better at letting loose his 
 tongue to utter impertinence than at securing a saddle: but whether 
 down or up, on horseback or on foot, I shall always be at the ser- 
 vice of your highness, and that of my lady duchess your worthy 
 consort—the sovereign lady of beauty, and universal princess of all 
 courtesy.” ‘So saying, with a graceful bow, he kissed her hand. 
 
 
 
 The Duke. 
 
 ‘* Softly, dear Signor Don Quixote de la Mancha,” quoth the duke, 
 ‘‘for while the peerless Dulcinea del. Toboso exists, no other 
 beauty can be named.” 
 
 Sancho Panza had now got freed from the noose, and being near, 
 before his master could answer, he said, ‘‘ It cannot be denied— 
 nay, it must be declared, that my lady Dulcinea del Toboso is a 
 rare beauty; but, * where we are least aware, there starts the hare.’ 
 I have heard say that what they call nature is like a potter who 
 makes earthen vessels, and he who makes one handsome vessel may 
 also make two, and three, and a hundred. This I say, because, 
 by my faith, her highness there comes not a whit behind my mis- 
 
 2E 
 
: 484 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 tress the lady Dulcinea del Toboso.” Don Quixote here turned to 
 the duchess, and said, ‘‘I assure your grace, never any knight- 
 errant in the world had a more conceited and troublesome prater 
 for his squire than I have; of this he will give ample proof, if it 
 . please your highness to accept of my service for some days.” ‘‘I 
 am glad to hear that my friend Sancho is conceited,” replied the 
 duchess, ‘‘ it is a sign he has good sense; for wit and gay conceits, 
 as you well know, Signor Don Quixote, proceed not from dull 
 heads; and since you acknowledge that Sancho has wit and 
 pleasantry, I shall henceforth pronounce him to be wise” ‘¢ And 
 a prater,” added Don Quixote. ‘‘So much the better,” said the 
 duke, ‘‘ for many good things cannot be expressed in a few words ; 
 and, that we may not throw away all our time upon them, come 
 on, Sir Knight of the Sorrowful Figure.” ‘‘Of the Lions, your 
 highness should say,” quoth Sancho ; ‘‘ the Sorrowful Figure is no 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 more.” ‘Of the Lions then let it be,” continued the duke; ‘‘I 
 say, come on, Sir Knight of the Lions, to a castle of mine hard by, 
 where you shall be received in a manner suitable to a person of your 
 distinction, and as the duchess and I are accustomed to receive all 
 knights-errant who honour us with their society.” 
 
 By this time, Sancho having adjusted and well-girthed Rozinante’s 
 saddle, Don Quixote remounted, and thus he and the duke, who 
 rode a stately courser, with the duchess between them, proceeded 
 towards the castle. The duchess requested Sancho to be near her, 
 being mightily pleased with his arch observations ; nor did Sancho 
 require much entreaty, but joining the other three, made a fourth 
 in the conversation, to the great satisfaction of the duke and 
 duchess, who looked upon themselves as highly fortunate in having 
 to introduce such guests to their castle, and the prospect of en- 
 joying the company of such a knight-errant, and such an errant- 
 squire. 
 
SANCHO PANZA’S MODEST REQUEST. 435 
 
 CHAP T-E ROX X XT: 
 Which treats of many and great things. 
 
 Sancho’s joy was excessive on seeing himself, as he thought, a 
 favourite with the duchess: not doubting but that he should find 
 in her castle the same abundance that prevailed in the mansion of 
 Don Diego and Basilius ; for good cheer was the delight of his heart, 
 and therefore he always took care to seize by the forelock every 
 opportunity to indulge that passion. Now the history relates, that 
 before they came to the rural mansion, or castle, of the duke, his 
 highness rode on before and gave directions to his servants in what 
 manner they were to behave to Don Quixote; therefore, when he 
 arrived with the duchess at the castle-gate, there immediately 
 issued out two lacqueys or grooms, clad in a kind of robe or gown of 
 fine crimson satin reaching to their feet; and, taking Don Quixote 
 in their arms, they privately said to him, ‘‘Go, great sir, and assist 
 our lady the duchess to alight.” 
 
 The knight accordingly hastened to offer his services, which, after 
 much ceremony and many compliments, her grace positively de- 
 clined, saying that she would not alight from her palfrey, but into 
 the duke’s arms, as she did not think herself worthy to charge so 
 great a knight with so unprofitable a burthen. At length the duke 
 came out and lifted her from her horse; and on their entering into 
 a large inner-court of the castle, two beautiful damsels advanced 
 and threw over Don Quixote’s shoulders a large mantle of the finest 
 scarlet, and in an instant all the galleries of the courtyard were 
 crowded with men and women—the domestic household of his grace 
 crying aloud, ‘‘ Welcome the flower and cream of knights-errant !” 
 Then they sprinkled whole bottles of sweet-scented waters upon 
 the knight, and also on the duke and duchess; all which Don 
 Quixote observed with surprise and pleasure: being now, for the 
 first time, thoroughly convinced that he was a true knight, and no 
 imaginary one, since he was treated just like the knights-errant of 
 former times. 
 
 Sancho, abandoning Dapple, attached himself closely to the 
 duchess, and entered with her into the castle: but his conscience 
 soon reproached him with having left his ass alone, and unprovided 
 for. He therefore approached a reverend duenna, who amongst 
 others came out to receive the duchess, and said to her in a low 
 voice, ‘‘ Mistress Gonzalez, or pray, madam, what may your name 
 be?” “Donna Rodriguez de Grijalva,” answered the duenna ; 
 ‘what would you have with me, friend?” ‘*‘L wish, Madam 
 Donna Rodriguez,” replied Sancho, ‘‘you would be so good as to 
 step to the castle-gate, where you will find a dapple ass of mine; 
 and be so kind as to order him to be put into the stable, or put him 
 there yourself ; for the poor thing is a little timorous, and cannot 
 abide to be alone.” ‘‘If the master be of the same web as the 
 man,”’ answered the duenna, ‘‘ we are finely thriven! Go, brother— 
 
436 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 it was an evil hour for you and him that brought you hither—and 
 look after your beast yourself, for the duennas of this house are not 
 accustomed to do such offices.” ‘‘ How now!” answered Sancho ; 
 “‘T have heard my master say—and he is a notable hand at history— 
 that when Launcelot came from Britain ladies took care of his 
 person, and duennas of his horse: and as for my ass, whatever you 
 may think, faith, I would not swap him for Signor Launcelot’s 
 steed.” ‘‘Hark ye, friend, if you are a dealer in jests, take your 
 wares to another market, here they will not pass—a fig, say I, for 
 your whole budget!” ‘I thank you for that,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘for 
 I am sure it will be a ripe one :—if sixty’s the game, you will not 
 lose it for want of a trick.” 
 
 “You beast!” cried the duenna, foaming with rage; ‘‘ whether 
 I am old or not, to Heaven I account, and not to thee—rascal, 
 garlic-eating scamp!” This she uttered so loud that the duchess 
 turned towards them, and, seeing the duenna in such agitation, and 
 her face and eyes in a flame, asked her with whom she was so 
 angry. ‘‘ With this man here,” answered the duenna, ‘‘ who has 
 desired me, in good earnest, to go and put into the stable an ass of 
 his that stands at the castle-gate; raking up, as an example, the 
 tale of one Launcelot, whose steed was attended by ladies; and, to 
 complete his impertinence, he coolly tells methatIamold!” ‘‘ That, 
 indeed,” said the duchess, ‘‘is an affront which cannot be endured.” 
 Then, turning to Sancho, ‘‘ Be assured, friend Sancho,”’ said she, 
 ‘‘vou are mistaken on that point ; the veil which Donna Rodriguez 
 wears is more for authority and fashion than on account of her 
 years.” ‘‘May I never again know a prosperous one,” quoth Sancho, 
 “if I meant her any offence! I only spoke because of the great 
 love I bear to my ass, and I thought that I could not do better than 
 recommend him to the charitable care of the good Signora Donna 
 Rodriguez.”” Don Quixote, hearing this altercation, now interfered. 
 ‘‘Sancho,” said he, ‘‘is this a fit place for such discourse?” ‘‘ Sir,” 
 answered Sancho, ‘‘every one must speak of his wants, let him be 
 where he will. Here I bethought me of Dapple, and here I spoke 
 of him; and if I had thought of him in the stable I should have 
 spoken of him there.” ‘To which the duke said, ‘‘Sancho is very 
 much in the right, and deserves no censure. Dapple shall have 
 provender to his heart’s content; and let Sancho take no further 
 care, for he shall be treated like his own person.” 
 
 With this conversation—pleasing to all but Don Quixote—they 
 ascended the great stairs, and conducted the knight into a spacious 
 hall, sumptuously hung with cloth of gold and rich brocade. Six 
 damsels attended to take off his armour and serve as pages, all 
 tutored by the duke and duchess in their behaviour towards him, 
 in order to confirm his delusion. Don Quixote, being now unarmed, 
 remained in his straight breeches and chamois doublet, lean, tall, 
 and stiff, with his cheeks shrunk into his head ; making such a figure 
 that the damsels who waited on him had much difficulty to restrain 
 their mirth, and observe in his presence that decorum which had 
 been strictly enjoined by their lord and lady. They begged he 
 would suffer himself to be undressed, for the purpose of changing 
 
THE KNIGHT'S REBUKE. 437 
 
 his linen; but he would by no means consent, saying that modesty 
 was as becoming a knight-errant as courage. However, he bade 
 them give the shirt to Sancho; and, retiring with him to an apart- 
 ment where there was a rich bed, he pulled off his clothes and there 
 put it on. 
 
 Being thus alone with Sancho, he said to him, ‘‘ Tell me, buffoon 
 and blockhead! dost thou imagine it a becoming thing to abuse and 
 insult a duenna so venerable and so worthy of respect? Was that 
 a time to think of Dapple? Or is it probable that these noble per- 
 sons would suffer our beasts to fare poorly, when they treat their 
 owners so honourably? Restrain thyself, Sancho, and discover not 
 the grain, lest it should be seen how coarse the web is of which 
 thou art spun. Remember, sinner, the master is esteemed in pro- 
 portion as his servants are respectable and well-behaved ; and 
 one of the greatest advantages which the great enjoy over other 
 men is that they are served by domestics of a superior mould. 
 Dost thou not consider—plague to thyself, and torment to me !— 
 that if it is perceived that thou art a rude clown or a conceited 
 fool, they will be apt to think that I am an impostor, or some 
 knight of the sharping order? Avoid, friend Sancho, pray avoid, 
 these impertinences, for whoever sets up for a talker and a wit 
 sinks, at the first trip, into a contemptible butfoon. Bridle thy 
 tongue; consider and deliberate upon thy words before they quit 
 thy lips; and recollect that we are now in a place whence, by the 
 help of Heaven\and the valour of my arm, we may depart bettered 
 by three, or perhaps five-fold, in fortune and reputation.” Sancho 
 promised him faithfully to sew up his mouth, or bite his tongue 
 before he spoke a word that was not duly considered, and to the 
 purpose; and assured him that he need be under no fear of his say- 
 ing anything that would tend to his worship’s discredit. 
 
 Don Quixote then dressed himself, girt on his sword, threw the 
 scarlet mantle over his shoulders, put on a green satin cap which 
 the damsels had given him, and thus equipped marched out into 
 the great saloon, ‘where he found the damsels drawn up on each 
 side in two equal ranks, and all of them provided with an equipage 
 for washing his hands, which they administered with many rever- 
 ences and much ceremony. Then came twelve pages, with the 
 major domo, to conduct him to dinner, the lord and lady being now 
 waiting for him; and, having placed him in the midst of them witb 
 great pomp and ceremony, they proceeded to another hall, where a 
 rich table was spread with four covers only. The duke and duchess 
 came to the door to receive him, accompanied by a grave ecclesias- 
 tic—one of those who govern great men’s houses; one of those who, 
 not being nobly born themselves, are unable to direct the conduct 
 of those who are so; who would have the liberality of the great 
 measured by the narrowness of their own souls; making those 
 whom they govern penurious, under the pretence of teaching them 
 to be prudent. One of this species was the grave ecclesiastic who 
 came out with the duke to receive Don Quixote. After a thou- 
 sand courtly compliments mutually interchanged, Don Quixote 
 advanced towards the table, between the duke and duchess, 
 
438 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and, on preparing to seat themselves, they offered the upper 
 end to Don Quixote, who would have declined it but for the 
 pressing importunities of the duke. The ecclesiastic seated him- 
 self opposite to the knight, and the duke and duchess on each 
 side. 
 
 Sancho was present all the while, in amarante to see the hon- 
 our paid by those great people to his master, and, whilst the nu- 
 merous entreaties and ceremonies were passing between the duke 
 and Don Quixote, before he would sit down at the head of the 
 table, he said, ‘‘ With your honour’s leave I will tell you a story of 
 what happened in our town about seats.” ~Don Quixote immedi- 
 ately began to tremble, not doubting that he was going to say 
 something absurd. Sancho observed him, and, understanding his 
 looks, he said, ‘‘ Be not afraid, sir, of my breaking loose, or saying 
 anything that is not pat to the purpose. I have not forgotten the 
 advice your worship gave me awhile ago, about talking much or 
 little, well or ill.” ‘‘ J remember nothing, Sancho,” answered Don 
 Quixote; ‘‘say what thou wilt, so as thou sayest it quickly.” 
 ‘What I would say,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘is very true, for my master 
 Don Quixote, who is present will not suffer me to lie.” ‘‘ Lie as 
 much as thou wilt for me, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, ‘ A shall 
 not hinder thee; but take heed what thou art going to say.” ‘“‘I 
 have heeded it over and over again, so that it is as safe as if I had 
 the game in my hand, as you shall presently see.” ‘‘ Your graces 
 will do well,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘to order this blockhead to retire, 
 that you may get rid of his troublesome folly.” ‘‘ Sancho shall not 
 stir a jot from me,” quoth the duchess; ‘‘I have a great regard 
 for him, and am assured of his discretion.” ‘‘ Many happy years 
 may your holiness live,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ for the good opinion 
 you have of me, little as I deserve it. But the tale I would tell is 
 this :— 
 
 ‘* A certain gentleman of our town, very rich, and of a good 
 family—for he was descended from the Alamos of Medina del 
 Campo, and married Donna Mencia de Quinnones¢ who was daugh- 
 ter to Don Alonzo de Maranon, knight of the order of St James, 
 the same that was drowned in the Herradura, about whom that 
 quarrel happened in our town, in which it was said my master, Don 
 Quixote, had a hand, and Tommy the mad-cap, son of Balvastro 
 the blacksmith, was hurt—pray, good master of mine, is not all 
 this true? Speak, I beseech you, that their worships may not 
 
 take me for some lying prater.” ‘‘ As yet,” said the ecclesiastic, 
 ‘‘T take you rather for a prater than for a liar; but I know not 
 what I shall next take you for.” ‘Thou hast produced so many 
 
 witnesses and so many proofs,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ that I cannot 
 but say thou mayest probably be speaking truth; but shorten 
 thy story, or it will last these two days.” ‘‘He “shall shorten 
 nothing,” quoth the duchess; ‘‘and, to please me, he shall tell 
 it his own way, although he were not to finish these six days ; 
 ek should it last so long, they would be to me days of de- 
 ight.” 
 
 “«T must tell you, then,” proceeded Sancho, ‘‘ that this same 
 
SANCHO PANZA’S STORY. 439 
 
 gentleman—whom I know as well as I do my right hand from my 
 left, for it is not a bowshot from my house to his—invited a hus- 
 bandman to dine with him—a poor man, but mainly honest.” ‘‘ On, 
 friend,” said the chaplain, ‘‘for at the rate you proceed, your tale 
 will not reach its end till you reach the other world.” ‘‘ Ishall stop,” 
 replied Sancho, ‘‘ before I get half-way thither. This same farmer, 
 coming to the house of the gentleman his inviter—he is dead and 
 gone; and, moreover, died like an angel, as it is said—for I was 
 not by myself, being, at that time, gone a reaping to Tembleque.” 
 ** Prithee, son,” said the ecclesiastic, ‘‘come back quickly from 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Tembleque, and stay not to bury the gentleman, unless you are 
 determined upon more burials ;—pray make an end of your tale.” 
 **The business, then,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ was this, that, they being 
 ready to sit down to table—methinks I see them plainer than ever.” 
 The duke and duchess were highly diverted at the impatience of 
 the good ecclesiastic, and at the length and pauses of Sancho’s tale ; 
 but Don Quixote was almost suffocated with rage and vexation. 
 ‘‘T say, then,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ that, as they were both standin 
 
 before the dinner table, just ready to sit down, the farmer insiste 
 
 that the gentleman should take the upper end of the table, and the 
 gentleman as positively pressed the farmer to take it, saying he 
 
440 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ought to be master in his own house. But the countryman, piquing 
 himself upon his good breeding, still refused to comply, till, the 
 gentlem:#: losing all patience, laid both his hands upon the farmer’s 
 shoulders, and made him sit down by main force, saying, ‘ Sit thee 
 down, clod-pole! for in whatever place I am seated, that is the 
 upper end to thee.’ This is my tale, and truly I think it comes in 
 here pretty much to the purpose.” 
 
 The natural brown of Don Quixote’s face was flushed with anger 
 and shame at Sancho’s insinuations, so that the duke and duchess, 
 seeing his distress, endeavoured to restrain their laughter; and, to 
 prevent further impertinence from Sancho, the duchess asked Don 
 Quixote what news he had last received of the lady Dulcinea, and 
 whether he had lately sent her any presents of giants or caitiffs, since 
 he must certainly have vanquished many. ‘‘ Alas, madam!” 
 answered he, ‘‘my misfortunes have had a beginning, but they will 
 never have an end. Giants I have conquered, and robbers, and 
 wicked caitiffs; and many have I sent to the mistress of my soul ; 
 but where should they find her, transformed as she now is into the 
 homeliest rustic wench that the imagination ever conceived?” ‘‘I 
 know not, sir, how that can be,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ for to me she ap- 
 peared the most beautiful creature in the world: at least for nimble- 
 ness, or in a kind of a spring she has with her, Iam sure no stage 
 tumbler can go beyond her. In good faith, my lady duchess, she 
 springs from the ground upon an ass as if she were a cat.” ‘‘ Have 
 you seen her enchanted, Sancho?” quoth the duke. ‘‘ Seen her!” 
 answered Sancho; ‘‘ who was it but I that first hit upon the busi- 
 ness of her enchantment? Yes, she is as much enchanted as my 
 father.” 
 
 The ecclesiastic, when he heard talk of giants, caitiffs, and en- 
 chantments, began to suspect that this must be the Don Quixote 
 de la Mancha whose history the duke was often reading; and he 
 had as frequently reproved him for so doing; telling him it was idle 
 to read such fooleries. Being assured of the truth of his suspicion, 
 with much indignation he said to the duke, ‘‘ Your excellency will 
 be accountable to Heaven for the actions of this poor man—this 
 Don Quixote, or Don Coxcomh, or whatever you are pleased to call 
 him, cannot be quite so mad as your excellency would make him by 
 thus encouraging his extravagant fancies.” Then turning to Don 
 Quixote, he said —‘‘ And you, signor addle-pate, who has thrust it 
 into your brain that you are a knight-errant, and that you vanquish 
 giants and robbers? Go, get you home in a good hour, and in such 
 are you now admonished ; return to your family, and look to your 
 children, if you have any; mind your affairs, and cease to bea 
 vagabond about the world, sucking the wind, and drawing on your- 
 self the derision of all that know you, or know you not. Where, 
 with a murrain, have you ever found that there are, or ever were, 
 in the world such creatures as knights-errant? Where are there 
 giants in Spain, or caitiffs in La Mancha, or enchanted Dulcineas, 
 or all the rabble rout of follies that are told of you?” Don Quixote 
 was very attentive to the words of the reverend gentleman, and, 
 finding that he was now silent, regardless of the respect due to the 
 
THE KNIGHT S ANSWER TO THE LICENTIATE. ; 441 
 
 duke and duchess, up he started, with indignation and fury in his 
 looks, and said———but his answer deserves a chapter to itself. 
 
 
 
 CHART EH hex RKTT 
 
 Of the answer Don Quixote gave to his reprover; with other grave 
 and pleasing events. 
 
 Springing to his feet, Don Quixote, trembling like quicksilver 
 from head to foot, in an agitated voice, said, ‘‘The place where I 
 am, and the presence of the noble personages before whom I stand, 
 as well as the respect which I have ever entertained for your pro- 
 fession, restrain my just indignation ; for these reasons, and because 
 I know, as all the world knows, that the weapons of gownsmen, 
 like those of women, are their tongues, with the same weapon, in 
 equal combat, I will engage your reverence, from whom good 
 counsel might have been expected, rather than scurrility. Charit- 
 able and wholesome reproof requires a different language ; at least 
 it must be owned that reproach so public, as well as rude, exceeds 
 the bounds of decentreprehension. Mildness, sir, would have been 
 better than asperity ; but was it either just or decent, at once, and 
 without knowledge of the fault, plainly to proclaim the offender 
 madman and idiot? Tell me, I beseech your reverence, for which 
 of the follies you have observed in me do you thus condemn and 
 revile me, desiring me to go home and take care of my house, and 
 of my wife and children, without knowing whether I have either? 
 What! there is nothing more to do, then, but boldly enter into 
 other men’s houses, and govern the masters, for a poor pedagogue, 
 who never saw more of the world than twenty or thirty leagues 
 around him, rashly to presume to give laws to chivalry, and pass 
 judgment upon knights-errant! It is, forsooth, idleness, or time 
 mis-spent, to range the world, not seeking its pleasures, but its 
 hardships, through which good men aspire to the seat of immor- 
 tality! If men, high born, and of liberal minds, were to proclaim 
 me a madman, I[ should regard it as an irreparable affront; but to 
 be esteemed a fool by pedants who never trod the path of chivalry, 
 IT value it notarush. A knight I am, and a knight I will die, if it 
 be Heaven’s good will. Some choose the spacious field of proud 
 ambition ; others the mean path of servile and base flattery ; some 
 seek the way of deceitful hypocrisy, and others that of true religion ; 
 but I, directed by the star that rules my fate, take the narrow path 
 of knight-errantry ; despising wealth, but thirsting for honour. I 
 have redressed grievances, righted wrongs, chastised insolence, van- 
 quished giants, and trampled upon hobgoblins: I am enamoured— 
 for knights-errant must be so ; but my love is of the chaste Platonic 
 kind. My intentions are always directed to virtuous ends—tn do 
 good to all, and injury to none. Whether he who thus means, thus 
 acts, and thus lives, deserves to be called fool, let your highnesses 
 judge, most excellent duke and duchess.”’ 
 
449, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ‘‘Well said, i’ faith!” quoth Sancho. ‘‘Say no more for your- 
 self, good lord and master; for there is nothing more in the world 
 to be said, thought, or done. And, besides, this gentleman deny- 
 ing, as he has denied, that there neither are, nor never were, 
 knights-errant, no wonder if he knows nothing of what he has been 
 talking about.” ‘‘So then,” said the ecclesiastic, ‘‘ you, I suppose, 
 are the same Sancho Panza they talk of, to whom it is said your 
 master has promised an island?” ‘‘I am that Sancho,” replied the 
 squire, ‘‘and deserve it too, as well as any other he whatever. Of 
 such as me, it is said, ‘ Keep company with the good, and thou wilt 
 be one of them;’ and, ‘ Not with whom thou wert bred, but with 
 whom thou hast fed ;’ and, ‘ He that leaneth against a good tree, 
 a good shelter findeth he.’ I have leaned and stuck close to a good 
 master these many months, and shall be such another as he, if it 
 be God’s good pleasure ; and, if he lives, and I live, neither shall 
 he want kingdoms to rule, nor I islands to govern.” 
 
 ‘¢That you shall not, friend Sancho,” said the duke, ‘‘ for in the 
 name of Signor Don Quixote, I promise you the government of one 
 of mine now vacant, and of no inconsiderable value.” 
 
 ‘«Kneel, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘and kiss his excellency’s 
 feet for the favour he has done thee.” Sancho did so; upon which 
 the ecclesiastic got up from the table in great wrath, saying, ‘‘ By 
 the habit I wear, I could find in my heart to say that your ex- 
 cellency is as simple as these sinners; no wonder they are mad, 
 since wise men authorize their follies! Your excellency may stay 
 with them, if you please; but while they are in this house I will remain 
 in my own, and save myself the trouble of reproving where I cannot 
 amend.” Then, without saying another word, and leaving his 
 meal unfinished, away he went, in spite of the entreaties of the 
 duke and duchess: though, indeed, the duke could not say much, 
 through laughter at his foolish petulance. 
 
 As soon as his laughter would allow him, the duke said to Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘ Sir Knight of the Lions, you have answered so well for 
 yourself and your profession, that you can require no further satis- 
 faction of the angry clergyman; especially if you consider, that 
 whatever he might say, 1t was impossible for him, as you well 
 know, to affront a person of your character.” ‘‘It is true, my 
 lord,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ whoever cannot receive an affront 
 cannot give one. Women, children, and churchmen, as they cannot 
 defend themselves if attacked, so they cannot be affronted, because, 
 as your excellency better knows, there is this difference between 
 an injury and an affront: an affront must come from a person who 
 not only gives it, but who can maintain it when it is given: an in- 
 jury may come from any hand, A man, for example, walking in the 
 street, is unexpectedly set upon by ten armed men, who beat him: 
 he draws his sword to avenge the injury, but the assailants over- 
 powering him by numbers, he is compelled to forego the satisfaction 
 he desired: this person is injured, but not affronted. Again, let 
 us suppose one man to come secretly behind another and strike 
 him with a cudgel, then run away: the man pursues him, but the 
 offender escapes: he who received the blow is injured, it is true, 
 
DISCOURSE ON THE LAWS OF DUELLING. 448 
 
 but has received no affront, because the violence offered is not 
 maintained. If he who gave the blow, though it was done basely, 
 stands his ground to answer for the deed, then he who was struck 
 is both injured and affronted: injured because he was struck ina 
 secret and cowardly manner, and affronted because he who gave 
 the blow stood his ground to maintain what he had done. Accord- 
 ing to the laws of duel, therefore, I may be injured, but not 
 affronted ; for, as women and children can neither resent nor main- 
 tain opposition, so it is with the clergy, who carry no weapons, 
 either offensive or defensive; and though they have a right to 
 ward off all violence offered to themselves, they can offer no affront 
 that demands honourable satisfaction. Upon consideration, there- 
 fore, although I before said I was injured, I now affirm that it 
 could not be; for he who can receive no affront can give none; and, 
 consequently, I neither ought, nor do, feel any resentment for what 
 that good man said to me—only I could have wished he had stayed 
 a, little longer, that I might have convinced him of his error in sup- 
 posing that knights-errant never existed in the world. Indeed, | 
 had Amadis, or any of his numerous descendants, heard so strange 
 an assertion, I am persuaded it would have gone hard with his 
 reverence.” ‘‘That I will swear,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘at one slash 
 they would have cleft him from top to bottom like a pomegranate ; 
 they were not folks to be so jested with. Had Reynaldos de Montal- 
 van heard the little gentleman talk at that rate, he would have 
 given him such a, gag as would have stopped his mouth for three 
 years at least. Ay, ay, let him fall into their clutches, and see 
 how he will get out again!” The duchess was overcome with 
 laughter at Sancho’s zeal, and thought him more diverting and mad 
 than his master; indeed, many others at that time were of the same 
 opinion. 
 
 At length, Don Quixote being pacified and calm, and the dinner 
 ended, the cloth was removed; whereupon four damsels entered, 
 one with a silver ewer, another with a basin, also of silver, a third 
 with two fine clean towels over her shoulder, and the fourth with 
 her sleeves tucked up to her elbows, and in her white hands (for 
 doubtless they were white) a wash-ball of Naples soap. The damsel 
 who held the basin now respectfully approached the knight, and 
 placed it under his beard, while he, wondering at the ceremony, 
 yet believing it to be the custom of that country to wash beards 
 instead of hands, obediently thrust out his chin as far as he could ; 
 whereupon the ewer began to rain upon his face, while the damsel 
 of the wash-ball lathered his beard with great dexterity, covering 
 with a snow-white froth, not only the beard, but the whole face of 
 the submissive knight, even over his eyes, which he was compelled 
 to close. The duke and duchess, who were not in the secret, were 
 eager to know the issue of this extraordinary ablution. The barber- 
 damsel having raised a lather a span high, pretended that the water 
 was all used, and ordered the girl with the ewer to fetch more, 
 telling her that Signor Don Quixote would stay till she came back. 
 Thus he was left, the strangest and most ridiculous figure imagin- 
 able, to the gaze of all that were present; and, seeing him with his 
 
\ 
 
 444 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 neck half an ell long, more than moderately swarthy, his eyes half- 
 shut, and his whole visage under a covering of white foam, it was 
 
 
 
 marvellous, and a sign of great discretion, that they were able to 
 preserve their gravity. 
 
THE WASHING CEREMONY. 445 
 
 The damsels concerned in the jest hung down their eyes, not 
 daring to look at their lord or lady, who were divided between 
 anger and mirth, not knowing whether to chastise the girls for 
 their boldness, or reward them for the amusement their device had 
 afforded. ‘The water-nymph returned, and the beard-washing was 
 finished, when she who was charged with the towels performed the 
 office of wiping and drying with much deliberation; and thus the 
 ceremony being concluded, the four damsels at once, making him a 
 profound reverence, were retiring, when the duke, to prevent Don 
 Quixote from suspecting the jest, called the damsel with the basin, 
 and said, ‘Come and do your duty, and take care that you have 
 water enough.” The girl, who was shrewd and active, went up, 
 and applied the basin to the duke’s chin in the same manner she 
 had done to that of Don Quixote; and with equal adroitness, but 
 more celerity, repeated the ceremony of lathering, washing, and 
 wiping; and the whole being done, they made their curtsies, and 
 retired. The duke, however, had declared, as it afterwards ap- 
 peared, that he would have chastised them for their pertness if 
 they had refused to serve him in the same manner. 
 
 Sancho was very attentive to this washing ceremony. ‘‘Is it the 
 custom of this place, I wonder,” said he, muttering to himself, ‘‘to 
 wash the beards of squires, as well as of knights? On my con- 
 science and soul, I need it much; and if they would give mea 
 stroke of a razor, I should take it for a still greater favour.” 
 ‘‘ What are you saying to yourself, Sancho?” quoth the duchess. 
 ‘*T say, madam,” answered Sancho, ‘‘that in other houses of the 
 great, I have always heard, that when the cloth is taken away, the 
 custom is to bring water to wash hands, but not suds to scour 
 beards; and therefore one must live long to see much. It is also 
 said, ‘he who lives long must suffer much ;’ though, if Iam not mis- 
 taken, to be so scoured must be rather a pleasure thana pain.” ‘‘ Be 
 under no concern, friend Sancho,” quoth the duchess; ‘‘ for I will 
 order my damsels to see to your washing, and to lay you a bucking 
 too, if that be needful.” ‘‘For the present, if my beard get a 
 scouring I shall be content,” said Sancho; ‘‘for the rest, Heaven 
 will provide hereafter.” ‘‘ Here, steward,” said the duchess, ‘‘at- 
 tend to the wishes of good Sancho, and do precisely as he would have 
 you.” He answered that Signor Sancho should in all things be 
 punctually obeyed; and then he went to dinner, and took Sancho 
 along with him. 
 
 Meantime, Don Quixote remained with the duke and duchess, 
 discoursing on divers matters relating to arms and knight-erran- 
 try. The duchess entreated Don Quixote, since he seemed to have 
 so happy a memory, that he would delineate and describe the 
 beauty and accomplishments of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso: for, 
 if fame spoke the truth, she must needs be the fairest creature in 
 the world, and, consequently, in La Mancha. ‘‘ Madam, said 
 Don Quixote, heaving a deep sigh, ‘‘if I could pluck out my heart 
 and place it before you on this table, your highness would there 
 behold her painted to the life, and I might save my tongue the 
 fruitless labour of describing that which can scarcely be conceived : 
 
446 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 for how am I to delineate or describe the perfections of that para- 
 gon of excellence? My shoulders are unequal to so mighty a 
 burden ; itis a task worthy of the pencils of Parrhasius, Timantes, 
 and Apelles, and the chisel of Lysippus, to produce, in speaking 
 pictures, or statues of bronze, or marble, a copy of her beauties ; 
 and Ciceronian and Demosthenian eloquence to describe them.” 
 
 ** Pray, Signor Don Quixote,” said the duchess, ‘‘ what do you 
 mean by Demosthenian ?—a word I do not recollect ever hearing.”’ 
 ‘‘ Demosthenian eloquence,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘means the 
 eloquence of Demosthenes, as Ciceronian is that of Cicero, who were 
 the two greatest orators and rhetoricians in the world.” ‘‘That 
 is true,” said the duke, ‘‘and you betrayed your ignorance in ask- 
 ing such a question ; nevertheless, Signor Don Quixote would give 
 us great pleasure by endeavouring to paint her to us; for, though 
 it be only a rough sketch, doubtless she will appear such as the 
 most beautiful may envy.” ‘‘Ah! my lord, so she certainly would,” 
 
 answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ had not the misfortune which lately befell 
 her, blurred and defaced the lovely idea, and razed it from my 
 memory :—such a misfortune, that I ought rather to bewail what 
 she suffers than describe what she is; for your excellencies must 
 know, that going, not many days since, to kiss her hands and re- 
 ceive her benediction, with her commands and licence for this third 
 sally, I found her quite another person than her I sought for. I 
 found her enchanted and transformed from a princess into a country 
 wench, from beautiful to ugly, from an angel to a fiend, from frag- 
 rant to pestiferous, from courtly to rustic, from light to darkness, 
 from a dignified lady to a jumping Joan—ain fine, from Dulcinea del 
 Toboso to an unsightly bumpkin of Sayago.” ‘‘ What villain,” ex- 
 claimed the duke, elevating his voice, ‘‘can have done the world 
 so much injury? who has deprived it of the beauty that delighted 
 it, the grace that charmed, and the modesty that did it honour?” 
 ‘* Who?” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ who could it be but some mali- 
 cious enchanter, of the many that persecute me:—that wicked 
 brood that was sent into the world only to obscure and annihilate 
 the exploits of the good, and to blazon forth and to magnify the 
 actions of the wicked? Enchanters have hitherto persecuted me; 
 enchanters now persecute me, and so they will continue to do, 
 until they have overwhelmed me and my lofty chivalries into the 
 profound abyss of oblivion. Yes, even in the most sensible part 
 they injure and wound me; well knowing that to deprive a knight- 
 errant of his mistress, is to deprive him of the eyes he sees with, 
 the sun that enlightens him, and the food that sustains him; for, 
 as I have often said, and now repeat it, a knight-errant, without a 
 mistress is like a tree without leaves, an edifice without cement, 
 and a shadow without the material substance by which it should 
 be cast.” BAe 
 
 ‘* All this,” said the duchess, ‘‘is not to be denied; yet, if the 
 published history of Don Quixote, so much applauded by all na- 
 tions, be worthy of credit, we are bound by that authority, if [am 
 not mistaken, to think that there is no such lady in the world, she 
 being only an imaginary lady, begotten and born of your own 
 
HIS DESCRIPTION OF DULCINEA. 447 
 
 brain, and dressed out with all the graces and perfections of your 
 fancy!” ‘‘There is much to be said upon this point,” answered 
 Don Quixote: ‘‘ Heaven knows whether there be a Dulcinea in the 
 world or not; and whether she be imaginary or not imaginary: | 
 these things are not to be too nicely inquired into, though I con- 
 template her as a lady endowed with all those qualifications which 
 may spread the glory of her name over the whole world :—such as, 
 possessing beauty without blemish, dignity without pride, love 
 with modesty, politeness springing from courtesy, and courtesy 
 from good-breeding, and, finally, of illustrious descent; for the 
 beauty that is of a noble race, shines with more splendour than 
 that which is meanly born.” ‘‘ That cannot be doubted,” quoth 
 the duke; ‘‘ but Signor Don Quixote must here give me leave to 
 speak on the authority of the history of his exploits; for there, 
 although it be allowed, that either in or out of Toboso, there is 
 actually a Dulcinea, and that she is no less beautiful and accom- 
 plished than your worship has described her, it does not appear 
 that in respect to high descent, she is upon a level with the Orianas, 
 the Alastrajareas, Madasimas, and many others whose names, as 
 you well know, are celebrated in history.” 
 
 “<The lady Dulcinea,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘is the daughter of 
 her own works; and your grace will acknowledge that virtue en- 
 nobles blood, and that a virtuous person of humble birth is more 
 estimable than a vicious person of rank. Besides, that incompar- 
 able lady has endowments which may raise her to a crown and 
 sceptre ; for still greater miracles are within the power of a beauti- 
 ful and virtuous woman; and, although she may not, in form, 
 possess the advantage you question, the want is more than compen- 
 sated by that mine of intrinsic worth which is her true inheritance.” 
 “‘Certainly, Signor Don Quixote,” cried the duchess, ‘‘ you tread 
 with great caution, and, as the saying is, with the plummet in 
 hand; nevertheless, I am determined to believe, and make all my 
 family, and even my lord duke, if necessary, believe, that there is 
 a Dulcinea del Toboso, and that she is at this moment living, 
 beautiful, highly-born, and well deserving that such a knight as 
 Signor Don Quixote should be her servant, which is the highest 
 commendation I can bestow upon her. But there yet remains a 
 small matter on my mind, concerning which I cannot entirely ex- 
 cuse my friend Sancho, and it is this: in the history of your deeds 
 we are told, that when Sancho Panza took your worship’s letter to 
 the lady Dulcinea, he found her winnowing a sack of wheat, and 
 that, too, of the coarsest kind—a circumstance that seems incom- 
 patible with her high birth.” 
 
 To this Don Quixote replied, ‘‘ Your grace must know, that 
 whether directed by the inscrutable will of fate, or contrived by 
 the malice of envious enchanters, it is certain that all or the greater 
 part, of what has befallen me, is of a more extraordinary nature 
 than what usually happens to other knights-errant; and it is well 
 known that the most famous of that order had their privileges: 
 one was exempt from the power of enchantment; the flesh of an- 
 other was impenetrable to wounds, as was the case with the re- 
 
448 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 nowned Orlando, one of the twelve peers of France, who, it is said, 
 was invulnerable except in the heel of the left foot, and that, too, 
 accessible to no weapon but the point of a large pin; so that Ber- 
 nardo del Carpio (who killed him at Roncesvalles), perceiving that 
 he could not wound him with steel, snatched him from the ground, 
 and squeezed him to death betwixt his arms; recollecting, pro- 
 bably, that the giant Antzeus was so destroyed by Hercules. It 
 may fairly be presumed, therefore, that I have some of those privi- 
 leges—not that of beimg invulnerable, for experience has often 
 shown me that I am made of tender flesh, and by no means im- 
 penetrable ; nor that of being exempt from the power of enchant- 
 ment, for I have already been confined in a cage, into which, but 
 for that power, the whole world could never have forced me. How- 
 ever, since I freed myself thence, I am inclined to believe no other 
 can reach me; and therefore these enchanters, seeing they cannot 
 practise their wicked artifices upon my person, wreak their ven- 
 geance upon the object of my affections; hoping, by their evil 
 treatment of her in whom I exist, to take that life which was, 
 otherwise, proof against their incantations. I am convinced, there- 
 fore, that, when Sancho delivered my message to the lady Dulcinea, 
 they presented her to him in the form of a country wench engaged 
 in the mean employment of winnowing wheat. But, as I have 
 said before, what she seemed to winnow was not wheat, but grains 
 of oriental pearl: and, in confirmation of this, I must tell your ex- 
 cellencies, that passing lately through Toboso, I could nowhere 
 find the palace of Dulcinea;—nay more, not many days ago she 
 was seen by my squire, in her proper figure, the most beautiful 
 that can be imagined, while at the same moment she appeared to 
 me a coarse, ugly, country wench, and her language, instead of 
 being discretion itself, was no less offensive. Thus, then, it appears, 
 that since I am not, and probably cannot be, enchanted, she is 
 made to suffer: she is the enchanted, the injured, the metamor- 
 phosed, and transformed; in her my enemies have revenged them- 
 selves on me, and for her I shall live in perpetual tears till I see her 
 restored to her pristine state. 
 
 ‘* All this I say, that nothing injurious to my lady may be in- 
 ferred from what Sancho has related of her sifting and winnowing ; 
 for, if she appeared so changed to me at one time, no wonder that 
 she should seem transformed to him at another. Assuredly, the 
 peerless Dulcinea is highly-born, and allied in blood to the best and 
 most ancient families of Toboso, which town will, from her name, 
 be no less famous in after-ages than Troy is for its Helen, and Spain 
 for its Cava; though on a more honourable account. And in re- 
 gard to my squire Sancho Panza, I beg your highness will do him 
 the justice to believe that never was knight-errant served by a 
 squire of more pleasantry. His shrewdness and simplicity appear 
 at times so curiously mingled, that it is amusing to consider which 
 of the two prevails: he has cunning enough to be suspected of 
 knavery, and absurdity enough to be thought a fool. He doubts 
 everything, yet he believes everything; and, when I imagine him 
 about to sink into a downright idiot, out comes some observation 
 
SANCHO’S BEARD SCOURING. 449 
 
 so pithy and sagacious that I know not where to stop in my admira 
 tion. In short, I would not exchange him for any other squire, 
 though a city were offered me in addition; and, therefore, I am in 
 doubt whether I shall do well to send him to the government your 
 highness has conferred on him, though I perceive in him a capacity 
 so well suited to such an office, that, with but a moderate addition 
 of polish to his understanding, he will be a perfect master in the 
 art of governing. Besides, we know, by sundry proofs, that neither 
 great talents nor much learning are necessary to such appointments ; 
 for there are hundreds of governors who, though they can scarcely 
 read, yet in their duty are as sharp as hawks. The chief requisite 
 is a good intention ; those who have no other desire than to act up- 
 rightly, will always find able and virtuous counsellors to instruct 
 them. Governors, being soldiers, and therefore probably unlearned, 
 have often need of an assistant to be ready with advice. My coun- 
 sel to Sancho would be, ‘ All bribes to refuse, but insist on his 
 dues ;’ with some other little matters which lie in my breast, and 
 which shall come forth in proper time for Sancho’s benefit, and the 
 welfare of the island he is to govern.” 
 
 In this manner were the duke, the duchess, and Don Quixote 
 conversing, when suddenly a great noise of many voices was heard 
 in another part of the palace, and presently Sancho rushed into the 
 saloon, with a terrified countenance, and a dish-clout under his chin, 
 followed by a number of kitchen-helpers, and other inferior ser- 
 vants ; one of whom carried a trough full of something that seemed 
 to be dish-water, with which he followed close upon Sancho, and 
 made many efforts to place it under his chin, while another scullion 
 seemed equally eager to wash his beard with it. 
 
 ‘‘What is the matter, fellows?”? quoth the duchess; ‘‘ what 
 would you do-with this good man? do you not know that he is a 
 governor elect?” ‘‘This gentleman,” said the roguish beard- 
 washer, ‘‘ will not suffer himself to be washed, according to custom, ~ 
 as our lord the duke and his master have been.” ‘‘ Yes, I will,” 
 answered Sancho, in great wrath, ‘‘ but I would have cleaner towels 
 and clearer suds, and not such filthy hands; for there is no such 
 difference between me and my master, that he should be washed 
 with angel water and I with such ley. The customs of countries or 
 of great men’s houses are good as far as they are agreeable; but this 
 of beard-scouring here is worse than the friar’s scourge. My beard 
 is clean, and I have no need of such refreshings; and be who offers 
 to scour me, or touch a hair of my head—my beard I should say— 
 with due reverence be it spoken, shall feel the full weight of my 
 fist upon his skull; for such ceremonies and soapings to my think- 
 ing look more like jokes and jibes than a civil weleome.” 
 
 The duchess was convulsed with laughter at Sancho’s remon- 
 strances and rage, but Don Quixote could not endure to behold his 
 squire so accoutred with a filthy towel, and baited by a kitchen 
 rabble. Making, therefore, a low bow to the duke and duchess, as 
 if requesting their permission to speak, he said to the greasy tribe, 
 in a solemn voice, ‘‘ Hark ye, good peuple, be pleased to let the 
 young man alone, and return whence ye came, or whither ye list; 
 
 25 
 
450 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 for my squire is as clean as another man, and and these troughs are 
 as odious to him as a narrow-necked jug. Take my advice, and 
 leave him; for neither he nor I understand this kind of jesting.” 
 ‘¢ No, no,” quoth Sancho (interrupting his master), ‘‘ let them go 
 on with their sport, and see whether I will bear it or no! Let them 
 bring hither a comb, or what else they please, and curry this beard, 
 and if they find anything there that should not be there, I will give 
 them leave to shear me cross-wise.” 
 
 ‘‘Sancho Panza is perfectly right,” said the duchess, ‘‘ and will 
 be so in whatever he shall say: he is clean, and, as he truly says, 
 needs no washing; and, if he be not pleased with our custom, he is 
 master of his own will. Besides, unmannerly scourers, you who 
 are so forward to purify others, are yourselves shamefully idle—in 
 truth, I should say impudent, to bring your troughs and greasy- 
 dish-clouts to such a personage and such a beard, instead of ewers 
 and basins of pure gold, and towels of Dutch diaper. Out of my 
 sight, barbarians! low-born wretches, who cannot help showing the 
 spite and envy you bear to the squires of knights-errant !” 
 
 The roguish crew, and even the major-domo, who accompanied 
 them, thought the duchess was in earnest, and, hastily removing 
 the foul cloth from Sancho’s neck, they slunk away in confusion. 
 The squire, on being thus delivered from what he thought imminent 
 danger, threw himself on his knees before the duchess,—‘‘ Heaven 
 bless your highness,”’ quoth he; ‘‘ great persons are able to do great 
 kindness. For my part, I know not how to repay your ladyship 
 for that you have just done me, and can only wish myself dubbed 
 a knight-errant, that I may employ all the days of my life in the 
 the service of so high a lady. A peasant I am, Sancho Panza my 
 name; [am married, I have children, and I serve as a squire; if 
 with any one of these I can be serviceable to your grandeur, I 
 shall be nimbler in obeying than your ladyship in commanding.” 
 
 ‘* It plainly appears, Sancho,” answered the duchess, ‘‘ that you 
 have learned to be courteous in the school of courtesy itself—I mean, 
 it is evident that you have been bred under the wing of Signor Don 
 Quixote, who is the very cream of complaisance, and the flower of 
 ceremony. Well may it fare with such a master and such a man! 
 —the one the polar-star of knight-errantry, and the other the bright 
 luminary of squire-like fidelity! Rise up, friend Sancho, and be 
 assured I will reward your courtesy by prevailing with my lord duke 
 to hasten the performance of the promise he has made you of a 
 government.” : 
 
 Here the conversation ceased, and Don Quixote went to repose 
 during the heat of the day; and the duchess desired Sancho, if he 
 had no inclination to sleep, to pass the afternoon with her and 
 her damsels in a very cool apartment. Sancho said, in reply, that, 
 though he was wont to sleep four or five hours a day, during the 
 afternoon heats of the summer, yet to wait upon her highness, he 
 would endeavour, with all his might, not to sleep at all that day, 
 and would be at her service. He accordingly retired with the 
 duchess ; while the duke made further arrangements concerning the 
 treatment of Don Quixote; being desirous that it should in all 
 
SANCHO’S INTERVIEW WITH THE DUCHESS. ASL 
 
 things, be strictly conformable to the style in which it is recorded 
 the knights of former times were treated. 
 
 Ss rt eee 
 
 Hook Third, 
 
 CHA APT ER osXeX MALT: 
 
 Of the relishing conversation which passed between the duchess, her 
 damsels, and Sancho Panza—worthy to be read and noted, 
 
 The history then relates that Sancho Panza did not take his after- 
 noon sleep, but, in compliance with his promise, went immediately 
 after his dinner to see the duchess, who, being delighted to hear 
 him talk, desired him to sit down by her on a stool, although 
 Sancho, out of pure good manners, would have declined it; but the 
 duchess told him that he must be seated as a governor, and talk as a 
 Squire, since in both those capacities he deserved the very seat of 
 the famous champion Cid Ruy Dias. Sancho therefore submitted, 
 and placed himself close by the duchess, while all her damsels and 
 duennas drew near and stood in silent attention to hear the con- 
 versation. ‘‘ Now that we are alone,” said the duchess, ‘‘ where 
 nobody can overhear us, I wish signor governor would satisfy me 
 as to certain doubts that have arisen from the printed history of 
 the great Don Quixote; one of which is, that as honest Sancho 
 never saw Dulcinea—I mean the lady Dulcinea del Toboso—nor 
 delivered to her the letter of Don Quixote, which was left in the 
 pocket-book in the Sierra Morena, I would be glad to know how he 
 could presume to feign an answer to that letter, or assert that he 
 found her winnowing wheat, which he must have known to be 
 altogether false, and much to the prejudice of the peerless Dul- 
 cinea’s character, as well as inconsistent with the duty and fidelity 
 of a trusty squire.” 
 
 At these words, without making any reply, Sancho got up from 
 his stool, and with his body bent, and the tip of his forefinger on 
 his lips, he stepped softly round the room, lifting up the hangings: 
 and this done, he sat himself down again and said, ‘‘ Now, madam, 
 that I am sure that nobody but the company present can hear us, 
 I will answer, without fear, to all you ask of me; and the first 
 thing I tell you is that I take my master Don Quixote for a down-. 
 right madman ; and though sometimes he will talk in a way which, ~ 
 to my thinking, and in the opinion of all who hear him, is so much 
 to the purpose that no one could speak better, yet, for all that, I be- 
 lieve him to be really and truly mad. Now this being so, as inmy 
 mind it is, nothing is more easy than to make him believe any- 
 thing, though it has neither head nor tail: like that affair of the 
 
452, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 answer to the letter, and another matter of some six or eight days” 
 standing, which is not yet in print—I mean the enchantment of 
 my mistress Donna Dulcinea; for you must know I made him be- 
 lieve she was enchanted, though it was no more true than that the 
 moon is a horn lantern.” 
 
 The duchess desired him to tell her the particulars of that en- 
 chantment or jest; and Sancho recounted the whole, exactly as 
 it had passed, very much to the entertainment of his hearers. 
 ‘*From what honest Sancho has told me,” said the duchess, ‘‘a 
 certain scruple troubles me, and something whispers in my ear, 
 saying, ‘Since Don Quixote de la Mancha is such a lunatic and 
 simpleton, surely Sancho Panza, his squire, who knows it, and yet 
 follows and serves him, relying on his vain promises, must be more 
 mad than his master! Now this being the case, it will surely turn 
 to bad account, lady duchess, if to such a Sancho Panza thou givest 
 an island to govern; for how should he who rules himself so ill, be 
 able to govern others?’” 
 
 “*Faith, madam,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ that same scruple is an honest 
 scruple, and need not speak in a whisper, but plain out, or as it 
 lists; for I know it says true, and had I been wise, I should long 
 since have left my master :—but such is my lot, or such my evil- 
 errantry. I cannot help it—follow him I must: we are both of the 
 same town, I have eaten his bread, I love him and he returns my 
 love; he gave me his ass-colts :—above all, I am faithful, so that 
 nothing in the world can part us but the sexton’s spade and shovel ; 
 and if your highness does not choose to give me the government you 
 promised, God made me without it, and perhaps it may be all the 
 better for my conscience if I do not get it; for fool as I am, I 
 understand the proverb, ‘The pismire had wings to her sorrow ;’ 
 and perhaps it may be easier for Sancho the squire to get to heaven 
 than for Sancho the governor. They make as good bread here as 
 in France; and by night all cats are grey; unhappy is he who has 
 not breakfasted at three; and no stomach is a span bigger than 
 another, and may be filled, as they say, with straw or with hay. 
 Of the little birds in the air, God himself takes the care; and four 
 yards of coarse cloth of Cuenza are warmer than as many of fine 
 Segovia serge; and in travelling from this world to the next, the 
 road is no wider for the prince than the peasant. The pope’s body 
 takes up no more room than that of the sexton, though a loftier 
 
 erson; for in the grave we must pack close together, whether we 
 fice it or not: so good night to all. And let me tell you again, that 
 if your highness will not give me the island because I am a fool, I 
 will be wise enough not to care a fig for it. J have heard say the 
 devil lurks behind the cross; all is not gold that glitters. From 
 the ploughtail Bamba was raised to the throne of Spain, and from 
 his riches and revels was Roderigo cast down to be devoured by 
 serpents—if ancient ballads tell the truth.” 
 
 ‘And how should they lie?” said the duenna Rodriguez, who 
 was among the attendants. ‘‘ I remember one that relates to a king 
 named Roderigo, who was shut up all alive in a tomb full of toads, 
 snakes, and lizards; and how, after two days’ imprisonment, his 
 
SANCHO AMUSES THE DUCHESS. 453 
 
 voice was heard from the tomb, crying in a dolorous tone, ‘Now 
 they gnaw me, now they gnaw me, in the part by which I sinned 
 the most !’ and according to this, the gentleman has much reason 
 to say he would rather be a poor labourer than a king, to be devoured 
 by such vermin.” 
 
 The duchess was highly amused with Sancho’s proverbs and 
 philosophy, as well as the simplicity of her duenna. ‘‘My good 
 Sancho knows full well,” said she, ‘‘that the promise of a knight 
 is held so sacred by him that he will perform it even at the expense 
 of life. The duke, my lord and husband, though he is not of the 
 errant order, is nevertheless a knight, and therefore will infallibly 
 keep his word as to the promised government. Let Sancho, then, 
 be of good cheer; for in spite of the envy and malice of the world, 
 before he is aware of it, he may find himself seated in the state 
 chair of his island and territory, and in full possession of a govern- 
 ment for which he would refuse one of brocade three stories high. 
 What I charge him is, to take heed how he governs his vassals, and 
 forget not that they are well-born, and of approved loyalty.” ‘As 
 to the matter of governing,” answered Sancho, ‘‘let me alone for 
 that. I am naturally charitable and good to the poor, and ‘ None 
 shall dare the loaf to steal from him that sifts and kneads the 
 meal :’—by my beads! they shall put no false dice uponme. An 
 old dog is not to be coaxed with a crust, and I know how to snuff 
 my eyes and keep the cobwebs from them ; for I can tell where the 
 shoe pinches. All this I say to assure your highness that the good 
 shall have me hand and heart, while the bad shall find neither the 
 one nor t’other. And as to governing well, the main point, in my 
 mind, is to make a good beginning; and, that being done, who 
 knows but that by the time I have been fifteen days a governor, 
 my fingers may get so nimble in the office that they will tickle it 
 off better than the drudgery I was bred to in the field!” 
 
 ‘*You are in the right, Sancho,” quoth the duchess, ‘‘for every- 
 thing wants time: men are not scholars at their birth, and bishops 
 are made of men, not of stones. But, to return to the subject we 
 were just now upon, concerning the transformation of the lady 
 Dulcinea; I have reason to think that Sancho’s artifice to deceive 
 his master, and make him believe the peasant-girl to be Dulcinea 
 enchanted, was in fact, all a contrivance of some one of the magi- 
 cians who persecute Don Quixote; for really, and in truth, I know 
 from very good authority that the country wench who so lightly 
 sprang upon her ass was verily Dulcinea del Toboso herself; and 
 that my good Sancho, in thinking he had deceived his master, was 
 himself much more deceived; and there is no more doubt of this 
 than of any other things that we never saw. For Signor Sancho 
 Panza must know that here also we have our enchanters, who favour 
 us and tell us faithfully all that passes in the world; and believe 
 me, Sancho, the jumping wench was really Dulcinea, and is as 
 certainly charmed as the mother that bore her; and when we least 
 expect it we shall see her again in her own true shape: then will 
 Sancho discover that it was he who has been imposed upon, and 
 not his master.” 
 
454 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ‘** All that might well be,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘and now I begin to 
 believe what my master told of Montesinos’ cave, where he saw my 
 lady Dulcinea del Toboso in exactly the same figure and dress as 
 when it came into my head to enchant her, with my own will, as I 
 fancied, though, as your ladyship says, it must have been quite 
 otherwise. How can it be supposed that my poor head-piece could, 
 in an instant, have contrived so cunning a device? or who could 
 think my master such a goose as to believe so unlikely a matter, 
 upon no better voucher than myself? But, madam, your goodness 
 will know better than to think the worse of me for all that. Lack-a- 
 day! it cannot be expected that'an ignorant lout, as I am, should 
 be able to smell out the tricks and wiles of wicked magicians. I 
 contrived the thing with no intention to offend my master, but only 
 to escape his chiding; and, if it has happened otherwise, God is in 
 heaven, and He is the judge of hearts.” ‘‘ That is honestly spoken,” 
 quoth the duchess: ‘‘ but, Sancho, did you not mention something 
 of Montesinos’ cave? I should be glad to know what you meant.” 
 Sancho then gave her highness an account of that adventure, with 
 its circumstances, and when he had done, ‘‘ See now,” quoth the 
 duchess, ‘‘if this does not confirm what I have just said ! for, since 
 the great Don Quixote affirms that he saw the very same country 
 wench whom Sancho met coming from Toboso, she certainly must 
 be Dulcinea, and it shows that the enchanters hereabouts are very 
 busy and excessively officious.” 
 
 ‘* Well,” quoth Sancho Panza, ‘‘if my lady be enchanted, so much 
 the worse for her; I do not think myself bound to quarrel with my 
 master’s enemies, for they must needs be many and very wicked 
 ones too. Still I must say, and it cannot be denied, that she I saw 
 was a country wench: a country wench, at least, I took her to be, 
 and such I thought her: and, if that same lass really happened to 
 be Dulcinea, I am not to be called to account for it, nor ought it to 
 be laid at my door. Sancho, truly, would have enough to do if he 
 must answer for all, and at every turn to be told that Sancho said 
 it, Sancho did it, Sancho came back, Sancho returned; as if Sancho 
 were anybody they pleased, and not that very Sancho Panza handed 
 about in print all the world over, as Sampson Carrasco told me, 
 who, at least, has been bachelorized at Salamanca; and such per- 
 sons cannot lie, unless when they have a mind to do so, or when it 
 may turn to good account; so that there is no reason to meddle 
 nor make with me, since I have a good name, and, as I have heard 
 my master say, a good name is better than bags of gold. Case me 
 but in that same government, and you shall see wonders; for a 
 good squire will make a good governor.” 
 
 ‘* Sancho speaks like an oracle,” quoth the duchess; all that he 
 has now said are so many sentences of Cato, or at least extracted 
 from the very marrow of Michael Verino himself—‘ florentibus 
 occidit annis,’ in short, to speak in his own way, a bad cloak often 
 covers a good drinker.” ‘‘'Truly, madam,” answered Sancho, ‘‘I 
 never in my life drank for any bad purpose; for thirst, perhaps I 
 have, as I am no hypocrite. I drink when I want it, and if it is 
 offered to me, rather than be thought ill-mannered; for when a 
 
SANCHO REVIVES HIS QUARREL WITH THE DUENNA, 459 
 
 friend drinks one’s health, who can be so hard-hearted as not to 
 pledge him? But though I put on the shoes, they are no dirtier 
 forme. And truly, there is no fear of that, for water is your com- 
 mon drink of squires-errant, who are always wandering about 
 woods, forests, meadows, mountains, and craggy rocks, where no 
 one merciful drop of wine is to be got, though they would give an 
 eye for it.” ‘‘In truth I believe it,” said the duchess; ‘‘ but as it 
 grows late, go, Sancho, and repose yourself, and we will talk of 
 these matters again hereafter, and orders shall speedily be given 
 about casing you, as you call it, in the government.” 
 
 Sancho again kissed the duchess’s hand, and begged of her, as a 
 favour, that good care might be taken of his Dapple, for he was the 
 light of his eyes. ‘‘What mean you by Dapple?” quoth the 
 duchess. ‘‘I mean my ass, please your highness,” replied Sancho, 
 ‘for not to give him that name, I commonly call him Dapple ; and 
 I desired this good mistress here, when I first came into the 
 castle, to take care of him, which made her as angry as if I had 
 called her old and ugly; yet in my mind it would be more proper 
 and natural for duennas to take charge of asses than strut about 
 like ladies in rooms of state. What a deadly grudge a certain 
 gentleman in our town had for these madams.” ‘‘Some filthy 
 clown, I make no question,” quoth Donna Rodriguez, ‘‘ for had he 
 been a gentleman and known what good breeding was, he would 
 have placed them under the horns of the moon.” 
 
 “*Hnough,” quoth the duchess, ‘‘let us have no more of this; 
 peace, Donna Rodriguez ; and you, Signor Panza, be quiet, and leave 
 the care of making much of your Dapple to me; for, being a jewel 
 of Sancho’s, [ will lay him upon the apple of my eye.” ‘‘ Let him 
 lie in the stable, my good lady,” answered Sancho, ‘‘for upon the 
 apple of your grandeur’s eye neither he nor-I are worthy to lie one 
 single moment,—they should stick me like a sheep sooner than I 
 would consent to such a thing; for though my master says that, 
 in respect to good manners, we should rather lose the game by a 
 card too much than too little, yet, when the business in hand is 
 about asses and eyes, we should step warily with compass in hand.” 
 ‘Carry him, Sancho,” quoth the duchess, ‘“‘to your government, 
 and there you may regale him as you please, and set him free from 
 further labour.” ‘‘Think not, my lady duchess,” quoth Sancho, 
 ‘that you have said much; for I have seen more asses than one go 
 to governments, and therefore, if I should carry mine, it would be 
 nothing new.” The relish of Sancho’s conversation was not lost 
 upon the duchess, who, after dismissing him to his repose, went to 
 give the duke an account of all that had passed between them. 
 They afterwards consulted together how they should practise some 
 jest upon Don Quixote, to humour his knight-errantry ; and indeed 
 they devised many of that kind, so ingenious and appropriate as to 
 be accounted among the prime adventures that occur in this great 
 history. 
 
456 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 C.H AsPIT EB Re eX XLV 
 
 Giving an account of the method prescribed for disenchanting the 
 zeerless Dulcinea del Toboso; which is one of the most famous 
 adventures in this book. 
 
 The duke and duchess were extremely diverted with the humours 
 of their two guests; and resolving to improve their sport by prac- 
 tising some pleasantries that should have the appearance of a ro- 
 mantic adventure, they contrived to dress up a very choice enter- 
 tainment from Don Quixote’s account of the cave of Montesino; 
 taking that subject, because the duchess had observed, with 
 astonishment, that Sancho now believed his lady Dulcinea was 
 really enchanted, although he himself had been her sole enchanter ! 
 Accordingly, after the servants had been well instructed as to their 
 deportment towards Don Quixote, a boar-hunt was proposed, and 
 it was determined to set out in five or six days with a princely 
 train of huntsmen. The knight was presented with a hunting suit 
 proper for the occasion, which, however, he declined, saying that 
 he must soon return to the severe duties of his profession, when, 
 having no sumpters nor wardrobes, such things would be super- 
 fluous. But Sancho readily accepted a suit of fine green cloth 
 which was offered to him, intending to sell it the first opportunity. 
 
 The appointed day being come, Don Quixote armed himself, and 
 Sancho, in his new suit, mounted Dapple (which he preferred to a 
 horse that was offered him) and joined the troop of hunters. The 
 duchess issued forth magnificently attired, and Don Quixote, out 
 of pure politeness, would hold the reins of the palfrey, though the 
 duke was unwilling to allow it. Having arrived at the proposed 
 scene of their diversion, which was in a wood between two lofty 
 mountains, they posted themselves in places where the toils were 
 to be pitched ; and all the party having taken their different sta- 
 tions, the sport began with prodigious noise and clamour, insomuch 
 that, between the shouts of the huntsmen, the cry of the hounds, 
 and the sound of the horns, they could not hear each other. The 
 duchess alighted, and with a boar-spear in her hand, took her 
 stand in a place where she expected the boars would pass. The duke 
 and Don Quixote dismounted also, and placed themselves by her 
 side; while Sancho took his station behind them all, with his Dapple, 
 whom he would not quit, lest some mischance should befall him. 
 Scareely had they ranged themselves in order, when a hideous 
 boar of monstrous size rushed out of cover, pursued by the dogs 
 and hunters, and made directly towards them, gnashing his teeth 
 and tossing foam with his mouth. Don Quixote, on seeing him 
 approach, braced his shield, and drawing his sword, stepped before 
 the rest to meet him. The duke joined him with his boar-spear ; 
 and the duchess would have been the foremost, had not the duke 
 prevented her. Sancho alone stood aghast, and, at the sight of the 
 fierce animal, leaving even his Dapple, ran in terror towards a lofty 
 
SANCHO S PLIGHT. 457 
 
 oak, in which he hoped to be secure; but his hopes were in vain, 
 
 for, as he was struggling to reach the top, and had got half-way up, 
 
 unfortunately a branch to which he clung gave way, and, falling 
 with it, he was caught by the stump of another, and there left sus- 
 pended in the air, so that he could neither get up nor down. 
 
 Finding himself in this situation, with his new green coat tearing, 
 
 and almost in reach of the terrible creature should it chance to come 
 that way, he began to bawl so loud and to call for help so vehe- 
 mently, that all who heard him and did not see him thought verily 
 he was between the teeth of some wild beast. The tusked boar, 
 
 however, was soon laid at length by the numerous spears that were 
 levelled at him from all sides; at which time Sancho’s cries and 
 lamentations reached the ears of Don Quixote, who, turning round, 
 
 beheld him hanging from the oak with his head downwards, and. 
 close by him stood Dapple, who never forsook him in adversity ;— 
 indeed, it was remarked by Cid Hamet, that he seldom saw Sancho 
 Panza without Dapple, or Dapple without Sancho Panza: such 
 
 was the amity and cordial love that subsisted between them! Don 
 
 Quixote hastened to the assistance of his squire, who was no sooner 
 released than he began to examine the rent in his hunting suit, 
 
 which grieved him to the soul: for he looked upon that suit as a 
 rich inheritance. 
 
 The huge animal they had slain was laid across a sumpter-mule, 
 and after covering it with branches of rosemary and myrtle, they 
 carried it as the spoils of victory to a large field-tent, erected in 
 the midst of the wood, where a sumptuous entertainment was pre- 
 pared, worthy of the magnificence of the donor. Sancho, showing 
 the wounds of the torn garments to the duchess, said, ‘‘ Had hares 
 or birds been our game, I should not have had this misfortune. 
 For my part I cannot think what pleasure there can be in beating 
 about for a monster that, if it reaches you with a tusk, may be the 
 death of you. There is an old ballad which says— 
 
 ‘May fate of Fabila be thine, 
 And make thee food for bears or swine.’” 
 
 ‘‘That Fabila,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ was a king of the Goths, 
 who, going to the chase, was devoured by a bear.” ‘‘ What I 
 mean,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘is, that I would not have kings and other 
 great folks run into such dangers merely for pleasure; and indeed, 
 methinks it ought to be none to kill poor beasts that never meant 
 any harm.” ‘‘ You are mistaken, Sancho,” said the duke; ‘‘hunt- 
 ing wild beasts is the most proper exercise for knights and princes, 
 The chase is an image of war: there you have stratagems, artifices, 
 and ambuscades to be employed, in order to overcome your enemy 
 with safety to yourself: there, too, you are often exposed to the 
 extremes of cold and heat; idleness and ease are despised; the 
 body acquires health and vigorous activity :—in short, it is an exer- 
 cise which may be beneficial to many and injurious to none. 
 Besides, it is not a vulgar amusement, but, like hawking, is the 
 peculiar sport of the great. Therefore, Sancho, change your opinion 
 
A58 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. aa 
 
 ‘before you become a governor; for then you will find your account 
 in these diversions.” ‘‘ Not so, i’ faith,” replied Sancho; ‘‘ the 
 good governor and the broken leg should keep at home. It would 
 be fine indeed for people to come after him about business, and 
 find him gadding in the mountains for his pleasure. At that rate, 
 what would become of his government? In good truth, sir, hunt- 
 ing, and such like pastimes, are rather for your idle companions 
 than for governors. The way I mean to divert myself shall be with 
 brag at Easter, and at bowls on Sundays and holidays: as for your 
 hunting, it befits neither my condition nor conscience.” ‘I trust 
 you may prove as good as you promise,” said the duke; ‘‘but saying 
 and doing are often wide apart.” ‘‘Be that as it will,” replied 
 Sancho; ‘‘the good paymastr wants no pawn; and God’s help is 
 better than early rising: and the belly carries the legs, and not the 
 legs the belly :—I mean that, with the help of Heaven and a good 
 intention, I warrant I shall govern better than a goss-hawk. Ay, 
 ay, let them put their fingers in my mouth and try whether or not 
 T can bite.” ‘‘ Out upon thy proverbs,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘when 
 will the day come that I shall hear thee utter one coherent sentence 
 without that base intermixture? Let this blockhead alone, I 
 beseech your excellencies; he will grind your souls to death, not 
 between two, but two thousand proverbs—all timed as well, and 
 as much to the purpose, as 1 wish God may grant him health, or 
 me, if I desire to hear them.” ‘‘ Sancho Panza’s proverbs,” said 
 the duchess, ‘‘ though more numerous than those of the Greek 
 commentator, are equally admirable for their sententious brevity. 
 For my own part, I must confess, they give me more pleasure than 
 many others, more aptly suited and better timed.” 
 
 After this, and such like pleasant conversation, they left the 
 tent, and retired into the wood to examine their nets and snares. 
 The day passed and night came on, not clear and calm, like the 
 usual evening in summer, but in a kind of murky twilight, ex- 
 tremely favourable to the projects of the duke and duchess. Soon 
 after the close of day the wood suddenly seemed to be in flames on 
 all sides, and from every quarter were heard the sounds of numerous 
 trumpets, and other martial instruments, as if great bodies of 
 cavalry were passing through the wood. All present seemed petri- 
 fied with astonishment at what they heard and saw. To these 
 - noises others succeeded, like the Moorish yells at the onset of battle. 
 Trumpets, clarions, drums, and fifes, were heard, all at once, so 
 _loud and incessant, that he must have been without sense who did 
 not lose it in the midst of so discordant and horrible a din. The 
 duke and duchess were alarmed, Don Quixcte in amazement, and 
 Sancho Panza trembled:—in short, even those who were in the secret 
 were terrified, and consternation held them all in silence. <A post- 
 boy, habited like a fiend, now made his appearance, blowing, as he 
 passed onward, a monstrous horn, which produced a hoarse and 
 frightful sound. 
 
 ** Ho, courier,” cried the duke, ‘‘who are you? Whither go 
 you? And what soldiers are those who seem to be crossing this 
 wood?” To which the courier answered in a terrific voice, ‘‘ I am 
 
SANCHO PANZA SWOONS AWAY. 459 
 
 a demon, and am going in quest of Don Quixote de la Mancha. 
 Those you inquire about are six troops of enchanters, conducting 
 the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, accompanied by the gallant 
 Frenchman Montesinos, who comes to inform her knight by what 
 means she is to be released from the power of enchantment.” ‘If 
 you were a fiend, as you say, and, indeed, appear to be,” quoth 
 the knight, ‘‘ you would have known that I who stand before you 
 am that same Don Quixote de la Mancha.” ‘‘On my conscience,” 
 replied the demon, ‘‘in my hurry and distraction I did not see 
 him.” ‘‘ This devil,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘must needs be an honest 
 fellow, and a good Christian, else he would not have sworn by his 
 conscience.” The demon now, without alighting, directed his eyes 
 to Don Quixote, and said, ‘‘To thee, Knight of the Lions—and 
 may I see thee between their paws !—I am sent by the valiant but 
 unfortunate Montesinos, by whom I am directed to command thee 
 to wait his arrival on the very spot wherever I should find thee. 
 With him comes the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, in order to inform 
 thee by what means thou mayest deliver her from the thraldom of 
 enchantment. Thou hast heard my message; I now return.” All 
 were in perplexity, but especially the knight and squire: Sancho to 
 see how Dulcinea must be enchanted in spite of plain truth, and 
 Don Quixote from certain qualms respecting the truth of his ad- 
 ventures in the cave of Montesinos. While he stood musing on 
 the sudject, the duke said to him, ‘‘ Do you mean to wait, Signor 
 Don Quixote?” ‘‘Why not?” answered he; ‘‘here will I wait, 
 intrepid and firm, though all hell should come to assault me.” 
 ‘* By my faith,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘if I should see another devil, 
 and hear another such horn, I will no more stay here than in 
 Flanders.” 
 
 The night now grew darker, and numerous lights were seen 
 glancing through the wood, like those exhalations which in the 
 air appear like shooting stars. A dreadful noise was likewise 
 heard, like that caused by the ponderous wheels of an ox-waggon, 
 from whose harsh and continued creaking, it is said wolves and 
 bears fly away in terror. The turmoil, however, still increased, 
 for at the four quarters of the wood, hostile armies seemed to be 
 engaged; here was heard the dreadful thunder of artillery; there 
 volleys of innumerable musqueteers; the clashing of arms, and 
 shouts of nearer combatants, joined with the Moorish war-hoop at: 
 a distance ;—in short, the horns, clarions, trumpets, drums, cannon, 
 muskets, and above all, the frightful creaking of the waggons, 
 formed altogether so tremendous a din, that Don Quixote had need 
 of all his courage to stand firm, and wait the issue. But Sancho’s 
 heart quite failed him, and he fell down in a swoon at the duchess’s 
 feet. Cold water being brought at her grace’s command, it was 
 sprinkled upon his face, and his senses returned just in time to 
 witness the arrival of one of the creaking waggons. It was drawn 
 by four heavy oxen, all covered with black palls, having also a 
 large flaming torch fastened to each horn. On the floor of the 
 waggon was placed a seat, much elevated, on which sat 2 venerable 
 old man, with a beard whiter than snow, that reached below his 
 
460 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 girdle. His vestment was a long gown of black buckram (for the 
 carriage was so illuminated that everything might be easily distin- 
 guished), and the drivers were two demons clothed also in black, 
 and of such hideous aspect that Sancho, having once seen them, 
 shut his eyes, and would not venture upon a second look. 
 
 When the waggon had arrived opposite the party, the venerable 
 person within it arose from his seat, and, standing erect, witha 
 solemn voice he said, ‘‘I am the sage Lirgandeo.” He then sat 
 down, and the waggon went forward. After that another waggon 
 passed in the same manner, with another old man enthroned, who, 
 when the carriage stopped, arose, and, in a voice no less solemn, 
 said, ‘‘I am the sage Alquife, the great friend of Urganda the un- 
 known.” He passed on, and a third waggon advanced at the same 
 pace; but the person seated on the throne was not an old man, like 
 the two former, but a man of robust form and ill-favoured counten- 
 ance, who, when he came near, stood up as the others had done, 
 and said, witb a voice hoarse and diabolical, ‘‘I am Arcalaus, the 
 enchanter, mortal enemy of Amadis de Gaul, and all his race,” and 
 immediately proceeded onward. The three waggons halting at a 
 little distance, the painful noise of their wheels ceased, and it was 
 followed by the sweet and harmonious sounds of music, delightful 
 to Sancho’s ears, who, taking it for a favourable omen, said to the 
 duchess (from whose side he had not stirred an inch), ‘‘ Where there 
 is music, madam, there can be no mischief.” ‘‘ No, nor where 
 there is light and splendour,” answered the duchess. ‘‘ Flame may 
 give light,” replied Sancho, ‘‘and bonfires may illuminate; yet 
 we may easily be burnt by them; but music is always a sign of 
 feasting and merriment.” ‘‘ That will be seen presently,” quoth 
 Don Quixote, who was listening; and he said right, for it will be 
 found in the next chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER, XXXYV. 
 
 Wherein is continued the account of the method prescribed to Don 
 Quixote for disenchanting Dulcinea; with other wonderful events. 
 
 As the agreeable music approached, they observed that it 
 attended a stately triumphal car, drawn by six grey mules, covered 
 with white linen; and upon each of them rode a penitent of light, * 
 clothed also in white, and holding a lighted torch in his hand. 
 The car was more than double the size of the others which had 
 passed, and twelve penitents were ranged in order within it, all 
 carrying lighted torches ; a sight which at once caused surprise and 
 
 * In England also, to be clothed in a white sheet, and bear a candle or torch in 
 
 the hand, was a penance; and in the same manner the ‘ amende honorable” is 
 performed in Frange. 
 
MERLIN PERSONIFYING DEATH, 461. 
 
 terror. Upon an elevated throne sat a nymph, covered with a 
 thousand veils of silver tissue, bespangled with innumerable flowers 
 of gold, so that her dress, if not rich, was gay and glittering. 
 Over her head was thrown a transparent gauze, so thin that 
 through its folds might be seen a most beautiful face; and from 
 the multitude of lights, it was easy to discern that she was young 
 as well as beautiful; for she was evidently under twenty years of 
 age, though not less than seventeen. Close by her sat a figure, 
 clad in a magnificent robe, reaching to the feet, having his head 
 covered with a black veil. The moment this vast machine arrived 
 opposite to where the duke and duchess and Don Quixote stood, 
 the attending music ceased, as well as the harps and lutes within 
 the car. The figure in the gown then stood up, and throwing open 
 the robe and uncovering his face, displayed the ghastly counten- 
 ance of Death, looking so terrific that Don Quixote started, Sancho 
 was struck with terror, and even the duke and duchess seemed to 
 betray some symptoms of fear. This living Death, standing erect, 
 in a dull and drowsy tone, and with a sleepy articulation, spoke as 
 follows :— 
 
 Merlin [ am, miscalled the devil’s son 
 In lying annals, authorized by time: 
 Monarch supreme, and great depositary 
 Of magic art and Zoroastic skill ; 
 
 ~ Rival of envious ages, that would hide 
 The glorious deeds of errant cavaliers, 
 Favoured by me and my peculiar charge, 
 Though vile enchanters, still on mischief bent, 
 To plague mankind their baleful art employ, 
 Merlin’s soft nature, ever prone to good, 
 His power inclines to bless the human race. 
 
 In Hadés’ chambers, where my busied ghost 
 Was forming spells and mystic characters, 
 Dulcinea’s voice, peerless Tobosan maid, 
 
 With mournful accents reached my pitying ears, 
 I knew her woe, her metamorphosed form, 
 From high-born beauty in a palace graced, 
 
 To the loathed features of a cottage wench, 
 With sympathizing grief I straight revolved 
 The numerous tomes of my detested art, 
 
 And in the hollow of this skeleton 
 
 My soul inclosing, hither am I come, 
 
 To tell the cure of such uncommon ills. 
 
 O glory thou of all that case their limbs 
 In polished steel and fenceful adamant! 
 Light, beacon, polar star, and glorious guide 
 Of all who, starting from the lazy down, 
 Banish ignoble sleep for the rude toil 
 And hardy exercise of errant arms! 
 
462 _ ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Spain’s boasted pride, La Mancha’s matchless knight, 
 Whose valiant deeds outstrip pursuing fame! 
 Would’st thou to beauty’s pristine state restore 
 
 Th’ enchanted dame, Sancho, thy faithful squire, 
 Must to his brawny shoulders, bare exposed, 
 
 Three thousand and three hundred stripes apply, 
 Such as may sting and give him smarting pain: 
 
 The authors of her change have thus decreed, 
 
 And this is Merlin’s errand from the shades.” 
 
 ** What!” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ three thousand lashes! Odd’s-flesh ! 
 I will as soon give myself three stabs as three single lashes—much 
 less three thousand! I cannot see what my shoulders have to do 
 with enchantments. If Signor Merlin can find out no other way to 
 disenchant the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, enchanted she may go to 
 her grave forme!” ‘‘ Not lash thyself! thou garlic-eating wretch !” 
 quoth Don Quixote; ‘‘ I shall take thee to a tree, and tie thee naked 
 as thou wert born, and there, not three thousand and three hundred, 
 but six thousand six hundred lashes will I give thee, and those so 
 well laid on that three thousand three hundred hard tugs shall not 
 tug them off. So answer me not a word, scoundrel! for I will tear 
 thy very soul out!” ‘‘It must not be so,” said Merlin; ‘‘ the lashes 
 that honest Sancho is to receive must not be applied by force, but 
 with his good will, and at whatever time he pleases, for no term is 
 fixed: and furthermore, he is allowed, if he please, to save himself 
 half the trouble of applying so many lashes, by having half the 
 number laid on by another hand, provided that hand be somewhat 
 heavier than his own.” ‘‘ Neither another hand nor my own,” 
 quoth Sancho, ‘‘no hand, either heavy or light, shall touch my 
 flesh. What have i to do with the lady Dulcinea, that my shoulders 
 must pay for the transgressions of her eyes? My master, indeed, 
 who is part of her, since at every step he is calling her his life, his 
 soul, his support, and stay—he it is who ought to lash himself for 
 her, and do all that is needful for her delivery: but for me to whip 
 myself—no, [ pronounce it!” 
 
 No sooner had Sancho thus declared himself, than the spangled 
 nymph who sat by the side of Merlin arose, and throwing aside her 
 veil, discovered a face of extraordinary beauty: and with a mascu- 
 line air, and no very amiable voice, addressed herself to Sancho, 
 **O wretched squire—with no more soul than a pitcher! thou heart 
 of cork and bowels of flint! hadst thou been required, nose-slitting 
 thief ! to throw thyself from some high tower; hadst thou been de- 
 sired, enemy of human kind! to eat a dozen of toads, two dozen of 
 lizards, and three dozen of snakes; hadst thou been requested to 
 kill thy wife and children with some bloody and sharp scimitar— 
 no wonder if thou hadst betrayed some squeamishness ; but to hes- 
 itate about three thousand three hundred lashes, which there is 
 ‘not a wretched school-boy but receives every month, it amazes, 
 stupifies, and affrights the tender bowels of all who hear it, and 
 even of all who shall hereafter be told it. Cast, thou marble- 
 hearted wretch !—cast, I say, those huge goggle eyes upon these 
 
- SANCHO’S OBJECTION TO DULCINEA’S DISENCHANTMENT. 469 
 
 lovely balls of mine, that shine like glittering stars, and thou wilt 
 see them weep, drop by drop, and stream after stream, making 
 furrows, tracks, and paths down these beautiful cheeks! Relent, 
 malicious and evil-minded monster! be moved by my blooming 
 youth, which, though yet in its teens, is pining and withering 
 beneath the vile bark of a peasant-wench ; and if at this moment I 
 appear otherwise, it is by the special favour of Signor Merlin, 
 hoping that these charms may soften that iron heart; for the tears 
 of afflicted beauty turn rocks into cotton, and tigers into lambs. 
 Lash, untamed beast! lash away on that brawny flesh of thine, and 
 rouse from that base sloth which only inclines thee to eat and eat 
 again; and restore to me the delicacy of my skin, the sweetness of 
 my temper, and all the charms of beauty; and if for my sake thou 
 wilt not be mollified into reasonable compliance, let the anguish of 
 that miserable knight stir thee to compassion—thy master I mean, 
 whose soul I see sticking crosswise in his throat, not ten inches 
 from his lips, waiting only thy cruel or kind answer either to fly 
 out of his mouth, or return joyfully into his bosom.” 
 
 Don Quixote here putting his finger to his throat, ‘‘ Dulcinea is 
 right,” said he, ‘‘for I here feel my soul sticking in my throat, like 
 the stopper of a cross-bow!” ‘‘ What say you to that, Sancho?” 
 quoth the duchess. ‘‘I say, madam,” answered Sancho, ‘‘ what I 
 have already said, that, as to the lashes, I pronounce them.” 
 **Renounce, you should say, Sancho,” quoth the duke, ‘‘ and not 
 ‘pronounce.’” ‘‘ Please your grandeur to let me alone,” replied 
 Sancho, ‘‘for I cannot stand now to a letter more or less: these 
 lashes so torment me that I know not what I sayordo. ButI 
 would fain know one thing from the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and 
 that is, where she learnt her manner of asking a favour? She 
 comes to desire me to tear my flesh with stripes, and at the same 
 time lays upon me a bead-roll of ill names, What! does she think 
 my flesh is made of brass? or that I care a rush whether she is en- 
 chanted or not? Where are the presents she has brought to soften 
 me? Instead of a basket of fine linen shirts, night-caps, and socks 
 (though I wear none), here is nothing but abuse. Every one knows 
 that ‘the golden load is a burthen light;’ that ‘gifts will make 
 their way through stone walls’ ‘pray devoutly and hammer on 
 stoutly ;’ and one ‘take’ is worth two ‘Ill give thees.’ There’s 
 his worship my master, too, instead of wheedling and coaxing me to 
 make myself wooland carded cotton, threatens to tie me naked to a 
 tree and double the dose of stripes. These tender-hearted gentle- 
 folks ought to remember too that they not only desire to have a 
 squire whipped, but a governor, making no more of it than saying, 
 ‘drink with your cherries.’ Let them learn—plague take them! 
 let them learn how to ask and entreat, and mind their breeding. 
 All times are not alike, nor are men always in a humour for all 
 things. At this moment my heart is ready to burst with grief to 
 see this rent in my jacket, and people come to desire that | would 
 also tear my flesh, and that, too, of my own good-will: I have just 
 as much mind to the thing as to turn Turk.” 
 
 ‘‘In truth, friend Sancho,” said the duke, ‘‘if you do not relent 
 
464 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and become softer than a ripe fig, you finger no government of mine. 
 It would be a fine thing, indeed, were I to send my good islanders 
 a cruel, flinty-hearted tyrant, whom neither the tears of afflicted 
 damsels nor the admonitions of wise, reverend, and ancient en- 
 chanters can move to compassion! Really, Sancho, I am compelled to 
 say-—no stripes no government.” ‘‘ May I not be allowed two days, 
 my lord,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ to consider what is best for me to do?” 
 ‘‘Tn no wise can that be,” cried Merlin; ‘‘ on this spot and at this 
 instant you must determine; for Dulcinea must either return to 
 Montesinos’ cave and to her rustic shape, or in her present form be 
 carried to the Elysian fields, there to wait until the penance be 
 completed.” ‘‘Come, friend Sancho,” said the duchess, ‘‘ be of 
 good cheer, and show yourself grateful to your master, whose bread 
 you have eaten, and to whose generous nature and noble feats of 
 chivalry we are all so much beholden. Come, my son, give your 
 consent, and leave fear to the cowardly; a good heart breaks bad 
 fortune, as you well know.” 
 
 ‘*Hark you, Signor Merlin,” quoth Sancho, addressing himself 
 to the sage; ‘‘ pray will you tell me one thing—how comes it about 
 that the courier just now brought a message to my master from 
 Signor Montesinos, saying that he would be here anon, to give 
 directions about this disenchantment ; and-yet we have seen nothing 
 of them all this while?” ‘‘ Pshaw!” replied Merlin, ‘‘he is an ass 
 and a lying rascal; he was sent from me, and not from Montesinos, 
 who is still in his cave contriving, or rather awaiting, the end of 
 his enchantment, for the tail is yet unflayed. If he owes you 
 money, or you have any other business with him, he shall be forth- 
 coming in a trice, when and where you think fit; and therefore 
 come to a decision, and consent to this small penance, from which 
 both your soul and body will receive marvellous benefit; your soul 
 by an act of charity, and your body by a wholesome and timely 
 blood-letting.” ‘‘How the world swarms with doctors,” quoth 
 Sancho, ‘‘the very enchanters seem to be of the trade! Well, since 
 everybody tells me so, though the thing is out of all reason, I promise 
 to give myself the three thousand three hundred lashes upon condi- 
 tion that I may lay them on whenever I please, without being tied 
 to days or times; and I will endeavour to get out of debt as soon as 
 I possibly can, that the beauty of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso may 
 shine forth to all the world; as it seems she is really beautiful, 
 which I much doubted. Another condition is, that I will not be 
 bound to draw blood, and if some lashes happen only to fly-flap, 
 they shall all go into the account. Moreover, if I should mistake 
 in the reckoning, Signor Merlin here, who knows everything, shall 
 give me notice how many I want or have exceeded.” 
 
 ‘“‘As for the exceedings, there is no need of keeping account of 
 them,” answered Merlin ; ‘‘for when the number is completed, that 
 instant will the lady Dulcinea del Toboso be disenchanted, and 
 come full of gratitude in search of good Sancho, to thank and even 
 reward him for the generous deed. So that no scruples are necessary 
 about surplus and deficiency ; and I shall not allow anybody to be 
 cheated of a single hair of their head.” ‘‘Go to, then,” quoth 
 
SANCHO PERFORMS PART OF HIS PENANCE. 465 
 
 Sancho, ‘‘I must submit to my ill fortune: I say I consent to the 
 penance upon the conditions I have mentioned.” 
 
 No sooner had Sancho pronounced his consent that the innumer- 
 able instruments poured forth their music, the volleys of musquetry 
 were discharged, while Don Quixote clung about Sancho’s neck, 
 giving him, on his forehead and brawny cheeks, a thousand kisses ; 
 the duke and duchess, and all who were present, likewise testified 
 their satisfaction. The car now moved on, and in departing the 
 fair Dulcinea bowed her head to the duke and duchess, and made a 
 low curtsey to Sancho. 
 
 By this time the cheerful and joyous dawn began to appear, the 
 flowerets of the fields expanded their fragrant beauties to the light, 
 and brooks and streams, in gentle murmurs, ran to pay expecting 
 rivers in their crystal tribute. The earth rejoiced, the sky was 
 clear, and the air serene and claim; all, combined and separately, 
 giving manifest tokens that the day, which followed fast upon 
 Aurora’s heels, would be bright and fair. The duke and duchess, 
 having happily executed their ingenious project, returned highly 
 gratified to their castle, and determined on the continuation of 
 fictions which afforded more pleasure than realities. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 Wherein is recorded the strange and inconceivable adventure of the 
 ill-used duenna, or the Countess of Trifaldi; and likewise Sancho 
 Panza’s letter to his wife Teresa Panza. 
 
 The whole contrivance of the last adventure was the work of the 
 duke’s steward; a man of a humorous and facetious turn of mind. 
 He it was who composed the verses, instructed a page to perform 
 the part of Dulcinea, and personated himself the shade of Merlin. 
 Assisted by the duke and duchess, he now prepared another scene 
 still more entertaining than the former. 
 
 The next day the duchess inquired of Sancho if he had begun his 
 penance for the relief of his unhappy lady. ‘‘ By my faith, I have,” 
 said he, ‘‘for last night I gave myself five lashes.” ‘The duchess de- 
 sired to know how he had giventhem. ‘‘ Withtke palm of my hand,” 
 said he. ‘‘That,” replied the duchess, ‘‘is rather clapping than 
 whipping, and I am of opinion that Signor Merlin will not be so 
 easily satisfied. My good Sancho must get a rod of briars or of 
 whipcord, that the strokes may be followed by sufficient smarting : 
 for letters written in blood cannot be disputed, and the deliverance 
 of a great lady like Dulcinea is not to be purchased with a song.” 
 ‘*Give me, then, madam, some rod or bough,” quoth Sancho ‘‘and 
 I will use it, if it does not smart too much; for I would have your 
 ladyship know, that though Iam a clown, my flesh has more of 
 the cotton than of the rush, and there is no reason why I should flay 
 
 2G 
 
466 : ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 myself for other folk’s gain.” ‘‘ Fear not,” answered the duchess, ~ 
 ‘‘it shall be my care to provide you with a whip that shall suit you 
 exactly, and agree with the tenderness of your flesh as if it were its 
 own brother.” ‘But now, my dear lady,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘you 
 must know that I have written a letter to my wife Teresa Panza, 
 giving her an account of all that has befallen me since I parted from 
 her :—here it is in my bosom, and it wants nothing but the name 
 on the outside. I wish your discretion would read it, for methinks 
 it is written like a governor—I mean in the manner that governors 
 ought to write.” ‘*And who indited it?” demanded the duchess. 
 ‘“‘Who should indite it but I myself, sinner as I am?” replied 
 Sancho. ‘‘And did you write it too?” said the duchess. ‘‘ No, 
 indeed,” answered Sancho, ‘‘for I can neither read nor write, 
 though I can set my mark.” ‘‘ Let us see it,” said the duchess, 
 ‘‘for I dare say it shows the quality and extent of your genius.” 
 Sancho took the letter out of his bosom, unsealed it, and the duchess 
 having taken it, read as follows :— 
 
 SANCHO PANZA’S LETTER TO HIS WIFE TERESA PANZA. 
 
 **Tf I have been finely lashed, I have been finely mounted up ; 
 if I have got a good government, it has cost me many good lashes. 
 This, my dear Teresa, thou canst not understand at present; 
 another time thou wilt. Thou must know, Teresa, that J am 
 determined that thou shalt ride in thy coach, which is somewhat 
 to the purpose; for all other ways of going are no better than 
 creeping upon all fours, like a cat. Thou shalt be a governor’s 
 wife; see then whether anybody will dare to tread on thy heels. I 
 here send thee a green hunting-suit, which my lady duchess gave 
 me: fit it up so that it may serve our daughter for a jacket and 
 petticoat. They say in this country that my master Don Quixote 
 is a sensible madman and a pleasant fool, and that I am not a whit 
 behind him. We have been in Montesinos’ cave, and the sage 
 Merlin, the wizard, has pitched upon me to disenchant the lady 
 Dulcinea del Toboso, who among you is called Aldonza Lorenzo. 
 When I have given myself three thousand and three hundred lashes, 
 lacking five, she will be as free from enchantment as the mother 
 that bore her, Say nothing of this to any body; for, bring your 
 affairs into council, and one will cry it is white, another, it is black. 
 A few days hence I shall go to the government, whither I go with 
 a huge desire to get money; and I am told it is the same with all 
 new governors. I will first see how matters stand, and send thee 
 word whether or not thou shalt come tome. Dapple is well, and 
 sends thee his hearty service; part with him I will not, though I 
 were to be made the great Turk. The duchess, my mistress, kisses 
 thy hands a thousand times over; return her two thousand; for, 
 as my master says, nothing is cheaper than civil words. God has 
 not been pleased to throw in my way another portmanteau, and 
 another hundred crowns, as once before: but take no heed, my 
 dear Teresa, for he that has the game in his hand need not mind 
 the loss of a trick—the government will make up for all. One thing 
 
SANCHO’S LETTER TO HIS WIFE. 467 
 
 only troubles me: [ am told if I once try it, I shall eat my very 
 fingers after it ; and if so, it will not be much of a bargain ; though, 
 indeed, the crippled and maimed enjoy a petty-canonry in the alms 
 they receive; so that, one way or another, thou art sure to be rich 
 and happy. God send it may be so—as He easily can, and keep 
 me for thy sake. 
 
 ‘Thy husband the governor, 
 
 “¢ SANCHO PANza.”’ 
 ‘From this Castle, the 20th of July 1614.” 
 
 The duchess having read the letter, said to Sancho, ‘‘ In two 
 things the good governor is a little out of the way: the one in 
 saying, or insinuating, that this government is conferred on him on 
 account of the lashes he is to give himself; whereas he cannot 
 deny, for he knows it well, that, when my lord duke promised it 
 to him, nobody dreamt of lashes: the other is, that he appears to 
 be covetous, and I hope no harm may come of it; for avarice bursts 
 the bag, and the covetous governor doeth ungoverned justice.” 
 *‘Truly, madam, that is not my meaning,” replied Sancho; ‘‘ and 
 if your highness does not like this letter, it is but tearing it, and 
 writing a new one, which, mayhap, may prove worse, if left to thy 
 mending.” ‘No, no,” replied the duchess, ‘‘ this is a very good 
 one, and the duke shall see it.” 
 
 They then repaired to the garden, where they were to dine that 
 day; and there Sancho’s letter was shown to the duke, who read it, 
 with great pleasure. After dinner, as Sancho was entertaining the 
 company with some of his relishing conversation, they suddenly 
 heard the dismal sound of an unbraced drum, accompanied by a 
 fife. All were surprised at this martial and doleful harmony, es- 
 pecially Don Quixote, who was so agitated that he could scarcely 
 keep his seat. As for Sancho, it is enough to say that fear carried 
 him to his usual refuge, which was the duchess’s side, or the skirts 
 of her petticoat; for the sounds which they heard were truly dismal 
 and melancholy. While they were thus held in suspense, two 
 young men, clad in mourning robes trailing upon the ground, 
 entered the garden, each of them beating a great drum, covered 
 also with black; and with these a third, playing on the fife, in 
 mourning like the rest. These were followed by a person of gigantic 
 stature, not dressed, but rather enveloped, in a robe of the blackest 
 dye, the train whereof was of immoderate length, and over it he 
 wore a broad black belt, in which was slung a mighty scimitar, 
 enclosed within a sable scabbard. His face was covered by a thin 
 black veil, through which might be discovered a long beard, white 
 as snow. He marched forward, regulating his steps to the sound 
 of the drums, with much gravity and stateliness. In short, his 
 dark robe, his enormous bulk, his solemn deportment, and the 
 funeral gloom of his figure, together with his attendants, might 
 well produce the surprise that appeared on every countenance. 
 
 With all imaginable respect and formality he approached and 
 knelt down before the duke, who received him standing, and would 
 
468 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 in no wise suffer him to speak till he rose up. The monstrous ap- 
 parition, then rising, lifted up his veil, and exposed to view his 
 fearful length of beard—the longest, whitest, and most luxuriant 
 that ever human eyes beheld; when, fixing his eyes on the duke, 
 in a voice grave and sonorous, he said, ‘‘ Most high and potent lord, 
 my name is Trifaldin of the White Beard, and I am squire to the 
 Countess Trifaldi, otherwise called the Afflicted Duenna, from 
 whom I bear a message to your highness, requesting that you will 
 be pleased to give her ladyship permission to approach, and relate 
 to your magnificence the unhappy and wonderful circumstances of 
 her misfortune. But first, she desires to know whether the valor- 
 ous and invincible knight Don Quixote de la Mancha resides at this 
 time in your castle; for in quest of him she has travelled on foot, 
 and fasting, from the kingdom of Candaya to this your territory ; 
 an exertion miraculous and incredible, were it not wrought by en- 
 chantment. She is now at the outward gate of this castle, and 
 only waits your highness’s invitation to enter.” 
 
 Having said this he hemmed, stroked his beard from top to 
 bottom, and with much gravity and composure stood expecting the 
 duke’s answer, which was to this effect, ‘‘ Worthy Trifaldin of the 
 White Beard, long since have we been been apprised of the afflic- 
 tions of my lady the Countess Trifaldi, who, through the malice of 
 enchanters, is too truly called the Dolorous Duenna: tell her, 
 therefore, stupendous squire, that she may enter, and that the 
 valiant knight Don Quixote de la Mancha is here present, from 
 whose generous assistance she may safely promise herself all the 
 redress she requires. Tell her also, that if my aid be necessary, 
 she may command my services, since, as a knight, J am bound to 
 protect all women, more especially injured and afflicted matrons 
 like her ladyship.” Trifaldin, on receiving the duke’s answer, 
 bent one knee to the ground, then giving a signal to his musical 
 attendants, he retired with the same solemnity as he entered, leav- 
 ing all in astonishment at the majesty of his figure and deportment. 
 
 The duke then turning to Don Quixote, said, ‘‘ It is evident, sir 
 knight, that neither the clouds of malice nor of ignorance can ob- 
 secure the light of your valour and virtue: six days have scarcely 
 elapsed since you have honoured this castle with your presence, 
 and, behold, the afflicted and oppressed flock hither in quest of you 
 from far distant countries , not m coaches, or upon dromedaries, but 
 on foot, and fasting !—such is their confidence in the strength of 
 that arm, the fame whereof spreads over the the whole face of the 
 earth!” ‘I wish, my lord duke,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ that 
 holy person, who but a few days since expressed himself with so 
 much acrimony against knights-errant, were now here, that he 
 might have ascertained, with his own eyes, whether or not such 
 knights were necessary in the world; at least he would be forced 
 to acknowledge that the afflicted and disconsolate, in extraordinary 
 cases and in overwhelming calamities, fly not for relief to the houses 
 of scholars, nor to village priests, nor to the country gentleman, who 
 never travels out of sight of his own domain, nor to the lazy courtier, 
 who rather inquires after news to tell again than endeavours to 
 
SANCHO AND DONNA RODRIGUEZ. 469 
 
 perform deeds worthy of being related by others. No—remedy for 
 the injured, support for the distressed, protection for damsels, and 
 consolation for widows, are nowhere so readily to be found as among 
 knights-errant ; and that I am one, I give infinite thanks to Heaven, 
 and shall not repine at any hardships or evils that I may endure in 
 so honourable a vocation. Let the afflicted lady come forward 
 and make known her request, and be it whatever it may, she 
 may rely on the strength of this arm, and the resolute courage of 
 my soul.” 
 
 Cece 2b ERE XXX VIL 
 
 In which is continued the famous adventure of the afflicted 
 duenna. 
 
 The duke and duchess were extremely delighted to find Don 
 Quixote wrought up into a mood so favourable to their design ; 
 but Sancho was not so well satisfied. ‘‘I should be sorry,” said 
 he, ‘‘that this madam duenna should lay any stumbling-block in the 
 way of my promised government; for [ have heard an apothecary 
 of Toledo, who talked like any goldfinch, say that no good ever 
 comes of meddling with duennas. Odds my life! what an enemy 
 to them was that apothecary! If, then, duennas of every quality 
 and condition are troublesome and impertinent, what must those 
 be who come in the doldrums? which seems to be the case with 
 this same Countess Three-skirts, or Three-tails—for skirts and 
 tails, in my country, are all one.” ‘‘ Hold thy peace, Sancho,” 
 said Don Quixote; ‘‘for as this lady duenna comes in quest of me 
 from so remote a country, she cannot be one of those who fall under 
 that apothecary’s displeasure. Besides, thou must have noticed | 
 that this lady is a countess; and when countesses serve as duennas, 
 it must be as attendants upon queens and empresses ; having houses 
 of their own, where they command, and are served by other duennas.”’ 
 ** Yes, in sooth, so it is,” said Donna Rodriguez (who was present) ; 
 ‘*and my lady duchess has duennas in her service who might have 
 been countesses themselves had it pleased fortune; but ‘ Laws go 
 on kings’ errands ;’ and let no one speak ill of duennas, especially 
 of ancient maiden ones; for though I am not of that number, yet I 
 can easily conceive the advantage a maiden duenna has over one 
 that is a widow. But let them take heed, for he who attempts to 
 clip us will be left with the shears in his hand.” 
 
 ‘‘For all that,” replied Sancho, ‘‘there is still so much to be 
 sheared about your duennas, as my barber tells me, that it is better 
 not to stir the rice though it burn to the pot.” ‘* These squires,” 
 quoth Donna Rodriguez, ‘‘are our sworn enemies; and being, as 
 it were, evil spirits that prowl about ante-chambers, continually 
 watching us, the hours they are not at their beads—which are not 
 
470 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 a few—they can find no other pastime than reviling us: and will 
 dig-up our bones only to give another deathblow to our reputations. 
 But let me tell these jesters, that in spite of their flouts, we shall 
 live in the world—ay, and in the best families too, though we 
 starve for it, and cover our delicate, or not delicate bodies, with 
 black weeds, as dunghills are sometimes covered with tapestry on 
 a procession day. Foul slanderers !—by my faith, if I were allowed, 
 and the occasion required it, I would prove to all here present, and 
 to the whole world besides, that there is no virtue that is not con- 
 tained ina duenna.” ‘‘I am of opinion,” quoth the duchess, ‘‘that 
 my good Donna Rodriguez is very much in the right; but she must 
 wait for a more proper opportunity to finish the debate, and con- 
 fute and confound the calumnies of that wicked apothecary, and 
 also to root out the ill opinion which the great Sancho fosters in 
 his breast.” ‘‘I care not to dispute with her,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘for, 
 ever since the fumes of government have got into my head, I have 
 given up all my squireship notions, and care not a fig for all the 
 duennas in the world.” 
 
 This dialogue about duennas would have continued, had not 
 the sound of the drum and fife announced the approach of the 
 afflicted lady. The duchess asked the duke whether it would not 
 be proper for him to go and meet her, since she was a countess, and 
 a person of quality. ‘‘Look you,” quoth Sancho, before the duke 
 could answer, ‘‘in regard to her being a countess, it is fitting your 
 highness should go to receive her: but inasmuch as she is a duenna, I 
 am of opinion you should not stir a step.” ‘‘ Who desires thee to 
 intermeddle in this matter, Sancho?” said Don Quixote. ‘‘ Who, 
 sir,” answered Sancho, ‘‘ but I myself? have I not a right to inter- 
 meddle, being a squire, who has learned the rules of good manners 
 in the school of your worship? Have I not had the flower of 
 courtesy for my master, who has often told me that one may as 
 well lose the game by a card too much as a card too little; and a 
 word is enough to the wise.” ‘‘ Sancho is right,” quoth the duke; 
 “‘but let us see what kind of a countess this is, and then we shall 
 judge what courtesy is due to her.” The drums and fife now ad- 
 vanced as before—but here the author ended this short chapter, 
 and began another with the continuation of the same adventure, 
 which is one of the most remarkable in the history. 
 
 
 
THE PROCESSION OF DUENNAS. 471 
 
 CO HACE Win SX XV ILL 
 
 Which contains the account given by the afflicted duenna of her 
 misfortunes. 
 
 The doleful musicians were followed by twelve duennas, in two 
 ranks, clad in large mourning robes, seemingly of milled serge, and 
 covered with white veils of thin muslin that almost reached to their 
 feet. Then came the Countess Trifaldi herself, led by her squire 
 Trifaldin of the White Beard. She was clad in a robe of the finest 
 serge, which, had it been napped, each grain would have been of 
 the size of a good ronceval pea. The train, or tail (call it by either 
 name), was divided into three separate portions, and supported by 
 three pages, and spread out, making a regular mathematical figure 
 with three angles; whence it was conjectured she obtained the 
 name of Trifaldi, or Three-skirts. Indeed, Benengeli says that was 
 the fact; her real name being the countess of Lobuna, or Wolfland, 
 from the multitude of wolves produced in that earldom: and, had 
 they been foxes instead of wolves, she would have been styled 
 Countess Zorruna, according to the custom of those nations for the - 
 great totake their titles from the things with which the country most 
 abounded. This great countess, however, was induced, from the 
 singular form of her garments, to exchange her original title of 
 Lobuna for that of Trifaldi. The twelve duennas, with the lady, 
 advanced slowly in procession, having their faces covered with 
 black veils—not transparent, like that of the squire Trifaldin, but 
 so thick that nothing could be seen through them. 
 
 On the approach of this battalion of duennas, the duke, duchess, 
 Don Quixote, and all the other spectators, rose from their seats ; 
 and now the attendant duennas halted, and, separating, opened a 
 passage through which their afflicted lady, still led by the squire 
 Trifaldin, advanced towards the noble party, who stepped some 
 dozen paces forward to receive her. She then cast herself on her 
 knees, and, with a voice rather harsh and coarse than clear and 
 delicate, said, ‘‘I entreat your graces will not condescend to so 
 much courtesy to this your valet—I mean your handmaid; for my 
 mind, already bewildered with affliction, will only be still more con- 
 founded. Alas! my unparalleled misfortune has seized and carried 
 off my understanding, I know not whither; but surely it must be 
 to a great distance, for the more I seek it the farther it seems from 
 me.” ‘‘ He must be wholly destitute of understanding, lady coun- 
 tess,” quoth the duke, ‘‘ who could not discern your merit by your 
 person, which alone claims all the cream of courtesy, and all the 
 tlower of well-bred ceremony.” Then, raising her by the hand, he 
 led her to a chair close by the duchess, who also received her with 
 much politeness. 
 
 During the ceremony Don Quixote was silent, and Sancho dying 
 with impatience to see the face of the Trifaldi, or of some one of 
 her many duennas; but it was impossible, till they chose to unveil 
 themselves. All was expectation, and not a whisper was heard, till 
 
472, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 at length the afflicted lady began in these words: ‘‘ Confident I am, 
 most potent lord, most beautiful lady, and most discreet spectators, 
 that my most unfortunate miserableness will find, in your generous 
 and compassionate bowels, a most merciful sanctuary ; for so dole- 
 ful and dolorous is my wretched state that it is sufficient to mollify 
 marble, to soften adamant, and melt down the steel of the hardest 
 hearts. But, before the rehearsal of my misfortunes is commenced 
 on the public stage of your hearing faculties, I earnestly desire to 
 be informed whether this noble circle be adorned by that renowned- 
 issimo knight, Don Quixote de la Manchissima, and his squireissimo 
 Panza.” ‘That same Panza,” said Sancho, before any other could 
 answer, ‘‘stands here before you, and also Don Quixotissimo; and 
 therefore, most dolorous duennissima, say what you willissima; for 
 we are all ready to be your most humble servantissimos.” 
 
 Upon this Don Quixote stood up, and addressing himself to the 
 doleful countess, he said, ‘‘ If your misfortunes, afflicted lady, can 
 admit of remedy from the valour or fortitude of a knight-errant, 
 the little all that I possess shall be employed in your service. I 
 am Don Quixote de la Mancha, whose function it is to relieve every 
 species of distress; you need not therefore, madam, implore bene- 
 volence, nor have recourse to preambles, but plainly, and without 
 circumlocution, declare your grievances, for you have auditors 
 who will. bestow commiseration if not redress.” On hearing this 
 the afflicted duenna attempted to throw herself at Don Quixote’s 
 feet—in truth, she did so, and struggling to kiss them, said, ‘‘I pros- 
 trate myself, O invincible knight, before these feet and legs, which 
 are the bases and pillars of knight-errantry, and will kiss these 
 feet, whose steps lead to the end and termination of my misfor- 
 tunes! O valorouz knight-errant, whose true exploits surpass and 
 obscure the fabulous feats of the Amadises, Esplandians, and Bel- 
 ianises of old !” 
 
 Then, leaving Don Quixote, she turned to Sancho Panza, and 
 taking him by the hand, said, ‘‘O thou, the most trusty squire 
 that ever served knight-errant in present or past ages, whose good- 
 ness is of greater extent than that beard of my usher Trifaldin ; 
 well mayest thou boast, that in serving Don Quixote, thou dost 
 serve, in epitome, all the knights-errant that ever shone in the 
 annals of chivalry! I conjure thee, by thy natural benevolence 
 and inviolable fidelity, to intercede with thy lord in my behalf, 
 that the light of his favour may forthwith shine upon the humblest 
 and unhappiest of countesses.” To which Sancho answered, 
 ‘‘Whether my goodness, madam countess, be, or be not, as long 
 and as broad as your squire’s beard, is no concern of mine; so that 
 my soul be well bearded and whiskered when it departs this life, 1 
 care little or nothing for beards here below; but, without all this 
 coaxing and beseeching, I will put in a word for you to my master, 
 who I know has a kindness for me; besides, just now he stands in 
 need of me about a certain business—so, take my word for it, he 
 shall do what he can for you. Now, pray unload your griefs, 
 madam ; let us hear all you have to say, and leave us to manage 
 the matter.” 
 
THE DUENNA’S STORY. 473 
 
 The duke and duchess could scarcely preserve their gravity on 
 seeing this adventure take so pleasant a turn, and were highly 
 pleased with the ingenuity and good management of the Countess 
 Trifaldi, who, returning to her seat, thus began her tale of sorrow: 
 ‘“The famous kingdom of Candaya, which les between the great 
 Taprobana and the South Sea, two leagues beyond Cape Comorin, 
 had for its queen the lady Donna Maguncia, widow of King Archi- 
 piela, who died leaving the infanta Antonomasia, their only child, 
 heiress to the crown. This princess was brought up and educated 
 under my care and instruction; I being the eldest and chief of the 
 duennas in the household of her royal mother. Now, in process of 
 time the young Antonomasia arrived at the age of fourteen, with 
 such perfection of beauty that nature could not raise it a pitch 
 higher ; and, what is more, discretion itself was but a child to her; 
 for she was as discreet as fair, and she was the fairest creature 
 living; and so she still remains, if the envious fates and hard- 
 hearted destinies have not cut short her thread of life. But sure 
 they have not done it; for Heaven would never permit that so 
 much injury should be done to the earth as to lop off prematurely 
 the loveliest branch that ever adorned the garden of the world. Her 
 wondrous beauty, which my feeble tongue can never sufficiently ex- 
 tol, attracted innumerable adorers ; and princes of her own, and every 
 other nation, became her slaves. Among the rest, a private cava- 
 lier of the court had the audacity to aspire to that earthly heaven ; 
 confiding in his youth, his gallantry, his sprightly and happy wit, 
 with numerous other graces and qualifications. Indeed, I must 
 confess to your highness—though with reverence be it spoken—he 
 could touch the guitar to a miracle. He was, besides, a poet and 
 a fine dancer, and had so rare a talent for making bird-cages that he 
 might have gained his living by it, in case of need. So many parts 
 and elegant endowments were sufficient to have moved a mountain, 
 much more the tender heart of a virgin. But all his graces and 
 accomplishments would have proved ineffectual against the heart 
 of my beautiful charge, had not the robber and ruffian first artfully 
 contrived to make a conquest of me. The assassin and barbarous 
 vagabond began with endeavouring to obtain my good will and suborn 
 my inclination, that I might betray my trust, and deliver up to him 
 the keys of the fortress I guarded. In short, he so plied me with 
 toys and trinkets, and so insinuated himself into my soul, that I 
 was bewitched. But that which chiefly brought me down, and 
 levelled me with the ground, was a copy of verses which I heard 
 him sing one night under my window; and if I remember right 
 the words were these :— 
 
 The tyrant fair whose beauty sent 
 The throbbing mischief to my heart 
 
 The more my anguish to augment, 
 Forbids me to reveal the smart. 
 
 ‘The words of his song were to me so many pearls, and his 
 voice was sweeter than honey; and many a time since have I 
 thought, reflecting on the evils I incurred, that pocts—at least, 
 
474 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 your amorous poets—should be banished from all good and wel’. 
 regulated commonwealths; for, instead of composing pathetic 
 verses like those of the Marquis of Mantua, which make women 
 and children weep, they exercise their skill in soft strokes and 
 tender touches, which pierce the soul, and entering the body like 
 lightning, consume all within, while the garment is left unsinged. 
 Another time he sang :— 
 
 Come, death, with gently stealing pace, 
 And take me unperceived away, 
 
 Nor let me see thy wished-for face, 
 Lest joy my fleeting life should stay. 
 
 Thus was I assailed with these and such like couplets that astonish, 
 and when chanted are bewitching. But when our poets deign to 
 compose a kind of verses much in fashion with us, called roundelays, 
 they are no sooner heard than the whole frame is in a state of emo- 
 tion; the soul is seized with a kind of quaking, a titillation of the 
 fancy, a pleasing delirium of all the senses! I therefore say again, 
 most noble auditors, that such versifiers deserve to be banished to 
 the Isle of Lizards; though, in truth, the blame les chiefly with 
 the simpletons who commend, and the idiots who suffer themselves 
 to be deluded by such things ; and had I been a wise and discreet 
 duenna, the nightly chanting of his verses would not have moved 
 me, nor should I have lent an ear to such expressions as, ‘ Dying I 
 live; in ice I burn; I shiver in flames; indespair I hope; I fly, yet 
 stay; with other flim-flams of the like stamp, of which such kind 
 of writings are full. Then again, when they promise to bestow on 
 us the phoenix of Arabia, the crown of Ariadne, the ringlets of 
 Apollo, the pearls of the South Sea, the gold of Tiber, and the 
 balsam of Pencaya, how bountiful are their pens! how liberal in 
 promises which they cannot perform! But, woe is me, unhappy 
 wretch! Whither do I stray? What madness impels me to dwell 
 on the faults of others, who have so many of mine own to answer 
 for? Woe is me again, miserable creature! No, it was not his 
 verses that vanquished me, but my own weakness; music did not 
 subdue me; no, it was my own levity, my ignorance and lack of 
 caution that melted me down, that opened the way and smoothed 
 the passage for Don Clavijo ;—for that is the name of the treacher- 
 ous cavalier, and at length they were privately married, the only 
 mischief in the affair was that, they were ill-sorted, Don Clavijo 
 being but a private gentleman, and the infanta Antonomasia, as 
 I have already said, heiress of the kingdom. 
 
 ‘* For some time, enveloped in the sagacity of my circumspection, 
 this was concealed from every eye, but, apprehending it might come 
 to light, we laid our three heads together, and determined that 
 Don Clavijo should demand Antonomasia in marriage before the 
 vicar, in virtue of a contract signed and given him by the infanta 
 herself to be his wife, and so worded by my wit, that the force of 
 Sampson could not have broken through it. Our plan was imme- 
 diately carried into execution; the vicar examined the contract, 
 took the lady’s confession, and she was placed in the custody of an 
 
THE DUENNA’S STORY. 475 
 
 honest alguazil.” ‘‘ Bless me!” said Sancho, “‘ alguazils too, and 
 poets, and songs, and roundelays, in Candaya! I swear the world 
 is the same everywhere! But pray get on, good madam Trifaldi, 
 for it grows late, and I am on thorns till I know the end of this 
 long story.” ‘‘I shall be brief,” answered the countess. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 Wherein the duenna Trifaldi continues her stupendous and memorable 
 history. 
 
 Every word uttered by Sancho was the cause of much delight to 
 the duchess, and disgust to Don Quixote, who having commanded 
 him to hold his peace, the afflicted lady went on. ‘‘ After many 
 questions and answers,” said she, ‘‘the infanta stood firm to her 
 engagement, without varying a tittle from her first declaration ; the 
 vicar, therefore, confirmed their union as lawful man and wife, 
 which so affected the queen Donna Maguncia, mother to the infanta 
 Antonomasia, that three days after we buried her.” ‘‘She died 
 then, I suppose?” quoth Sancho. ‘‘ Assuredly,” replied the squire 
 Trifaldin ; ‘‘in Candaya we do not bury the living, but the dead.” 
 ** Nevertheless, master Squire,” said Sancho, ‘‘it has happened 
 before now, that people only in a swoon have been buried for dead ; 
 and methinks queen Maguncia ought rather to have swooned than 
 died in good earnest; for while there is life there is hope; and the 
 young lady’s offence was not so much out of the way that her 
 mother should have taken it so to heart. Had she married one of 
 her pages, or some serving-man of the family, as I have been told 
 many have done, it would have been a bad business and past cure ; 
 but as she made choice of a well-bred young cavalier of such good 
 parts, though mayhap it was foolish, it was no such mighty matter ; 
 for, as my master says, who is here present and will not let me 
 lie, bishops are made out of learned men, and why may not kings 
 and emperors be made out of cavaliers—especially if they be 
 errant?” ‘‘'Thouart inthe right, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; ‘‘ for 
 a knight-errant with but two grains of good luck is next in the 
 order of promotion to the greatest lord in the world. But let the 
 afflicted lady proceed: for I fancy the bitter part of this hitherto 
 sweet story is still behind.” ‘‘ Bitter!” answered the countess— 
 ‘*ay, and so bitter, that in comparison, wormwood is sweet and rue 
 savoury !” 
 
 ‘*The queen being really dead, and not in a swoon, we buried 
 her; and scarcely had we covered her with earth and pronounced 
 the last farewell, when, ‘ Quis talia fando temperet a lacrymis ? — 
 Jo, upon the queen’s sepulchre who should appear, mounted on a 
 wooden horse, but her cousin-german the giant Malambruno! Yes, 
 that cruel necromancer came expressly to revenge the death of his 
 cousin, and to chastise the presumptuous Don Clavijo and the fool- 
 ish Antonomasia, both of whom, by his cursed art, he instantly 
 
A476 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 transformed—she into a monkey of brass, and him into a frightful 
 crocodile of some strange metal: fixing upon them, at the same 
 time, a plate of metal, engraven with Syriac characters; which 
 being first rendered into the Candayan, and now into the Castilian 
 language, have this meaning; ‘These two presumptuous lovers 
 shall not regain their pristine form till the valorous Manchegan 
 engages with me in single combat; since for his mighty arm alone 
 have the destinies reserved the achievement of that stupendous 
 adventure.’ No sooner was the wicked deed performed, than out 
 he drew from its scabbard a dreadful scimitar, and taking me by 
 the hair of my head, he seemed prepared to cut my throat, or whip 
 off my head at a blow! Though struck with horror, and almost 
 speechless, trembling and weeping, I begged for mercy in such 
 moving tones and melting words, that I at last prevailed on him 
 to stop the cruel execution which he meditated. In short, he 
 ordered into his presence all the duennas of the palace, being those 
 you see here present—and, after having expatiated on our fault, 
 inveighed against duennas, their wicked plots, and worse intrigues, 
 and reviled all for the crime of which I alone was guilty, he said, 
 though he would vouchsafe to spare our lives, he would inflict on 
 us a punishment that should be a lasting shame. At the same 
 instant, we all felt the pores of our faces open, and a sharp pain 
 all over them, like the pricking of needle-points; upon which we 
 clapped our hands to our faces, and found them in the condition 
 you shall now behold.” 
 
 Hereupon the afflicted lady and the rest of the duennas lifted 
 up the veils which had hitherto concealed them, and discovered 
 their faces planted with beards of all colours, black, brown, white, 
 and pie-bald! The duke and duchess viewed the spectacle with 
 surprise, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and the rest were all lost in 
 amazement. 
 
 “‘Thus,” continued the Trifaldi, ‘‘hath that wicked and evil- 
 minded felon Malambruno punished us !—covering our soft and 
 delicate faces with these rugged bristles—-would to Heaven he had 
 struck off our heads with his huge scimitar, rather than have ob- 
 scured the light of our countenance with such an odious cloud! 
 Whither, noble lords and lady, —O, that I could utter what I have 
 now to say with rivers of tears! but alas, the torrent is spent, and 
 excess of grief has left our eyes without moisture, and dry as 
 beards of corn!—Whither, I say, can a duenna go whose chin is 
 covered with a beard? What relation will own her? What charit- 
 able person will show her compassion, or afford her relief? Even 
 at the best, when the grain of her skin is the smoothest, and her 
 face tortured and set off with a thousand different washes and oint- 
 ments—with all this, how seldom does she meet with good-will 
 from either man or woman? What then will become of her when ~™ 
 her face is become a forest? O duennas!—my dear partners in 
 misfortune and companions in grief !—in an evil hour were we be- 
 gotten! in an evil hour were we brought into the world! Oh!” 
 —here, being overcome with the strong sense of her calamity, she 
 - fell into a swoon. 
 
THE KNIGHT OFFERS HIS SERVICES. 477 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 Which treats of matters relating and appertaining to this adventure, 
 and to this memorable history. 
 
 Very grateful ought all, who delight in histories of this kind, to be 
 to the original author of the present work, Cid Hamet, for his punc- 
 tilious regard for truth, in allowing no circumstance to escape his 
 pen; and the curious exactness with which he notes and sets down 
 everything just asit happened; nothing, however minute, being 
 omitted! He lays open the inmost thoughts, speaks for the silent, 
 clears up doubts, resolves arguments; in fine, satisfies, to the 
 smallest particle, the most acute and inquisitive minds. O most in- 
 comparable author! O happy Don Quixote! O famous Dulcinea! 
 O facetious Sancho Panza! jointly and severally may ye live through 
 endless ages for the delight and recreation of mankind. 
 
 The history then proceeds to relate that when Sancho saw the 
 afflicted lady faint away, he said, ‘‘ Upon the word of an honest man, 
 and by the blood of all my ancestors, the Panzas, I swear, I never 
 heard or saw, nor has my master ever told me, nor did such an ad- 
 venture as this ever enter into his thoughts! Couldst thou, Malam- 
 bruno, beast, enchanter, and giant! hit upon no other punishment 
 for those poor sinners than clapping beards upon them? Had it not 
 been better for them (for I am sure it would) to have whipt off 
 half their noses, though they had snuffled for it, than to have cov- 
 ered their faces with scrubbing-brushes? And what is worse, Ill 
 wager a trifle they have not wherewithal to pay for shaving.” 
 *¢ That is true, indeed, sir,” answered one of the twelve; ‘‘ we have 
 not wherewithal to satisfy the barber, and therefore, as a shaving 
 shift, some of us lay on plasters of pitch, which, being pulled off 
 with a jerk, take up roots and all, and thereby free us of this stubble 
 fora while. As for the women who, in Candaya, go about from 
 house to house to take off the superfluous hairs of the body, and 
 trim the eyebrows, we, the duennas of her ladyship, would never 
 have anything to do with them; and therefore, if we are not re- 
 lieved by Signor Don Quixote, with beards we shall live, and with 
 beards be carried to our graves.” ‘‘I would pluck off my own in 
 the land of the Moors,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘if I failed to deliver 
 you from yours.” 
 
 ** Ah, valorous knight!” cried the Trifaldi, at that moment re- 
 covering from her fainting fit, ‘‘the sweet tinkling of that promise 
 reached my hearing faculty and restored me to life. Once again, 
 then, illustrious knight-errant and invincibie hero! let me beseech 
 that your gracious promises may be converted into deeds.” ‘‘'The 
 business shall not sleep with me,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘there- 
 fore say, madam, what I am to do, and you shall soon be convinced | 
 of my readiness to serve you.” ‘‘ Be it known then to you, sir,” 
 replied the afflicted dame, ‘‘ that from this place to the kingdom of 
 Candaya by land is computed to be about five thousand leagues, 
 
478 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 one or two more or less; but, through the air in a direct line, it is 
 three thousand two hundred and twenty-seven. You are likewise 
 to understand that Malambruno told me, that whenever fortune 
 should direct me to the knight who was to be our deliverer, he 
 would send him a steed—not like the vicious jades let out for hire, 
 for it should be that very wooden horse upon which Peter of Pro- 
 vence carried off the fair Magalona. This horse is governed by a peg 
 in his forehead, which serves instead of a bridle, and he flies swiftly 
 through the air. This famous steed, tradition reports to have been 
 formed by the cunning hand of Merlin the enchanter, who some- 
 times allowed him to be used by his particular friends, or those 
 who paid him handsomely ; and he it was who lent him to his friend 
 the valiant Peter, when, as I said before, he stole the fair Maga- 
 lona; whisking her through the air behind him on the crupper, and 
 leaving all that beheld him from the earth gaping with astonish- 
 ment. Since the time of Peter, to the present moment, we know 
 of none that mounted him: but this we know, that Malambruno, 
 by his art, has now got possession of him, and by this means posts 
 about to every part of the world. To-day he is here, to-morrow in 
 France, and the next day in Potosi; and the best of it is, that this 
 sxme horse neither eats nor sleeps, nor wants shoeing ; and, without 
 wings, he ambles so smoothly, that in his most rapid flight the 
 rider may carry in his hand a cup full of water without spilling a 
 drop! No wonder, then, that the fair Magalona took such delight 
 in riding him.” 
 
 ‘* As for easy going,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ commend me to my Dapple, 
 though he is no highflyer; but by land I will match him against all 
 the amblers in the world.” The gravity of the company was dis- 
 turbed for a moment by Sancho’s observation; but the unhappy 
 lady proceeded: ‘‘ Now this horse,” said she, ‘‘if it be Malam- 
 bruno’s intention that our misfortune should have an end, will be 
 here this very evening; for he told me that the sign by which I 
 should be assured of my having arrived in the presence of my de- 
 liverer, would be his sending me the horse thither with all conveni- 
 ent despatch.” ‘‘And pray,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ how many will that 
 same horse carry?” ‘‘'T'wo persons,” answered the lady, ‘‘one in 
 the saddle and the other on the crupper; and generally these two 
 persons are the knight and his squire, when there is no stolen 
 damsel in the case.” ‘‘I would fain know,” quoth Sancho, ‘by 
 what name he is called.” ‘‘ His name,” answered the Trifaldi, ‘‘ is 
 not the same as the horse of Bellerophon, which was called Pegasus ; 
 nor is he called Bucephalus, like that of Alexander the Great; nor 
 Brilladore, like that of Orlando Furioso; nor is it Bayarte, which 
 belonged to Reynaldos of Montalvan; nor Frentino, which was the 
 steed of Rogero; nor is it Bodtes, nor Pyrois—names given, it is 
 said, to horses of the sun; neither is he called Orelia, like the horse 
 which the unfortunate Roderigo, the last king of the Goths in 
 Spain, mounted in that battle wherein he lost his kingdom and his 
 life.” 
 
 **T will venture a wager,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘since they have 
 given him none of these famous and well-known names, neither have 
 
MERLIN’S WOODEN HORSE. 479 
 
 they given him that of my master’s horse Rozinante, which in fit- 
 ness goes beyond all the names you have mentioned.” ‘‘ It is very 
 true,” answered the bearded lady; ‘‘ yet the name he bears is cor- 
 rect and significant, for he is called Clavileno el Aligero;* whereby 
 his miraculous peg, his wooden frame, and extraordinary speed, are 
 all curiously expressed ; so that, in respect of his name, he may vie 
 with the renowned Rozinante.” ‘‘I dislike not his name,” replied 
 Sancho; ‘‘ but with what bridle or what halter is he guided?” ‘I 
 have already told you,” answered the Trifaldi, ‘‘ that he is guided 
 by a peg, which the rider turning this way and that, makes him 
 go, either aloft in the air, or else sweeping, and, as it were, brush- 
 ing the earth; or in the middle region,—a course which the discreet 
 and wise generally endeavour to keep.” ‘‘I have a mighty desire 
 to see him,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘but to think I will get upon him, 
 either in the saddle or behind upon the crupper, is to look for pears 
 upon an elm-tree. It were a jest, indeed, for me, who can hardly 
 sit upon my own Dapple, though upon a pannel softer than silk, to 
 think of bestriding a wooden crupper, without either pillow or 
 cushion! In faith, I do not intend to flay myself to unbeard the 
 best lady in the land. let every one shave or shear as he likes 
 best ; I have no mind for so long a journey; my master may travel 
 by himself. Besides, I have nothing to do with it—I am not 
 wanted for the taking off these beards, as well as the business of 
 my lady Dulcinea.” ‘‘ Indeed, my friend, you are,” said the Tri- 
 faldi; ‘*and so much need is there of your kind help, that without 
 it nothing can be done.” ‘‘In the name of all the saints!” quoth 
 Sancho, ‘‘ what have squires to do with their master’s adventures? 
 Are we always to share the trouble, and they to reap all the glory? 
 Body o’ me! it might be something if the writers who recount 
 their adventures would but set down in their books, ‘such a knight 
 achieved such an adventure, with the help of such a one, his squire, 
 without whom he could not have done it.’ I say it would be some- 
 thing if we had our due; but, instead of this, they coolly tell us 
 that, ‘Don Paralipomenon of the Three Stars finished the notable 
 adventure of the six goblins,’ and the like, without once mentioning 
 his squire any more than if he had been a thousand miles off; 
 though mayhap he, poor fellow, was in the thick of it all the while. 
 In truth, my good lord and lady, I say again, my master may 
 manage this adventure by himself ; and much good may it do him. 
 I will stay with my lady duchess here, and perhaps when he comes 
 back he may find Madam Dulcinea’s business pretty forward ; for 
 T intend at my leisure whiles to lay it on to some purpose, so that 
 I shall not have a hair to shelter me.” 
 
 ‘* Nevertheless, honest Sancho,” quoth the duchess, “‘if your 
 company be really necessary, you will not refuse to go; indeed all 
 good people will make it their business to entreat you; for piteous, 
 truly, would it be, that through your groundless fears, these poor 
 ladies should remain in this unseemly plight.” ‘‘ Odds my life!” 
 exclaimed Sancho, ‘‘ were this piece of charity undertaken for 
 
 * Wooden-peg the winged* compounded of ‘ Clave,” a nail, “ Leno,” wood. 
 
480 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 modest maidens, or poor charity girls, a man might engage to undergo 
 something; but to take all this trouble to rid duennas of their 
 beards !—plague take them! I had rather see the whole finical 
 and squeamish tribe bearded, from the highest to the lowest of 
 them.” ‘‘ You seem to be upon bad terms with duennas, friend 
 Sancho,” said the duchess, ‘‘ and are of the same mind ag the Tole- 
 dan apothecary; but in truth, you are in the wrong; for I have 
 duennas in my family who might serve as models to all duennas; 
 and here is my Donna Rodriguez, who will not allow me to say 
 otherwise.” ‘‘ Your excellency may say what you please,” said 
 Rodriguez, ‘‘ but good or bad, bearded or smooth, such as we are, 
 such were we born; and, since God has cast us into the world, 
 He knows why and wherefore; and upon His mercy I rely, and 
 not upon anybody’s beard whatever.” 
 
 ‘¢ Hnough, Signora Rodriguez,” quoth Don Quixote ; ‘‘ as for you, 
 Lady Trifaldi, and your persecuted friends, I trust that Heaven 
 will speedily look with a pitying eye upon your sorrows, and that 
 Sancho will do his duty, in obedience to my wishes. Would that 
 Clavileno were here, and on his back Malambruno himself! for I 
 am confident no razor would more easily shave your ladyships’ 
 beards than my sword shall shave off Malambruno’s head from his 
 shoulders. If Heaven in its wisdom permits the wicked to prosper, 
 it is but for a time.” ‘‘Ah, valorous knight!” exclaimed the 
 afflicted lady, ‘‘may all the stars of the celestial regions regard 
 your excellency with eyes of benignity, and impart strength to your 
 arm and courage to your heart, to be the shield and refuge of the 
 reviled and oppressed duennian order, abandoned by apothecaries, 
 calumniated by squires, and scoffed at by pages! Scorn betake the 
 wretch who, in the flower of her age, doth not rather profess her- 
 self a nun than a duenna! Forlorn and despised as we are, al- 
 though our descent were to be traced in a direct line from Hector of 
 Troy himself, our ladies would not cease to ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ us, 
 were they to be made queens for their condescension. O giant Ma- 
 Jlambruno! who, though enchanter, art punctual in thy promises, 
 send us the incomparable Clavileno, that our misfortune may cease ; 
 for if the heats come on, and these beards of ours remain, woe be 
 tous!” The Trifaldi uttered this with so much pathos that she drew 
 tears from the eyes of all present; and so much was Sancho moved, 
 that he secretly resolved to accompany his master to the farthest 
 part of the world, if that would contribute to remove the bristles 
 which deformed those venerable faces. 
 
 CtlwA: Pi DER aXe 
 
 Of the arrival of Clavileno, with the conclusion of this proliz 
 adventure, 
 
 Evening now came on, which was the time when the famous 
 horse Clavileno was expected to arrive, whose. delay troubled Don 
 
ARRIVAL OF CLAVILENO. 481 
 
 Quixote much, being apprehensive, that by its not arriving, either 
 he was not the knight for whom this adventure was reserved, or 
 that Malambruno had not the courage to meet him in single com- 
 bat. But lo, on a sudden, four savages entered the garden, all 
 clad in green ivy, and bearing on their shoulders a large wooden 
 horse! They set him upon his legs on the ground, and one of the 
 savages said, ‘*‘ Let the knight mount who has the courage to be- 
 stride this wondrous machine.” ‘‘ NotI,” quoth Sancho; ‘for 
 neither have I courage, nor am Ia knight.” ‘* And let the squire, 
 if he has one,” continued the savage, ‘‘ mount the crupper, and 
 trust to valorous Malambruno; for no other shall do him harm. 
 Turn but the pin on his forehead and he will rush through the air 
 to the spot where Malambruno waits; and to shun the danger of a 
 lofty flight, let the eyes of the riders be covered till the neighing 
 of the horse shall give the signal of his completed journey.” Hav- 
 ing thus spoken, he left Clavileno, and with courteous demeanour 
 departed with his companions. 
 
 The afflicted lady no sooner perceived the horse, than, almost 
 with tears, addressing herself to Don Quixote, ‘‘ Valorous knight,” 
 said she, ‘* Malambruno has kept his word; here is the horse; our 
 beards. are increasing, and every one of us, with every hair of them, 
 entreat and conjure you to shave and shear us. Mount, therefore, 
 with your squire behind you, and give a happy beginning to your 
 , journey.” ‘*‘ Madam,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘1 will do it with all 
 my heart, without waiting for either cushion or spurs: so great is 
 my desire to see your ladyship and these your unfortunate friends 
 shaven and clean.” ‘‘That will not I,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ either 
 with a bad or good will, or anywise; and, if this shaving cannot be 
 done without my mounting that crupper, let my master seek some 
 other squire, or these madams some other barber: for, being no 
 wizard, [ have no stomach for these journeys. What will my 
 islanders say when they hear that their governor goes riding upon 
 the wind? Besides, it is three thousand leagues from here to Can- 
 daya,—what if the horse should tire upon the road, or the giant be 
 fickle and change his mind? Seven years at least it would take 
 us to travel home, and by that time I should have neither island 
 nor islanders that would own me! No, no, I know better things; 
 I know, too, that delay breeds danger; and when they bring you a 
 heifer, be ready with a rope. These gentlewomen’s beards must 
 excuse me;—St Peter is well at Rome; and so am I too, in this 
 house, where I am made much of; and through the noble master 
 thereof, hope to see myself a governor.” 
 
 ‘* Friend Sancho,” said the duke, ‘‘ your island neither floats nor 
 stirs, and therefore it will keep till your return; indeed, so fast is 
 it rooted in the earth, that three good pulls would not tear it from 
 its place; and, as you know that all offices of any value are obtained 
 by some service or other consideration, what I expect in return for 
 this government I have conferred upon you, is only that you attend 
 your master on this memorable occasion; and, whether you return 
 upon Clavileno with the expedition his speed promises, or be it 
 your fortune to return on foot, like a pilgrim from house to house, 
 
 2H 
 
482, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and from inn to inn,—however it may be, you will find your island 
 where you left it, and your islanders with the same desire to receive 
 you for their governor. My good-will is equally unchangeable ; 
 and to doubt that truth, Signor Sancho, would be a notorious in- 
 jury to the inclination I have to serve you.” ‘Good, your worship, 
 say no more,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘{ ama poor squire, and my shoulders 
 cannot bear the weight of somuch kindness. Let my master mount, 
 let my eyes be covered, and good luck go with us. But tell me, 
 when we are aloft, may I not say my prayers and entreat the saints 
 and angels to help me?” ‘* Yes, surely,” answered the Trifaldi, 
 ‘‘you may invoke whomsoever you please: for Malambruno is a 
 Christian, and performs his enchantments with great discretion and 
 much precaution.” ‘Well, let us away,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘and 
 Heaven prosper us!” ‘‘Since the memorable business of the 
 fulling-mill,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘] have never seen thee, Sancho, 
 in such trepidation ; and were I superstitious, as some people, this 
 extraordinary fear of thine would a little discourage me. But 
 come hither, friend; for, with the leave of these nobles, I would 
 speak a word or two with thee in private.” 
 
 Don Quixote then drew aside Sancho among some trees out of 
 hearing, and taking hold of both his hands said to him, ‘‘Thou 
 seest, my good Sancho, the long journey we are about to undertake ; 
 the period of our return is uncertain, and Heaven alone knows 
 what leisure or convenience our affairs may admit during our 
 absence; I earnestly beg, therefore, now that opportunity serves, 
 thou wilt retire to thy chamber as if to fetch something necessary 
 for the journey, and there, in a trice, give thyself, if it be but five 
 hundred lashes, in part of the three thousand and three hundred 
 for which thou art pledged: for work well begun is half ended.” 
 *¢ Your worship,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘is stark mad! Iam just going 
 to gallop a thousand leagues upon a bare board, and you would 
 have me first flay myself !—verily, verily, your worship is out of 
 all reason. Let us go and shave these duennas, and on my return [ 
 promise to make such despatch in getting out of debt, that your 
 worship shall be contented,—can I say more?” ‘‘ With that pro- 
 mise,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ I feel somewhat comforted, and believe 
 thou wilt perform it; for, though thou art not over wise, thou art 
 true blue in thy integrity.” ‘‘I am not blue but brown,” quoth 
 Sancho; ‘‘ but though I were a mixture of both, I would make good 
 my promise.” 
 
 The knight and squire now returned to the company ; and as they 
 were preparing to mount Clavileno, Don Quixote said, ‘‘Hoodwink 
 thyself, Sancho, and get up: he that sends for us from countries so 
 remote cannot surely intend to betray us, for he would gain little 
 glory by deceiving those who confide in him. And supposing the 
 success of the adventure should not be equal to our hopes, yet of 
 the glory of so brave an attempt no malice can deprive us.” ‘‘ Let 
 us begone, sir,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ for the beards and tears of these 
 ladies have pierced by heart, and I shall not eat to do me good till 
 I see them smooth again. Mount, sir, and hoodwink first, for if I 
 am to have the crupper, your worship, who sits in the saddle, must 
 
SANCHO’S COWARDICE. 488 
 
 get up first.” ‘That is true,” replied Don Quixote; and, pulling 
 a handkerchief out of his pocket, he requested the afflicted lady to 
 place the bandage over his eyes; but it was no sooner done than 
 he uncovered them again, saying, ‘‘ | remember to have read in the 
 Aineid of Virgil, that the fatal wooden horse dedicated by the 
 Greeks to their tutelary goddess Minerva, was filled with armed 
 knights, who by that stratagem got admittance into Troy, and 
 wrought its downfall. Will it not, therefore, be prudent, before I 
 trust myself upon Clavileno, to examine what may bein his belly?” 
 ‘‘ There is no need of that,”’ said the Trifaldi; ‘‘for I am confident 
 Malambruno has nothing in him of the traitor; your worship may 
 mount him without fear, and should any harm ensue, let the blame 
 fall on me alone.” | 
 
 Don Quixote, now considering that to betray any further doubts 
 would be a reflection on his courage, vaulted at once into his saddle. 
 He then tried the pin, which he found would turn very easily: 
 stirrups he had none, so that, with his legs dangling, he looked 
 like a figure in some Roman triumph woven in Flemish tapestry. 
 
 Very slowly, and much against his will, Sancho then got up 
 behind, fixing himself as well as he could upon the crupper; and 
 finding it very deficient in softness, he humbly begged the duke to 
 accommodate him, if possible, with some pillow or cushion, though 
 it were from the duchess’s state sofa, or from one of the page’s beds, 
 as the horse’s crupper seemed rather to be of marble than of wood: 
 but the Trifaldi, interfering, assured him that Clavileno would not 
 endure any more furniture upon him; but that, by sitting sideways, 
 as women ride, he would find himself greatly relieved. Sancho 
 followed her advice; and, after taking leave of the company, he 
 suffered his eyes to be covered. But soon after he raised the band- 
 age, and looking sorrowfully at his friends, begged them, with a 
 countenance of woe, to assist him at that perilous crisis with a few 
 Pater-nosters and Ave-marias, as they hoped for the same charity 
 from others when in the like extremity. ‘‘ What, then!” said Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘art thou a thief in the hands of the executioner, and at the 
 point of death, that thou hast recourse to such prayers? Dastardly 
 wretch, without a soul! dost thou not know that the fair Magalona 
 sat in the same place, and, if there be truth in history, alighted 
 from it, not into the grave, but into the throne of France? And 
 do not I sit by thee—I that may vie with the valorous Peter, who 
 pressed this very seat that I now press? Cover, cover thine 
 eyes, heartless animal, and publish not thy shame—at least in my 
 presence.” ‘‘Hoodwink me, then,” answered Sancho; ‘‘but, since I 
 must neither pray myself, nor beg others to do it for me, no wonder 
 if lam afraid that we may be followed by a legion of devils, who 
 may watch their opportunity to fly away with us.” 
 
 They were now blindfolded, and Don Quixote, feeling himself 
 firmly seated, put his hand to the peg, upon which all the duennas, 
 and the whole company, raised their voices at once, calling out, 
 ‘*Speed you well, valorous knight! Heaven guide thee, undaunted 
 squire! now you fly aloft !—see how they cut the air more swiftly 
 than an arrow! now they mount and soar, and astonish the world 
 
484 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 below! Steady, steady, valorous Sancho! you seem to reel and 
 totter in your seat—beware of falling: for, should you drop from 
 that tremendous height, your fall would be more terrible than that 
 of Phaeton!” Sancho, hearing all this, pressed closer to his 
 master, and, grasping him fast, he said, ‘‘ How can they say, sir, 
 that we are got so high, when we hear them as plain as if they were 
 close by us?” ‘‘Take no heed of that, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, 
 ‘‘for in these extraordinary flights, to see or hear a thousand 
 leagues is nothing—but squeeze me not quite so hard, good Sancho, 
 or thou wilt unhorse me. In truth, I see not why thou shouldst 
 be so alarmed, for I can safely swear, an easier-paced steed I never 
 rode in all my life—it goes as glibly as if it did not move at all! 
 Banish fear, my friend; the busimess goes on swimmingly, with a 
 gale fresh and fair behind us.” ‘‘I think so too;” quoth Sancho, 
 ‘*for I feel the wind here, upon my hinder quarter, as if a thousand 
 pairs of bellows were puffing at my tail.” And, indeed, this was 
 the fact, as sundry large bellows were just then pouring upon 
 them an artificial storm; in truth, so well was this adventure 
 managed and contrived, that nothing was wanting to make it 
 complete. Don Quixote now feeling the wind, ‘‘ Without doubt,” 
 said he, ‘‘we have now reached the second region of the air, where 
 the hail and snow are formed: thunder and lightning are engendered 
 in the third region; and, if we go on mounting at this rate, we 
 shall soon be in the region of fire; and how to manage this peg I 
 know not, so as to avoid mounting to where we shall be burnt alive.” 
 
 Just at that time some flax, set on fire, at the end of a long cane, 
 was held near their faces: the warmth of which being felt, ‘‘ May I 
 be hanged,” said Sancho, ‘‘if we are not already there, or very 
 near it, for half my beard is singed off—I have a huge mind, sir, to 
 peep out and see whereabouts we are.” ‘‘ Forbear such rashness !” 
 said Don Quixote: ‘‘remember the true story of the licentiate 
 Torralvo, who was carried by devils, hoodwinked, riding on a cane, 
 with his eyes shut, and in twelve hours reached Rome, where, 
 lighting on the tower of Nona, he saw the tumult, witnessed the 
 assault and death of the constable of Bourbon, and the next morning 
 returned to Madrid, where he gave an account of all that he had 
 seen. During his passage through the air, he said that a devil told 
 him to open his eyes, which he did, and found himself, as he thought, 
 so near the body of the moon that he could have laid hold of it with 
 his hand; but that he durst not look downwards to the earth, lest 
 his brain should turn. Therefore, Sancho, let us not run the risk 
 of uncovering in such a place, but rather trust to him who has 
 taken charge of us, as he will be responsible: perhaps we are just 
 now soaring aloft to a certain height, in order to come souse down 
 upon the kingdom of Candaya, like a hawk upon a heron; and 
 though it seems not more than half an hour since we left the 
 garden, doubtless we have travelled through an amazing space.” 
 ** As to that I can say nothing,” quoth Sancho Panza; ‘‘ 1 can only 
 say, that if Madam Magalona was content to ride upon this crupper 
 without a cushion, her flesh could not have been the tenderest in 
 the world.” 
 
 a 
 ce os 
 
squeeze me not so hard, good Sancho, ov thou wilt unhorse 
 
 me, ar_easier paced. steed | never. rode in all mv life. pAsd 
 
 
 

 
THE END OF CLAVILENO. 485 
 
 This conversation between the two heroes was overheard by the 
 duke and duchess, and all who were in the garden, to their great 
 diversion ; and, being now disposed to finish the adventure, they 
 applied some lighted flax to Clavileno’s tail ; upon which, his body 
 
 being full of combustibles, he instantly blew up with a prodigious 
 report, and threw his riders to the ground. The Trifaldi, with the 
 whole bearded squadron of duennas, vanished, and all that re- 
 mained in the garden were laid stretched on the ground as if in a 
 trance. Don Quixote and Sancho got upon their legs in but an in- 
 different plight, and looking round, were amazed to find themselves 
 in the same garden with such a number of people strewed about 
 them on all sides; but their wonder was increased, when, on a 
 huge lance sticking in the earth, they beheld a sheet of white 
 parchment attached to it by silken strings, whereon was written, 
 in letters of gold, the following words :— 
 
 ‘‘The renowned knight Don Quixote de la Mancha has achieved 
 the stupendous adventure of Trifaldi the afflicted, and her compan- 
 ions in grief, only by attempting it. Malambruno is satisfied, his 
 wrath is appeased, the beards of the unhappy have vanished, and 
 Don Clavijo and Antonomasia have recovered their pristine state. 
 When the squirely penance shall be completed, then shall the white 
 dove, delivered from the cruel talons of the pursuing hawks, be 
 enfolded in the arms of her beloved turtle :—such is the will of 
 Merlin, prince of enchanters. ” 
 
 Don Quixote having read the prophetic decree, and perceiving at 
 once that it referred to the disenchantment of Dulcinea, he ex- 
 pressed his gratitude to Heaven for having, with so much ease, 
 performed so great an exploit, whereby many venerable females 
 had been happily rescued from disgrace. He then went to the 
 spot where the duke and duchess lay on the ground, and, taking 
 the duke by the arm, he said, ‘‘ Courage, courage, my good lord ;_ 
 the adventure is over without damage to the bars, as you will find 
 by that record.” The duke gradually, as if awakening from a 
 sound sleep, seemed to recover his senses, as did the duchess and 
 the rest of the party; expressing at the same time, so much wonder 
 and affright that what they feigned so well seemed almost reality 
 to themselves. 
 
 Though scarcely awake, the duke eagerly looked for the scroll, 
 and, having read it, with open arms embraced Don Quixote, de- 
 claring him to be the bravest of knights. Sancho looked all about 
 for the afflicted dame, to see what kind of face she had when 
 beardless, and whether she was now as goodly to the sight as her. 
 stately presence seemed to promise; but he was told, that when 
 Clavileno came tumbling*down in the flames through the air, the 
 Trifaldi, with her whole train, vanished with not a beard to be 
 seen among them—every hair was gone, root and branch ! 
 
 The duchess inquired of Sancho how he had fared during that 
 long voyage? ‘‘ Why, truly, madam,” answered he, ‘‘I have seen 
 wonders ; for as we were passing through the region of fire, as my 
 master called it, [ had, you must know, a mighty mind to take a 
 peep; and though my master would not consent to it, I, who have 
 
 P| , * 
 
486 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 an itch to know everything, and had a hankering after whatever is 
 forbidden, could not help, softly and unperceived, shoving the cloth 
 a little aside, when through a crevice I looked down and there I saw 
 the earth so far off that it looked to me no bigger that a grain of 
 mustard-seed, and the men that walked upon it little bigger than 
 hazel-nuts !—only think, then, what a height we must have been !” 
 ‘“‘Take care what you say, friend,” said the duchess; ‘‘had it 
 been so you could not have seen the earth nor the people upon it; 
 —a hazel-nut, good man, would have covered the whole earth.” 
 ‘‘Tike enough,’ said Sancho, ‘‘ but for all that, I had a side-view 
 of it, and saw it all.” ‘‘Take heed, Sancho,” said the duchess ; 
 ‘‘for one cannot see the whole of anything by a side-view.” ‘I 
 know nothing about views,” replied Sancho; ‘‘I only know that 
 your ladyship should remember that since we flew by enchantment, 
 by enchantment I might see the whole earth, and all the men upon 
 it, in whatever way | looked; and, if your ladyship will not credit 
 that, neither will you believe me when I tell you, that thrusting 
 up the kerchief close to my eyebrows, I found myself so near to 
 heaven that it was not above a span and a half from me (what a 
 place it is for bigness!) and so it fell out that we passed close by 
 the place where the seven little she-goats* are kept; and, having 
 been a goatherd in my youth, I no sooner saw them but f longed to 
 play with them awhile ; and had I not done it I verily think I should 
 have died; so what did I but, without saying a word, softly slide 
 down from Clavileno, and play with the sweet little creatures, 
 which are like so many violets, for almost three-quarters of an 
 hour; and all the while Clavileno seemed not to move from the 
 place, nor stir a jot.” 
 
 ‘*And while honest Sancho was diverting himself with the goats,” 
 quoth the duke, ‘‘how did Signor Don Quixote amuse himself?” 
 To which the knight answered, ‘‘As these, and such-like concerns, 
 are out of the order of nature, I do not wonder at Sancho’s asser- 
 tions ; for my own part, I can truly say I neither looked up nor down, 
 and saw neither heaven nor earth, nor sea nor sands. It is, neverthe- 
 less, certain that I was sensible of our passing through the region of 
 the air, and even touched upon that of fire; but that we passed 
 beyond it, I cannot believe ; for, the fiery region lying between the 
 sphere of the moon and the uppermost region of the air, we could 
 not reach the heaven where the seven goats are which Sancho 
 speaks of, without being burned; and, since we were not burned, 
 either Sancho les, or Sancho dreams.” ‘I neither lie nor dream,” 
 answered Sancho; ‘‘ only ask me the marks of these same goats, 
 and by them you may guess whether I speak the truth or not.” 
 “‘Tell us what they were, Sancho,” quoth the duchess. ‘‘ Two of 
 them,” replied Sancho, ‘‘are green, two carnation, two blue, and 
 one motley-coloured.” ‘‘A new kind of goats are those,” said the 
 duke; ‘‘in our region of the earth we have none of such colours.” 
 ««The reason is plain,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘ yeur highness will allow 
 that there must be some difference between the goats of heaven 
 
 * The Pleiades are vulgarly called in Spain, “ the seven little she-goats.” 
 
WHAT SANCHO SAW. 487 
 
 and those of earth.” ‘‘Pr’ythee, Sancho,” said the duke, ‘‘ was 
 there a he-goat among them?” ‘‘ Not one, sir,” answered Sancho; 
 ‘‘and I was told that none are suffered to pass beyond the horns of 
 the moon.” 
 
 They did not choose to question Sancho any more concerning his 
 journey, perceiving him to be in the humour to ramble all over the 
 heavens, and tell them of all that was passing there, without having 
 stirred a foot from the place where he mounted. 
 
 Thus concluded the adventure of the afflicted duenna, which 
 furnished the duke and duchess with a subject of mirth, not only 
 at the time, but for the rest of their lives, and Sancho something 
 to relate had he lived for ages. ‘‘Sancho,” said Don Quixote 
 (whispering him in the ear), ‘‘if thou wouldst have us credit all 
 thou hast told us of heaven, I expect thee to believe what I saw in 
 Montesinos’ cave—I say no more.” 
 
 OA AO PVT. B Re XU ER 
 
 Containing the instructions which Don Quixote gave to Sancho 
 Panza before he went to his government; with other well- 
 considered matters. 
 
 The duke and duchess being so well pleased with the afflicted 
 duenna, were encouraged to proceed with other projects, seeing 
 that there was nothing too extravagant for the credulity of the 
 knight and squire. The necessary orders were accordingly issued . 
 to their servants and vassals with regard to their behaviour towards 
 Sancho in his government of the promised island. The day after the 
 flight of Clavileno, the duke bid Sancho prepare and get himself in 
 readiness to assume his office, for his islanders were already wishing 
 for him as for rain in May. Sancho made a low bow, and said, 
 ‘‘ Hver since my journey to heaven, when I looked down and saw 
 the earth so very small, my desire to be a governor has partly 
 cooled ; for what mighty matter is it to command on a spot no 
 bigger than a grain of mustard-seed; where is the majesty and 
 pomp of governing half a dozen creatures no bigger than hazel-nuts? 
 If your lordship will be pleased to offer me some small portion of 
 heaven, though it be but half a league, I would jump at it sooner 
 than for the largest island in the world.” 
 
 ‘*Look you, friend Sancho,” answered the duke, ‘‘I can give 
 away no part of heaven, not even a nail’s breadth; for God has 
 reserved to himself the disposal of such favours; but what it is in 
 my power to give, I give you with all my heart; and the island 
 I now present to you is ready made, round and sound, well- 
 proportioned, and above measure fruitful, and where, by good 
 management, you may yourself, with the riches of the earth, 
 
 urchase an inheritance in heaven.” ‘‘ Well, then,” answered 
 ancho, ‘‘ Jet this island be forthcoming, and it shall go hard with 
 me, but I will be such a governor that, in spite of rogues, heaven 
 will take mein, Nor is it out of covetousness that I forsake my 
 
488 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 humble cottage, and aspire to greater things, but the desire I have 
 to taste what it is to be a governor.” ‘‘If once you taste it, 
 Sancho,” quoth the duke, ‘‘ you will lick your fingers after 1t—so 
 sweet it is to command and be obeyed. And certain I am, when 
 your master becomes an emperor, of which there is no doubt, as 
 matters proceed so well, it would be impossible to wrest his power 
 from him, and his only regret will be that he had it not sooner.” 
 “Faith, sir, you are in the right,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘it is pleasant to 
 govern, though it be but a flock of sheep.” ‘‘ Let me be buried 
 with you, Sancho,” replied the duke, ‘‘if you know not something 
 of everything, and I doubt not you will prove a pearl of a governor. 
 But enough of this for the present ; to-morrow you surely depart for 
 your island, and this evening you shall be fitted with suitable 
 apparel, and with all things necessary for your appointment.” 
 ‘*Clothe me as you will,” said Sancho, ‘‘I shall still be Sancho 
 Panza.” ‘‘That is true,” said the duke; ‘‘but the garb should 
 always be suitable to the office and rank of the wearer; for a lawyer 
 to be habited like a soldier, or a soldier like a priest, would be 
 preposterous: and you, Sancho, must be clad partly like a scholar, 
 and partly like a soldier: as, in the office you will hold, arms and 
 learning are united.” ‘As for learning,” replied Sancho, ‘‘I have 
 not much of that, for I hardly know nsy A BC; but to be a good 
 governor it will be enough that I am able to make my Christ-cross ; 
 and as to arms, I shall handle such as are given me till I fall.” 
 ** With so good an intention,” quoth the duke, ‘‘ Sancho cannot do 
 wrong.” At this time Don Quixote came up to them, and hearing 
 how soon Sancho was to depart to his government, he took him by 
 the hand, and with the duke’s leave, led him to his chamber, in 
 order to give him some advice respecting his conduct in office; 
 and, having entered, he shut the door, and, almost by force, 
 made Sancho sit down by him, and with much solemnity addressed 
 him in these words :— 
 
 **T am thankful to Heaven, friend Sancho, that even before for- 
 tune has crowned my hopes, prosperity has gone forth to meet thee. 
 1, who had trusted in my own success for the reward of thy services, 
 am still but on the road to advancement, whilst thou, prematurely, 
 and before all reasonable expectation, art come into full possession of 
 thy wishes. Some must bribe, importune, solicit, attend early, 
 pray, persist, and yet do not obtaim what they desire ; whilst an- 
 other comes, and, without knowing how, jumps at once into the 
 preferment for which so many had sued in vain. It is truly said 
 that ‘merit does much, but fortune more.’ Thou, who in respect 
 to me, art but a very simpleton, without either early rising or late 
 watching, without labour of body or mind, by the air alone of 
 knight-errantry breathing on thee, findest thyself the governor of 
 an island, as if it were a trifle, a thing of no account! 
 
 ‘* All this I say, friend Sancho, that thou mayest not ascribe the 
 favour done thee to thine own merit, but give thanks, first to 
 Heaven, which disposeth things so kindly ; and in the next place, 
 acknowledge with gratitude the inherent grandeur of the profes- 
 sion of knight-errantry. Thy heart being disposed to believe what 
 
HIS ADVICE TO SANCHO. 489 
 
 I have now said to thee, be attentive, son, to me thy Cato, who 
 will be thy counsellor, thy north star and guide, to conduct and 
 steer thee safe into port, out of that tempestuous sea on which thou 
 art going to embark, and where thou wilt be in danger of being 
 swallowed up in a gulf of confusion. 
 
 “First, my son, fear God; for to fear Him is wisdom; and 
 being wise thou canst not err. 
 
 “Secondly, consider what thou art, and endeavour to know thy- 
 self, which is the most difficult study of all others. The know- 
 ledge of thyself will preserve thee from vanity, and the fate of the 
 frog that foolishly vied with the ox, will serve thee as a caution: the 
 recollection, too, of formerly having been a swineherd in thine own 
 country will be to thee, in the loftiness of thy pride, like the ugly 
 feet of the peacock.” ‘It is true,” said Sancho, ‘‘that I once kept 
 swine, but I was only a boy then; when I grew towards man I 
 looked after geese, and not hogs. But this, methinks, is nothing 
 to the purpose; for all governors are not descended from kings.” 
 “That I grant,” replied Don Quixote; ‘‘and therefore those who 
 have not the advantage of noble descent, should not fail to grace 
 the dignity of the office they bear with gentleness and modesty, 
 which, when accompanied with discretion, will silence those mur- 
 murs which few situations in life can escape. 
 
 ‘*Conceal not the meanness of thy family, nor think it disgrace- 
 ful to be descended from peasants; for, when it is seen that thou 
 art not thyself ashamed, none will endeavour to make thee so; and 
 deem it more meritorious to be a virtuous humble man than a lofty 
 sinner. Infinite is the number of those who, born of low extrac- 
 tion, have risen to the highest dignities, both in church and state; 
 and of this truth I could tire thee with examples. 
 
 “* Remember, Sancho, if thou takest virtue for the rule of life, 
 and valuest thyself upon acting in all things conformably thereto, 
 thou wilt have no cause to envy lords and princes; for blood is in- 
 herited, but virtue is a common property and may be acquired by 
 all; it has, moreover, an intrinsic worth which blood has not. 
 This being so, if peradventure any one of thy kindred visit thee in 
 thy government, do not slight nor affront him; but receive, 
 cherish, and make much of him; for in so doing thou wilt please 
 God, who allows none of His creatures to be despised; and thou 
 wilt also manifest therein a well-disposed nature. 
 
 ‘Tf thou takest thy wife with thee (and it is not well for those 
 who are appointed to governments to be long separated from their 
 families), teach, instruct, and polish her from her natural rudeness ; 
 
 - for it often happens that all the consideration a wise governor can 
 acquire is lost by an ill-bred and foolish woman. 
 
 ‘If thou shouldst become a widower (an event which is possible), 
 and thy station entitles thee toa better match, seek not one to 
 serve thee for a hook and angling-rod, or a friar’s hood to receive 
 alms in ;* for, believe me, whatever the judge’s wife receives, the 
 
 * An allusion to the proverb, ‘No quiero, mas echadmelo en mi capilla,” that is, 
 
 “JY will not, but throw it into my hood.” It is applied to the begging friars who 
 refuse to take money, but suffer it to be thrown into their hoods, 
 
490 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 husband must account for at the general judgment, and shall be 
 made to pay four-fold for all that of which he has rendered no ac- 
 count during his life. 
 
 ‘*Be not under the dominion of thine own will; it is the vice 
 of the ignorant who vainly presume on their own understanding. 
 
 “Let the tears of the poor find more compassion, but not more 
 justice, from thee, than the applications of the wealthy. 
 
 ‘‘Be equally solicitous to sift out the truth amidst the pre- 
 sents and promises of the rich and the sighs and entreaties of the 
 
 oor. : 
 ve Whenever equity may justly temper the rigour of the law, 
 let not the whole force of 1t bear upon the delinquent; for it is 
 better that a judge should lean on the side of compassion than 
 severity. 
 
 ‘If, perchance, the scales of justice be not correctly balanced, 
 let the error be imputable to pity, not to gold. 
 
 ‘**Tf, perchance, the cause of thine enemy come before thee, for- 
 get thy injuries, and think only on the merits of the case. 
 
 “‘Let not private affection blind thee in another man’s cause; 
 for the errors thou shalt thereby commit are often without remedy, 
 and at the expense both of thy reputation and fortune. 
 
 ‘¢When a beautiful woman comes before thee to demand justice, 
 consider maturely the nature of her claim, without regarding 
 either her tears or her sighs, unless thou wouldst expose thy judg- 
 ment to the danger of being lost in the one, and thy integrity in 
 the other. 
 
 **Revile not with words him whom thou hast to correct with 
 deeds ; the punishment which the unhappy wretch is doomed to 
 suffer is sufficient, without the addition of abusive language. 
 
 ‘‘When the criminal stands before thee, recollect the frail and 
 depraved nature of man, and, as much as thou canst, without jus- 
 tice to the suffering party, show pity and clemency ; for, though the 
 attributes of God are all equally adorable, yet His mercy is more 
 shining and attractive in our eyes than His justice. 
 
 ‘Tf, Sancho, thou observest these precepts, thy days will be 
 long and thy fame eternal; thy recompense full, and thy felicity 
 unspeakable. Thou shalt marry thy children to thy heart’s con- 
 tent, and they and thy grandchildren shall want neither honours 
 nor titles. Beloved by all men, thy days shall pass in peace and 
 tranquillity ; and when the inevitable period comes, death shall 
 steal on thee in a good and venerable old age, and thy grand- 
 children’s children, with their tender and pious hands, shall close 
 thine eyes. 
 
 ‘‘The advice I have just given thee, Sancho, regards the good 
 and ornament of thy mind; now listen to the directions I have to 
 give concerning thy person and deportment.” 
 
 2 
 
HIS ADVICE TO SANCHO. 491 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 Of the second series of instructions Don Quixote gave to 
 Sancho Panza, 
 
 Who that has duly considered Don Quixote’s instructions to his 
 squire would not have taken him for a person of singular intelli- 
 gence and discretion? But, in truth, as it has often been said in 
 the progress of this great history, he raved only on the subject of 
 chivalry ; on all others he manifested a sound and discriminating 
 understanding ; wherefore his judgment and his actions appeared 
 continually at variance. Butin these second instructions given to 
 Sancho, which showed much ingenuity, his wisdom and frenzy are 
 both singularly conspicuous, . 
 
 During the whole of this private conference, Sancho listened to 
 his master with great attention, and endeavoured so to register his 
 counsel in his mind, that he might thereby be enabled to bear the 
 burden of government, and acquit himself honourably. Don Quixote 
 now proceeded :— 
 
 ‘*Asto the regulation of thine own person and domestic con- 
 cerns,” said he, ‘‘in the first place, Sancho, I enjoin thee to be 
 cleanly in all things. Keep the nails of thy fingers constantly and 
 neatly pared, nor suffer them to grow as some do, who ignorantly 
 imagine that long nails beautify the hand, and account the excess 
 of that excreraent simply a finger-nail, whereas it is rather the talon 
 of the lizard-hunting kestrel—a foul and unsightly object. 
 
 **Go not loose and unbuttoned, Sancho; for a slovenly dress be- 
 tokens a careless mind; or, as in the case of Julius Ceasar, it may 
 be attributed to cunning. 
 
 ‘‘Hxamine prudently the income of thy office, and if it will 
 afford thee to give liveries to thy servants, give them such as are 
 decent and lasting, rather than gaudy and modish; and what thou 
 shalt thus save in thy servants bestow on the poor; so shalt thou 
 have attendants both in heaven and earth,—a provision which our 
 vain-glorious great never think of. 
 
 ‘* Kat neither garlic nor onions, lest the smell betray thy rusti- 
 city. Walk with gravity, and speak deliberately, but not so as to 
 seem to be listening to thyself; for affectation is odious. 
 
 ‘** Kat little at dinner and less at supper; for the health of the 
 whole body is tempered in the laboratory of the stomach. 
 
 “Drink with moderation; for inebriety never keeps a secret nor 
 performs a promise. 
 
 ‘*“Take heed, Sancho, not to chew on both sides of thy mouth at 
 once, and by no means to eruct before company.” ‘‘I know not 
 what you mean by eruct,” quoth Sancho. ‘‘ To eruct,” said Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘means to belch :—a filthy, though very significant word ; 
 and therefore the polite, instead of saying belch, make use of the 
 word eruct, which is borrowed from the Latin; and for belchings 
 they say ‘eructations ;’ and though it is true that some do not yet 
 
492, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 understand these terms, it matters not much, for in time, by use 
 and custom, their meaning will be known to all; and it is by such 
 innovations that languages are enriched.” ‘‘By my faith, sir,” 
 quoth Sancho, ‘‘I shall bear in mind this counsel about not belch- 
 ing, for, in truth, J am hugely given to it.” ‘‘ Eructing, Sancho, 
 and not belching,” said Don Quixote. ‘‘Eructing it shall be, 
 henceforward,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘and I shall never forget it.” 
 
 “‘In the next place, Sancho, do not intermix im thy discourse 
 such a multitude of proverbs as thou wert wont to do; for though 
 proverbs are concise and pithy sentences, thou dost so often drag 
 them in by the head and shoulders, that they seem rather the 
 maxims of folly than of wisdom.” ‘‘ Heaven alone can remedy 
 that,’ quoth Sancho; ‘‘for I know more than a handful of pro- 
 verbs, and when I talk, they crowd so thick into my mouth, that 
 they quarrel which shall get out first; so out they come hap-hazard, 
 and no wonder if they should sometimes not be very pat to the pur- 
 pose. But I will take heed in future to utter only such as become 
 the gravity of my place; ‘for in a plentiful house supper is soon 
 dressed ;’ ‘he that cuts does not deal ;’ and, ‘with the repique in 
 hand the game is sure ;’ ‘he is no fool who can both spend and 
 spare.’” ‘*So, so, there, out with them, Sancho,” quoth Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘spare them not ;—my mother whips me and | still tear 
 on. While I am warning thee from the prodigal use of proverbs, 
 thou pourest upon me a whole litany of them, as fitting to the pre- 
 sent purpose as if thou hadst sung, ‘Hey down derry!’ Attend to 
 me, Sancho; I do not say a proverb is amiss when aptly and season- 
 ably applied; but to be for ever discharging them, right or wrong, 
 hit or miss, renders conversation insipid .and vulgar. 
 
 ‘* When thou art on horseback, do not throw thy body backward 
 over the crupper, nor stretch thy legs out stiff and straddling from 
 the horse’s belly; neither let them hang dangling, as if thou wert 
 still upon Dapple ; for by their deportment and air on horseback 
 gentlemen are distinguished from grooms. 
 
 ‘‘ Let thy sleep be moderate; for he who rises not with the sun 
 enjoys not the day ; and remember, Sancho, that diligence is the 
 mother of good fortune, and that sloth her adversary never arrived 
 at the attainment of a good wish. 
 
 ‘* At this time I have but one more admonition to give thee, which, 
 though it concerns not thy person, is well worthy of thy careful re- 
 membrance. It is this,—never undertake to decide contests con- 
 cerning lineage, or the pre-eminence of families; since, in the com- 
 parison, one must of necessity have the advantage, and he whom 
 thou hast humbled will hate thee, and he who is preferred will not 
 reward thee. 
 
 ‘‘ Ag for thy dress, wear breeches and hose, a long coat, and a 
 cloak somewhat longer; but for trousers or trunk-hose, think not 
 of them; they are not becoming either gentlemen or governors. 
 
 ‘“'This is all the advice, friend Sancho, that occurs to me at pre- 
 sent ; hereafter, as occasions offer, my instructions will be ready, 
 provided thou art mindful to inform me of the state of thy affairs.” 
 ‘* Sir,” answered Sancho, ‘‘I see very well that all your worship 
 
SANCHO’S STOCK OF PROVERBS. 493 
 
 has told me is wholesome and profitable; but what shall I be the 
 better for it if I cannot keep it in my head? It is true I shall not 
 easily forget what you said about paring my nails, and marrying 
 againif the opportunity offered; but for your other quirks and quillets, 
 I protest they have already gone out of my head as clean as last 
 year’s clouds ; and therefore let me have them in writing; for, though 
 I cannot read them myself, I will give them to my confessor, that 
 he may repeat and drive them into me in time of need.” 
 
 ** How scurvy,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ doth it look in a governor 
 to be unable to read or write! Indeed, Sancho, I must needs tell 
 thee that when a man has not been taught to read, or is left-handed, 
 it argues that his parentage was very low, or that in early life he 
 was so indocile and perverse that his teachers could beat nothing 
 good into him. ‘Truly this is a great defect in thee, and there- 
 fore I would have thee learn to write, if it were only thy name.” 
 ‘That I can do already,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘for when [ was 
 steward of the Brotherhood in our village, I learned to make 
 certain marks like those upon wool-packs, which, they told me, 
 stood formy name. But, at the worst, I can feign a lameness in 
 my right hand, and get another to signfor me; there is a remedy 
 for everything but death; and, having the staff in my hand, I 
 can do what I please. Besides, as your worship knows, he ‘whose 
 father is mayor,’*—and I, being governor, am, I trow, something 
 more than mayor. Ay, ay, let them come that list, and play at 
 bo-peep,—ay, fleer and backbite me; but ‘they may come for wool, 
 and go back shorn:’ ‘his home is savoury whom God loves ;’—be- 
 sides, ‘the rich man’s blunders pass current for wise maxims ;’ so 
 that I being a governor, and therefore wealthy, and bountiful to 
 boot—as I intend to be—nobody will see any blemish in me. No, 
 no, ‘let the clown daub himself with honey, and he will never want 
 flies.’ ‘As muchas you have, just so much you are worth,’ said my 
 grandam ; revenge yourself upon the rich who can.” ‘‘ Confound 
 thee and thy proverbs!” exclaimed Don Quixote, ‘‘this hour, or 
 more, thou hast been stringing thy musty wares, poisoning and tor- 
 turing me without mercy. Take my word for it, these proverbs 
 will one day bring thee to the gallows ;—they will surely provoke 
 thy people to rebellion! Where dost thou find them? How shouldst 
 thou apply them—idiot? for I toil and sweat asif I were delving 
 ground to utter but one and apply it properly.” 
 
 ‘‘ Master of mine,” replied Sancho, ‘‘ your worship complains of 
 very trifles. Why are you angry that I make use of my own 
 goods? for other stock I have none, nor any stock but proverbs 
 upon proverbs; and just now I have four ready to pop out, all pat 
 and fitting as pears in a pannier—but I am dumb; silence is my 
 name.” + ‘‘Then art thou vilely miscalled,” quoth Don Quixote, 
 ‘* being an eternal babbler, Nevertheless, I would fain know these 
 four proverbs that come so pat to the purpose ; for I have been rum- 
 maging my own memory, which is no bad one, but for the soul of 
 me, can find none.” ‘‘ Can there be better,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ than 
 
 * The entire proverb is—“ He whose father is mayor goes gafe to his trial.” 
 t The proverb is, ‘f Lo keep silence well is called Santo.” 
 > 
 
494 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 —‘never venture your fingers between two eye-teeth ;’ and with— 
 ‘Get out of my house—what would you have with my wife?’ there 
 is no arguing; and, ‘Whether the pitcher hits the stone, or the 
 stone hits the pitcher, it goes ill with the pitcher.’ All these, your 
 worship must see, fit toa hair. Let no one meddle with the gover- 
 nor or his deputy, or he will come off the worst, like him who claps 
 his finger between two eye-teeth, and though they were not eye- 
 teeth, ’tis enough if. they be but teeth. To what a governor says 
 there is no replying, any more than to ‘ Get out of my house—what 
 business have you with my wife?’ Then as to the stone and the 
 pitcher—a blind man may see that. So he who points to the mote 
 in another man’s eye should first look to the beam in his own, that 
 it may not be said of him, the dead woman was afraid of her that 
 was flayed. Besides, your worship knows well that the fool knows 
 more in his own house than the wise in that of another.” 
 
 **Not so, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote: ‘‘the fool knows 
 nothing, either in his own or any other house; for knowledge is 
 not to be erected upon so bad a foundation as folly. But here let 
 it rest, Sancho, for, if thou governest ill, though the fault will be 
 thine, the shame willbe mine. However, I am comforted in having 
 given thee the best counsel in my power; and therein having done 
 my duty, Iam acquitted both of my obligation and promise; so 
 God speed thee, Sancho, and govern thee in thy government, and 
 deliver me from the fears I entertain that thou wilt turn the whole 
 island topsy-turvy !—which, indeed, I might prevent, by letting the 
 duke know what thou art, and telling him that all that paunch-gut 
 and little carcass of thine is nothing but a sack full of proverbs and 
 impertinence.” 
 
 ** Look you, sir,” rephed Sancho, ‘‘if your worship thinks I am 
 not fit for this government, I renounce it from this time; for I have 
 more regard for a single nail's-breath of my soul, than for my whole 
 body ; and plain Sancho can live as well upon bread and onions, as 
 governor Sancho upon capon and partridge. Besides, sleep makes 
 us all alike, great and small, rich and poor. Call to mind, too, 
 who first put this whim of governor into my head—who was it but 
 yourself? for, alack, I know no more about governing islands than 
 a bustard; and if you fancy that in case I should be a governor, 
 the devil will have me—let me rather go to heaven plain Sancho, 
 than a governor to the other place.” ‘‘ Sancho,” quoth Don Quixote, 
 ‘*for those last words of thine I think that thou deservest to be 
 governor of a thousand islands. Thou hast a good disposition, 
 without which knowledge is of no value. Pray to God, and en- 
 deavour not to err in thy intention. I mean, let it ever be thy un- 
 shaken purpose and design to do right in whatever business occurs, 
 for Heaven constantly favours a good intention. And now let us 
 go to dinner, for I believe their highnesses wait for us.” 
 
OID HAMET’S LAMENT. 495 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 How Sancho Panza was conducted to his government, and of the strange 
 adventure which befell Don Quixote in the castle. 
 
 We have been told that there is a manifest difference between the 
 translation and the original, in the beginning of this chapter; the 
 translator having entirely omitted what the historian, Cid Hamet, 
 here took occasion to say of himself, where he laments his ever 
 having engaged in a work like the present, of so dry and so limited a 
 subject, wherein he was confined to a dull narrative of the trans- 
 actions of the crazy knight and his squire; not daring to launch 
 put into episodes and digressions, that would have yielded both 
 pleasure and profitin abundance. To have his invention, his hand, 
 and his pen, thus tied down to a single subject, and confined to so 
 scanty a list of characters, he thought an insupportable hardship, 
 as it gave him endless trouble, and promised him nothing for his 
 pains. Inthe First Part he had endeavoured, he said, to make 
 amends for the defect here complained of, by introducing such tales 
 as ‘* The Captive ;” and though these, it is true, did not strictly make 
 a part of the history, the same objection could not apply to other 
 stories which are there brought in, and appear so naturally con- 
 nected with Don Quixote’s affair that they could not be well omitted. 
 But finding, he said, the attention of his readers so engrossed by the 
 exploits of his mad hero, that they have none to bestow on his 
 novels, and that being run over in haste, their reception is not pro- 
 pertioned to their merit, which would have been sufficiently ob- 
 vious if they had been published separately, and unmixed with the 
 extravagances of Don Quixote, and the simplicities of his squire; 
 finding this to be the case, he has, in the Second Part, admitted no 
 unconnected tales, and only such episodes as arose out of the events 
 that actually occurred ; and even these with all possible brevity. 
 But although he has thus consented to restrain his genius, and to 
 keep within the narrow limits of a simple narrative—thereby sup. 
 pressing knowledge and talents sufficient to treat of the whole uni- 
 verse, he hopes his book will not do him any discredit, but that he 
 may be applauded for what he has written, and yet more for what 
 he has omitted, in obedience to the restrictions imposed upon him. 
 He then goes on with his history, where the translator has taken it 
 up, as follows :— 
 
 Don Quixote, in the evening of the day in which Sancho had re- 
 ceived his admonitions, gave him a copy of them in writing, that 
 he might get them read to him occasionally ; but they were no 
 sooner delivered to Sancho than he dropped them, and they fell 
 into the duke’s hands, who communicated them to the duchess, 
 and both were again surprised at the good sense and madness of 
 Don Quixote. That very evening, in prosecution of their merry 
 project, they despatched Sancho, with a large retinue, to the place 
 which, to him, was to be an island. The person who had the 
 
496 ANVINTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 management of the business was steward to the duke; a man of 
 much humour, and who had, besides, a good understanding— 
 indeed, without that there can be no true pleasantry. He it was 
 who had already personated the Countess Trifaldi in the manner 
 before related; and being so well qualified, and likewise so well 
 tutored by his lord and lady as to his behaviour towards Sancho, 
 no wonder he performed his part to admiration. Now it so hap- 
 pened that the moment Sancho cast his, eyes upon this same 
 steward, he fancied he saw the very face of the Trifaldi: and, 
 turning to his master, ‘‘ As [am an honest man and a true believer,” 
 said he, ‘‘ your worship will own that the face of this steward is 
 the very same as that of the afflicted lady !” 
 
 Don Quixote looked at the steward very earnestly, and having 
 viewed him from head to foot, he said, ‘‘ There is no need, Sancho, 
 of swearing to thy honesty and faith; for, though I know not thy 
 meaning, | plainly see the steward’s face is similar to that of the 
 afflicted lady; yet is the steward not the afflicted lady, for that 
 would imply a palpable contradiction, which, were we now to exam- 
 ine and inquire into, would only involve us in doubts and difficulties 
 that might be still more inexplicable. Believe me, friend, it is our 
 duty earnestly to pray that we may be protected from the wicked 
 wizards and enchanters that infest us.” ‘‘ Sir, it is no jesting mat- 
 ter,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘for I heard him speak just now, and me- 
 thought the very voice of Madam Trifaldi sounded in my ears! 
 But I say nothing—only I shall keep my eye upon him, and time 
 will show whether I am right or wrong.”” ‘‘Doso, Sancho,” quoth 
 Don Quixote ; ‘‘and fail not to give me advice of all thou mayest 
 discover in this affair, and of all that happens to thee in thy govern- 
 ment.’ 
 
 At length Sancho set out with anumerous train. He was dressed 
 like one of the long robe, wearing a loose gown of sad-coloured 
 
 -camlet, and a cap of the same. He was mounted upon a mule, 
 ’ which he rode gineta fashion, and behind him, by the duke’s order, 
 was led his Dapple, adorned with shining trappings of silk ; which 
 so delighted Sancho that every now and then he turned his head 
 to look upon him, and thought himself so happy that he would not 
 have changed conditions with the emperor of Germany. On taking 
 leave of the duke and duchess, he kissed their hands; at the same 
 time he received his master’s blessing, not without tears on both 
 sides. 
 
 Now, loving reader, let honest Sancho depart in peace, and in a 
 happy hour; the accounts hereafter given of his conduct in office 
 may, perchance, excite thy mirth; but at the same time, let us 
 attend to what befell bis master on the same night, at which, if 
 thou dost not laugh outright, at least thou wilt show thy teeth, 
 and grin like a monkey ; for it is the property of all the noble 
 knight’s adventures to produce either surprise or merriment. 
 
 It is related, then, that immediately after Sancho’s departure, 
 Don Quixote began to feel the solitary state in which he was now 
 left, and had it been possible for him to have revoked the commis- 
 sion, and deprived Sancho of his goyernment, he would certainly 
 
THE KNIGHT'S SADNESS. 497 
 
 have done it. The duchess, perceiving this change, inquired the 
 cause of this sadness; adding, that if it was on account of Sancho’s 
 absence, her home contained abundance of squires, duennas, and 
 damsels, all ready to serve him to his heart’s desire. ‘‘It is true, 
 madam,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ that Sancho’s absence somewhat 
 weighs upon my heart, but that is not the principal cause of my 
 apparent sadness; and of all your excellency’s kind offers I accept 
 only of the good-will with which they are tendered; saving that I 
 humbly entreat that your excellency will be pleased to permit me 
 to wait upon myself in my own apartment.” ‘‘By my faith, 
 Signor Don Quixote,” quoth the duchess, ‘‘ that must not be; you 
 shall be served by four of my damsels all beautiful as roses.” ‘‘ To 
 me,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘they will not be roses, but even as 
 thorns pricking me to the soul;—they must in nowise enter my 
 chamber. If your grace would continue your favours to me, un- 
 merited as they are, suffer me to be alone, and leave me without 
 attendants in my chamber; a practice I would not forego for all 
 your highness’s liberality towards me; in truth I would rather 
 sleep in my garments than consent that others should undress me.” 
 ‘‘Knough, enough, Signor Don Quixote,” replied the duchess, 
 *‘T will surely give orders that not so much asa fly shall enter 
 your chamber. I would by no means be accessory to the violation 
 of Signor Don Quixote’s delicacy ; for, by what I can perceive, the 
 most conspicuous of his virtues is modesty. You shall undress and 
 dress by yourself, your own way, when and how you please; for no 
 intruders shall invade the privacy of your chamber, in which you 
 will find all the accommodation proper for those who sleep with 
 their doors closed, that there may be no necessity for opening them. 
 May the great Dulcinea del Toboso live a thousand ages, and may 
 her name be extended over the whole circumference of the earth, 
 for meriting the love of so valiant and so chaste a knight! And 
 may indulgent Heaven infuse into the heart of Sancho Panza, our 
 governor, a disposition to finish his penance speedily, that the 
 world may again enjoy the beauty of so exalted a lady.” ‘‘ Madam,” 
 returned Don Quixote, ‘‘ your highness has spoken like yourself. 
 From-the mouth of so excellent a lady nothing but what is good 
 and generous can proceed ; and Dulcinea will be more happy, more 
 renowned by the praises your grace bestows upon her than by all the 
 applause lavished by the most eloquent orators upon earth.” ‘‘ Sir 
 knight,” said the duchess, ‘‘I must now remind you that the 
 hour of refreshment draws near—let us to supper, for the duke, 
 perhaps, is waiting for us, and we will retire early, for you must 
 needs be weary after your long journey yesterday to Candaya.” 
 ‘* Not in the least, madam,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘ I can assure 
 your grace that in all my life I never bestrode a horse of an easier 
 or better pace than Clavileno ; and I cannot imagine what should 
 induce Malambruno to deprive himself of so swift and so gentle a 
 steed, and without scruple thus rashly to destroy him.” ‘‘It is 
 not impossible,” said the duchess, ‘‘ that repenting of the mischief 
 he had done to the Trifaldi and her attendants, as well as to many 
 other persons, and of the iniquities he had committed as a wizard 
 
 . 21 
 
#98 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE:. 
 
 and an enchanter, he was determined to destroy all the implements 
 of his art, and accordingly he burnt Clavileno, as the principal; 
 being the engine which enabled him to rove all over the world; 
 and thus by his memorable destruction, and the record which he 
 has caused to be set up, has eternized the memory of the great Don 
 Quixote de la Mancha.” 
 
 Don Quixote repeated his thanks to the duchess; and after sup- 
 per he retired to his chamber, where, conformably to his deter- 
 mination, he remained alone; suffering no attendants to approach 
 him. He closed his door after him, and undressed himself by the 
 light of two wax candles; but on pulling off his stockings—O dire- 
 ful mishap, unworthy of such a personage ! forth bursts—not sighs, 
 nor anything else unbecoming the purity of his manners, but some 
 two dozen stitches in one of his stockings, giving it the resemblance 
 of a lattice-window! The good knight was extremely afflicted, and 
 would have given an ounce of silver to have had just then a drachm 
 of green silk—I say green, because his stockings were of that 
 colour. 
 
 Here Benengeli exclaims, ‘‘O poverty, poverty ! I cannot imagine 
 what could have induced the great Cordovan poet to call thee ‘a 
 holy, thankless gift!’ I, though a Moor, have learnt, by the inter- 
 course I have had with the Christians, that holiness consists in 
 charity, humility, faith, obedience, and poverty. Yet I maintain 
 that a man must be much indebted to God’s grace who can be con- 
 tented in poverty ;—unless, indeed, it be of that kind to which one 
 of their greatest saints alludes, saying, ‘ possess all things as not 
 possessing them,’—which is no other than poverty in spirit. But 
 thou, I mean, O second poverty ! accursed indigence! itis of thee I 
 would now speak—why dost thou intrude upon gentlemen, and 
 delight in persecuting the well-born in preference to all others? 
 Why dost thou force them to cobble their own shoes; and on the 
 same threadbare garments wear buttons of every kind and colour ? 
 Why must their ruffs be, for the most part, ill-plaited and worse 
 
 starched?” (By the way, this shows the antiquity both of starch 
 
 and ruffs.) ‘*‘ Wretched is the poor gentleman who, while he pampers 
 his honour, starves his belly; dining scurvily, or fasting unseen 
 with his door locked: then out in the street he marches, making a 
 hypocrite of his toothpick, and picking where, alas! there was no- 
 thing to pick! Wretched he, I say, whose honour is in a state of 
 continual alarm; who thinks, that at the distance of a league, 
 every one discovers the patch upon his shoe, the greasiness of his 
 hat, the threadbareness of his cloak, and even the cravings of his 
 stomach !” 
 
 All these melancholy reflections must have passed through Don 
 Quixote’s mind as he surveyed the fracture in his stocking; never- 
 theless he was much comforted on finding that Sancho had left him 
 a pair of travelling-boots, in which he immediately resolved to 
 make his appearance the next day. He now laid himself down, 
 pensive and heavy-hearted, not more for lack of Sancho than for 
 the misfortune of his stocking, which he would gladly have darned, 
 even with silk of another colour:—that most expressive token of 
 
ALTISIDORA’S SONG. 499 
 
 gentlemanly poverty! His lights were now extinguished, but the 
 weather was sultry, and he could not compose himself to sleep; 
 he therefore got out of bed, and opened a casement which looked 
 into the garden, which he had no sooner done than he heard the 
 voices of some persons walking on the terrace below. He listened, 
 and could distinctly hear these words, ‘‘ Press me not to sing, dear 
 Emerencia, for you know ever since this stranger entered our castle 
 and my eyes beheld him, I cannot sing, I can only weep. Besides, 
 my lady does not sleep sound, and I would not for the world she 
 should find us here. But though she should not awake, what will 
 my singing avail, if this new Auneas, who comes hither only to leave 
 me forlorn, awakes not to hear it?” ‘‘Do not fancy so, dear 
 Altisidora,’”’ answered the other, ‘‘ for I doubt not but the duchess 
 is asleep, and everybody else in the house except the master of your 
 heart, and disturber of your repose: he, I am sure, is awake, for 
 even now I heard his casement open. Sing, my unhappy friend, in 
 a low and sweet voice to the sound of your lute, and if my lady 
 should hear us, we will plead in excuse the excessive heat of the 
 weather.” ‘‘ My fears are not on that account, my Emerencia,” 
 answered Altisidora, ‘‘but I fear lest my song should betray my heart, 
 and that, by those who know not the mighty force of love, I might 
 be taken for a light damsel; but come what may, I will venture: 
 better a blush in the face than a blot in the heart.” And presently 
 she began to touch a lute so sweetly that Don Quixote was delighted 
 and surprised; at the same time an infinite number of similar ad- 
 ventures rushed into his mind, of casements, grates, and gardens, 
 serenades, courtships, and swoonings, with which his memory was 
 well stored, and he forthwith imagined that some damsel belonging 
 to the duchess had become enamoured of him: though somewhat — 
 fearful of the beautiful foe, he resolved to fortify his heart, and on 
 no account to yield; so, commending himself with fervent devotion 
 to his mistress Dulcinea del Toboso, he determined to listen to the 
 music ; and to let the damsel know he was there, he gave a feigned 
 sneeze, at which they were not a little pleased, as they desired 
 above all things that he should hear them. The harp being now 
 tuned, Altisidora began the following— 
 
 SOO NOG 
 Wake, sir knight, now loves invading, 
 Sleep in Holland sheets no more; 
 When a nymph is serenading, 
 "Tis an arrant shame to snore. 
 
 Hear a damsel tall and tender, 
 Moaning in most rueful guise, 
 
 With heart almost burned to cinder, 
 By the sunbeams of thy eyes. 
 
 To free damsels from disaster 
 Is, they say, your daily care: 
 
 Can you then deny a plaster 
 To a wounded virgin here ? 
 
500 
 
 - Dulcinea, that virago, 
 
 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Well may brag of sucn a cid, 
 Now her fame is up, and may go 
 From Toledo to Madrid. 
 
 Would she but her prize surrender, 
 (Judge how on thy face I dote !) 
 
 In exchange I’d gladly send her 
 My best gown and petticoat. 
 
 But I ask too much, sincerely, 
 And I doubt I ne’er must do’t, 
 
 I’d but kiss your toe, and fairly 
 Get the length thus of your foot. 
 
 How Id rig thee, and what riches 
 Should be heaped upon thy bones ! 
 
 Caps and socks, and cloaks and breeches, 
 Matchless pearls and precious stones. 
 
 Do not from above, like Nero, 
 See me burn and slight my woe, 
 But to quench my fires, my hero, 
 Cast a pitying eye below. 
 
 I’m a virgin-pullet, truly ; 
 One more tender ne’er was seen ; 
 
 A. mere chicken fledged but newly :— 
 Hang me if I’m yet fifteen. 
 
 Wind and limb, all’s tight about me, 
 My hair dangles to my feet ; 
 
 I am straight, too :—if you doubt me, 
 Trust your eyes, come down and see’t. 
 
 I’ve a bob nose has no fellow, 
 And a sparrow’s mouth as rare: 
 
 Teeth like bright topazes, yellow ; 
 Yet I’m deemed a beauty here. 
 
 You know what a rare musician 
 
 (If you hearken) courts your choice ; 
 I dare say my disposition 
 
 Is as taking as my voice. 
 
 Here ended the song of the amorous Altisidora, and began the 
 alarm of the courted Don Quixote; who, fetching a deep sigh, said 
 within himself: ‘‘Why am I so unhappy a knight-errant that no 
 damsel can see but she must presently fall in love with me? Why 
 is the peerless Dulcinea go unlucky that she must not be suffered 
 singly to enjoy this my incomparable constancy? Queens, what 
 would ye have with her? Empresses, why do ye persecute her? 
 
 e 
 
SANCHO’S ARRIVAL AT THE ISLAND. 5OL 
 
 Damsels from fourteen to fifteen, why do ye plague her? Leave, 
 leave the poor creature ; let her triumph and glory in the lot which 
 love bestowed upon her in the conquest of my heart, and the sur- 
 render of my soul. Take notice, enamoured multitude, that to 
 Dulcinea alone I am paste and sugar, and to all others flint. To her 
 I am honey, and to the rest of ye, aloes. To me, Dulcinea alone is 
 beautiful, discreet, lively, modest, and well-born ; all the rest of her 
 sex foul, foolish, fickle, and base-born. Tv be hers, and hers alone, 
 nature sent me into the world. Let Altisidora weep or sing, let the 
 lady despair on whose account I was buffeted in the castle of the 
 enchanted Moor ; boiled or roasted, Dulcinea’s I must be, clean, well- 
 bred, and chaste, in spite of all the necromantic powers on earth.” 
 
 Having so said, he clapped to the casement, and, in despite and 
 sorrow, as if some great misfortune had befallen him, threw himself 
 upon his bed, where we will leave him for the present, to attend 
 the great Sancho Panza, who is desirous of beginning his famous 
 government. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 How the great Sancho Panza took possession of his island, and of the 
 manner of his beginning to govern it. 
 
 O thou ceaseless discoverer of the Antipodes, torch of the world, 
 eye of Heaven, and sweet cause of earthen wine-coolers ;* here 
 Thymbrius, there Pheebus; here archer, there physician ; father of 
 poesy, inventor of music; thou who always risest, and, though thou 
 seemest to do so, never settest; to thee I speak, O sun! thee I 
 invoke to favour and enlighten the obscurity of my genius, that I 
 may be able punctually to describe the government of the great 
 Sancho Panza: without thee I find myself indolent, dispirited, and 
 confused ! 
 
 Sancho, then, with all his attendants, arrived at a town contain- 
 ing about a thousand inhabitants, which was one of the largest and 
 best the duke had. They gave him to understand that it was called 
 the island of Barataria, either because Barataria was really the name 
 of the place, or because he obtained the government of it at so 
 cheap a rate. On his arrival near the gates of the town, which was 
 walled about, the muncipal officers came out to receive him. The 
 bells rung, with all the demonstrations of a general joy and a great 
 deal of pomp, the people conducted him to the great church to give 
 thanks to God. Presently after, with certain ridiculous ceremonies, 
 they presented him the keys of the town, and constituted him per- 
 petual governor of the island of Barataria. The garb, the beard, 
 the thickness, and shortness of the new governor, surprised all that 
 
 * In Spain they called cantimploras small glass decanters or very small earthen 
 
 pitchers, which, to cool the water in the summer, are hung in a current of air. 
 Hence the odd epithet Cervantes applies to the sun. 
 
502 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 were not in the secret, and, indeed, those that were, who were not 
 afew. In fine, as soon as they had brought him out of the church, 
 they carried him to the tribunal of justice, and placed him in the 
 chair. The duke’s steward then said to him :—‘‘It is an ancient 
 custom here, my lord governor, that he who comes to take posses- 
 sion of this famous island is obliged to answer a question put him, 
 which is to be somewhat intricate and difficult. By his answer, the 
 people are enabled to feel the pulse of their new governor’s under- 
 standing, and, accordingly, are eitber glad or sorry for his coming.”’ 
 
 While the steward was saying this, Sancho was staring at some 
 capital letters written on the wall opposite to his chair, and, being 
 unable to read, he asked what that writing was on the wall. He 
 was answered: ‘‘Sir, it is there written on what day your honour 
 took possession of this island. The inscription runs thus: ‘This 
 day, such a day of the month and year, Signor Don Sancho Panza 
 took possession of this island. Long may he enjoy it.’” ‘‘ Pray 
 
 
 
 The Country-fellow. 
 
 who is it they call Don Sancho Panza?” demanded Sancho. ‘‘ Your 
 lordship,” answered the steward ; ‘‘ for no other Panza, besides him 
 now in the chair, ever came into this island.” ‘‘Take notice, then, 
 brother,” returned Sancho, ‘‘ that the Don does not belong to me, 
 nor ever did to any of my family. I am called plain Sancho Panza; 
 my father was a Sancho, and my grandfather was a Sancho, and 
 they were all Panzas, without any addition of Dons, or any other 
 title whatever. I fancy there are more Dons than stones in this 
 island. Butenough, Heaven knows my meaning ; and, perhaps, if my 
 government lasts four days, | may weed out these Dons that over- 
 run the country, and, by their numbers, are as troublesome as mus- 
 quitoes and cousins.* On with your question, master steward, and 
 T will answer the best I can, let the people be sorry or rejoice.” 
 About this time two men came into court, the one clad like a 
 country-fellow, and the other like a tailor, with a pair of shears in 
 his hand; and the tailor said: ‘‘My lord governor, I and this 
 
 * Many plebeians in Cervantes’ time already arrogated to themselves the title of 
 Don, which was until then reserved exclusively for the nobility, 
 
GOVERNOR SANCHO’S FIRST DECISION. 503 
 
 countryman come before your worship by reason this honest man 
 came yesterday to my shop (saving your presence, I am a tailor, 
 and have passed my examination), and putting a piece of cloth into 
 my hands, asked me: ‘Sir, is there enough of this to make mea 
 cap?’ I, measuring the piece, answered yes. Now he, thinking 
 that doubtless I had a mind to cabbage some of the cloth, grounding 
 his conceit upon his own knavery, and upon the common ill opinion 
 of tailors, bade me view it again, and see if there was not enough 
 for two. I guessed his drift, and told him there was. Persisting 
 in his knavish intentions, my customer went on increasing the 
 number of caps, and I still saying yes, till we came to five caps. 
 A little time ago he came to claim them. I offered them to him, 
 but he refuses to pay me for the making, and insists I shall either 
 return him his cloth, or pay him for it.” ‘‘Is this all so, brother?” 
 
 
 
 demanded Sancho. ‘‘ Yes,” answered the man; ‘‘ but pray, my 
 lord, make him produce the five caps he has made me.” ‘* With 
 all my heart,” answered the tailor; and pulling his hand from 
 under his cloak, he showed the five caps on the ends of his fingers 
 and thumb, saying, ‘‘ Here are the five caps this honest man would 
 have me make, and on my soul and conscience, not a shred of the 
 cloth is left, and I submit the work to be viewed by any inspectors 
 of the trade.” All present laughed at the number of the caps and 
 the novelty of the suit. Sancho reflected a moment, and then 
 said, ‘‘ I am of opinion there needs no great delay in this suit, and 
 it may be decided very equitably off hand. Therefore I pronounce, 
 that the tailor lose the making, and the countryman the stuff, and 
 that the caps be confiscated to the use of the poor, and there is an 
 end of that.” 
 
504 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 If the sentence Sancho afterwards passed on the two old 
 men caused the admiration of all the bystanders, this excited 
 their laughter. However, what the governor commanded was exe- 
 cuted, and two old men next presented themselves before him. 
 One of them carried a cane in his hand for a staff; the other, who 
 had no staff, said to Sancho, ‘‘ My lord, some time ago I lent this 
 man ten crowns of gold to oblige and serve him, upon condition 
 that he should return them on demand. I let some time pass 
 without asking for them, being loth to put him to a greater strait 
 to pay me than he was in when I lent them. But at length, think- 
 ing it full time to be repaid, I asked him for my money more than 
 once, but to no purpose: he not only refuses payment, but denies 
 the debt, and says I never lent him any such sum, or, if I did, that 
 he had already paid me. I have no witnesses to the loan, nor has 
 he of the payment which he pretends to have made, but which I 
 deny ; yet if he will swear before your worship that he has returned 
 
 
 
 No ne / 
 
 the money, I from this minute acquit him before God and the 
 world.” ‘* What say you to this, old gentleman?” quoth Sancho. 
 ‘¢T confess, my lord,” replied the old fellow, ‘‘that he did lend me 
 the money, and if your worship pleases to hold down your wand of 
 justice, since he leaves it to my oath, I will swear I have really and 
 truly returned it to him.” The governor accordingly held down 
 his wand, and the old fellow, seeming encumbered with his staff, 
 gave it to his creditor to hold while he was swearing; and then 
 taking hold of the cross of the wand, he said it was true indeed the 
 other had lent him ten crowns, but that he had restored them to 
 him into his own hand; but having, he supposed, forgotten it, he 
 was continually dunning him for them. Upon which his lordship 
 the governor demanded of the creditor what he had to say in reply 
 tothe solemn declaration he had heard. He said that he submitted, 
 and could not doubt but that his debtor had sworn the truth; for 
 he believed him to be an honest man and a good Christian; and 
 that as the fault must have been in his own memory, he would 
 
SANCHO ADMINISTERS JUSTICE. 505 
 
 thenceforward ask him no more for his money. The debtor now 
 took his staff again, and bowing to the governor, went out of 
 court. 
 
 Sancho having observed the defendant take his staff and walk 
 away, and noticing also the resignation of the plaintiff, he began to 
 meditate, and laying the forefinger of his right hand upon his fore- 
 head, he continued a short time apparently full of thought; and 
 
 
 
 then raising his head, he ordered the old man with the staff to be 
 called back; and when he had returned, ‘‘ Honest friend,” said 
 the governor, ‘‘give me that staff, for I have occasion for it.” 
 ‘“With all my heart,” answered the old fellow; and delivered it 
 into his hand. Sancho took it, and immediately giving it to the 
 other old man, he said, ‘‘ There, take that, and go about your 
 business, for you are now paid.” ‘I paid, my lord!” answered 
 the old man, ‘‘what! is this cane worth ten golden crowns?” ‘‘Yes,” 
 
506 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 quoth the governor, ‘‘or I am the greatest dunce in the world: and 
 it shall now appear whether or not I have a head to govern a whole 
 kingdom.” He then ordered the cane to be broken in court ; which 
 being done, ten crowns of gold were found within it. All the 
 spectators were struck with admiration, and began to look upon 
 their new governor as a second Solomon. They asked him how he 
 had discovered that the ten crowns were in the cane. He told 
 them, that having observed the defendant give it to the plaintiff to 
 hold, while he took his oath that he had truly restored the money 
 into his own hands, and that being done he took his staff again, it 
 came into his head that the money in dispute must be enclosed 
 within it. From this, he added, they might see that it sometimes 
 pleased God to direct the judgments of those who govern, though 
 otherwise little better than blockheads. Besides, he had heard the 
 curate of his parish tell of such another business, which was still 
 in his mind; indeed he had so special a memory, that, were it not 
 that he was so unlucky as to forget all that he chiefly wanted 
 to remember, there would not have been a better in the whole 
 island. 
 
 The cause being ended, the two old men went away, the one 
 abashed and the other satisfied; and the secretary, who minuted 
 down the words, actions, and behaviour of Sancho Panza, could 
 not yet determine in his own mind whether he should set him 
 down for wise or simple. 
 
 All the court were in admiration at the acuteness and wisdom 
 of their new governor; all of whose sentences and decrees, being 
 noted down by the appointed historiographer, were immediately 
 transmitted to the duke, who waited for these accounts with the 
 utmost impatience. Here let us_leave honest Sancho and return 
 to his master, who earnestly requires our attendance—Altisidora’s 
 serenade having strangely discomposed his mind. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 Of the dreadful bell-ringing and catish consternation into which Don 
 Quixote was thrown in the course of the enamoured Altisidora’s 
 love making. 
 
 We left the great Don Quixote in bed, harassed with reflections 
 on the conduct of the love-stricken Altisidora; not to mention 
 others, which arose from the disaster of the stocking. He carried 
 them with him to his couch, and had they been fleas, they could 
 not more effectually have disturbed his rest. But Time is ever 
 moving ; nothing can impede his course, and on he came prancing, 
 leading up, at a brisk pace, the welcome morn; which was no 
 sooner perceived by Don Quixote, than, forsaking his pillow, he 
 hastily put on his chamois doublet, and also his travelling-boots, to 
 
. 
 THE KNIGHT S REPLY TO ALTISIDORA. 507 
 
 conceal the misfortune of his stocking. He then threw over his 
 shoulders his scarlet mantle, and put on his head a green velvet 
 cap trimmed with silver lace; his sharp and trusty blade he next 
 slung over his shoulder by its belt, and now, taking up a large 
 rosary, which he always carried about with him, he marched with 
 great state and solemnity towards the ante-chamber, where the 
 duke and duchess expected him; and, as he passed through the 
 gallery, he encountered Altisidora and her damsel friend, who had 
 placed themselves in his way. 
 
 The moment Altisidora caught sight of him, she pretended to 
 fall into a swoon, and dropped into the arms of her companion, who 
 in haste began to unclasp her bosom, Don Quixote, observing this, 
 approached them, and turning to the damsel, ‘‘I well know the 
 meaning of this,” said he, ‘‘and whence these faintings proceed.” 
 ‘*Tt is more than I do,” replied her friend, ‘‘ for this I am sure of, 
 that no damsel in all this family had better health than Altisidora ; 
 I have never heard so much as a sigh from her since I have known 
 her,—ill betide all the knights-errant in the world, say I, if they 
 are all so ungrateful. Pray, my lord Don Quixote, for pity’s sake 
 leave this place; for this poor young creature will not come to her- 
 self while you are near.” ‘‘ Madam,” said the knight, ‘‘ be pleased 
 to order a lute to be left in my chamber to-night, and I will com- 
 fort this poor damsel as far as I am able; for love in the beginning 
 is most easily cured.” 
 
 He then retreated, to avoid observation; and Altisidora, imme- 
 diately recovering from her swoon, said to her companion, ‘ By all 
 means let him have the lute; for doubtless he intends to give us 
 some music, which being his, cannot but be precious.” When they 
 gave the duchess an account of their jest, and of Don Quixote’s 
 desire to have a lute in his apartment, she was exceedingly diverted, 
 and seized the occasion, in consort with the duke and her women, 
 to plot new schemes of harmless merriment ; with great glee, there- 
 fore, they waited for night, which, notwithstanding their impa- 
 tience, did not seem tardy in its approach, since the day was spent 
 in relishing conversation with Don Quixote. On the same day the 
 duchess had also despatched a page of hers (one who had personated 
 Dulcinea in the wood) to Teresa Panza, with her husband’s letter 
 and the bundle he had left to be sent; charging him to bring back 
 an exact account of all that should pass. 
 
 At the hour of eleven Don Quixote retired to his chamber, where 
 he found a lute as he had desired. After touching the instrument 
 lightly, he opened his casement, and, on listening, heard footsteps 
 in the garden ; whereupon he again ran over the strings of his in- 
 strument, and, after tuning it as nicely as he could, he hemmed, 
 cleared his throat, and then with a hoarse, though not unmusical 
 voice, sang the following song, which he had himself composed 
 that day :— 
 
 Love, with idleness is friend, 
 O’er a maiden gains its end ; 
 
 But let business and employment 
 Fill up ev’ry careful moment ; 
 
508 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 These an antidote will prove 
 ’Gainst the pois’nous arts of love. 
 Maidens that aspire to marry, 
 
 In their looks reserve should carry ; 
 Modesty their price should raise, 
 And be the herald of their praise. 
 Love that rises with the sun, 
 With his setting beams is gone: 
 Love that guest-like visits hearts, 
 When the banquet’s o’er, departs : 
 And the love that comes to-day, 
 And to-morrow wings its way, 
 Leaves no traces on the soul, 
 
 Its affections to control. 
 
 Where a sovereign beauty reigns, 
 Fruitless are a rival’s pains— 
 O’er a finish’d picture who 
 
 H’er a second picture drew? 
 
 Fair Dulcinea, queen of beauty, 
 Rules my heart, and claims its duty, 
 Nothing there can take her place, 
 Nought her image can erase. 
 Whether fortune smile or frown, 
 Constancy’s the lover’s crown ; 
 And, its force divine to prove, 
 Miracles perform in love. 
 
 Thus far had Don Quixote proceeded in his song, which was heard 
 by the duke and duchess, Altisidora, and almost all the inmates of 
 the castle ; when suddenly from an open gallery directly over Don 
 Quixote’s window, a rope was letdown, to which above a hundred 
 little tinkling bells were fastened ; and immediately after a huge sack- 
 ful of cats, each furnished with similar bells tied to their tails, was 
 also let down to thewindow. The noise made by these cats and bells 
 was so great and strange that the duke and duchess, though the in- 
 ventors of the jest, were alarmed, and Don Quixote himself was panic- 
 struck. Two or three of thecats made their way into his room, where 
 scouring about from side to side, it seemed as if a legion of devils had 
 broken loose, and were flyingabout theroom. They soon extinguished 
 the lights in the chamber, and endeavoured to make their escape ; in 
 the meantime the rope to which the bells were fastened was play- 
 ing its part, and added to the discord, insomuch that all those who 
 were not in the secret of the plot were amazed and confounded. 
 
 Don Quixote seized his sword, and made thrusts at the casement, 
 crying out aloud, ‘‘Avaunt, ye malicious enchanters! avaunt, ye 
 wizard tribe! for Tam Don Quixote de la Mancha, against whom 
 your wicked arts avail not.” Then, assailing the cats in the room, 
 they fled to the window, where they all escaped except one, which, 
 being hard pressed by the knight, sprung at his face, and, fixing his 
 claws in his nose, made him roar so loud that the duke and duchess, 
 hearing and guessing the cause, ran up in haste to his chamber, 
 
THE BELL-RINGING ADVENTURE. 509 
 
 which they opened with a master-key, and there they found the 
 poor gentleman endeavouring to disengage the creature from his 
 face. On observing the unequal combat, the duke hastened to re- 
 lieve Don Quixote; but he cried out, ‘‘ Let no one take him off! 
 leave me to battle with this demon, this wizard, this enchanter! I 
 will teach him what it is to deal with Don Quixote de la Mancha!” 
 The cat, however, not regarding these menaces, kept her hold till 
 the duke happily disengaged the furious animal, and put him out of 
 the window. 
 
 Don Quixote’s face was hideously scratched all over, not except- 
 ing his nose, which had fared but ill; nevertheless, he was much 
 dissatisfied by the interference which had prevented him from chas- 
 tising that villanous enchanter. Oil of Aparicio was brought for 
 him, and Altisidora herself, with her lily-white hands bound up his 
 wounds; and while she was so employed, she said to him in a low 
 voice, ‘‘ All these misadventures befall thee, hard-hearted knight! 
 as a punishment for your stubborn disdain, and may Sancho, your 
 squire, forget to whip himself, that your darling Dulcinea may 
 never be released from her enchantment—at least, so long as I, your 
 unhappy adorer, shall live!” To all this Don Quixote answered 
 only with a profound sigh, and then stretched himself at full length 
 upon his bed, thanking the duke and duchess, not for their assist- 
 ance against that catish, bell-ringing crew of rascally enchanters, 
 which he despised, but for their kind intention in coming to his 
 succour. His noble friends then left him to repose, not a little con- 
 cerned at the event of their jest, on which they had not calculated ; 
 for it was far from their intention that it should prove so severe to 
 the worthy knight as to cost him five days’ confinement to his 
 chamber. During that period, however, an adventure befell him 
 more relishing than the former, but which cannot, in this place, be 
 recorded, as the historian must now turn to Sancho Panza, who 
 had hitherto proceeded very smoothly in his government. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIL 
 Giving a further account of Sancho’s behaviour in his government. 
 
 The history relates that Sancho Panza was conducted from the 
 court of justice to a sumptuous palace, where in a great hall be 
 found a magnificent entertainment prepared. He had no sooner 
 entered than his ears were saluted by the sound of many instru- 
 ments, and four pages served him with water to wash his hands, 
 which the governor received with becoming gravity. The music 
 having ceased, Sancho now sat down to dinner in a chair of state 
 placed at the upper end of the table; for there was but one seat, 
 and only one plate and napkin. A personage who, as it afterwards 
 appeared, was a physician, took his stand at une side of his chair with 
 a whalebone rod in his hand. They then removed the beautiful 
 white cloth which covered a variety of fruits and other eatables. 
 
510 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Grace was said by one in a student’s dress, and a laced bib was 
 placed by a page under Sancho’s chin. Another, who performed 
 the office of sewer, now set a plate of fruit before him, but he had 
 scarcely tasted it, when, on being touched by the wand-bearer, it 
 was snatched away, and another containing meat instantly supplied 
 its place. Yet, before Sancho could make a beginning, it vanished, 
 like the former, on a signal of the wand. 
 
 The governor was surprised at this proceeding, and, looking 
 around him, asked if this dinner was only to show off their sleight 
 of hand. ‘‘ My lord,” said the wand-bearer, ‘‘ your lordship’s food 
 must here be watched with the same care as is customary with the 
 governors of other islands. [ama doctor of physic, sir, and my 
 duty, for which I receive a salary, is to watch over the governor’s 
 health, whereof Iam more careful than of my own. I study his 
 constitution night and day, that I may know how to restore him 
 when sick ; and therefore think it incumbent on me to pay especial 
 regard to his meals, at which I constantly preside, to see that he 
 eats what is good and salutary, and prevent his touching whatever 
 I imagine may be prejudicial to his health, or offensive to his 
 stomach. It was for that reason, my lord,” continued he, ‘I 
 ordered the dish of fruit to be taken away, as being too watery, 
 and that other dish as being too hot, and over-seasoned with spices, 
 _ which are apt to provoke thirst ; and he that drinks much destroys 
 and consumes the radical moisture, which is the fuel of life.”’ 
 
 ““Well, then,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘that plate of roasted partridges, 
 which seem to me to be very well seasoned, I suppose will do me 
 nomanner of harm?” ‘‘ Hold,” said the doctor ; ‘‘ my lord governor 
 shall not eat them while I live to prevent it.” ‘‘ Pray, why not?” 
 quoth Sancho. ‘‘ Because,” answered the doctor, ‘‘our great 
 master Hippocrates, the north star and luminary of medicine, says 
 in one of his aphorisms, Omnis saturatio mala, perdicis autem 
 pessima; which means, ‘ All repletion is bad, but that from par- 
 tridges the worst.’” ‘‘Ifit be so,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ pray cast your 
 eye, signor doctor, over all these dishes here on the table, and see 
 which will do me the most good, or the least harm, and let me eat 
 of it, without whisking it away with your conjuring-stick: for I 
 am dying with hunger: and to deny me food—let signor doctor say 
 what he will—is not the way to lengthen my life, but to cut it 
 short.’ 
 
 ‘*¢ Your worship is in the right, my lord governor,” answered the 
 physician. ‘‘ And therefore 1 am of opinion you should not eat of 
 these stewed rabbits, as being a food that is tough and acute; of 
 that veal, indeed, you might have taken a little, had it been 
 neither roasted nor stewed; but as it is, not a morsel.” ‘* What 
 think you, then,” said Sancho; ‘‘ of that huge dish there, smoking 
 hot, which I take to be an olla-podrida?—for, among the many 
 things contained in it, I surely may light upon something both 
 wholesome and toothsome.” ‘‘ Absit,” quoth the doctor; ‘‘ far be 
 such a thought from us. Olla-podrida! there is no worse dish in 
 the world ;—leave them to prebends and rectors of colleges, or lusty 
 feeders at country weddings; but let them not be seen on the 
 
SOME OF THE PLEASURES OF GOVERNORS. 511 
 
 tables of governors, where nothing contrary to health and delicacy 
 should be tolerated. Simple medicines are always more estimable 
 and safe, for in them there can be no mistake; whereas, in such 
 as are compounded, all is hazard and uncertainty. Therefore, 
 what I would at present advise my lord governor to eat, in order to 
 corroborate and preserve his health, is about a hundred small rolled- 
 up wafers, with some thin slices of marmalade, that may sit upon 
 the stomach, and help digestion.” 
 
 
 
 Sancho, hearing this, threw himself backward in his chair, and, 
 looking at the doctor from head to foot, very seriously asked him 
 his name, and where he had studied. To which he answered, 
 ‘“My lord governor, my name is Doctor Pedro Rezio de Aguero; I 
 am a native of a place called Tirteafuera, lying between Caraquel 
 and Almoddobar del Campo, on the right hand, and I have taken 
 my doctor’s degrees in the university of Ossuna.” ‘Then hark 
 you,” said Sancho, in a rage, ‘‘Signor Doctor Pedro Rezio de 
 Aguero, native of Tirteafuera, lying on the right hand as we go 
 
512, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 from Caraquel to Almoddobar del Campo, graduate in Ossuna, get 
 out of my sight this instant ;—or I will take a cudgel, and—begin- 
 ning with your carcase, will so belabour all the physic-mongers in 
 the island, that not one of the tribe shall be left ;—I mean of those 
 like yourself, who are ignorant quacks; for those who are learned 
 - and wise I shall make much of, and honour as so many angels. I 
 say again, Signor Pedro Rezio, begone; or I shall take the chair I 
 sit on, and comb your head to some tune; and, if I am called to an 
 account for it when I give up my office, I shall prove that I have 
 done a good service, in ridding the world of a bad physician, who 
 is a public executioner. Body of me; give me something to eat, 
 or let them take back their government: for an office that will not 
 find a man in victuals is not worth two beans.” 
 
 On seeing the governor in such a fury, the doctor would have fled 
 out in the hall, had not the sound of a courier’s horn at that in- 
 stant been heard in the street. ‘‘A courier from my lord duke,” 
 said the sewer (who had looked out of the window), ‘‘ and he must 
 certainly have brought despatches of importance.” The courier 
 entered hastily, foaming with sweat, and in great agitation, and, 
 pulling a packet out of his bosom, he delivered it into the governor’s 
 hands, and by him it was given to the steward, telling him to read 
 the superscription, which was this: ‘‘To Don Sancho Panza, 
 governor of the island of Barataria, to be delivered only to himself, 
 or to his secretary.” ‘‘ Who is my secretary?” said Sancho. ‘It 
 is I, my lord,” answered one who was present, ‘‘for [ can read and 
 write, and am, besides, a Biscayan.” ‘‘ With that addition,” 
 quoth Sancho, ‘‘ you may very well be secretary to the emperor 
 himself ;—open the packet, and see what it holds.” The new 
 secretary did so, and having run his eye over the contents, he said 
 it was a business which required privacy. Accordingly Sancho 
 commanded all to retire excepting the steward and sewer ; and when 
 the hall was cleared, the secretary read the following letter :— 
 
 ‘It has just come to my knowledge, Signor Don Sancho Panza, 
 that certain enemies of mine intend very soon to make a desperate 
 attack, by night, upon the island under your command ; it is neces- 
 sary, therefore, to be vigilant and alert, that you may not be taken 
 by surprise. I have also received intelligence, from trusty spies, 
 that-four persons in disguise are now in your town, sent thither by 
 the enemy, who, fearful of your great talents, have a design upon 
 your life. Keep a strict watch; be careful who are admitted to 
 you, and eat nothing sent you as a present. I will not fail to send 
 you assistance if you are in want of it. Whatever. may be at- 
 tempted, I have full reliance on your activity and judgment. 
 
 ‘* Your friend, the DuKE. 
 
 ‘From this place, the 16th of August, at four in the morning.” 
 
 Sancho was astonished at this information, and the others ap- 
 peared to be no less so. At length, turning to the steward, ‘I 
 will tell you,” said he, ‘‘the first thing to be done, which is, to 
 clap Doctor Rezio into a dungeon; for if anybody has a design to 
 kill me, it is he, and that by the most lingering and the worst of 
 
SANCHO’S DIRECTIONS TO HIS SECRETARY. 513 
 
 all deaths—starvation.” ‘‘Be that as it may,” said the steward, 
 **it is my opinion your honour would do well to eat none of the 
 meat here upon the table, for it was presented by some nuns, and 
 it is a saying, ‘The devil lurks behind the cross.’” ‘‘ You are in 
 the right,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘and for the present, give me only a 
 piece of bread and some four pounds of grapes:—there can be no 
 poison in them: for, in truth, I cannot live without food, and if 
 we must keep in readiness for these battles that threaten us, it is 
 fit that we should be well fed; for the stomach upholds the heart, 
 and the heart the man. Do you, Mr Secretary, answer the letter of 
 my lord duke, and tell him his commands shall be obeyed through-. 
 out most faithfully; and present my dutiful respects to my lady 
 duchess, and beg her not to forget to send a special messenger with 
 my letter and bundle to my wife Teresa Panza, which I shall take 
 as a particular favour, and will be her humble servant to the utmost 
 of my power. And, by the way, you may put in my hearty service 
 to my master Don Quixote de la Mancha, that he may see that I 
 am neither forgetful nor ungrateful; and as to the rest, I leave it 
 to you, as a good secretary and a true Biscayan, to add whatever 
 you please, or that may turn to the best account. Now away with 
 this cloth, and bring me something that may be eaten, and then let 
 these spies, murderers, and enchanters, see how they meddle with | 
 me or my island.” ; 
 
 A page now entered, saying, ‘‘ Here is a countryman who would 
 speak with your lordship on business, as he says, of great import- 
 ance.” ‘It is very strange,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘that these men of 
 business should be so silly as not to see that this is not a time for 
 such matters. What! we who govern and are judges, belike, are 
 not made of flesh and bone like other men? We are made of marble- 
 stone, forsooth, and have no need of rest or refreshment! Upon my 
 conscience, if my government lasts, as I have a glimmering it will 
 not, I shall hamper more than one of these men of business! Well, 
 for this onee, tell the fellow to come in; but first see that he is no 
 spy, nor one of my murderers.” ‘‘He looks, my lord,” answered 
 the page, ‘‘like a simple fellow; and I am much mistaken if he be 
 not as harmless as a crust of bread.” ‘‘ Your worship need not 
 _ fear,” quoth the steward, ‘‘since we are with you.” ‘‘ But now 
 that Doctor Pedro Rezio is gone,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘may I not have 
 something to eat of substance and weight, though it were but a 
 
 luncheon of bread and an onion?” ‘At night your honour will 
 have no cause to complain,” quoth the sewer; ‘‘ supper shall make 
 up for the want of dinner.” ‘‘I trust it may,’ replied Sancho. 
 
 The countryman, who was of goodly presence, then came in, and it 
 might be seen a thousand leagues off that he was an honest good soul. 
 **Which among you here is the lord governor?” said he. ‘‘ Who 
 should it be,” answered thesecretary, ‘‘ but he who is seated in the 
 chair?” ‘* T humble myself in his presence,” quoth the countryman ; 
 and kneeling down, he begged for his hand to kiss. Sancho refused 
 it, and commanded him to rise and tell his business. The countryman 
 did so, and said, ‘‘ My lord, I aman husbandman, a native of Miguel 
 Terra, two leagues from Ciudad Real.” ‘‘ What! another Tirtea- 
 
 oc 
 
a 
 
 514 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 fuera?” quoth Sancho—‘‘ say on, brother; for let me tell you, I 
 know Miguel Terra very well; it is not very far from my own vil- 
 lage.” ‘‘' The business is this, sir,” continued the peasant; ‘‘1 was 
 married in peace and in the face of the holy Roman Catholic 
 Church. I have two sons, bred scholars; the younger studies for 
 bachelor, and the elder for licentiate. I am a widower—for my 
 wife died, or rather a wicked physician killed her by improper 
 medicines.” ‘‘So that, if your wife,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ had not 
 died, or had not been killed, you would not now be a widower !” 
 ‘* No, certainly, my lord,” answered the peasant. ‘‘ We are much 
 the nearer,” replied Sancho—‘ go on, friend ; for this is an hour 
 rather for bed than business.” 
 
 ‘*T say, then,” quoth the countryman, ‘‘ that my son who is to 
 be the bachelor, fell in love with a damsel in the same village, 
 called Clara Perlerino, daughter of Andres Perlerino, a very rich 
 farmer; which name of Perlerino came to them not by lineal or any 
 other descent, but because all of that race are paralytic; and to 
 mend the name, they call them Perlerinos ;—indeed, to say the 
 truth, the damsel is like any oriental pearl, and looked at on the 
 right side, seems a very flower of the field; but on the left, not 
 quite so fair, for on that side she wants an eye, which she lost by 
 the small-pox; and though the pits in her face are many and deep, 
 her admirers say they are not pits, but graves wherein the hearts 
 of her lovers are buried. So clean and delicate, too, is she, that to 
 prevent defiling her face, she carries her nose so hooked up that it 
 seems to fly from her mouth; yet forall that she looks charmingly ; 
 for she has a large mouth ; and did she not lack half a score or a 
 dozen front teeth, she might pass and make a figure among the 
 
 fairest. I say nothing of her lips, for they are so thin that were it | 
 
 the fashion to reel lips, one might make a skein of them ; but being 
 of a different colour from what is usual in lips, they have a marvel- 
 lous appearance ; for they are streaked with blue, green, and orange- 
 tawny. Pardon me, good my lord governor, if I paint so minutely 
 the parts of her who is about to become my daughter; for in truth 
 I love and admire her more than I can tell.” ‘‘ Paint what you 
 will,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘for I am mightily taken with the picture; 
 and had I but dined, I would have desired no better dessert.” ‘‘ It 
 shall be always at your service,” replied the peasant, ‘‘and the 
 time may come when we may be acquainted, though we are not so 
 now; and I assure you, my lord, if I could but paint her genteel 
 air, and the tallness of her person, you would be amazed; but that 
 cannot be, because she is doubled and folded up together in such 
 wise that her knees touch her mouth; yet you may see plainly, 
 that, could she but stand upright, her head for certain would touch 
 the ceiling. In fine, long ere now would she have given her hand to 
 my bachelor in marriage, but that she cannot stretch it out, it is 
 so shrunk ; nevertheless, her long guttered nails show the goodness 
 of its make.” 
 
 ‘*So far, so good,” quoth Sancho ; ‘‘and now, brother, that you 
 have painted her from head to foot, what isit you would be at? come 
 to the point, without so many windings and turnings.” ‘‘ What 
 
 ; 
 a 
 “a 
 ’ 
 : 
 PL 
 
 : 
 
SANCHO’S INDIGNATION. 515 
 
 I desire, my lord,” answered the countryman, ‘“‘is, that your lord- 
 ship would do me the favour to give mea letter of recommendation 
 to her father, begging his consent to the match, since we are pretty 
 equal in the gifts of fortune and of nature: for, to say the truth, 
 my lord governor, my son is possessed, and scarcely a day passes 
 in which the evil spirits do not torment him three or four times ; 
 and having thereby once fallen into the fire, his face is as shrivelled 
 as a piece of scorched parchment, and his eyes are somewhat 
 bleared and running; but bless him! he has the temper of an 
 angel; and did he not buffet and belabour himself, he would be a 
 very saint for gentleness.” 
 
 ** Would you have anything else, honest friend?” said Sancho. 
 **One thing more I would ask,” quoth the peasant, ‘“‘but that I 
 dare not ;—yet out it shall:—come what may, it shall not rot my 
 breast. I say then, my lord, I could wish your worship to give me 
 three or six hundred ducats towards mending the fortune of my 
 bachelor—I mean, to assist in furnishing his house ; for it is agreed 
 they shall live by themselves, without being subject to the impertin- 
 ences of their fathers-in-law.” ‘‘ Well,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘see if 
 there is anything else you would have, and be not squeamish in 
 asking.” ‘*No, nothing more,” answered the peasant. The gover- 
 nor then rising, and seizing the chair on which he had been seated, 
 exclaimed, ‘‘ Don lubberly, saucy bumpkin, if you do not instantly 
 get out of my sight, I will break your head with this chair! Ras- 
 cal! At this time of day to come and ask me for six hundred ducats ! 
 Where should I have them, villain! And if I had them, idiot! 
 why should I give them to thee? What care I for Miguel Terra, 
 or the whole race of the Perlerinos? Begone, I say, or by the life 
 of my lord duke, I will be as goodas my word. Thou art no 
 native of Miguel Terra, but some scoffer sent to torment me. Im- 
 pudent scoundrel! I have not yet had the government a day and a 
 half, and you expect that I should have six hundred ducats!” 
 The sewer made signs to the countryman to go out of the hall, 
 which he did, hanging down his head, and seemingly much afraid 
 lest the governor should put his threat into execution; for the 
 knave knew very well how to play his part. 
 
 But let us leave Sancho in his passion—peace be with him! and 
 turn to Don Quixote, whom we left with his face bound up, and 
 under cure of his catish wounds, which were eight days in healing ; 
 in the course of that time, circumstances occurred to him which Cid. 
 Hamet promised to relate with the same truth and precision which 
 he has observed in everything, however minute, appertaining to 
 this history. 
 
516 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 Of what befell Don Quixote with Donna Rodriguez, the duchess’s 
 duenna ; together with other incidents worthy to be written and 
 held in eternal remembrance. 
 
 The sore-wounded Don Quixote was exceedingly discontented 
 and melancholy, with his face bound up and marked by the claws 
 of a cat: such are the misfortunes incident to knight-errantry ! 
 During six days he appeared not in public. One night in the course 
 of that time, lying stretched on his bed, awake and meditating 
 on his misfortunes, and the persecution he had suffered from Altisi- 
 dora, he heard a key applied to his chamber-door, and immediately 
 concluded that the enamoured damsel herself was coming, with a 
 determination to assault his constancy, and overcome by temptation 
 the fidelity he owed to his lady Dulcinea del Toboso. ‘‘ No,” said 
 he, not doubting the truth of what he fancied, and speaking so 
 loud as to be overheard, ‘‘no, not the greatest beauty upon earth 
 shall prevail upon me to cease adoring her whose image is engraven 
 and stamped in the bottom of my soul, and in the inmost recesses 
 of my heart! Whether, my dearest lady! thou be now trans- 
 formed into a garlic-eating wench, or into one of the nymphs of the 
 golden Tagus, who weave in silk and gold their glittering webs; or 
 whether thou art detained by Merlin or Montesinos :—wherever 
 thou art, mine thou shalt be, and wherever I am, thine I have been 
 and thine I will remain!” 
 
 _ As he concluded these words, the door opened, and he rose up in 
 the bed, wrapt from top to toe in aquilt of yellow satin, a woollen cap 
 on his head, and his face and his mustachios bound up; his face, on 
 account of its scratches, and his mustachios to keep them from 
 flagging ; in which guise a more extraordinary phantom imagination 
 never conceived. He riveted his eyes on the door, and when he ex- 
 pected to see the captivated and sorrowful Altisidora enter, he per- 
 ceived something that resembled a most reverend duenna glid- 
 ing in, covered with a long white veil that reached from head to 
 foot. Between the fore-finger and the thumb of her left hand she 
 carried half a lighted candle, and held her right over it to keep the 
 glare from her eyes, which were hidden behind a huge pair of spec- 
 tacles. She advanced very slowly and with cautious tread, and as 
 Don Quixote gazed at her form and face from his watch tower, he 
 was convinced that some witch or sorceress was come in that dis- 
 guise to do him secret mischief, and therefore began to cross him- 
 self with much diligence. 
 
 The apparition kept moving forward, and having reached the 
 middle of the room, it paused, and raised ity eyes, as if remarking 
 how devoutly the knight was crossing himself; and if he was 
 alarmed at seeing such a figure, she was no less dismayed at the 
 sight of him—so lank, so yellow! enveloped in the quilt, and dis- 
 figured with bandages! ‘‘ What do I see?” she exclaimed—and 
 
THE KNIGHT AND DONNA RODRIGUEZ. 517 
 
 in the fright the candle fell out of her hand. Finding herself in 
 the dark, she endeavoured to regain the door, but her feet becom- 
 ing entangled in the skirts of her garment, she stumbled and fell. 
 Don Quixote was in the utmost consternation. ‘‘ Phantom!” he 
 cried, ‘‘ or whatever thou art, say, I conjure thee: what art thou, 
 and what requirest thou of me? If thou arta soul in torment, 
 tell me, and I will do all I ean to help thee, for Iam a Catholic 
 Christian, and love to do good to all mankind. It was for that 
 purpose I took upon me the profession of knight-errantry, which 
 engages me to relieve even the souls in purgatory.” 
 
 The fallen duenna hearing herself thus exorcised, guessed at Don 
 Quixote’s fear by her own, and in a low and doleful voice answered, 
 **Signor Don Quixote (if peradventure your worship be Don 
 Quixote), I am no phantom, nor apparition, nor soul in purgatory, 
 as your worship seems to think, but Donna Rodriguez, duenna of 
 honour to my lady duchess, and am come to your worship with one 
 of those cases of distress which your worship is wont to remedy.” 
 ‘*Tell me, then, Signora Donna Rodriguez,” quoth Don Quixote, 
 “if it happens that your ladyship comes in quality of love-mes- 
 senger? because, if so, 1 would have you understand that your 
 labour will be fruitless :—thanks to the peerless beauty of my mis- 
 tress, Dulcinea del Toboso. To be plain, Signora Donna Rod- 
 riguez, on condition you waive all such messages, you may go and 
 light your candle and return hither, and we will discourse on 
 whatever you please to command—with that exception.” ‘I 
 bring messages, good sir!” answered the duenna; ‘‘ your worship 
 mistakes me much. But wait, sir, till I have lighted my candle, 
 when I will return and communicate my griefs to your worship, 
 who are the redresser of all the grievances in the world.” | There- 
 upon she quitted the room without waiting for a reply from the 
 knight, whom she left in a state of great suspense. 
 
 A thousand thoughts now crowded into his mind touching this 
 new adventure, and he was of opinion that he had judged and 
 acted improperly. So he jumped off the bed, intending to lock the 
 door so as to prevent the duenna’s return; but before he could 
 effect this purpose, Signora Rodriguez entered with a lighted taper 
 of white wax. 
 
 Don Quixote retreated, and resuming his situation in bed, covered 
 himself up close, all but his face; and after a short pause, the first 
 who broke silence was the knight. ‘‘ Now, Signora Donna Rod- 
 riguez,” said he, ‘‘ you may unbosom all that is in your oppressed 
 and. afflicted heart; for you shail be listened to by me with chaste 
 ears, and assisted with compassionate deeds.” ‘‘ That I verily be- 
 lieve,” said the duenna; ‘‘and no other than so Christian an answer 
 could be expected from a person of your worship’s courtly and 
 seemly presence. ‘The case, then, is this, noble signor, that though 
 you see me sitting in this chair, and in the midst of the kingdom of 
 Arragon, and in the garb of a poor persecuted duenna, I was born 
 in the Asturias of Oviedo, and of a family allied to some of the best 
 of that province. But my hard fate and the neglect of my parents, 
 who fell, I know not how, into a state of poverty, carried me to 
 
518 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Madrid, where from prudence and the fear of what might be worse, 
 they placed me in the service of a court lady ; and I can assure your 
 worship that, in making needle-cases and plain work, I was never 
 in my life outdone. My parents left me in service, and returned to 
 their own country, where, in a few years after, they died, and, I 
 doubt not, went to heaven; for they were very good and Catholic 
 Christians. Then was I left an orphan and reduced to the sorrow- 
 ful condition of such court servants—wretched wages, and slender 
 allowance. About the same time, without my giving him the least 
 cause for it !—the gentleman usher of the family fell in love with 
 me. He was somewhat stricken in years, with a fine beard, a comely 
 person and, what is more, as good a gentleman as the king himself, 
 or he wasa mountaineer. This came to the notice of my lady, who 
 without more ado, had us duly married in the face of our holy mother 
 the Roman Catholic Church: from which marriage sprung a daughter, 
 to complete my good fortune, if fortune had been mine :—but alas! 
 my husband died soon after of fright; and had I but time to tell you 
 how it was, your worship, I am sure, would be all astonishment.” 
 Here Donna Rodriguez shed many tears of tender recollection. 
 ‘* Pardon me, good Signor Don Quixote,” said she, ‘‘for I cannot 
 command myself; as often as I call to mind my poor ill-fated 
 spouse, these tears will flow. With what stateliness was he wont 
 to carry my lady behind him on a princely mule as black as jet 
 itself; for in those times coaches and side-saddles were not in 
 fashion, as it is said they now are—ladies rode behind their squires. 
 Pardon me, for I cannot help telling you at least this one circum- 
 stance, because it proves the good breeding and punctilio of my 
 worthy husband. It happened that, on entering the street of San- 
 tiago, which is very narrow, a judge of one of the courts, with two 
 of his officers before him, appeared, and as soon as my good squire 
 saw him, he turned his mule about, as if he would follow him. 
 My lady, who was behind him, said to him in a low voice, ‘ What 
 are you doing, blockhead? am not I here?’ The judge civilly 
 stopped his horse, and said, ‘Proceed on your way, sir; for it is 
 rather my duty to attend my lady Donna Casilda,’—my mistress’s 
 name; but my husband persisted, cap in hand, in his intention to 
 follow the judge. On which my lady, full of rage and indigna- 
 tion, pulled out a great pin, or rather, I believe, a bodkin, and 
 stuck it into his back; whereupon my husband bawled out, and, 
 writhing with the smart, down he came, with his lady to the 
 ground. ‘Two of her footmen ran to assist her, as well as the judge 
 and his officers, and the gate of Guadalajara—I mean the idle 
 people that stood there—were all in an uproar. My mistress was 
 forced to walk home on foot, and my husband repaired to a barber 
 surgeon, declaring he was quite run through and through. The 
 courtesy and good breeding of my spouse were soon in everybody’s 
 mouth, so that the very boys in the street gathered about him and 
 teazed him with their gibes when he walked abroad. On this ac- 
 count, and because he was a little shortsighted, my lady dismissed 
 him from her service ; which he took so to heart, poor man! that. 
 I verily believe it brought him to the grave. Thus, sir, I was left 
 
THE GRIEVANCE OF DONNA RODRIGUEZ. 519 © 
 
 a poor helpless widow, and with a daughter to keep, fair as a 
 flower, and who went on increasing in beauty like the foam of the 
 sea. At length, as I had the reputation of being an excellent ~ 
 workwoman at my needle, my lady duchess, who was then newly 
 married to my lord duke, took me to live with her in Arragon, and 
 also my daughter, who grew up with a world of accomplishments. 
 She sings like any lark, dances like a fairy, capers like any wild 
 thing, reads and writes like a schoolmaster, and casts accounts as 
 exact as amiser. The running brook is not more pure; and she is 
 now, if I remember right, just sixteen years of age, five months 
 and three days, one more or less. To make short, sir, the son of 
 a very rich farmer, who lives here on my lord duke’s land, was 
 smitten with my daughter; and how he managed matters I cannot 
 tell, but the truth is, under promise of being her husband, he has 
 fooled my daughter, and now refuses to make good his word. The 
 duke is no stranger to this business, for I have complained to 
 him again and again, and begged he would be so gracious as to 
 command this young man to wed my daughter; but he turns a 
 deaf ear to my complaints, and will hardly vouchsafe to listen to 
 me; and the reason is, that the cozening knave’s father is rich, and 
 lends his grace money, and is bound for him on all occasions ; 
 therefore he would not in any way disoblige him. Now, good sir, 
 my humble desire is, that your worship would kindly take upon 
 you to redress this wrong, either by entreaty or by force of arms; 
 since all the world says your worship was born to redress griev- 
 ances, to right the injured, and succour the wretched. Be pleased, 
 sir, | entreat you, to take pity on the fatherless daughter, and let 
 her youth, her beauty, and all her other good parts, move you to 
 compassion ; for, on my conscience, among all my lady’s damsels, 
 there is not one that comes up to the sole of her shoe—no, not she 
 who is cried up as the liveliest and finest of them all, whom they 
 call Altisidora—she is not to be named with my daughter ; for, let 
 me tell you, dear sir, that all is not gold that glitters, and that 
 that same little Altisidora, after all, has more self-conceit than 
 beauty ; besides, her breath is so foul that nobody can stand near 
 her fora moment. Nay, indeed, as for that, even my lady duchess 
 —but, mum, for they say walls have ears.” 
 
 ‘*What of my lady duchess?” quoth Don Quixote; ‘‘tell me, 
 Madam Rodriguez, I conjure you.” ‘‘ Your entreaties,” said the 
 duenna, ‘‘ cannot be resisted ; and I must tell you the truth. Has 
 not your worship observed the beauty of my lady duchess ?—that 
 softness, that clearness of complexion, smooth and shining like any 
 polished sword ; those cheeks of milk and crimson, with the sun 
 in the one, and the moon in the other ; and that stateliness with 
 which she treads, as if she disdained the very ground she walks 
 on, that one would think her the goddess of health dispensing the 
 blessing wherever she goes? Let me tell you, sir, in the first place, 
 and in the next, two issues, one in each leg, that carry off all the 
 bad humours in which, the physicians say, her Jadyship abounds.” 
 ‘Holy Virgin!” quoth Don Quxiote, ‘‘is it possible that my lady 
 duchess should have such drains! I should never have credited 
 
52.0 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 such a thing, though barefooted friars themselves had sworn it ; 
 but since Madam Donna Rodriguez says it, so it must needs be. 
 Yet, assuredly, from such perfection no ill humours can flow, but 
 rather liquid amber. Well, I am now convinced that such con- 
 duits may be of importance to health.” 
 
 Scarcely had Don Quixote said this, when the chamber-door 
 suddenly burst open, which so startled Donna Rodriguez that the 
 candle fell out of her hand, leaving the room as dark as a wollf’s 
 mouth ; when instantly the poor duenna felt her throat griped by 
 two hands, and so hard that she had not power to cry out, while 
 other two hands so unmercifully beslapped with a slipper, that 
 she was presently in a woful plight. Yet, notwithstanding the 
 compassion which Don Quixote felt for her, he remained quietly in 
 bed: being at a great loss what to think of the matter, and doubt- 
 ful whether the same calamity might not fall on himself. Nor 
 were his apprehensions groundless, for, after having well curried 
 the duenna, who durst not cry out, the silent executioners then 
 came to Don Quixote, and so pinched and tweaked him, that he 
 could not forbear laying about him with his fists, in his own de- 
 fence; till at last, after a scuffle of almost half an hour, the silent 
 and invisible phantoms vanished. Donna Rodriguez, bewailing 
 her misfortune, hastened out of the chamber without speaking a 
 word to the knight ; who, vexed with the pinching he had received, 
 remained in deep thought, utterly at a loss to conceive who the 
 malicious enchanter could be that had treated him so rudely. This 
 will be explained in its proper place; at present the order of the 
 BEN requires that our attention should be turned to Sancho 
 
 anza, 
 
 CHA PLE Re X LIX 
 Of what befell Sancho Panza in going the round of his island. 
 
 Never was the great governor more out of humour than when we 
 left him, from the provocation he had received from the knave of a 
 peasant, who was one of the steward’s instruments for executing 
 the duke’s projects upon Sancho. Nevertheless, simple, rough, 
 and round as he was, he held out toughly against them all; and, 
 addressing himself to those about him, among others the doctor 
 Pedro Rezio (who had returned after the private despatch had been 
 read), ‘‘I now plainly perceive,” said he, ‘‘that judges and governors 
 must or ought to be made of brass, to endure the importunities of 
 your men of business, who, intent upon their own affairs alone, 
 will take no denial, but must needs be heard at all hours and at all 
 times ; and if his poor lordship does not think fit to attend to them, 
 either because he cannot, or because it is not a time for business, 
 then, forsooth, they murmur and peck at him, rake up the ashes of 
 his grandfather, and gnaw the very flesh from their bones. Men 
 of business !—out upon them !~ meddling, troublesome fools! take 
 
 —<. 
 
 ee ae 
 
SANCHO PANZA’S SUPPER. 521 
 
 the proper times and seasons for your affairs, and come not when 
 men should eat and sleep; for judges are made of flesh and blood, 
 and must give to their nature what nature requires ; except, indeed, 
 miserable I, who am forbidden to do so by mine—thanks to Signor 
 Pedro Rezio Tirteafuera, here present, who would have me die 
 of hunger, and swear that this kind of dying is the only way to 
 live. May he and all those of his tribe have the same life !—I 
 mean quacks and impostors; for good physicians deserve palms 
 and laurels.” All who knew Sancho Panza were in admiration at 
 his improved oratory, which they could not account for, unless it 
 be that offices and weighty employments quicken and polish some 
 men’s minds, as they perplex and stupify others. 
 
 At length the bowels of Doctor Pedro Rezio de Tirteafuera relented, 
 and he promised the governor he should sup that night, although 
 it were in direct opposition to all the aphorisms of Hippocrates. 
 With this promise his excellency was satisfied, and looked forward 
 with great impatience to the hour of supper; and though time, as | 
 he thought, stood stock still, yet the wished-for moment came at 
 last, when messes of cow-beef, hashed with onions, and boiled 
 calves’ feet, somewhat of the stalest, were set before him. Never- 
 theless, he laid about him with more relish than if they had given 
 him Milan godwits, Roman pheasants, veal of Sorento, partridges 
 of Moron, or geese of Lavajos; and, in the midst of supper, turning 
 to the doctor, ‘‘ Look you, master doctor,” said he, ‘‘never trouble 
 yourself again to provide me your delicacies, or your tit-bits; for 
 they will only unhinge my stomach, which is accustomed to goats’- 
 flesh, cow-beef, and bacon, with turnips and onions ; and if you ply 
 me with court kickshaws, it will only make my stomach queasy 
 and loathing. However, if master sewer will now and then set 
 before me one of those—how do you call them ?—olla-podridas, * 
 which are a jumble of all sorts of good things, and to my thinking, 
 the stronger they are, the better they smack—but stuff them as 
 you will, so it be but an eatable—I shall take it kindly, and will 
 one day make youamends. So let nobody play their jests upon me, 
 for either we are, or we are not; and let us all live and eat together 
 in peace and good friendship; for when daylight comes it is morn- 
 ing to all. I will govern this island without either waiving right 
 or pocketing bribe. So let every one keep a good look-out, and 
 each mind his own business: for 1 would have them to know, that 
 if they put me upon it, they shall see wonders. Ay, ay; make 
 yourselves honey, and the wasps will devour you.” 
 
 ‘‘Indeed, my lord governor,” quoth the sewer, ‘‘ your lordship 
 is much in the right in all you have said, and I dare engage, in the 
 name of all the inhabitants of this island, that they will serve your 
 worship with all punctuality, love, and good-will ; for your gentle 
 way of governing, from the very first, leaves us no room to do, or 
 think, anything to the disadvantage of your worship.” ‘‘I believe 
 as much,” replied Sancho, ‘‘and they would be little better than 
 fools if they did, or thought, otherwise ; therefore I tell you once 
 
 * A dish composed cf beef, mutton, pork, with sometimes poultry or game, voge~- 
 tables, and a variety of other ingredients. 
 
522. ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 again, it is my pleasure that you look well to me and my Dapple in 
 the article of food; for this is the main point; and when the hour 
 comes, we will go the round, as my intention is to clear this island 
 of all manner of filth and rubbish, especially vagabonds, idlers, and 
 sharpers; for I would have you know, friends, that your idle and 
 lazy people in a commonwealth are like drones in a beehive, which 
 devour the honey that the labouring bees gather. My design is to 
 protect the peasants, maintain the gentry in their privileges, re- 
 ward virtue, and, above all, to have a special regard to religion, 
 and the reverence due to holy men. What think you of this, my 
 good friends? Do I say something, or do I crack my brains to no 
 purpose?” ‘‘My lord governor speaks so well,” replied the steward, 
 ‘*that I am all admiration to hear one devoid of learning, like your 
 worship, utter so many notable things, so far beyond the expecta- 
 tion of your subjects, or those who appointed you. But every day 
 produces something new in the world; jests turn into earnest, and 
 the biters are bit.” 
 
 The governor having supped by license of Signor Doctor Rezio, 
 they prepared for going the round, and he set out with the secre- 
 tary, the steward, the sewer, and the historiographer, who had the 
 charge of recording his actions, together with serjeants and no- 
 taries ; altogether forming a little battalion. Sancho, with his rod 
 of office, marched in the midst of them, making a goodly show. 
 After traversing a few streets, they heard the clashing of swords, 
 and, hastening to the place, they found two men fighting. On 
 seeing the officers coming they desisted, and one of them said, 
 ‘‘Help, in the name of the king! Are people to be attacked here, 
 and robbed in the open streets?” ‘‘ Hold, honest man,” quoth 
 Sancho, ‘‘and tell me what is the occasion of this fray; for | am 
 the governor.” 
 
 His antagonist, interposing, said, ‘‘My lord governor, I will 
 briefly relate the matter :—Your honour must know that this gentle- 
 man is just come from the gaming-house over the way, where he 
 has been winning above a thousand reals, and I, happening to be 
 present, was induced, even against my conscience, to give judgment 
 in his favour, in many a doubtful pomt; and when I[ expected he 
 would have given me something, though it were but the small 
 matter of a crown, by way of a present, as it is usual with gentlemen 
 of character like myself, who stand by, ready to back unreasonable 
 demands, and to prevent quarrels, up he got, with his pockets 
 filled, and marched out of the house. Surprised and vexed at such 
 conduct, I followed him, civilly reminded him that he could not 
 refuse me the small sum of eight reals, as he knew me to be a man 
 of honour, without either office or pension; my parents having 
 brought me up to nothing; yet this knave, who is as great a 
 thief as Cacus, and as arrant a sharper as Andradilla, would give 
 me but four reals. Think, my lord governor, what a shameless and 
 unconscionable fellow he is. But, as I live, had it not been for 
 your worship coming, I would ha e made him disgorge his win- 
 nings, and taught him how to balance accounts.” 
 
 ‘“What say you to this, friend?” quoth Sancho to the other. He 
 
; SANCHO DECIDES BETWEEN THE GAMBLERS. 523 
 
 acknowledged that what his adversary had said was true: ‘‘ he 
 meant to give him no more than four reals, for he was continually 
 giving him something; and they who expect snacks should be 
 modest, and take cheerfully whatever is given them, and not haggle 
 with the winners; unless they know them to be sharpers, and their 
 gains unfairly gotten; and that he was no such person, was evident 
 from his resisting an unreasonable demand ; for cheats are always 
 at the mercy of their accomplices.” ‘‘That is true,” quoth the 
 
 RS 
 
 Wii 
 
 x 
 . aa 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 steward, ‘‘be pleased, my lord governor, to say what shall be 
 done with these men.” 
 
 ‘‘ What shall be done,” replied Sancho, ‘‘is this: you, master 
 winner, whether by fair piay or foul, instantly give your hackster 
 here a hundred reals, and pay down thirty more for the poor pris- 
 oners; and you, sir, who have neither office or pension, nor honest 
 employment, take the hundred reals, and, some time to-morrow, be 
 sure you get out of this island, nor set foot in it again these ten - 
 
524 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 years, unless you would finish your banishment in the next life; 
 for if I find you here, I will make you swing on a gibbet—at least 
 the hangman shall do it for me; so let no man reply or he shall 
 repent it.” The decree was immediately executed: the one dis- 
 bursed, the other received; the one quitted the island, the other 
 went home; and the governor said, ‘‘ Either my power is small, or 
 I will demolish these gaming-houses; for I strongly suspect that 
 much harm comes of them.” ‘‘' The house here before us,” said one 
 of the officers, ‘‘I fear your honour cannot put down; being kept 
 by a person of quality, whose losses far exceed his gains. Your 
 worship may exert your authority against petty gambling-houses, 
 which do more harm, and shelter more abuses than those of the 
 gentry, where notorious cheats dare not show their faces; and since 
 the vice of play is become so common, it is better that it should be 
 permitted in the houses of the great than in those of low condition, 
 where night after night unfortunate gulls are taken in, and stripped 
 of their very skins.”” ‘‘ Well, master notary,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘I 
 know there is much to be said on the subject.” 
 
 Just at that moment a serjeant came up to him holding fast a 
 young man. ‘‘ My lord governor,” said he, ‘‘this youth was com- 
 ing towards us, but as soon as he perceived us to be officers of jus- 
 tice, he turned about and ran off like a deer—a sure sign he is after 
 some mischief. I pursued him; and had he not stumbled and fallen 
 I should never have overtaken him.” ‘‘ Why did you fly from the 
 officer, young man?” quoth Sancho. ‘‘ My lord,” said the youth, 
 **it was to avoid the many questions that officers of justice usually 
 ask.” ‘*What is your trade?” asked Sancho. ‘A weaver,” answered 
 the youth. ‘‘And what do you weave?” quoth Sancho. ‘‘ Iron 
 heads for spears, an it please your worship.” ‘‘So, then,” returned 
 Sancho, ‘‘you are pleased to be jocose with me, and set up for a 
 wit! *tis mighty well. And pray may I ask whither you were 
 going?” ‘To take the air, sir,” replied the lad. ‘‘And pray 
 where do people take the air in this island?” said Sancho. ‘‘ Where 
 it blows,” answered the youth. ‘‘ Good,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘ you an- 
 swer to the purpose ;—a notable youth, truly! but hark you, sir, 
 I am the air which you seek, and will blow in your poop, and drive 
 you into safe custody. Here, secure him, and carry him straight 
 to prison. I will make him sleep there to-night without air.” 
 ‘* Not so,” said the youth; ‘‘ your worship shall as soon make the 
 king, as make me sleep there.” ‘‘I not make you sleep in prison!” 
 cried Sancho—‘‘have I not power to confine or release you as I 
 please?” ‘‘ Whatever your worship’s power may be, you shall not 
 force me to sleep in prison.” ; 
 
 ‘*We shall see that,” replied Sancho—‘‘ away with him imme- 
 diately, and let him be convinced to his cost; and should the 
 gaoler be found to practice in his favour, and allow him to sleep 
 out of his custody, I will sconce him in the penalty of two thousand 
 ducats.” ‘All this is very pleasant,” answered the youth; ‘* but 
 no man living shall make me sleep to-night in prison—in that I am 
 fixed.” ‘Tell me,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ hast thou some angel at thy 
 beck, to come and break the fetters with which I mean to tether 
 
THE GIRL IN DISGUISE. 525 
 
 thee?” ‘‘Good, my lord,” said the youngster, with a smile, ‘let 
 us not trifle, but come to the point. Your worship, I own, may 
 clap me in a dungeon, and load me with chains and fetters, and lay 
 what commands you please upon the gaoler; yet if I choose not to 
 sleep, can your worship, with all your power, force me to sleep?” 
 ** No, certainly,” said the secretary, ‘‘and the young man has made 
 out his meaning.” ‘‘ Well, then,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘if you keep 
 awake, it is from your own liking, and not to cross my will?” 
 ‘* Certainly not, my lord,” said the youth. ‘‘Then go, get thee 
 home and sleep,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘and have a good night’s rest, 
 for I will not be thy hindrance. But have a care another time how 
 you sport with justice; for you may chance to meet with some man 
 in office who will not relish your jokes, but crack your noddle in 
 return.” The youth went his way, and the governor continued his 
 round. 
 
 Soon after two serjeants came up, saying, ‘‘ We have brought 
 you, my lord governor, one in disguise who seems to be a man, but 
 is, in fact, a woman, and no ugly one either.” Two or three lanterns 
 were immediately held up to her face, by the light of which they 
 indeed perceived it to be that of a female, seemingly about sixteen 
 years of age; she was beautiful as a thousand pearls, with her hair 
 enclosed under a net of gold and green silk. They viewed her from 
 head to foot, and observed that her stockings were flesh-coloured, 
 her garters of white taffeta, with tassels of gold and seed pearl; 
 her breeches were of green and gold tissue, her cloak of the same, 
 under which she wore a very fine waistcoat of white and gold stuff, 
 and her shoes were white like those worn by men. She had no 
 sword, but a very rich dagger; and on her fingers were many valu- 
 able rings. All were struck with admiration of the maiden, but 
 nobody knew her, not even the inhabitants of the town. Indeed, 
 those who were in the secret of these jests were as much interested 
 as the rest, for this circumstance was not of their contriving, and 
 being, therefore, unexpected, their surprise and curiosity were 
 more strongly excited. 
 
 The governor admired the young lady’s beauty, and asked her 
 who she was, whither she was going, and what had induced her to 
 dress herself in jaat habit. With downcast eyes, she modestly 
 answered, ‘‘I hope, sir, you will excuse my answering so publicly 
 what I wish so much to be kept secret :—of one thing be assured, 
 gentlemen, I am no thief, nor a criminal, but an unhappy maiden, 
 who, from a jealous and rigorous confinement, has been tempted to 
 transgress the rules of decorum.” The steward, on hearing this, 
 said, ‘* Be pleased, my lord governor, to order your attendants to 
 retire, that this lady may speak more freely.” 
 
 The governor did so, and they all removed to a distance, excepting 
 the steward, the sewer, and the secretary ; upon which the damsel 
 proceeded thus: ‘‘I am the daughter, gentlemen, of Pedro Perez 
 Mazorca, who farms the wool of this town, and often comes to my 
 father’s house.” 
 
 “This will not pass, madam,” said the steward; ‘‘for I know 
 Pedro Perez very well, and I am sure he has neither sons nor 
 
526 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 daughters ; besides, after telling us he is your father, you immediately 
 say that he comes often to your father’s house.” ‘‘I took notice of 
 that,” quoth Sancho. ‘‘ Indeed, gentlemen,” said she, ‘“‘I am in 
 such in confusion that I know not what I say; but the truth is, I 
 am daughter to Diego de la Liana, whom you all must know.” 
 «‘That may be true,” answered the steward, ‘‘for I know Diego de 
 la Llana: he is a gentleman of birth and fortune, and has a son and 
 a daughter ; and, since he has been a widower, nobody in this town 
 can say they have seen the face of his daughter, for he keeps her 
 so confined that he hardly suffers the sun to look upon her; the 
 common report, too, is, that she is extremely handsome.” 
 
 ‘*What you say is true, sir,” said the damsel, ‘‘and whether 
 fame lies or not, as to my beauty, you, gentlemen, who have seen 
 me, may judge.” She then began to weep most bitterly; upon 
 which the secretary whispered thesewer, ‘‘ Something of importance, 
 surely, must have caused a person of so much consequence as this 
 young lady to leave her own house in such a dress, and at this un- 
 seasonable hour.” ‘‘No doubt of that,” replied the sewer: ‘‘be- 
 sides, this suspicion is confirmed by her tears.” Sancho comforted 
 her as well as he could, and desired her to tell the whole matter 
 without fear, for they would be her friends, and serve her in the 
 best manner they were able. 
 
 ‘‘The truth is, gentlemen,” replied she, ‘‘that since my mother 
 died, which is now ten years ago, my father has kept me close con- 
 fined. We have a chapel in the house, where we hear mass; and 
 in all that time I have seen nothing but the sun in the heavens 
 by day, and the moon and stars by night; nor do I know what 
 streets, squares, or churches are ; nor even men, excepting my father 
 and brother, and Pedro Perez the wool-farmer, whose constant 
 visits to our house led me to say he was my father, to conceal the 
 truth. This close confinement, and being forbidden to set my foot 
 out of doors, though it were but to church, has for many days and 
 months past disquieted me very much, and gave me a constant 
 longing to see the world, or at least the town where I was born; 
 and I persuaded myself that this desire was neither unlawful nor 
 unbecoming. When [I heard talk of bull-fights, running at the 
 ring, and theatrical shows, I asked my brother, who is a year 
 younger than myself, to tell me what those things were, and several 
 others that I have never seen. He described them as well as he 
 could, but it only inflamed my curiosity to see them myself. Ina 
 word, to shorten the story of my ruin, I prayed and entreated my 
 brother—O that I had never so prayed nor entreated !”—and here 
 a flood of tears interrupted her narrative. ‘‘ Pray, madam,” said 
 the steward, ‘‘ be comforted, and proceed ; for your words and tears 
 keep us all in anxious suspense.” ‘I have but few more words,” 
 answered the damsel, ‘‘though many tears to shed: for misplaced 
 desires like mine can be atoned for no other way.” 
 
 The beauty of the damsel had made an impression on the soul of the 
 sewer, and again he held up his lantern to have another view of her, 
 when he verily thought her tears were orient pearls and dew-drops of 
 the morning, and he heartily wished her misfortune might not be so 
 
SANCHO’S ADVICE. PAT 
 
 great as her tears and sighs seemed to indicate. But the governor 
 was out of all patience at the length of her story, and therefore bid 
 her make anend and keep them no longer, as it grew late, and they had 
 much ground yet to pass over. As well as the frequent interruption 
 of sobs and sighs would let her, she continued, saying, ‘‘ My mis- 
 fortune and misery is no other than this, that I desired my brother 
 to let me put on his clothes, and take me out some night when my 
 father was asleep, to see the town. Yielding to my frequent en- 
 treaties, he at length gave me this habit, and dressed himself in a 
 suit of mine, which fits him exactly, and he looks like a beautiful 
 girl—for he has yet no beard; and this night, about an hour ago, 
 we contrived to get out of the house, and with no other guide than 
 a footboy and our own unruly fancies, we have walked through the 
 whole town; and as were returning home, we saw a great company 
 of people before us, which my brother said was the round, and that 
 we must run, or rather fly, for if we should be discovered it would 
 be worse for us. Upon which he set off at full speed, leaving me 
 to follow him ; but I had not got many paces before I stumbled and 
 fell, and that instant a man seized me and brought me hither, 
 where my indiscreet longing has covered me with shame.” ‘‘ Has 
 nothing, then,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ befallen you but this?—you men- 
 tioned at first something of jealousy, I think, which had brought 
 you from home.” ‘‘ Nothing,’’ said she, ‘‘ has befallen me but what 
 I have said, nor has anything brought me out but a desire to see 
 the world, which went no farther than seeing the streets of this 
 town.” 
 
 The truth of the damsel’s story was now confirmed by the arrival 
 of two other serjeants, who had overtaken and seized the brother 
 as he fled from the sister. The female dress of the youth was only 
 a rich petticoat and a blue damask mantle bordered with gold; 
 on his head he had no other ornament or cover than his own hair, 
 which appeared like so many waves of gold. The governor, the 
 steward, and the sewer, examined him apart, and, out of the 
 hearing of his sister, asked why he had disguised himself in that 
 manner. With no less bashfulness and distress, he repeated the 
 same story they had heard from his sister, to the great satisfaction 
 of the enamoured sewer. ‘‘ Really, young gentlefolks,” said the 
 governor, ‘‘this seems only a piece of childish folly, and all these 
 sobs and tears might well have been spared in giving an account of 
 your frolic. Had you but told us your names, and said you had 
 got out of your father’s house only to satisfy your curiosity, there 
 would have been an end of the story.” ‘‘That is true,” answered 
 the damsel ; ‘‘ but my confusion was so great, that I knew not what 
 I said, or how to behave myself.” ‘‘ Well, madam,” said Sancho, 
 ‘‘there is no harm done; we will see you safe to your father’s house, 
 who, perhaps, has not missed you; and henceforward be not so 
 childish nor so eager to get abroad ; for ‘the modest maiden and the 
 broken leg should keep at home ;’ ‘the woman and the hen are lost 
 by gadding;’ and ‘she who wishes to see, wishes no less to be 
 seen ’—I say no more.” 
 
 The young man thanked the governor for the favour he intended 
 
528 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 them, in seeing them safe home, whither they all went; and, having 
 reached the house, the youth threw a pebble up at a grated window, 
 which immediately brought down one of the domestics, who opened 
 the door, and they went in, leaving every one in admiration of their 
 beauty and graceful demeanour, and much entertained by their 
 desire of seeing the world by night. The sewer finding that his 
 heart was pierced through and through, secretly resolved to demand 
 the young lady in marriage of her father the next day, and he 
 flattered himself, that being a servant of the duke, he should not 
 be refused. Sancho, too, had some thoughts of matching the 
 young man with his daughter Sanchica, and determined to bring it 
 about the first opportunity; feeling assured that no man’s son 
 would think himself too good for a governor’s daughter. Thus 
 ended the night’s round of the great Sancho: two days after also 
 ended his government, which put an end to all his great designs 
 and expectations, as shall hereafter be shown. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 Which declares who were the enchanters and executioners that whipped 
 the dwenna, and pinched and scratched Don Quixote; and also 
 the success of the page who carried Sancho’s letter to his wife, 
 Teresa Panza. 
 
 Cid Hamet, the most laborious and careful investigator into the 
 minutest particles of this true history, says, that when Donna Rod- 
 riguez went out of her chamber to go to that of Don Quixote, an- 
 other duenna, who had slept with her, observed her, and as all 
 duennas are addicted to listening, prying into, and smelling out 
 everything, she followed her, and with so light a foot that the good 
 Rodriguez did not hear it; and no sooner had she entered Don 
 Quixote’s chamber, than the other, that she might not be deficient 
 in the laudable practice of tale-bearing, in which duennas usually 
 excel, hastened to acquaint the duchess that Donna Rodriguez was 
 then actually in Don Quixote’s chamber. The duchess immediately 
 told the duke, and having gained his permission to go with Altisidora 
 to satisfy her curiosity respecting.this night-visit of her duenna, 
 they silently posted themselves at the door of the knight’s apartment, 
 where they stood listening to all that was said within: but when 
 the duchess heard her secret imperfections exposed, neither she nor 
 Altisidora could bear it, and so, brimful of rage and eager for 
 revenge, they bounced into the chamber, and seizing the offenders, 
 inflicted the whipping and pinching before mentioned, and in the 
 manner already related—for nothing awakens the wrath of women 
 and inflames them with a desire of yengeance more effectually than 
 affronts levelled at their beauty or other objects of their vanity. 
 
 The duke was much diverted with his lady’s account of this night- 
 adventure; and the duchess being still merrily disposed, now de- 
 spatched a messenger extraordinary to Teresa Panza with her hus- 
 
A MESSENGER TO THERESA PANZA. 529 
 
 band’s letter (for Sancho, having his head so full of the great con- 
 cerns of his government, had quite forgotten it), and with another 
 from herself, to which she added as a present a large string of rich 
 coral beads. 
 
 Now the history tells us that the messenger employed on this 
 occasion was a shrewd fellow, and the same page who personated 
 Dulcinea in the wood, and, being desirous to please his lord and 
 lady, he set off with much glee to Sancho’s village. Having arrived 
 near it, he inquired of some women whom he saw washing in a brook, 
 if there lived not in that town one Teresa Panza, wife of one Sancho 
 Panza, squire to a knight called Don Quixote dela Mancha. ‘‘'That 
 Teresa Panza is my mother,” said a young lass who was washing 
 among the rest, ‘‘and that Sancho my own father, and that knight 
 our master.” ‘‘Are they so?” quoth the page: ‘‘come then, my 
 girl, and lead me to your mother; for I have a letter and a token 
 for her from that same father of yours.” ‘That L will, with all my 
 heart, sir,” answered the girl (who seemed to be about fourteen 
 years of age), and leaving the linen she was washing to one of her © 
 companions, without stopping to cover either her head or feet, away 
 she ran skipping along before the page’s horse, bare-legged, and her 
 hair dishevelled. 
 
 ‘Come along, sir, an’t please you,’ quoth she, ‘‘for our house 
 stands hard by, and you will find my mother in trouble enough for 
 being so long without tidings of my father.” ‘‘ Well,” said the 
 page, **T now bring her news that will cheer her heart, I warrant 
 
 er.” So on he went, with his guide running, skipping, and caper- 
 ing before him, till they reached the village, and, before she got up 
 to the house, she called out aloud, ‘‘ Mother,-mother, come out! 
 here’s a gentleman who brings letters and other things from my 
 good father.” ) 
 
 At these words out came her mother Teresa Panza with a distaff 
 in her hand—for she was spinning flax. She was clad in a russet 
 petticoat, so short that it looked as if it had been docked at the 
 placket, with a jacket of the same, and the sleeves of her under 
 garment hanging about it. She appeared to be about forty years of 
 age, and was strong, hale, sinewy, and hard as a hazel-nut. 
 
 ‘** What is the matter, girl?” quoth she, seeing her daughter with 
 the page. ‘‘ What gentleman is that?” ‘‘It is an humble servant 
 of my Lady Donna Teresa Panza,” answered the page; and, throw- 
 ing himself from his horse, with great respect he went and kneeled 
 before the Lady Teresa, saying, ‘‘Be pleased, Signora Donna 
 Teresa, to give me your ladyship’s hand to kiss, as the lawful wife 
 of Signor Don Sancho Panza, sole governor of the island of Barataria.” 
 ** Alack-a-day, good sir, how you talk !”” shereplied : ‘‘ Lam no court- 
 dame, but a poor countrywoman, daughter of a ploughman, and 
 wife indeed of a squire-errant, but no governor.” ‘‘ Your ladyship,” 
 answered the page, ‘‘is the most worthy wife of a thrice-worthy 
 governor, and to confirm the truth of what I say, be pleased, madam, 
 to receive what I here bring you.” He then drew the letter from 
 his pocket, and a string of corals, each bead set in gold, and, putting 
 it about her neck, he said, ‘‘ This letter is from my lord governor, 
 
 21L 
 
580 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and another that I have here, and those corals are from my lady 
 duchess, who sends me to your ladyship.” 
 
 Teresa and her daughter were all astonishment. ‘‘ May I die,” 
 said the girl, ‘‘if our master Don Quixote be not at the bottom of 
 this—as sure as day he has given my father the government or 
 earldom he has so often promised him.” “It is evenso,” answered 
 the page; ‘‘and for Signor Don Quixote’s sake, my Lord Sancho is 
 now governor of the island of Barataria, as the letter will inform 
 you.” ‘‘Pray, young gentleman,” quoth Teresa, ‘‘be pleased to read 
 it; for though I can spin, I cannot read a jot.” ‘‘ Nor I neither, 7 
 faith,” cried Sanchica; ‘‘ but stay a little, and I will fetch one who 
 can, either the bachelor Sampson Carrasco or the priest himself, 
 who will come with all their hearts to hear news of my father.” 
 *<You need not take that trouble,” said the page; ‘‘for I can read, 
 though I cannot spin, and will read it to you.” Which he accord. 
 ingly did: but, as its contents have already beimg given, it is not 
 here repeated. He then produced the letter from the duchess, and 
 read as follows :— 
 
 “Friend Teresa,— Th 
 
 **Finding your husband Sancho worthy of my esteem for his 
 honesty and good understanding, I prevailed upon the duke, my 
 spouse, to make him governor of one of the many islands in his pos- 
 session. JI am informed he governs like any hawk; at which I and 
 my lord duke are mightily pleased, and give many thanks to Heaven 
 that I have not been deceived in my choice, for Madam Teresa may 
 be assured that it is no easy matter to find a good governor. I 
 have sent you, my dear friend, a string of corals set in gold—I wish 
 they were oriental pearls; but, whoever gives thee a bone has no 
 mind to see thee dead: the time will come when we shall be better 
 acquainted, and converse with each other, and then who knows 
 what may happen? Commend me to your daughter Sanchica, and 
 tell her from me to get herself ready ; for I mean to have her highly 
 married when she least expects it. Iam told the acorns near your 
 town are very large—pray send me some two dozen of them; for l 
 shall value them the more as coming from your hand. Write to 
 me immediately, to inform me of your health and welfare; and if 
 you want anything, you need but open your mouth, and it shall be 
 measured, So God keep you. 
 
 ** Your loving Friend, 
 ‘* From this place.” “<The DucHEss.” 
 
 “* Ah!” quoth Teresa, at hearing the letter, “how good, how 
 plain, how humble a lady! let me be buried with such ladies as 
 this, say I, and not with such proud madams as this town affords, 
 who think, because they are gentlefolks, the wind must not blow 
 upon them ; and go flaunting to church as if they were queens! they 
 seem to think it a disgrace to look upon a peasant woman: and yet 
 you see how this good lady, though she be a duchess, calls me 
 friend, and treats me as if I were her equal !—and equal may I see — 
 her to the highest steeple in La Mancha! As to the acorns, sir, I 
 will send her ladyship a peck of them, and such as, for their size, — 
 
JOY IN THE HOUSE OF PANZA. DOL 
 
 people shall come from far and near to see and admire. But 
 for the present, Sanchica, let us make much of this gentleman. Do 
 thou take care of his horse, child, and bring some new-laid eggs 
 out of the stable, and slice some rashers of bacon, and let us enter- 
 tain him like any prince; for his good news and his own good looks 
 deserve no less. Meanwhile I will step and carry my neighbours 
 the joyful tidings, especially our good priest and Master Nicholas 
 the barber, who are, and have always been such friends to your 
 father.” ‘‘Yes, I will,” answered Sanchica; ‘‘but hark you, 
 mother, half that string of corals comes to me; for sure the great 
 lady knows better than to send them all to you.” ‘‘It is all for 
 thee, daughter,” answered Teresa, ‘‘ but let me wear it a few days 
 about my neck, for, truly, methinks it eheers my very heart.” 
 **' You will be no less cheered,” quoth the page, ‘‘ when you see the 
 bundle I have in this portmanteau: it is a habit of superfine cloth, 
 which the governor wore only one day at a hunting-match, and 
 he has sent it all to Signora Sanchica.”” *‘ May he live a thousand 
 years !” answered Sanchica ; ‘‘ and the bearer neither more or less— 
 aye, and two thousand, if need be!” 
 
 Teresa now went out of the house with the letters, and the beads 
 about her neck, and playing, as she went along, with her finger 
 upon the letters, as if they had been a timbrel, when, accidentally 
 meeting the priest and Sampson Carrasco, ‘she began dancing and 
 capering before them, ‘‘ Faith and troth,” cried she, ‘‘ we have no 
 poor relations now :—we have got a government! Ay, ay, let the 
 proudest she amongst them all meddle with me; I will make her 
 know her distance.” ‘* What is the matter, Teresa Panza? What 
 madness is this?” quoth the priest; ‘‘and what papers have you 
 got there?” ‘*No other madness,” quoth she, *‘but that these are 
 letters from duchesses and governors, and these about my neck are 
 true coral; and the Ave-marias and the Paternosters are of beaten 
 gold, and I am a governor’s lady—that’s all.” ‘‘ Teresa,” they ex- 
 claimed, ‘‘ we know not what you mean.” ‘‘ Here,” said she, giving 
 them the letters, ‘‘take these, read, and believe your own eyes.” 
 The priest having read them so that Sampson Carrasco heard the 
 contents, they both stared at each other in astonishment. The 
 bachelor asked who had brought those letters. Teresa said if they 
 would come home with her they should see the messenger, who was 
 a youth like any golden pine-tree; and that he had brought her 
 another present worth twice asmuch. The priest took the string of 
 corals from her neck, and examined them agam and again ; and being 
 satisfied that they were genuine, his wonder increased, and he said, 
 ‘*By the habit I wear, I know not what to say nor what to think 
 of these letters and these presents! On the one hand I see and feel 
 the fineness of these corals, and on the other I read that a duchess 
 
 | sends to desire a dozen or two of acorns!” ‘* Make these things 
 
 tally, if you can,” quoth Carrasco ; ‘‘let us go and see the messenger, 
 ? 
 
 | 
 
 _ who may explain the difficulties which puzzle us. 
 
 They then returned with Teresa, and found the page sifting a 
 little barley for his horse, and Sanchica cutting a rasher to fry with 
 eggs for the page’s dinner, whose appearance and behaviour they 
 
 
 
582 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 both liked; and after the usual compliments, Sampson requested 
 him to give them some intelligence of Don Quixote and Sancho 
 Panza; for though they had read a letter from Sancho to his wife, 
 and another from a duchess, still they were confounded, and could 
 not divine what Sancho’s government could mean, and especially of 
 an island; well knowing that all, or most, of those in the Mediter- 
 ranean belonged to his majesty. ‘‘Gentlemen,” answered the page, 
 “that Signor Sancho Panza is a governor, is beyond all doubt; 
 but whether it be an island or not that he governs, I cannot say; I 
 only know that it is a place containing above a thousand inhabitants. 
 And as to my lady duchess sending to beg a few acorns, if you knew 
 how humble and affable she is, it would give no surprise; she will 
 even send to borrow a comb of one of her neighbours. The ladies 
 of Arragon, gentlemen, I would have you to know, though as high 
 in rank, are not so proud and ceremonious as the ladies of Castile :— 
 they are much more condescending.”’ 
 
 Sanchica now came in with her lap full of eggs. ‘‘ Pray, sir,” 
 - said she to the page, ‘‘ does my father, now he is a governor, wear 
 trunk-hose?”* ‘‘I never observed,” answered the page, ‘‘ but 
 doubtless he does.” ‘‘ What a sight,” replied Sanchica, ‘‘to see my 
 father in long breeches! Is it not strange that, ever since I was 
 born, I have longed to see my father with breeches of that fashion, 
 laced to his girdle?” . ‘‘I warrant you will have that pleasure if 
 you live,” answered the page; ‘‘if his government lasts but two 
 months, he is likely to travel with a cape to his cap.” ¢ The priest 
 and the bachelor clearly saw that the page spoke jestingly ; but the 
 fineness of the corals, and also the hunting-suit sent by Sancho, 
 which Teresa had already shown them, again perplexed them ex- 
 ceedingly. They could not forbear smiling at Sanchica’s longing, 
 and still more when they heard Teresa say, ‘‘ Master priest, do look 
 about, and see if anybody be going to Madrid or Toledo, who may 
 buy me a farthingale, right and tight, and fashionable, and one of 
 the best that is to be had; for, truly, I am resolved not to shame 
 my husband’s government; and, if they vex me, I will get to that 
 same court myself, and ride in my coach as well as the best of them 
 there: for she who has a governor for her husband may very well 
 have a coach, and afford it too.” ‘‘ Aye, marry,” quoth Sanchica, 
 ‘Cand would it were to-day, rather than to-morrow; though folks 
 that saw me coached with my lady mother, should say, ‘Do but 
 see the bumpkin there, daughter of such an one, stuffed with 
 garlic !—how she flaunts it about, and lolls in her coach like any 
 she-pope!’ But let them jeer, so they trudge in the dirt, and I ride 
 in my coach, with my feet above the ground. A bad year and a 
 worse month to all the murmurers in the world! While [ go warm, 
 let ’°em laugh that likeit. Say I well, mother?” ‘‘Ay, mighty 
 well, daughter,” answered Teresa; ‘‘and, indeed, my good man 
 Sancho foretold me all this, and still greater luck; and thou shalt see, 
 
 * Trunk-hose were prohibited by royal decree shortly after the publication of 
 Don Quixote. 
 
 + It was customary for men of quality to wear a veil or mask depending from tho 
 covering worn on the head, in order to shield the face from the sun. ; 
 
THE PRIEST INVITES THE MESSENGER. 533 
 
 daughter, it will never stop till it has made me a countess: for luck 
 only wants a beginning: and, as [have often heard your father say— 
 who, as he is yours, so is he the father of proverbs—‘ When they 
 give you a heifer, make haste with the halter: when they offer thee 
 a governorship, lay hold of it ; when an earldom is put before thee, lay 
 your claws on it; and when they whistle to thee with a good gift, 
 snap at it; if not, sleep on, and give no answer to the good luck 
 that raps at your door.’” ‘Ay, indeed,” quoth Sanchica, ‘‘ what 
 care I though they be spiteful, and say, when they see me step it 
 stately, and bridle it, ‘Look, look there at the dog in a doublet! 
 the higher it mounts, the more it shows.’”’ 
 
 ‘* Surely,” said the priest, ‘‘the whole race of Panzas were born 
 with their bellies stuffed with proverbs, for I never knew one of 
 them that did not throw them out at every turn.” ‘‘I believe so 
 too,” quoth the page; ‘‘even his honour, the governor Sancho, 
 utters them very thick; and, though often not much to the pur- 
 pose, they are mightily relished, and my lady duchess and the duke 
 commend them highly.” ‘You persist, then, in affirming, sir,” . 
 quoth the bachelor, ‘‘that Sancho is really a governor, and that 
 these presents and letters are in truth sent by a duchess? As for 
 us, though we touch the presents and have read the letters, we 
 have no faith, and are inclined to think it one of the adventures of 
 our countryman Don Quixote, and take it all for enchantment ;— 
 indeed, friend, I would fain touch you, to be certain you are a mes- 
 senger of flesh and blood and not an illusion.” ‘* All I know of 
 myself, gentlemen,” answered the page, ‘‘is, that I am really a 
 messenger, and that Signor Sancho Panza is actually a governor ; 
 and that my lord duke and his duchess can give, and have given, 
 him that government; in which I have heard that he behaves him- 
 self in a notable manner. Now, whether there be enchantment in 
 this or not, I leave to you to determine; for I know nothing more 
 of the matter.” ‘‘It may be so,” replied the bachelor, ‘‘ but 
 Dubitat Augustinus.” ‘‘Doubt who will,” answered the page, 
 ‘the truth is what I tell you, and truth will always rise upper- 
 most, as the oil does above water; but if you will not believe me, 
 Operibus credite, et non verbis :—come one of you gentlemen along 
 with me, and be satisfied with your eyes of what your ears will not 
 convince you.” ‘*That jaunt is for me,’ quoth Sanchica: ‘‘ take 
 me behind you, sir, upon your nag, for I have a huge mind to see 
 his worship my father.” ‘‘The daughters of governors,” said the 
 page, ‘‘must not travel unattended, but in coaches and litters, and 
 with a handsome train of servants.” ‘‘ Indeed,” quoth Sanchica, 
 “*T can go a journey as well upon an ass’s colt as in a coach; I am 
 none of your tender squeamish things, not I.” ‘‘ Peace, wench,” 
 .quoth Teresa, ‘‘ thou know’st not what thou say’st: the gentleman 
 is in the right, for, ‘according to reason, each thing in its season.’ 
 When it was Sancho, it was Sancha; and when governor, my lady. 
 Say I not right, sir?” ‘‘My Lady Teresa says more than she im- 
 agines,” quoth the page; ‘‘ but pray give me something to eat, and 
 despatch me quickly: for I intend to return home this night.” 
 ‘« Be pleased, then, sir,” said the priest, ‘‘to take a humble meal with 
 
534 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 me, for Madam Teresa has more good will than good cheer to wel- 
 come so worthy a guest.” The page refused at first, but at length 
 thought it best to comply, and the priest very willingly took him 
 home with him, that he might have an opportunity to inform him- 
 self more at large concerning Don Quixote and his exploits. The 
 bachelor offered Teresa to write answers to her letters; but, as she 
 looked upon him to be somewhat of a wag, she would not let him 
 meddle in her concerns; so she gave a couple of eggs and a modi- 
 cum of bread to a noviciate friar who was a penman, and he wrote 
 two letters for her, one to her husband and the other to the duchess, 
 both of her own inditing; and they are none of the worst things 
 recorded in this great history, as will be seen hereafter. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 Of the progress of Sancho Panza’s government, with other entertain- 
 ing matters. 
 
 Now the morning dawned that succeeded the night of the 
 governor’s round ; the remainder of which the sewer passed, not in 
 sleep, but in pleasing thoughts of the lovely face and charming air 
 of the disguised damsel; and the steward in writing an account to 
 his lord and lady of the words and actions of the new governor, 
 who appeared to him a marvellous mixture of ignorance and saga- 
 city. His lordship being risen, they yave him, by order of Dr 
 Pedro Rezio, a little conserve, and four draughts of clear spring 
 water, which, however, he would gladly have exchanged for a 
 luncheon of bread and a few grapes. But seeing it was rather a 
 matter of compulsion than choice, he submitted, although with 
 much grief of heart and mortification of appetite: being assured 
 by his doctor that spare and delicate food sharpened that acute 
 judgment which was so necessary for persons in authority and high 
 employment, where a brawny strength of body is much less need- 
 ful than a vigorous understanding. By this sophistry Sancho was 
 induced to struggle with hunger, while he inwardly cursed the 
 government, and even him that gave it. 
 
 Nevertheless, on this fasting fare did the worthy magistrate 
 attend to the administration of justice; and the first business that 
 occurred on that day was an appeal to his judgment in a case which 
 was thus stated by a stranger—the appellant : ‘‘ My lord,” said he, 
 “there is a river which passes through the domains of a certain 
 lord, dividing it into two parts—I beseech your honour to give me 
 your attention, for it is a case of great importance and some diffi- 
 culty. Isay, then, that upon this river there was a bridge, and at 
 one end of it a gallows, and a kind of court-house, where four 
 judges sit to try, and pass sentence upon those who are found to 
 transgress a certain law enacted by the proprietor, which runs 
 thus: ‘Whoever would pass over this bridge must first declare 
 upon oath whence he comes, and upon what business he is going; 
 and, if he swears the truth, he shall pass over; but, if he swearg: 
 
 ae ~~ 
 
THE GOVERNOR’S MERCIFUL DECISION 535 
 
 to a falsehood, he shall certainly die upon the gibbet there pro- 
 vided.’ After this law was made known, many persons ventured 
 over it, and the truth of what they swore being admitted, they 
 were allowed freely to pass. But a man now comes demanding a 
 passage over the bridge; and, on taking the required oath, he 
 swears that he is going to be executed upon the gibbet before him, 
 and that he has no other business. The judges deliberated, but 
 would not decide. ‘If we let this man pass freely,’ said they, ‘he 
 will have sworn falsely, and, by the law, he ought to die: and, if 
 we hang him, he will verify his oath, and he, having sworn the 
 truth, ought to have passed unmolested, as the law ordains.* The 
 case, my lord, is yet suspended, for the judges know not how to 
 act; and, therefore, having heard of your lordship’s great wisdom 
 and acuteness, they have sent me humbly to beseech your lord- 
 ship on their behalf, to give your opinion m so intricate and per- 
 plexing a case.” ‘To deal plainly with you,” said Sancho, ‘‘ these 
 gentlemen judges who sent you to me might have saved themselves 
 and you the labour; for I have more of the blunt than the acute in 
 me. However, let me hear your question once more, that I may 
 understand it the better, and mayhap I may chance to hit the right 
 nail on the head.” ‘The man accordingly told his tale once or twice 
 more, and when he had done, the governor thus delivered his 
 opinion: ‘*To my thinking,” said he, ‘‘this matter may soon be 
 settled: and I will tell you how. The man, you say, swears he is 
 going to die upon the gallows, and if he is hanged, it would be 
 against the law, because he swore the truth: and if they do not 
 hang him, why then he swore a lie, and ought to have suffered.” 
 **Jt is just as you say, my lord governor,” said the messenger, 
 ‘‘and nothing more is wanting to the right understanding of the 
 case.” ‘*I say, then,” continued Sancho, ‘‘that they must let 
 that part of the man pass that swore the truth, and hang that part 
 that swore the lie, and thereby the law will be obeyed.” ‘‘I£ so, 
 my lord,” replied the stranger, ‘‘the man must be divided into 
 two parts; and thereby he will certainly die, and thus the law, 
 which we are bound to observe, is in no respect complied with.” 
 ‘‘Harkee, honest man,” said Sancho, ‘‘ either I have no brains, or 
 there is as much reason to put this passenger to death, as to let him 
 live, and pass the bridge; for, if the truth saves him, the lie also 
 condemns him ; and, this being so, you may tell those gentlemen 
 who sent you to me, that since the reasons for condemning and 
 acquitting him are equal, they should let the man pass freely ; for 
 it is always more commendable to do good than to do harm; and 
 this advice I would give you under my hand, if I could write. Nor 
 do I speak thus of my own head, but on the authority of my master 
 Don Quixote, who, on the night before the day I came to govern 
 this island, told me, among many other good things, that when 
 justice was doubtful, I should lean to the side of mercy; and God 
 has been pleased to bring it to my mind in the present case, in 
 which it comes pat to the purpose.” ‘‘It does so,” answered the 
 steward; ‘‘and, for my part, I think Lycurgus himself, who gave 
 laws to the Lacedzemonians, could not have decided more wisely than 
 
= 
 
 536 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the great Panza has just done. And now let the business of the court 
 cease for this morning, and I will give orders that my lord governor 
 shall dine to-day much to his satisfaction.” ‘‘ That,” quoth Sancho, 
 ‘‘is what I desire; give us fair play, feed us well, and then let cases 
 and questions rain upon me ever so thick, I will despatch them in a 
 trice.” 
 
 The steward was as good as his word, for it would have gone 
 much against his conscience to starve so excellent a governor; 
 besides, he intended to come to a conclusion with him that very 
 night, and to play off the last trick he had in commission. 
 
 Now Sancho having dined to his heart’s content, though against 
 all the rules and aphorisms of Doctor Tirteafuera, when the cloth 
 was removed, a courier arrived with a letter from Don Quixote to 
 the governor. Sancho desired the secretary to read it first to him- 
 self, and then, if it contained nothing that required secrecy, to read 
 it aloud. The secretary having done as he was commanded, ‘‘ My 
 lord,” said he, ‘‘well may it be read aloud, for what Signor Don 
 ' Quixote writes to your lordship deserves to be engraven in letters 
 of gold. Pray listen to me. 
 
 “DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA TO SANCHO PANZA, GOVERNOR OF 
 THE ISLAND OF BARATARIA. 
 
 ‘When I expected, friend Sancho, to have heard only of thy 
 carelessness and blunders, I have had accounts of thy vigilance and 
 discretion ; for which I return particular thanks to Heaven, that 
 can raise up the lowest from their poverty, and convert the fool 
 into a wise man. Iam told, that as a governor thou art a man; 
 yet, as a man thou art scarcely above the brute creature—such is 
 the humility of thy demeanour. But I would observe to thee, 
 Sancho, that it is often expedient and necessary, for the due sup- 
 port of authority, to act in contradiction to the humility of the 
 heart. The personal adornments of one that is raised to a high 
 situation must correspond with his present greatness, and not with 
 his former lowliness: let thy apparel therefore, be good and becom- 
 ing; for the hedgestake, when decorated, no longer appears what 
 it really is. I donot mean that thou shouldst wear jewels, or finery ; 
 nor, being a judge, would I have thee dress like a soldier ; but adorn 
 thyself in a manner suitable to thy employment. To gain the good- 
 will of thy people, two things, among others, thou must not fail to 
 observe: one is, to be courteous to all—that, indeed, I have already 
 told thee ; the other is, to take especial care that the people be ex- 
 posed to no scarcity of food; for, with the poor, hunger is, of all 
 afflictions, the most insupportable. Publish few edicts, but let 
 those be good; and, above all, see that they are well observed ; for 
 edicts that are not kept are the same as not made, and serve only 
 to show that the prince, though he had wisdom and authority to 
 make them, had not the courage to insist upon their execution. 
 Laws that threaten, and are not enforced, become like King Log, 
 whose croaking subjects first feared, then despised him. Bea father 
 to virtue, and a stepfather to vice. Be not always severe, nor 
 always mild; but choose the happy mean between them, which is 
 
THE KNIGHT'S LETTER TO SANCHO PANZA. 537 
 
 the true point of discretion. Visit the prisons, the shambles, and 
 the markets; for there the presence of the governor is highly ne- 
 cessary: such attention is a comfort to the prisoner hoping for re- 
 lease ; it is a terror to the butchers, who then dare not make use of 
 false weights ; and the same effect is produced on all other dealers. 
 Shouldst thou unhappily be secretly inclined to avarice or gluttony, 
 which I hope thou art not, avoid showing thyself guilty of these 
 vices: for, when those who are concerned with thee discover thy 
 ruling passion, they will assault thee on that quarter, nor leave 
 thee till they have effected thy destruction. View and review, 
 consider and reconsider, the counsels and documents I gave thee in 
 writing before thy departure hence to thy government ; and in them 
 thou wilt find a choice supply to sustain thee through the toils and 
 difficulties which governors must continually encounter. Write to 
 thy patrons, the duke and duchess, and show thyself grateful ; for 
 ingratitude is the daughter of pride, and one of the greatest sins ; 
 whereas he who is grateful to those that have done him service, 
 thereby testifies that he will be grateful also to God, his constant 
 benefactor. 
 
 “My lady duchess has despatched a messenger to thy wife Teresa 
 with thy hunting-suit, and also a present from herself. We expect 
 an answer cvery moment. I have been a little out of order with a 
 certain catclawing which befell me, not much to the advantage of 
 my nose; but it was nothing; for, if there are enchanters who per- 
 secute me, there are others who defend me. Let me know if the 
 steward who is with thee had any hand in the actions of the Trifaldi, 
 as thou hast suspected: and give me advice, from time to time, of 
 all that happens to thee, since the distance between us is so short. 
 I think of quitting this idle life very soon; for I was not born for 
 luxury and ease. A circumstance has occurred which may, I believe, 
 tend to deprive me of the favour of the duke and duchess; but, 
 though it afflicts me much, it affects not my determination, for I 
 must comply with the duties of my profession in preference to any 
 other claim; as it is often said, Amicus Plato, sed magis amica 
 Veritas. I write this in Latin, being persuaded that thou hast 
 learned that language since thy promotion. Farewell, and God have 
 thee in His keeping : so mayest thou escape the pity of the world. 
 
 ‘*Thy friend, 
 ‘Don QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.” 
 
 Sancho listened with great attention to the letter, which was 
 praised for its wisdom by all who heard it; and, rising from table, 
 he took his secretary with him into his private chamber, being 
 desirous to send an immediate answer to his master ; and he ordered 
 him to write, without adding or diminishing a tittle, what he should 
 dictate to him. He was obeyed, and the answer was as follows :— 
 
 ‘“SANCHO PANZA TO DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 
 
 ‘‘T am so taken up with business, that I have scarcely time either 
 to scratch my head or even to pare my nails, and therefore I wear 
 them very long. I tell your worship this, that you may not wonder 
 
538 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 why I have given you no account before of my well or ill being in 
 this government, where I suffer more hunger than when we both 
 wandered about through woody and deserts. 
 
 ‘‘My lord duke wrote to rae the other day, to tell me of certain 
 spies that were come into this island to take away my life; but, as 
 yet, I have been able to find none, except a certain doctor hired by 
 the islanders to kill their governors. He calls himself Doctor Pedro 
 Rezio, and is a native of Tirteafuera; so your worship may see by 
 his name that one is in danger of dying under his hands. The 
 same doctor owns that he does not cure distempers, but prevents 
 them, for which he prescribes nothing but fasting and fasting, till he 
 reduces his patient to bare bones; as if a consumption was not worse 
 thana fever. Inshort, by this man’s help Iam ina fair way to perish 
 by hunger and vexation; and instead of coming hither, as I ex- 
 pected, to eat hot, and drink cool, and lay my body at night between 
 Holland sheets, upon. soft beds of down, I am come to do penance, 
 like a hermit; and this goes much against me. 
 
 ‘‘ Hitherto, I have neither touched fee nor bribe; and how I am 
 to fare hereafter, I know not; but I have been told that it was the 
 custom with the governors of this island, on taking possession, to 
 receive a good round sum by way of gift or loan from the towns- 
 people, and furthermore, that it is the same in all other govern- 
 ments. 
 
 ‘‘One night, as I was going the round, I met a very comely 
 damsel in man’s clothes, and a brother of hers in those of a woman. 
 My sewer fell in love with the girl, and has thoughts of making her 
 his wife, and I have pitched upon the youth for my son-in-law. To- 
 day we both intend to disclose our minds to their father, who is 
 one Diego de la Llana, a gentleman, and as good a Christian as one 
 can desire. 
 
 ‘*T visit the markets, as your worship advised me, and yesterday 
 I found a huckster-woman pretending to sell new hazel-nuts, and 
 finding that she had mixed them with such as were old and rotten, 
 I condemned them all to the use of the hospital boys, who well knew 
 how to pick the good from the bad, and forbade her to appear in the 
 market again for fifteen days. The people say I did well in this 
 matter, for it is a common opinion in this town that there is not 
 a worse sort of people than your market women: for they are all 
 shameless, hard-hearted, and impudent; and I verily believe it is 
 so, by those I have seen in other places, 
 
 ‘*T am mightily pleased that my lady duchess has written to my 
 wife Teresa Panza, and sent her the present your worship mentions : 
 I hope one time or other to requite her goodness: pray kiss her 
 honour’s hands in my name, and tell her she has not thrown her 
 favours into a rent sack, as she will find. 
 
 ‘*T should be grieved to hear that you had any cross reckonings 
 with my lord and lady; for if your worship quarrels with them, ’tis 
 I must come to the ground; and, smce you warn me, of all things, 
 not to be ungrateful, it would ill become your worship to be so to- 
 wards those who have done you so many kindnesses, and entertained 
 you so nobly in their castle. : 
 
2 
 
 SANCHO PANZA’S LETTER TO THE KNIGHT. 009 
 
 ‘“The cat business I don’t understand—one of the tricks, mayhap, 
 of your worship’s old enemies, the enchanters; but I shall know 
 more about it when we meet. 
 
 ‘*J would fain send your worship a token, but I cannot tell what, 
 unless it be some little clyster-pipes which they make here very 
 curiously ; but, if I continue in office I shall get fees and other 
 pickings worth sending you. If my wife Teresa Panza writes to me, 
 be so kind as to pay the postage and send me the letter; for I have 
 a mighty desire to know how fares it with her, and my house and 
 children. So Heaven protect your worship from evil-minded en- 
 chanters, and bring me safe and sound out of this government; 
 which I very much doubt, seeing how I am treated by Doctor 
 Pedro Rezio, 
 
 *¢ Your worship’s servant, 
 
 ‘*SancHo Panza, the governor.” 
 
 The secretary sealed the letter, and it was forthwith despatched 
 by the courier; and, as it was now judged expedient to release the 
 governor from the troubles of office, measures were concerted by those 
 who had the management of these jests. Sancho passed that after- 
 noon in making divers regulations for the benefit of his people. 
 Among others, he strictly prohibited the monoply and forestalling 
 of provisions; wines he allowed to be imported from all parts, re- 
 quiring only the merchant to declare of what growth it was, that a 
 just price might be set upon it; and whoever adulterated it, or gave 
 it a false name, should be punished with death. He moderated 
 the prices of all sorts of hose and shoes, especially the latter, the 
 current price of which he thought exorbitant. He limited the wages 
 of servants, which were mounting fast to an extravagant height. 
 He laid several penalties upon all those who should sing immoral 
 songs, either by day er by mght; and prohibited the vagrant blind 
 from going about singing their miracles in rhyme, unless they could 
 produce unquestionable evidence of their truth; being persuaded 
 that such counterfeit tales brought discredit upon those which were 
 genuine. He appointed an overseer of the poor,—not to persecute 
 them, but to examine their true claims : for under the disguise of pre- 
 tended lameness and counterfeit sores are often found sturdy thieves 
 and hale drunkards. In short, he made many good and wholesome 
 ordinances, which are still observed in that tewn; and, bearing his 
 name, are called ‘‘The Regulations of the great Governor Sancho 
 Panza.” 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER LILI. 
 
 In which is recorded the adventure of the second afflicted matron, 
 otherwise called Donna Rodriguez. 
 
 Cid Hamet relates that Don Quixote, being now properly healed 
 of his wounds, began to think the life he led in that castle was 
 
540 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 against all the rules of his profession, and therefore he determined 
 to request his noble host and hostess to grant him their permission 
 to depart for Saragossa, as the approaching tournament drew near, 
 wherein he proposed to win the suit of armour which was the‘prize 
 at that festival. 
 
 But as he was dining one day with their highnesses, and preparing 
 to unfold his purpose, lo! two women, clad in deep mourning, en- 
 tered the great hall, and one of them, advancing towards the table, 
 threw herself at Don Quixote’s feet, which she embraced, at the 
 same time pouring forth so many groans that all present were as- 
 tonished, and the duke and duchess suspected it to be some jest 
 of their domestics; yet the groans and sobs of the female appeared 
 so much like real distress that they were in doubt, until the com- 
 passionate Don Quixote raised her from the ground, and prevailed 
 with her to remove the veil from her weeping visage, when, to their 
 surprise, they beheld the duenna Donna Rodriguez, accompanied 
 by her unfortunate daughter, who had been deluded by the rich 
 farmer’s son. This discovery was a fresh cause of amazement, es- 
 pecially to the duke and duchess, for, though they knew the good 
 woman’s simplicity and folly, they had not thought her quite so 
 absurd. At length Donna Rodriguez, turning to her lord and lady, 
 “¢ May it please your excellencies,”’ said she, ‘‘to permit me to speak 
 with this gentleman, by whom I hope to be relieved from a per- 
 plexity in which we are involved by a cruel, impudent villain.” 
 The duke told her that she had his permission to say whatever she 
 pleased to Don Quixote. Whereupon, addressing herself to the 
 knight, she said, ‘‘ It is not long, valorous knight, since I gave you 
 an account how basely and treacherously a wicked peasant had 
 used my poor dear child, this unfortunate girl here present, and 
 you promised me to stand up in her defence and see her righted ; 
 and now I understand that you are about to leave this castle in 
 search of good adventures—my desire is that, before you go forth 
 into the wide world, you would challenge that graceless villain, and 
 force him to wed my daughter, as he promised, for to expect justice 
 in this affair from my lord duke would, for the reasons I mentioned 
 to you, be to look for pears on an elm-tree.”’ 
 
 ‘‘ Worthy madam,” replied Don Quixote, with much gravity and 
 stateliness, ‘‘moderate your tears—or rather dry them up, and 
 spare your sighs; for I take upon me the charge of seeing your 
 daughter’s wrongs redressed: though it had been better if she had 
 not been so ready to believe the promises of lovers, who, for the 
 most part, are forward to make promises, and very slow to perform 
 them. However, I will, with my lord duke’s leave, depart im- 
 mediately in search of this ungracious youth, and will challenge and 
 slay him if he refuses to perform his contract : for the chief end and 
 purpose of my profession is, to spare the humble, and chastise the 
 proud :—I mean, tosuccourthe wretched, and destroy the oppressor.” 
 ‘‘Sir knight,” said the duke, ‘‘you need not trouble yourself to 
 seek the rustic of whom this good duenna complains; nor need you 
 ask my permission to challenge him: regard him as already chal- 
 lenged, and leave it to me to oblige him to answer it, and meet you 
 
A CHALLENGE. . 541 
 
 in person here in this castle, within the lists, whose all the usual 
 ceremonies shall be observed, and impartial justice distributed ; 
 
 conformable to the practice of all princes, who grant the lists to 
 combatants within the bounds of their territories.” ‘*‘ Upon that 
 assurance,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ with your grace’s leave, I waive on 
 this occasion the punctilios of my gentility, and degrade myself to the 
 level of the offender, that he may be qualified to meet me in equal 
 combat. Thus, then, though absent, I challenge and defy him, 
 upon account of the injury he has done in deceiving this poor girl, 
 and he shall either perform his promise of becoming her lawful 
 husband, or die in the contest.” Thereupon, pulling off his glove, 
 he cast it into the middle of the hall, and the duke immediately 
 took it up, declaring, as he had done before, that he accepted the 
 challenge in the name of his vassal, and that the combat should 
 take place six days after, in the inner court of his castle: the 
 arms to be those customary among knights—namely, a lance, 
 shield, and laced suit of armour, and all the other pieces, without 
 deceit, fraud, or any superstition whatever, to be first viewed and 
 examined by the judges of the field. ‘‘ But first it will be neces- 
 sary,” he further said, ‘that this good duenna here, and_this 
 naughty damsel, should commit the justice of their cause to the hand 
 of their champion Don Quixote: for otherwise the challenge would 
 become void, and nothing be done.” ‘‘I do commit it,” answered 
 the duenna. “And I too,” added the daughter, all in tears, 
 ashamed and confused. 
 
 The day being fixed, and the duke determined within himself 
 
 what should be done, the mourning supplicants retired; at the 
 same time the duchess gave orders that they should not be regarded 
 as domestics, but as ladies-errant, who came to seek justice in her 
 castle. A separate apartment was therefore allotted to them, and 
 they were served as strangers—to the amusement of the rest of the 
 household, who could not imagine what was to be the end of the 
 folly and presumption on the part of the duenna and her forsaken 
 daughter. 
 _ A choice dessert to their entertainment now succeeded, and to 
 give it a happy completion, in came the page who carried the letters 
 and presents to Governor Sancho’s wife Teresa. The duke and 
 duchess were much pleased at his return, and eager to learn the 
 particulars of his journey. He said, in reply to their inquiries, 
 that he could not give his report so publicly, nor in few words, and 
 therefore entreated their graces would be pleased to hear it in 
 private, and in the meantime accept of what amusement the letters 
 he had brought might afford. He thereupon delivered his packet, 
 when one of the letters was found to be addressed ‘‘To my lady 
 duchess, of I know not where ;” and the other, ‘* To my husband, 
 Sancho Panza, governor of the island of Barataria, whom God 
 prosper more years than me.” ‘The duchess’s cake was dough, as it 
 is said, till she had perused her letter, which she eagerly opened, 
 and, after hastily running her eye over it, finding nothing that re- 
 quired secrecy, she read it aloud to the duke and the rest of the 
 company, and the following were its contents :— 
 
\ 
 
 542 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 TERESA PANZA’S LETTER TO THE DUCHESS. 
 
 ‘My lady, 
 
 ‘‘The letter your greatness sent to me made me right glad, and, 
 in faith, I longed for it mightily. The string of corals is very good, 
 and my husband’s hunting-suit comes not short of it. All the 
 pesple in our town talk of your ladyship’s goodness in making my 
 
 usband a governor, though nobody believes it ;—especially the 
 priest, and Master Nicholas the barber, and the bachelor Sampson 
 Carrasco. But what care I? for so long as the thing is so as it is, 
 they may say what they list; though, to own the truth, I should 
 not have believed it myself but for the corals and the habit; for in 
 this village everybody takes my husband for a dolt, and cannot 
 think what government he can be good for, but over a herd of 
 goats. Heaven be his guide, and speed him in what is best for his 
 children! As for me, dear honey-sweet madam, I am bent upon 
 making hay while the sun shines, and hie me to court, to loll in my 
 coach, though it makes a thousand that I could name stare their 
 eyes out to see me. So pray bid my husband to send me a little 
 money—and let it be enough: for I reckon it is dear living at 
 court, where bread sells for sixpence, and meat for thirty maravedis 
 the pound, which is a judgment; and if he is not for my going, let 
 him send me word in time, for my feet tingle to be on the tramp ; 
 and besides, my neighbours all tell me that if I and my daughter go 
 stately and fine at court, my husband will be better known by me 
 than by him; and to be sure, many will ask what ladies are those 
 in that coach, and will be told by a footman of ours that ’tis the 
 wife and daughter of Sancho Panza, governor of the island of 
 Barataria ; and so shall my husband be known, and I much looked 
 upon—to Rome for everything! 
 
 ‘‘T am as sorry as sorry can be, that hereabouts there has been 
 no gathering of acorns this year of any account ; but, for all that, 
 I send your highness about half a peck, which I went to the hills 
 for, and with my own hands picked them one by one, and could find 
 no better—I wish they had been as big as ostrich eggs. 
 
 “‘ Pray let not your mightiness forget to write to me, and I will 
 take care to answer, and send you tidings of my health, and all the 
 news of the village where I now remain, My daughter Sanchica 
 and my son kiss your ladyship’s hands. 
 
 ‘‘She who is more minded to see than to write to your ladyship, 
 “‘ Your servant, 
 ‘“ TERESA PANZA.” 
 
 Teresa’s letter gave great pleasure to all who heard it, especially 
 the duke and duchess, insomuch that her grace asked Don Quixote 
 if he thought her letter to the governor might with propriety be 
 opened, as it must needs be admirable; to which he replied, that 
 to satisfy her highness’s curiosity, he would open it. Accordingly 
 he did so, and found it to contain what follows :— 
 
 TERESA PANZA’S LETTER TO HER HUSBAND SANCHO PANZA. 
 ‘*T received thy letter, dear husband of my soul, and I vow and 
 
TERESA’S LETTER TO SANCHO PANZA. 548 
 
 swear to thee, as I am a Catholic Christian, that I was within two 
 fingers’ breadth of running mad with joy. Yes, indeed, when I 
 came to hear that thou wast a governor, methought I should have 
 dropped down dead for mere gladness; for ’tis said, thou know’st, 
 that sudden joy kills as soon as great sorrow. And as for our 
 daughter Sanchica, verily she could not contain herself, for pure 
 pleasure. There I had before my eyes thy suit, and the corals sent 
 by my lady duchess about my neck, and the letters in my hands, 
 and the young man that brought them standing by; yet, for all 
 that, I thought it could be nothing but a dream: for who could 
 think that a goatherd should ever come to be a governor of islands! 
 My mother used to say that ‘he who would see much must live 
 long.’ I say this, because, if I live longer, I hope to see more ;—no, 
 faith, I shall not rest till I see thee a tax-farmer, or a collector of 
 the customs: for, though they be offices that ruin a great many, 
 there is much money to be touched and turned. My lady duchess 
 will tell thee how I have a huge longing to go to court—think of 
 it, and let me know thy mind; for I would fain do thee czedit 
 there by riding in a coach. 
 
 ‘* Neither the priest, the barber, the bacheloy, nor even the sex- 
 ton, can yet believe thou art a governor, and will have it that it is 
 all a cheat, or a matter of enchantment, like the rest of thy master 
 Don Quixote’s affairs ; and Sampson says he will find thee out, and 
 drive this government out of thy pate, and scour thy master’s brains. 
 But I only laugh at them, and look upon my string of corals, and 
 think how to make thy suit of green into a habit for our daughter. 
 I sent my lady duchess a parcel of acorns :—I wish they had been of 
 gold. Pr’ythee send me some strings of pearl, if they are in fashion 
 in that same island. ‘The news of our town is that Berrecua has 
 married her daughter to a sorry painter, who came here and under- 
 took any sort of work. The corporation employed him to paint the 
 king’s arms over the gate of the town-house. He asked them two 
 ducats for the job, which they paid beforehand; so he fell to it, and 
 worked eight days, at the end of which he had made nothing of it, 
 and said he could not bring his hand to paint such trumpery, and 
 returned the money; yet, for all that, he married in the name of a 
 good workman. ‘The truth is, he has left his brushes and taken up 
 the spade, and goes to the field like a gentleman. Pedro de Lobo’s 
 son has taken orders, and shaven his crown, meaning to be a priest. 
 Minguilla, Mingo Silvato’s niece, hearing of it, is suing him upon 
 a promise of marriage. We have had no olives this year, nor is 
 there a drop of vinegar to be had in all the town. A company of 
 foot-soldiers passed through here, and carried off with them three 
 girls—I will not say who they are; mayhap they will return, and 
 somebody or other marry them, with all their faults. Sanchica 
 _ makes bone-lace, and gets eight maravedis a day, which she drops 
 into a saving box, to help her toward household stuff; but now that 
 she is a governor’s daughter she has no need to work, for thou wilt 
 give her a portion without it. The fountain in our market-place is 
 dried up. A thunderbolt fell upon the pillory, and there may they 
 all light! I expect an answer to this, and about my going to court, 
 
 
 
 
 
544 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 And so God grant thee more years than myself, or as many, for I 
 would not willingly leave thee behind me. 
 ‘Thy wife, 
 ‘TERESA PANZA.” 
 
 This letter caused much merriment, applause, and admiration; 
 and to complete all, the courier now arrived, who brought the let- 
 ter sent by Sancho to his master, which was also read aloud, and 
 occasioned the governor’s folly to be much questioned. The duchess 
 retired to hear from the page the particulars of his journey to 
 Sancho’s village, all of which he related very minutely, without 
 omitting a single circumstance. He delivered the acorns,' also a 
 cheese, which Teresa presented as an excellent one, and better than 
 those of Tronchon. 'These the duchess received with great satis- 
 faction : and here we will leave them, to record how the government 
 ended of the great Sancho Panza, the flower and mirror of allisland 
 governors, 
 
 Hook Fourth, 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER LIIL 
 Of the toilsome end and conclusion of Sancho Panza’s government. 
 
 It is in vain to expect uniformity in the affairs of this life; the 
 whole seems rather to be in a course of perpetual change. The- 
 seasons from year to year run in their appointed circle, spring is 
 succeeded by summer, summer by autumn, and autumn by winter, 
 which is again followed by the season of renovation; and thus they 
 perform their everlasting round. But man’s mortal career has no 
 such renewal; from infancy to age it hastens onward to its end, 
 and to the beginning of that state which has neither change nor ter- 
 mination. Such are the reflections of Cid Hamet, the Mahomedan 
 philosopher; for many, by a natural sense, without the light of 
 faith, have discovered the changeful uncertainty of our: present 
 condition, and the eternal duration of that which is to come. In 
 this place, however, our author alludes only to the instability of 
 Sancho’s fortune, and the brief duration of his government, which 
 so suddenly expired, dissolved, and vanished like a dream. 
 
 The governor being in bed on the seventh night of his admin- 
 istration, not sated with bread nor wine, but with sitting in © 
 judgment, deciding causes, and making statutes and proclamations ; 
 and just at the moment when sleep, in despite of hunger, was 
 closing his eyelids, he heard such a noise of bells and voices that 
 he verily thought the whole island had been sinking. He started 
 
THE NIGHT ATTACK. 545 
 
 up in his bed, and listened with great attention, to find out, if pos- 
 sible, the cause of so alarming an uproar; but far from discovering 
 it, his confusion and terror were only augmented by the din of an 
 infinite number of trumpets and drums being added to the former 
 noises. Quitting his bed, he put on his slippers, on account of the 
 damp floor; he opened his chamber-door, and saw more than 
 twenty persons coming along a gallery with lighted torches in 
 their hands, and their swords drawn, all crying aloud, ‘‘ Arm, arm, 
 my lord governor, arm !—a world of enemies are got into the island, 
 and we are undone for ever, if your conduct and valour do not save 
 us.” Thus advancing, with noise and disorder, they came up to 
 where Sancho stood, astonished and stupified with what he heard and 
 saw. ‘‘ Arm yourself quickly, my lord,”’ said one of them, ‘‘ unless 
 you would be ruined, and the whole island with you.” ‘‘ What 
 have I to do with arming,” replied Sancho, ‘‘who knows nothing 
 of arms or fighting? It were better to leave these matters to my 
 master Don Quixote, who will despatch them and secure us in a 
 trice; for, as lam a sinner, I understand nothing at all of these 
 hurly-burlys.” ‘‘ How! signor governor?” said another; ‘‘ what 
 faint-heartedness is this? Here we bring you arms and weapons— 
 harness yourself, my lord, and come forth to the market-place, and 
 be our leader and our captain, which, as governor, you ought to 
 be.” ‘Why, then, arm me,” replied Sancho; and instantly they 
 brought two large old targets, which they had provided for the oc- 
 casion, and allowing him only a fewmoments to put on his upper gar- 
 ments, they clapped the targets over him, theone before and the other 
 behind, and bound them so fast together with cords that the poor 
 commander remained eased and boarded up as stiff and straight as a 
 spindle, without power to bend his knees or stir a single step. They 
 then put a rusty old sword into his hand, upon which he leaned to 
 keep himself up; and thus accoutred, they desired him to lead on 
 and animate his people; for he being their north-pole, their lan- 
 thorn, and their morning star, their affairs could not fail to have a 
 prosperous issue. ‘‘ How should I march—wretch that I am!” 
 said the governor, ‘‘when I cannot stir a joint between these 
 boards, that press into my flesh? Your only way is to carry me in 
 your arms, and lay me athwart, or set me upright, at some gate, 
 which I will maintain either with my lance or my body.” ‘‘ Fie, 
 signor governor!” said another, ‘‘it is more fear than the targets 
 that hinders your marching. Hasten and exert yourself, for time 
 advances, the enemy pours in upon us, and every moment in- 
 creases our danger.” 
 
 The unfortunate governor, thus urged and upbraided, made 
 efforts to move, and down he fell, with such violence that he 
 thought every bone had been broken; and there he lay, like a tor- 
 toise in his shell, or like a flitch of bacon packed between two 
 boards, or like a boat on the sands keel upwards. Though they 
 saw his disaster, those jesting rogues had no compassion; on the 
 contrary, putting out their torches, they renewed the alarm, and, 
 with terrible noise and precipitation, trampled over his body; and 
 bestowed numerous blows upon the targets, insomuch that, if he 
 Wo 2M 
 
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 546 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
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 gone hard with the poor governor, who, pent up within his narrow 
 
THE NIGHT ATTACK. 547 
 
 lodging, and sweating with fear, prayed, from the bottom of his 
 heart, for deliverance from that horrible situation. Some kicked 
 him, others stumbled and fell over him, and one among them 
 jumped upon his body, and there stood as on a watch-tower, issu- 
 ing his orders to the troops. ‘‘ There, boys, there! that way the 
 enemy charges thickest; defend that breach; secure yon gate; 
 down with those scaling ladders; this way with your kettles of 
 melted piteh, resin, and flaming oil; quick, fly !—get woolsacks 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ani barricade the streets!” In short, he called for all the instru- 
 ments of death, anl everything employed in the defence of a city 
 besieged and stormed. All this while Sancho, pressed and battered, 
 lay and heard what was passing, and often said to himself, ‘‘O 
 that this island were but taken, and I could see myself either dead 
 or delivered out of this den!” When least expecting it, he was 
 cheered with shouts of triumph. ‘ Victory! victory !” they cried, 
 | the enemy 1s routed. Rise, signor governor, enjoy the conquest, 
 
548 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE, 
 
 and divide the spoils taken from the foe by the valour of that in- 
 vincible arm!” ‘‘ Raise me up,” quoth Sancho, in a woeful tone; 
 and when they had placed him upon his legs, he said, ‘‘ All the 
 enemies I have routed may be nailed to my forehead. I will 
 divide no spoils ; but I beg and entreat some friend, if I have any, 
 to give me a draught of wine to keep me from choking with thirst, 
 and help me to dry up the sweat; for I am almost turned into 
 water.” They untied the targets, wiped him, and brought him 
 wine; and, when seated upon his bed, such had been his fatigue, 
 ‘agony, and terror, that he fainted away. Those concerned in the 
 joke were now sorry they had laid it on so heavily; but were 
 consoled on seeing him recover. He asked them what time it 
 was, and they told him it was daybreak. He said no more, but 
 proceeded, in silence, to put on his clothes; while the rest looked 
 - on, curious to know what were his intentions. 
 
 At length, having put on his clothes, which he did slowly, and 
 with much difficulty, from his bruises, he bent his way to the 
 stable, followed by all present, and going straight to Dapple, he 
 embraced him, and gave him a kiss of peace on his forehead. 
 “Come hither,” said he, with tears in his eyes, ‘‘my friend, and 
 the partner of my fatigues and miseries. When I consorted with 
 thee, and had no other care but mending thy furniture, and 
 feeding that little carcase of thine, happy were my hours, my days, 
 and my years; but since I forsook thee, and mounted the towers of 
 ambition and pride, a thousand toils, a thousand torments, and ten 
 thousand tribulations, have seized and worried my soul.” While 
 he thus spoke, he fixed the panel upon his ass without interruption 
 from anybody, and when he had done, with great difficulty and 
 pain he got upon him, and said to the steward, the secretary, the 
 doctor, Pedro Rezio, and many others who were present, ‘‘ Make 
 way, gentlemen, make way, and let me return to my ancient liberty ; 
 let me seek the life I have left, that I may rise again from this 
 grave. I was not born to bea governor, nor to defend islands nor 
 cities from enemies that break in upon them. I understand better 
 how to plough and dig, to plant and prune vines, than to make 
 laws, and take care of provinces or kingdoms. Saint Peter 
 is well at Rome :—I mean to say, that nothing becomes a man so 
 well as the employment he was born for. In my hand a sickle is 
 better than a sceptre. I had rather have my bellyful of my own 
 poor porridge, than to be mocked with dainties by an officious 
 
 doctor, who would kill me with hunger ; I had rather lie under the — 
 
 shade of an oak in summer, and wrap myself in a jerkin of double 
 sheep’s-skin in winter, at my liberty, than lay me down under the 
 slavery of a government, between Holland sheets, and be robed in 
 fine sables. Heaven be with you, gentlefolks ; tell my lord duke 
 that naked was I born, and naked I am; I neither win nor lose; 
 
 for without a penny came I to this government, and without a_ 
 
 penny do I leave it—all governors cannot say the like. Make way. 
 
 gentlemen, I beseech you, that I may go and plaister myself, for I 
 
 verily believe all my ribs are broken—thanks to the enemies who 
 have been trampling over me all night long.” 
 
 il edt 
 
 
 
THE GOVERNOR’S DEPARTURE. 549 
 
 ‘‘It must not be so, signor governor,” said the doctor, ‘‘for I 
 will give your lordship a balsamie draught, good against all kinds 
 of bruises, that shall presently restore you to ycur former health 
 and vigour; and as.to your food, my lord, I promise to amend that, 
 and let you eat abundantly of whatever you desire.” ‘‘ Your 
 promises come too late, Mr Doctor,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘I will as 
 soon turn Turk as remain here. ‘These tricks are not to be played 
 twice. «I will no more hold this nor any other government, though 
 it were served up to me in a covered dish, than I will fly to 
 heaven without wings. Iam of the race of the Panzas, who are 
 made of stubborn stuif; and if they once cry, Odd !—odds it shall 
 be, come of it what will. Here will I leave the pismire’s wings 
 that raised me aloft to be pecked at by martlets and other small 
 birds ; and be content to walk upon plain ground, with a plain foot ; 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 for though it be not adorned with pink Cordovan shoes, it will not 
 wait for hempen sandals. Every sheep with its like; stretch not 
 your feet beyond your sheet; so let me begone, for it grows late.” 
 “‘Signor governor,” said the steward, ‘‘ we would not presume to 
 hinder your departure, although we are grieved to lose you, because 
 of your wise and Christian conduct ; but your lordship knows that 
 every governor, before he Jays down his authority, is bound to 
 render an account of his administration. Be pleased, my lord, to 
 do so for the time which you have been among us; then peace be 
 with you.” <‘‘ Nobody can require that of me,” replied Sancho, 
 ‘*but my lord duke; to him I go, and to him I shall give a fair and 
 square account; though in going away naked, as I do, there needs 
 nothing more to show that I have governed like an angel.” ‘‘ The 
 great Sancho.is in the right,” said Doctor Pedro Rezio, ‘‘and I am 
 
550 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 of opinion we should let him go; for*without doubt his highness 
 will be glad to see him.” They all agreed, therefore, that he 
 should be allowed to depart, and also offered to attend him and 
 
 rovide him with whatever was necessary or convenient for 
 is journey. Sancho told them he wanted only a little barley for 
 Dapple, and half a cheese and half a loaf for himself; that having 
 so short a distance to travel, nothing more would be needful. 
 Hereupon they all embraced him, which kindness he returned with 
 tears in his eyes, and he left them in admiration both of his good 
 sense and unalterable firmness. 
 
 GSTACP Ts Tis GV. 
 
 Of what befell Sancho on his way, and other matiers, which will be 
 known when read. 
 
 The duke and duchess resolved that Don Quixote’s challenge of 
 their vassal should not be neglected; and though the young man 
 had fled into Flanders to avoid having Donna Rodriguez for his 
 mother-in-law, they made choice of a Gascon lacquey, named 
 Tosilos, to supply his place, and for that purpose gave him instruc- 
 tions how to perform his part; and the duke informed Don Quixote 
 that his opponent would im four days present himself in the lists, 
 armed as a knight, and prepared to maintain that the damsel lied 
 by half his beard, and even by the whole beard, in saying that he 
 had given her a promise of marriage. The information was highly 
 delightful to Don Quixote, who flattered himself that the occasion 
 would offer him an opportunity of performing wonders, and thought 
 himself singularly fortunate.in that he should be able in the presence 
 of such noble spectators to give proofs of the valour of his heart 
 and the strength of hisarm ; and so, with infinite content, he waited 
 the four days, which his eager impatience made him think were so 
 many ages. 
 
 Now, letting them pass, as we have done many other matters, 
 we will turn to our friend Sancho, who, partly glad and partly 
 sorrowful, was hastening as fast as his Dapple would carry him to 
 his master, whose society he loved better than being governor of all 
 the islands in the world. He had not, however, proceeded far from 
 this island, city, or town (for which of these it was, he had never 
 given himself the trouble to determine), when he saw on the road 
 six pilgrims with their staves, being foreigners of that class who 
 were wont to sing their supplications for alms. As they drew near, 
 they placed themselves in order, and began their song in the lan- 
 guage of their country ; but Sancho understood nothing except the 
 word signifying alms; whence he concluded that alms was the 
 object of their chanting; and he being, as Cid Hamet says, 
 extremely charitable, he took the half loaf and half cheese out of 
 his wallet, and gave it them, making signs, at the same time, that — 
 he had nothing else to give. 
 
SANCHO RECOGNIZED BY A PILGRIM. 551 
 
 They received his donation eagerly, saying, ‘‘ Guelte, guelte.” * 
 **I do not understand you,” answered Sancho; ‘‘ what is it you 
 would have, good people?” One of themthen drew out of his bosom 
 a purse, and, showing it to Sancho, intimated that it was money they 
 wanted, upon which Sancho placing his thumb to his throat, and 
 extending his hand upward, gave them to understand he had not a 
 penny in the world. Then clapping hecls to Dapple, he made way 
 through them; but as he passed by, one of them, looking at him 
 with particular attention, caught hold of him, and- throwing his 
 arms about his waist, ‘‘ What is it see?” said he in good Castilian. 
 “*Ts it possible I hold in my arms my dear friend and good neighbour, 
 Sancho Panza? Yes, truly, it must be so, for I am neither drunk 
 nor sleeping.” Sancho, much surprised to hear himself called by 
 his name, and to be embraced by the stranger pilgrim, stared at 
 him for some time, without speaking a word, but though he viewed 
 him earnestly, he could not recollect him. ‘‘ How!” said the pil- 
 grim, observing his amazement, ‘‘ have you forgotten your neigh- 
 bour Ricote, the Morisco shopkeeper of your town?” Sancho, at 
 length, after a fresh examination, recognized the face of an old 
 acquaintance, and without alighting from his beast, be embraced 
 him and said, ‘‘Who would know you in this covering, Ricote ? 
 Tell me how you came to be thus Frenchified, and how you 
 dare venture to come again into Spain, where, if you are 
 found out, that coat of yours will not save you?” ‘If you do 
 not discover me, Sancho,” answered the pilgrim, ‘‘I am safe 
 enough: for in this habit nobody can know me. But go with us 
 to yonder poplar-grove, where my comrades mean to dine and rest 
 themselves, and you shall eat with us.” 
 
 Sancho consented, and after Ricote had conferred with his com- 
 rades, they all retired together to the poplar-grove, which was far 
 enough out of the high-road. Ricote and Sancho, leaving their com- 
 panions, went a little aside and sat down under the shade of a beech 
 tree, where Ricote, in pure Castilian, without once stumbling into 
 his Morisco jargon, gave an account of what had befallen him. 
 
 It was so late before Sancho parted with his friend Ricote, that 
 he could not reach the duke’s castle that day, although he was 
 within half-a-league of it, when night, somewhat darker than usual, 
 overtook him: but as it was summer-time, this gave him little 
 concern, and therefore he turned out of the road, intending to pro- 
 ceed no farther till the morning. But in seeking a convenient 
 shelter for the night, his ill-luck so ordered it that he and Dapple 
 fell together into a cavity, among the ruins of an old building. The 
 hole was deep, and Sancho, in the course of his descent, devoutly 
 recommended himself to Heaven, not expecting to stop till he came 
 to the utmost depth of the abyss; but therein he was mistaken, for 
 he had not much exceeded three fathoms before Dapple felt the 
 ground, with Sancho still upon his back, without having received the 
 smallest damage. He forthwith examined the condition of his body, 
 held his breath, and felt all about him, and, finding himself whole, 
 
 * A Dutch word, signifying “money.” 
 
552 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and in catholic health, he thought he could never be sufficiently 
 grateful to Heaven for his wonderful preservation; for he verily 
 believed he had been dashed into a thousand pieces. He then 
 groped about the pit, in the hope of discovering some means of 
 getting out, but found that the sides were perpendicular, smooth, 
 and without either hold or footing, which grieved him much, espe- 
 cially when he heard Dapple groan most piteously ; nor did he 
 lament without a good cause, for in truth he was in a bad plight. 
 ‘*Woe is me!” exclaimed Sancho, ‘‘ what sudden and unlooked-for 
 mischances perpetually befall us poor wretches who live in this miser- 
 able world! Who could have thought that he who but yesterday 
 saw himself on a throne, a governor of an island, with officers and 
 servants at his call, should, to-day, find himself buried in a pit, 
 alone, helpless, and cut off from all relief? Here must I and my 
 ass perish with hunger, unless we die first, he with bruises, and I 
 with grief; for I cannot reckon upon my master’s luck in the cave 
 of Montesinos, where, it seems, he met with better entertainment 
 than in his own house, and where he found the cloth ready laid, 
 and the bed ready made. There he saw beautiful and pleasant 
 visions, and here, if J see anything, it will be toads and snakes. 
 Unfortunate that Iam! what are my follies and my fancies come 
 to? Whenever it shall please Heaven that I shall be found, here 
 will my bones be taken up, clean, white, and bare, and those of my 
 trusty Dapple with them; by which, peradventure, it will be 
 guessed who we are—at least by those who know that Sancho Panza 
 never left his ass, nor did-his ass ever leave Sancho Panza, 
 Wretches that we are! not to have the comfort of dying among 
 our friends, where at least there would be some to grieve for us, 
 and, at our last gasp, to close our eyes. O my dear companion and 
 friend! how ill have I requited thy faithful services! forgive me, 
 and pray to fortune, in the best manner thou canst, to bring us out 
 of this miserable pickle; and I here promise thee, besides doubling 
 thy allowance of provender, to set a crown of laurel upon thy head, 
 that thou mayst look like any poet-laureate.”’ 
 
 Thus did Sancho Panza bewail his misfortune, and though his ass 
 listened to al! he said, yet not a word did he answer; such was the 
 poor beast’s anguish and distress! At length, after having passed 
 all that night in sad complaints and bitter wailings, day-light began 
 to appear, whereby Sancho was soon confirmed in what he so much 
 feared—that it was utterly impossible to escape from that dungeon 
 without help. He therefore had recourse to his voice, and set up a 
 
 «vigorous outcry, in the hope of making somebody hear him; but 
 alas! it was all in vain, for not a human creature was within hear- 
 ing, and after many trials he gave himself up as dead and buried. 
 Seeing that his dear Dapple was yet lying upon his back, with his 
 mouth upwards, he endeavoured to get him upon his legs, which, 
 with much ado, he accomplished, though the poor animal could 
 scarcely stand ; he then took a luncheon of bread out of his wallet 
 (which had shared in the disaster), and gave it to his beast, saying 
 to him, ‘‘ Bread is relief for all kind of grief:” all of which the ass 
 appeared to take very kindly. At last, however, Sancho, perceived 
 
 id Ne a a ae — 
 
SANGHO’S MISHAP. 653 
 
 a crevice on one side of the pit large enough to admit the body of a 
 man. He immediately thrust himself into the hole, and creeping 
 upon all-fours, he found it to enlarge as he proceeded, and that it 
 led into another cavity, which, by a ray of light that glanced through 
 some cranny above, he saw was large and spacious. He was also 
 that it led into another vault equally capacious; and having made 
 this discovery he returned for his ass, and by removing the earth 
 about the hole, he soon made it large enough for Dapple to pass. 
 Then laying hold of his halter, he led him along through the several 
 cavities, to try if he could not tind a way out on the other side. 
 Thus he went on, sometimes in the dusk, sometimes in the dark, 
 but always in fear and trembling. ‘‘ What a chicken-hearted fellow 
 am I!” said he. ‘‘This now, which to me is a sad mishap, to my 
 master Don Quixote would have been a choice adventure. These 
 caves and dungeons, belike, he would have taken for beautiful 
 gardens and stately palaces of Galiana, and would have reckoned 
 upon their ending in some pleasant flowery meadow; while I, poor, 
 helpless, heartless wretch that I am, expect some other pit still 
 deeper to open suddenly under my feet and swallow me up. O wel- 
 come the ill-luck that comes alone!” Thus he went on, lamenting 
 and despairing; and when he had gone, as he supposed, somewhat 
 more than half a league, he perceived a kind of glimmering light, 
 like that of day, breaking through some aperture above, that seemed 
 to him an entrance to the other world; in which situation Cid 
 Hamet leaves him for awhile, and returns to Don Quixote, who, 
 with great pleasure, looked forward to the day appointed for the 
 combat, by which he hoped to revenge the injury done to Donna 
 Rodriguez's daughter. 
 
 One morning, as the knight was riding out to exercise and -pre- 
 pare himself for the approaching conflict, now urging, now checking 
 the mettle of his steed, it happened that Rozinante, in one of his 
 curvettings, pitched his feet so near the brink of a deep cave, that 
 had not Don Quixote used his reins with all his skill, he must inevit- 
 ably have fallen into it. But, having escaped that danger, he was 
 curious to examine the chasm, and as he was earnestly surveying 
 it, still sitting on his horse, he thought he heard a noise issuing 
 from below, like a human voice; and listening more attentively, he 
 distinctly heard these words: ‘‘Ho! above there ! is there any Chris- 
 tian that hears me, or any charitable gentleman to take pity on a 
 sinner buried alive; a poor governor without a government?” Don 
 Quixote thought it was the voice of Sancho Panza; at which he was 
 greatly amazed, and, raising his voice as high as he could, he cried, 
 ‘Who are you below there? Who is it that complains?” ‘‘ Who 
 should be here, and who complain,” answered the voice, ‘‘ but the 
 most wretched soul alive, Sancho Panza, governor, for his sins and 
 evil-errantry, of the island of Barataria, and late squire to the 
 famous knight Don Quixote de la Mancha.” 
 
 On hearing this Don Quixote’s wonder and alarm increased ; for 
 he conceived that Sancho Panza was dead, and that his soul was 
 there doing penance; and in this persuasion, he said, ‘‘I conjure 
 thee, as far as a Catholic Christian may, to tell me who thou art; 
 
554. ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and if thou art a soul in purgatory, let me know what [ can do for 
 thee ; for since my profession obliges me to aid and succour all that 
 are afflicted in this world, [ shall also be ready to aid and assist the 
 distressed in the world below, where they cannot help themselves.” 
 ‘‘ Surely,’ answered the voice from below, ‘‘it is my master Don 
 Quixote de la Mancha, who speaks to me—by the sound of the voice 
 it can be no other!” ‘‘ Don Quixote Jam,” replied the knight, ‘‘ he 
 whose profession and duty it is to relieve and succour the living 
 and the dead in their necessities. Tell me, then, who thou art, for 
 T am amazed at what I hear. If thou art really my squire Sancho 
 Panza, and art dead, and through God’s mercy thou art still in 
 purgatory, our holy mother the Roman Catholic Church has power 
 by her supplications to deliver thee from the pains which afflict 
 thee; and I will myself solicit her in thy behalf, as far as my estate 
 and purse will go; speak, therefore, and tell me quickly who thou 
 art!” . ‘“‘ Why, then,” said the voice, ‘‘I will swear by whatever 
 your worship pleases, Signor Don Quixote de la Mancha, that I am 
 your squire Sancho Panza, and that I never died in the whole course 
 of my life; but that, having left my government for reasons and 
 causes that require more leisure to be told, I fell last night into this 
 cavern, where I now am, and Dapple with me, who will not let me 
 le; and, as a further proof, here the good creature stands by me.” 
 
 Now it would seem the ass understood what Sancho said, and 
 willing to add his testimony, at that instant began to bray so 
 lustily that the whole cave resounded. ‘*A credible witness!” 
 quoth Don Quixote; ‘‘that bray I know as well as if I myself had 
 brought it forth; and thy voice, too, I know, my dear Sancho— 
 wait a little, and I will go to the duke’s castle and bring some 
 people to get thee out of this pit, into which thou has certainly 
 been cast for thy sins.” ‘‘ Pray, go,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ and return 
 speedily ; for I cannot bear any longer to be buried alive, and am 
 dying with fear.” Don Quixote left him, and hastened to the 
 castle to tell the duke and duchess what had happened to Sancho 
 Panza; at which they were not a little surprised, though they 
 readily accounted for his being there, and conceived that he might 
 easily have fallen down the pit, which was well-known, and had 
 been there time out of mind; but they could not imagine how he 
 should have left his government without their having been apprised 
 of it. Ropes and pulleys were, however, immediately sent ; and, 
 with much labour, and many hands, Dapple and his master were 
 drawn out of that gloomy den, to the welcome light of the sun. 
 
 A certain scholar, who was present at Sancho’s deliverance, said, 
 ‘¢Thus should all bad governors quit their governments; even as 
 this sinner comes out of the depth of this abyss; pale, hungry, and 
 penniless!” ‘‘ Hark ye, brother,” said Sancho, who had overheard’ 
 him, ‘‘it is now eight or ten days since I began to govern the 
 island that was given to me, and in all that time I never had my 
 bellyful but once. Doctors persecuted me, enemies trampled over 
 me and bruised my bones, but no leisure had I either to touch a 
 bribe or receive my dues; and this being the fact, methinks I de- 
 serve not to come out of it in this fashion. But man proposes and 
 
SANCHO DELIVERS UP HIS GOVERNMENT. 555 
 
 God disposes; and He knows what is best and fittest for every- 
 body; and, as is the reason, such is the season; and, let nobody 
 say I will not drink of this cup; for where one expected to find a 
 flitch, there may not be even a pin to hang it on! Heaven knows 
 my mind, and that is enough. I could say much, but I say no- 
 thing.” ‘‘Be not angry, Sancho, nor concerned at what may be 
 said,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘ otherwise thou wilt nevcr be at peace. 
 Keep but a safe conscience, and let people say what they will; for 
 as well mayest thou think to barricade the plain, as to tie up the 
 tongue of slander. If a governor comes rich from his government, 
 they say he has plundered it; and, if he leaves it poor, that he has 
 been a fool.” ‘‘I warrant,” answered Sancho, ‘‘that, for this 
 bout, they will rather take me for a fool than a thief.” 
 
 In such discourse, amidst a rabblement of boys and other followers, 
 they arrived at the castle, where the duke and duchess were already 
 in a gallery waiting for them. Sancho would not go up to see the 
 duke till he had first taken the necessary care of Dapple in the stable, 
 because the poor creature, he said, had had but an indifferent night’s 
 lodging ; and that done, he went up to the duke and duchess, and 
 kneeling before them, he said, ‘‘My lord and lady, you made me 
 yovernor of your island of Barataria; and not from any desert of 
 mine, but because your grandeurs would have it so. Naked I 
 entered it, and naked have I left it. I neither win nor lose; 
 whether I have governed well or ill, there are witnesses, who may 
 say what they please. I have cleared up doubts, and pronounced 
 sentences, and all the while famished with hunger: so far it was 
 ordered by Pedro Rezio, native of Tirteafuera, doctor in ordinary 
 to the island and its governor. Enemies attacked us by night; 
 and, though they put us in great danger, I heard many say that 
 the island was delivered; and according as they speak the truth, 
 so help them, Heaven. In short, I have by this time been able to 
 reckon up the cares and burthens the trade of governing brings 
 with it, and find them, by my account, too heavy for my shoulders 
 or ribs to bear,—they are not arrows for my quiver; and so, 
 before the government left me, I e’en resolved to leave the govern- 
 ment; and yesterday morning, turning my back on the island, I 
 left it just as I found it, with the same streets, the same houses 
 with the selfsame roofs to them as they had when I first entered it. 
 I have neither borrowed nor hoarded; and though I intended to 
 make some wholesome laws, I made none, fearing they would not 
 be observed, which is the same as if they were not made. I came 
 away, as I said, from the island without any company but my 
 Dapple. In the dark, I fell headlong into a pit, and crept along 
 under ground, till this morning by the light of the sun I discovered 
 a way out, though not so easy a one but that if Heaven had not 
 sent my master Don Quixote, there I might have stayed till the 
 end of the world. So that, my lord duke and my lady duchess, 
 behold here your governor Sancho Panza, who in the ten days that 
 he held his office, found out by experience that he would not give 
 a single farthing to be governor, not of an island only, but even of 
 the whole world. This then being the case, kissing your honours’ 
 
556 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 feet, and imitating the boys at play, who cry leap and away, I give 
 a leap out of the government, and pass over to the service of my 
 master Don Quixote; for, after all, though with him I eat my 
 bread in bodily fear, at least I have my bellyful; and, for my part, 
 so I have but that well stuffed, it is all one to me whether it be 
 with carrots or partridges.” 
 
 Here Sancho ended his long speech, Don Quixote dreading all 
 the while a thousand absurdities, and when he had ended with so 
 few, he gave thanks to Heaven in his heart. The duke embraced 
 Sancho, and said that it grieved him to the soul he had left the go- 
 vernment so soon; but that he would take care he should have 
 some other employment in his territories, of less trouble and more 
 profit. The duchess was no less kind, and ordered that he should 
 be taken good care of, for he seemed to be much bruised and in 
 wretched plight. 
 
 CHUA Pa ada Ve 
 
 Of the prodigious and unparalleled battle between Don Quixote de la 
 Mancha and the lacquey Tosilos, in defence of the duenna Donna 
 Rodriguez’s daughter. 
 
 The duke and duchess repented not of the jest they had practised 
 upon Sancho Panza, when the steward, on his return, gave them a 
 minute relation of almost every word and action of the governor 
 during that time; and he failed not to enlarge upon the assault of 
 the island, with his terror and final abdication, which gave them 
 not a little entertainment. The history then tells us that the 
 appointed day of combat arrived; nor had the duke neglected to 
 give his lacquey Tosilos all the necessary instructions how to van- 
 quish his antagonist, and yet neither kill nor wound him; for 
 which purpose he gave orders that the iron heads of their lances 
 should be taken off, because, as he told Don Quixote, that Chris- 
 tianity, upon which he valued himself, forbade that in this battle 
 their lives should be exposed to danger; and though contrary to 
 the decree of the holy council, which prohibits such encounters, 
 he should allow them free field-room in his territories ; but he did 
 not wish the affair pushed to the utmost extremity. Don Quixote 
 begged his excellency would arrange all things as he deemed best ; 
 and assured him that he would acquiesce in every particular. 
 
 On the dreadful day, the duke having commanded a spacious 
 scaffold to be erected before the court of the castle for the judges of 
 the field, and the two duennas, mother and daughter, appellants, 
 an infinite number of people, from all the neighbouring towns and 
 villages, flocked to see the novel spectacle, for, in later times, 
 nothing like it had ever been seen or heard of in that country 
 either by the living or the dead. 
 
 The first who entered the lists was the master of the ceremonies, 
 who walked over the ground, and examined it in every part, to 
 
 & 
 
PREPARATION FOR THE COMBAT. 557 
 
 guard against foul play, and see that there was nothing on the 
 surface to occasion stumbling or falling. The duennas now entered, 
 and took seats, covered with veils even to their breasts, and 
 betraying much emotion. Don Quixote next presented himself in 
 the lists, and soon after the sound of trumpets announced the 
 entrance of the great Tosilos, mounted on a stately steed, making 
 the earth shake beneath him; with vizor down, and stiffly cased 
 within a suite of strong and shining armour. ‘The horse seemed to 
 be a Frieslander, broad-built, and flea-bitten, with abundance of 
 hair upon each fetlock. The courageous Tosilos came well instructed 
 by the duke his lord how to behave towards the valorous Don 
 Quixote de la Mancha, and cautioned in no wise to hurt him, and 
 also to be careful to elude his adversary at the first onset, lest he 
 should himself be slain, which would be imevitable if he met him 
 in full career. He traversed the enclosure, and, advancing towards 
 the duennas, he surveyed the lady who demanded him for a hus- 
 band. The marshal of the field, attended by Don Quixote and 
 Tosilos, now formally demanded of the duennas whether they con- 
 sented that Don Quixote de la Mancha should maintain their right. 
 They answered that they did, and that whatever he should do in 
 their behalf, they should confirm, and hold to be right and valid. 
 The duke and duchess now took their seats, in a balcony over 
 the barriers, which were crowded by an infinite number of people, 
 all in full expectation of beholding this terrible and extraordinary 
 conflict. It was stipulated between Don Quixote and Tosilos, that 
 if the former should conquer his adversary, the latter should be 
 obliged to marry Donna Rodriguez’s daughter; and if he should be 
 overcome, his adversary should be released from his engagement 
 with the lady, and every other claim on her account. And now 
 the master of the ceremonies divided the sun equally between 
 them, and fixed each at his post. The drums beat; the sound of 
 trumpets filled the air, earth shook beneath the steeds of the com- 
 batants; the hearts of the gazing multitude palpitated, some with 
 fear, some with hope, for the issue of this affair; finally, Don 
 Quixote, recommending himself to Heaven, and to his lady 
 Dulcinea del Toboso, stood waiting the signal for the onset. But 
 our lacquey’s thoughts were differently employed, for it so happened 
 that, while he stood looking at his female enemy, she appeared to 
 him the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life, and the 
 little blind boy called Cupid, seized the opportunity of adding a 
 lacquey’s heart to the list of his trophies. Softly and unperceived, 
 therefore, he approached his victim, and taking aim at the left 
 side of the devoted youth, with an arrow two yards long he pierced 
 his heart through and through; and this the amorous archer could 
 do with perfect safety, for he is invisible, and goes and comes when 
 and where he pleases, and to none is he accountable. So that when 
 the signal was given for the onset, our lacquey stood transported, 
 contemplating the beauty of her who was now the mistress of his 
 liberty, and therefore attended not to the trumpet’s sound. It was 
 not so with Don Quixote, who, instantly spurring forward, advanced 
 towards his enemy at Rozinante’s best speed ; while his trusty squire 
 
558 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Sancho cried aloud, ‘‘God guide you, cream and flower of knights- 
 errant! Heaven give you victory, for the right is on your side!” 
 
 Though Tosilos saw Don Quixote making towards him, he stirred 
 not a step from the place where he stood, but loudly calling the 
 marshal of the field to him, he said, ‘‘Is not this combat, sir, to 
 decide whether I shall marry, or not marry, that young lady?” 
 “‘Tt¢ is,” answered the marshal. ‘‘ Then,” quoth the lacquey, ‘‘ my 
 conscience will not let me proceed any further; and I declare that 
 I yield myself vanquished, and am ready to marry that gentle- 
 woman this moment.” The marshal was surprised at what Tosilos 
 said, and being privy to the contrivance, he was at a loss how to 
 answer him. Don Quixote, perceiving that his adversary was not 
 advancing, stopped short in the midst of his career. The duke could 
 not conceive why the combat was retarded ; and, when the marshal 
 explained the cause, he was angry at the disappointment. In the 
 meantime, however, Tosilos approached Donna Rodriguez, and 
 said aloud, ‘‘1 am willing, good madam, to marry your daughter, 
 and would not seek, by strife and bloodshed, what I may have 
 peaceably, and without danger.” ‘‘Since that is the case,” said the 
 valorous Don Quixote, ‘‘ Iam absolved from my promise; let them 
 be married, and, as God has given her, Saint Peter bless her.” 
 
 The duke now came down into the court of the castle, and, going 
 up to Tosilos, he said, ‘‘Is it true, knight, that you yield your- 
 self vanquished, and that, instigated by your timorous conscience, 
 you intend to marry this damsel?” ‘‘ Yes, an’t please your grace,” 
 replied Tosilos. ‘‘And faith, ’tis the wisest, course,” quoth Sancho 
 Panza. ‘‘ What you would give to the mouse, give to the cat, and 
 you will save trouble.’’ Tosilos was, in the meantime, unlacing his 
 helmet, to do which he begged for prompt assistance, as his spirits 
 and breath were just failing him, unable to remain any longer 
 pent up in so straight a lodging. They presently unarmed him, 
 and the face of the lacquey being exposed to view, Donna Rodriguez 
 and her daughter cried aloud, ‘‘A cheat! a cheat! Tosilos, my 
 lord duke’s lacquey, is put upon us instead of our true’ spouse! 
 Justice from Heaven and the king against so much deceit, not to 
 say villainy!” - ‘‘ Afflict not yourselves, ladies,” quoth Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘for this is neither deceit nor villainy, or, if it be so, the 
 duke is not to blame, but the wicked enchanters, my persecutors, 
 who, envying me the glory J should have acquired by this conquest, 
 have transformed the countenance of your husband into that of 
 another, who, you say, is a lacquey belonging to my lord duke. 
 Take my advice, and, in spite of the malice of my enemies, marry 
 him ; for, without doubt, he is the very man you desire for your 
 husband.” 
 
 The duke hearing this, angry as he was, could not forbear 
 laughing. ‘‘ Truly,” said he, ‘‘so ‘many extraordinary things 
 happen every day to the great Don Quixote that I am inclined to 
 believe this is not my lacquey; but, for our better satisfaction, and 
 to detect the artifice, let us, if you please, defer the marriage for 
 fifteen days, and, in the meantime, keep this doubtful youth in 
 gafe custody ; by that time, perhaps, he may return to his own 
 
TERMINATION OF THE COMBAT. 559 
 
 proper form; for doubtless the malice of those wicked magicians 
 against the noble Don Quixote cannot last so long ; especially when 
 they find these tricks and transformations avail them so little.” 
 “QO, sir,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘the wicked wretches are for ever at this 
 work, changing from one shape to another, whatever my master 
 has toto with. It was but lately they turned a famous knight he 
 had beaten, called the Knight of the Mirrors, into the very shape 
 of the bachelor Sampson Carrasco, a fellow-townsman and special 
 friend of ours; and more than that, they changed my lady Dulcinea 
 del Toboso from a princess into a downright country bumpkin ; so 
 that I verily believe this lacquey here will live and die a lacquey 
 all the days of his life.” ‘‘ Let him be who he will,” said the duenna’s 
 daughter, ‘‘as he demands me to wife I take it kindly of him.” 
 
 All these events, in short, ended in the imprisonment of Tosilos, 
 on which it was determined he should remain till it was seen in what 
 his transformation would end; and although the victory was 
 adjudged to Don Quixote by general acclamation, the greater part 
 of the spectators were disappointed and out of humour that the 
 long-expected combatants had not hacked each other to pieces: as 
 the rabble are wont to repine when the criminal is pardoned whom 
 they expected to see hanged. The crowd now dispersed; the duke 
 and Don Quixote returned to the castle, after ordering the lacquey 
 into close keeping; Donna Rodriguez and her daughter were ex- 
 tremely well pleased to see that, one way or other, this business 
 was likely to end in matrimony; and Tosilos was consoled with 
 the like expectation. 
 
 
 
 CAL AsP TER, aM 
 
 Which relates how Don Quixote took his leave of the duke and of what 
 be fill him with the witty Altisidora, one of the duchess’s damsels. 
 
 Even Don Quixote now thought it full time to quit so inactive a 
 life as that which he had led in the castle, deeming himself culpable 
 in living thus in indolence, amidst the luxuries prepared for him, 
 as a knight-errant, by the duke and duchess; and he believed he 
 should have to account to Heaven for this neglect of the duties of 
 his profession. He therefore requested permission of their graces 
 to depart, which they granted him, but with every expression of 
 regret. The duchess gave Sancho Panza his wife’s letters, which 
 he wept over, saying, ‘‘ Who could have thought that all the mighty 
 hopes which my wife puffed herself up with on the news of my 
 government should come at last to this, and that it should again be 
 my lot to follow my master Don Quixote in search of hungry and 
 toilsome adventures! I am thankful, however, that my Teresa 
 has behaved like herself in sending the acorns to her highness, 
 which if she had not done, and proved herself ungrateful, [ should 
 never have forgiven her; and my comfort is that the present could 
 not be called a bribe, for they were not sent till I was a governor; 
 
560 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and, indeed, it is fitting that all who receive a benefit should show 
 themselves grateful, though it be only a trifle. Naked I went into 
 the government, and naked came I out of it; so I can say with a 
 clear conscience, which is no small matter, naked I came into the 
 world, and naked I am; I neither win nor lose.” 
 
 In this manner Sancho communed with himself while preparing 
 for his departure. That same evening Don Quixote took leave of 
 the duke and duchess, and early the next morning he sallied forth, 
 completely armed, into the great court, the surrounding galleries 
 of which were crowded with the inmates of the castle, all eager to 
 behold the knight; nor were the duke and duchess absent on that 
 occasion. Sancho was mounted upon Dapple, his wallets well fur- 
 nished, and himself much pleased; for the duke’s steward, who 
 had played the part of the Trifaldi, had given him, unknown to 
 Don Quixote, a little purse with two hundred crowns in gold, to 
 supply the occasions of the journey. And now, whilst all were 
 gazing at Don Quixote, the arch and witty Altisidora, who was 
 with the duennas and damsels of the duchess, came forward, and, in 
 a doleful tone, addressed herself to him in the following rhymes :— 
 
 Stay, cruel knight, 
 Take not thy flight, 
 
 Nor spur thy battered jade; 
 Thy haste restrain, 
 Draw in the rein, 
 
 And hear a love-sick maid. 
 Why dost thou fly? 
 No snake am I, 
 
 That poison those I love: 
 Gentle I am 
 As any lamb, 
 
 And harmless as a dove. 
 Thy cruel scorn 
 Has left forlorn 
 
 A nymph whose charms may vie 
 With theirs who sport © 
 In Cynthia’s court, 
 
 Though Venus’ self were by. 
 
 Since, fugitive knight, to no purpose I woo thee, 
 Barabbas’s fate still pursue and undo thee! 
 
 ~ 
 
 Like ravenous kite 
 That takes its flight 
 
 Soon as’t has stolen a chicken, 
 Thou bear’st away 
 My heart, thy prey, 
 
 .And leav’st me here to sicken. 
 Three night-caps, too, 
 And garters blue, 
 
 That did to legs belong 
 Smooth to the sight 
 
ALTISIDORA’S ADDRESS TO THE KNIGHT. 561 
 
 As marble white, 
 And, faith, almost as strong 
 Two thousand groans, 
 _As many moans, 
 And sighs enough to fire 
 Old Priam’s town, 
 And burn it down, 
 Did it again aspire. 
 Since, fugitive knight, to no purpose I woo thee, 
 Barabbas’s fate still pursue and undo thee! 
 
 May Sancho ne’er 
 His shoulders bare 
 Fly-flap, as is his duty; 
 And thou still want 
 To disenchant 
 Dulcinea’s injured beauty. 
 May still transformed, 
 And still deformed, 
 Toboso’s nymph remain, 
 In recompense 
 Of thy offence, 
 Thy scorn and cold disdain. 
 When thou dost wield 
 Thy sword in field, 
 In combat or in quarrel, 
 Ill-luck and harms 
 Attend thy arms, 
 Instead of fame and laurel. 
 Since, fugitive knight, to no purpose I woo thee, 
 Barabbas’s fate still pursue and undo thee! 
 
 May thy disgrace 
 Fill ev’ry place, 
 Thy falsehood ne’er be hid, 
 But round the world 
 Be tossed and hurled, 
 From Seville to Madrid. 
 If, brisk and gay, 
 Thou sitt’st to play 
 At Ombre or at Chess, 
 May ne’er spadill 
 Attend thy will, 
 Nor luck thy movements bless. 
 Though thou with care 
 Thy corns dost pare 
 May blood the pen-knife follow ; 
 May thy gums rage, 
 And nought assuage 
 The pain of tooth that’s hollow. 
 Since, fugitive knight, to no purpose I woo thea, 
 Barabbas’s fate still pursue and undo thee. 
 2N 
 
562, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Whilst Altisidora thus poured forth her tuneful complaints, Don 
 Quixote stood looking at her attentively, and when she had done, 
 without making her any answer, he turned to Sancho and said, 
 ‘‘ By the memory of thy forefathers, dear Sancho, I conjure thee 
 to answer me truly—hast thou the nightcaps and garters which 
 this love-sick damsel speaks of?” ‘‘I confess to the three night- 
 caps, sir,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘but as to the garters, I know nothing 
 about them.” 
 
 The duchess was astonished at Altisidora’s levity, for though she 
 knew her to be gay, easy, and free, yet she did not think she would 
 venture so far; and, not being in the secret of this jest, her sur- 
 prise was the greater. ‘‘I think, sir knight,” said the duke 
 (meaning to carry on the joke), ‘‘that it does not well beseem your 
 worship, after the hospitable entertainment you have received in 
 this castle, to carry off three nightcaps, at least, if not my damsel’s 
 garters; these are indications of a disposition that ill becomes your 
 character. Return her the garters: if not, I defy you to mortal 
 combat, and fear not that your knavish enchanters should change 
 my face, as they have done that of my lacquey.” ‘‘ Heaven for- 
 bid,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ that I should unsheath my sword 
 against your illustrious person, from whom I have received so many 
 favours. The nightcaps shall be restored, for Sancho says that he 
 has them; but as for the garters, it is impossible, for neither he 
 nor I ever had them; if your damsel look well to her hiding-cor- 
 ners, I make no question but she will find them. I, my lord duke, 
 was never a pilferer, nor, if Heaven forsake me not, shall I ever 
 become one. This damsel talks (as she owns) like one in love, 
 which is no fault of mine ; and, therefore, I have no reason to ask 
 pean either of her or of your excellency, whom I entreat to think 
 
 etter of me, and again desire your permission to depart.” 
 
 ‘Farewell, Signor Don Quixote,” said the duchess, ‘‘and Heaven 
 send you so prosperous a journey that we may always hear happy 
 tidings of your exploits. Go, for the longer you stay the more 
 you stir up the flames that scorch the hearts of these tender damsels 
 while they gaze on you. As for this girl, take my word, I will so 
 deal with her that she shall not again offend, either in word or 
 deed.” ‘‘ Hear me but one word more, O yalorous Don Quixote !” 
 quoth Altisidora; ‘‘pardon me for having charged you with steal- 
 ing my garters, for they are on my legs! and I have blundered like 
 the man who looked about for the ass he was riding.” ‘‘ Did I not 
 tell you,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘that I am a rare hider of stolen goods? 
 Had I been that way given, my government would have offered 
 many a fair opportunity.” Don Quixote made his obeisance to the 
 duke and duchess, and to all the spectators; then, turning Rozi- 
 nante’s head, he sallied out at the castle gate, and, followed by 
 Sancho upon Dapple, took the road leading to Saragossa. 
 
MEETS THE WOOD CARVERS. 568 
 
 CHAPTER LVIL 
 
 Showing how adventures crowded so fast upon Don Quixote that they 
 trod upon each other’s heels. 
 
 On finding himself in the open country, unrestrained and free 
 from the troublesome fondness of Altisidora, Don Quixote felt all 
 his chivalric ardour revive within him, and turning to his squire, 
 he said, ‘‘ Liberty, friend Sancho, is one of the choicest gifts that 
 Heaven hath bestowed upon man, and exceeds in value all the 
 treasures which the earth contains within its bosom, or the sea 
 covers. Liberty, as well as honour, man ought to preserve at the 
 hazard of his life; for without it life is insupportable. Thou 
 knowest, Sancho, the luxury and abundance we enjoyed in the 
 hospitable mansion we have just left; yet, amidst those seasoned 
 banquets, those cool and delicious liquors, I felt as if I had suffered 
 the extremity of hunger and thirst, because I did not then enjoy 
 them with the same freedom as if they had been my own. The 
 mind is oppressed and enthralled by favours and benefits to which 
 it can make no return. Happy the man to whom Heaven hath 
 given a morsel of bread without laying him under an obligation to 
 -any but Heaven itself!” ‘‘For all that,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘we 
 ought to feel ourselves much bound to the duke’s steward for the 
 two hundred crowns in gold which he gave me in a purse I[ carry 
 here, next my heart, as a cordial and comfort in case of need; for 
 we are not likely to find many castles where we shall be made so 
 much of, but more likely inns, where we shall be rib-roasted.” 
 
 Thus discoursing, the knight and squire-errant proceeded on their 
 way, when, having travelled a little more than half-a-league, they 
 observed a dozen men, who looked like peasants, seated on a little 
 patch of green near the road, with their cloaks spread under them, 
 eating their dinner on the grass. Close to where they sat were 
 spread sundry pieces of white cloth, like sheets, separate from each 
 other, and which seemed to be covers to something on the ground 
 beneath them. Don Quixote approached the eating party, and, 
 after courteously saluting them, asked what they had under those 
 sheets? ‘‘ They are figures carved in wood, sir,” said one of them, 
 ‘intended for an altar-piece we are erecting in our village, and we 
 carry them covered that they may not be soiled or broken.” 
 ‘¢ With your permission,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘I should be glad to 
 see them; for things of that kind, carried with so much care, must 
 doubtless be good.” ‘‘ Ay, indeed are they, sir,” answered one of 
 the men, ‘‘as their price will testify ; for, in truth, there is not one 
 of them but stands us in above fifty ducats; and of the truth of 
 what I say your worship shall presently be satisfied. Then, rising 
 up and leaving his repast, he took off the covering from the first 
 figure, which was gilt, and appeared to be St George on horseback, 
 piercing with his lance a serpent coiled at the feet of his horse, and 
 represented with its usual fierceness. ‘‘ That figure,” said Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘represents one of the greatest knights-errant that ever 
 
564 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 served the holy cause. He was, besides, the champion of the fair, 
 and was called Don St George. Now let us see what is beneath 
 that other cloth.” ; 
 
 On being uncovered, it appeared to be St Martin, mounted on 
 horseback also, and in the act of dividing his cloak with the beggar. 
 ““St Martin!” exclaimed Don Quixote, ‘‘he also was one of the 
 Christian adventurers: a knight, I believe, more liberal than 
 valiant, as thou mayst perceive, Sancho, by his giving half his 
 cloak to that wretch ; and doubtless it was then winter, otherwise 
 he would have given the whole: so great was his charity.” ‘‘ That 
 was not the reason,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘ but he had a mind to follow 
 the proverb that says, ‘What to give, and what to keep, requires 
 a head-piece wide and deep.’” Don Quixote smiled, and desired to 
 see another of their figures. The patron of Spain was now presented 
 to him, mounted on a fierce charger; he appeared grasping a bloody 
 sword, and trampling on the bodies of slaughtered Moors. 
 ‘‘There,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ was a knight indeed! one of Christ’s 
 own squadron. He was called Don St Diego, the Moor-killer, one 
 of the most valiant saints and knights of which the world ever 
 boasted, or that heaven now containeth.” 
 
 Another cloth being removed, the figure of St Paul was produced, 
 as at the moment of his conversion, when thrown from his horse, 
 and with other attending circumstances. Seeing that event repre- 
 sented with so much animation that St Paul appeared to be actually 
 answering the voice from Heaven, Don Quixote said, ‘‘ This holy 
 personage was at one time the greatest enemy to the church of God, 
 and afterwards the greatest defender it will ever have; a knight- 
 errant in his life, and an unshaken martyr at his death; an un- 
 wearied labourer in Christ’s vineyard; an instructor of the Gen- 
 tiles; heaven was his school, and his great teacher and master our 
 Lord Himself!” Don Quixote now desired the figures might be again 
 covered, having seen all. ‘‘I regard the sight of these things,” 
 said he, ‘‘as a favourable omen; for these saints and knights pro- 
 fessed what I profess, with this only difference that, being saints, 
 they fought after a heavenly manner, whereas I, a sinner, fight 
 in the way of this world. By the exercise of arms they gained 
 heaven—for heaven must be won by exertion, and I cannot yet tell 
 what will be the event of my labours; but could my Dulcinea del 
 Toboso be relieved from her suffering, my condition being in that 
 case improved, and my understanding wisely directed, I might, 
 perhaps, take a better course than I now do.” ‘‘ Heaven hear 
 him,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘and let sin be deaf!” The men wondereé 
 no less at the figure than at the words of Don Quixote, without 
 understanding half what he meant by them. They finished their 
 repast, packed up their images, and, taking their leave of Don 
 Quixote, pursued their journey. Sancho was more than ever aston- 
 ished at his master’s knowledge, and fully convinced that there 
 was no history nor event in the world which he had not at his 
 fingers’ ends and nailed on his memory. 
 
 ** Truly, master of mine,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘if what has happened 
 to us to-day may be called an adventure, it has been one of the 
 
THE KNIGHT ON OMENS. 565. 
 
 sweetest and most pleasant that has ever befallen us in the whole 
 course of cur rambles; faith, weare clear of it without either blows 
 or bodily fear! We have neither laid our hands to our weapons, nor 
 beaten the earth with our bodies; neither are we famished for want 
 of food! Heaven be praised that I have seen all this with my own 
 eyes!” ‘* Thou sayest well, Sancho,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘ but I 
 must tell thee that times are wont to vary and change their course ; 
 and what are commonly accounted omens by the vulgar, though 
 not within the scope of reason, the wise will, nevertheless, regard 
 as incidents of lucky aspect. Your watcher of omens rises betimes, 
 and, going abroad, meets a Franciscan friar, whereupon he hurries 
 back again as if a furious dragon had crossed his way. Another 
 happens to spill the salt upon the table, and straightway his soul 
 is overcast with the dread of coming evil; as if nature had willed 
 that such trivial accidents should give notice of ensuing mischances. 
 The wise man and good Christian will not, however, pry too curi- 
 ously into the councils of Heaven. Scipio, on arriving in Africa, 
 stumbled as he leapt on shore ; his soldiers took it for an ill omen, 
 but he, embracing the ground, said, ‘ Africa, thou canst not escape 
 me—I have thee fast.” For my own part, Sancho, I cannot but 
 consider as a favourable prognostic our meeting those holy sculp- 
 tures.” ‘‘I verily believe it,” answered Sancho, ‘‘and I should be 
 glad if your worship would tell me why the Spaniards, when they 
 rush into battle, call upon that saint Diego, the Moor-killer, and 
 ery, ‘Saint Iago, and close, Spain!’ Is Spain, then, so open as to 
 want closing? what do you make of that ceremony?” ‘‘ Sancho, 
 thou art very shallow in these matters,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘ thou 
 must know that Heaven gave the mighty champion of the red cross 
 to Spain, to be its patron and protector, especially in its desperate 
 conflicts with the Moors; and therefore it is they invoke him in 
 all their battles; and oft, at such times, has he been seen over- 
 throwing, trampling down, destroying, and slaughtering the infidel 
 squadrons; of which I could recount to thee many examples re- 
 corded in the true histories of our country.” 
 **T am amazed, sir,” said Sancho, suddenly changing the subject, 
 ‘fat the impudence of Altisidora, the duchess’s waiting-woman. 
 -I warrant you that same mischief-maker they call Love must have 
 mauled and mangled her full sorely. They say he is a boy, short- 
 sighted, or rather blind; yet set a heart before him, and, as sure 
 as death, he’ll whip an arrow through it. I have heard say, too, 
 that the weapons he makes use of, though sharp, are blunted and 
 turned aside by the armour of modesty and maidenly coyness ; 
 but with that same Altisidora methinks they are rather whetted 
 than blunted.” ‘‘ Look you, Sancho,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘* Love 
 has no respect of persons, and laughs at the admonitions of reason ; 
 like Death, he pursues his game both in the stately palaces of kings 
 and the humble huts of shepherds. When he has got a soul fairly 
 into his clutches, his first business is to deprive it of all shame and 
 fear, as you have remarked in Altisidora, who being without either, 
 made an open declaration of her desire, which produced in my 
 breast embarrassment instead of compassion.”’ 
 
566 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ‘‘Shocking cruelty! Monstrous ingratitude!” cried Sancho, 
 “‘T can say, for myself, that the least kind word from her would 
 have subdued me, and made me her slave. ©! what a heart of 
 marble, what bowels of brass, and what a soul of plaister! But I 
 wonder much what the damsel saw in your worship that so took 
 her fancy. Where was the finery, the gallantry, the gaiety, and 
 the sweet face which, one by one, or altogether, made. her fall in 
 love with your worship? for, in plain truth, if I look at your wor- 
 ship from the tip of your toe to the top of your head, I see more to 
 be frightened at than to love. Beauty, they say, is the chief thing 
 in love matters; but, your worship having none, I cannot guess 
 what the poor thing was so taken with.” ‘‘Hearken to me, 
 Sancho,” said Don Quixote; ‘‘there are two kinds of beauty, 
 the one of the mind, the other of the body. That of the mind 
 shines forth in good sense and good conduct ; in modesty, liberality, 
 and courtesy ; and all these qualities may be found in one who has 
 no personal attractions ; and when that species of beauty captivates, 
 it produces a vehement and superior passion. I well know, Sancho, 
 that I am not handsome, but I know also that I am not deformed ; 
 and a man of worth, if he be not hideous, may inspire love, provided 
 he has those qualities of the mind which I have mentioned.” 
 
 While the knight and squire were conversing in this manner, 
 they entered a wood that was near the roadside, but had not 
 penetrated far when Don Quixote found himself entangled among 
 some nets of green thread which were extended from tree to tree ; 
 and, surprised at the incident, he said, ‘‘ These nets, Sancho, surely 
 promise some new and extraordinary adventure—may I die this 
 moment if it be not some new device of the enchanters, my enemies, 
 to stop my way, out of revenge, for having slighted Altisidora! 
 But I would have them know, that if these nets were chains of 
 adamant, or stronger than that in which the jealous god of black- 
 smiths entangled Mars and Venus, to me they would be nets of 
 rushes and yarn!” Just as he was about to break through the 
 frail enclosure, two lovely shepherdesses, issuing from. the covert, 
 suddenly presented themselves before him; at least, their dress 
 resembled that of shepherdesses, excepting that it was of fine 
 brocade, and rich gold tabby. Their hair, bright as sunbeams, 
 flowed over their shoulders; and chaplets composed of laurel, and 
 interwoven with the purple amaranth, adorned their heads; and 
 they appeared to be from fifteen to eighteen years of age. 
 
 Sancho was dazzled, and Don Quixote amazed at so unexpected a 
 
 vision, which the sun himself must have stopped in his course to 
 admire. ‘‘ Hold! signor cavalier,” said one of them, ‘‘ pray do not 
 break the nets we have placed here, not to offend you, but to divert 
 ourselves ; and as you may wish to know why we spread them, and 
 who we are, I will, in a few words, tell you. About two leagues 
 off, sir, there is a village where many persons of quality and wealth 
 reside, several of whom lately made up a company of friends, 
 neighbours, and rela‘iions, to come and take their diversion at this 
 place, which is accounted the most delightful in these parts. Here 
 we have formed among ourselves a new Arcadia; the young men 
 
THE NEW ARCADIA. 567 
 
 have put on the dress of shepherds, and the maidens that 2f shep- 
 herdesses. We have learnt by heart two eclogues, one by our 
 admired Garcilaso, and the other by the excellent Camoéns, in his 
 own Portuguese tongue; which, however, we have not yet recited, 
 as it was only yesterday that we came hither. Our tents are 
 pitched among the trees, near the side of a beautiful stream. Last 
 night we spread these nets to catch such simple birds as our calls 
 could allure into the snare: and now, sir, if you please to be our 
 guest, you shall be entertained liberally and courteously: for we 
 allow neither care nor sorrow to be of our party.” 
 
 ‘‘Truly, fair lady,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ Actzon was not 
 more lost in admiration and surprise when unawares he saw 
 Diana, than I am in beholding your beauty. J approve and admire 
 your project, and return thanks for your kind invitation, and, if I 
 can do you any service, lay your commands upon me, in full assur- 
 ance of being obeyed; for by my profession I am enjoined to be 
 grateful and useful to all, but especially to persons of your con- 
 dition: and were these nets, which probably cover but a small 
 space, extended over the whole surface of the earth, I would seek 
 new worlds by which I might pass, rather than injure them. And 
 that you may afford some credit to a declaration which may seem 
 extravagant, know, ladies, that he who makes it is no other than 
 Don Quixote de la Mancha—if, perchance, that name has ever 
 reached your ears.”’ 
 
 ‘‘ Bless me,” exclaimed the other shepherdess, addressing her 
 companion, ‘‘ what good fortune, my dear friend, has befallen us! 
 See you this gentleman here before us? Believe me he is the most 
 valiant, the most enamoured, and the most courteous knight in the 
 whole world, if the history of his exploits, which is in print, does 
 not deceive us. I have read it, my dear, through and through; 
 and I will lay a wager that the good man who attends him is that 
 very Sancho Panza, his squire, whose pleasantries none can equal.” 
 ‘‘]’ faith, madam, it is very true,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ I am, indeed, 
 that same jocular person and squire, and this gentleman is my master, 
 the very Don Quixote de la Mancha you have read of in print.” 
 ‘‘ Pray, my dear,”’ said the other, ‘‘let us entreat him to stay, for 
 our fathers and brothers will be infinitely pleased to have him here. 
 I also have heard what you say of his valour and great merit, and 
 above all, that he is the most true and constant of lovers, and that 
 his mistress, who is called Dulcinea del Toboso, bears away the 
 palm from all the beauties in Spain.” ‘‘And with great justice,” 
 quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘ unless your wondrous charms should make it 
 questionable. But do not, I beseech you, ladies, endeavour to 
 detain me: for the indispensable duties of my profession allow me 
 no intermission of labour.”’ 
 
 At this moment a brother of one of the fair damsels came up to 
 them, dressed as a shepherd, and with the same richness and gaiety. 
 They instantly told him that the persons he saw were the valorous 
 Don Quixote de la Mancha and his squire Sancho Panza, whom he 
 also knew by their history. The gay shepherd saluted the knight, 
 and so urgently importuned him to honour their party with his 
 
568 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 presence, that, unable to refuse, he at length accepted their invita- 
 tion. Just at that time the nets were drawn, and a great number 
 of small birds, deceived by their artifices, were taken. The gallant 
 party assembled on that occasion, being not less than thirty in 
 number, all in pastoral habits, received Don Quixote and his squire 
 in a manner very much to their satisfaction : for none were strangers 
 to the knight’s history. They all now repaired together to the 
 tents, where they found the table spread with elegance and plenty. 
 The place of honour was given to Don Quixote, and all gazed on 
 him with admiration. 
 
 When the cloth was removed, the knight, with much gravity, 
 and in an audible voice, thus addressed the company, ‘‘ Of all the 
 sins that men commit, though some say pride, in my opinion in- 
 gratitude is the worst; it is truly said that hell is full of the un- 
 grateful. From that foul crime I have endeavoured to abstain ever 
 since I enjoyed the use of reason; and if I cannot return the good 
 offices done me by equal benefits, I substitute my desire to repay 
 them ; and if this be not enough, I publish them: for he who pro- 
 claims the favours he has received, would return them if he could: 
 and generally the power of the receiver is unequal to that of the 
 giver: like the bounty of Heaven, to which no man can make an 
 equal return. But though utterly unable to repay the unspeakable 
 beneficence of God, gratitude affords a humble compensation suited 
 to our limited powers. This, I fear, is my present situation; and, 
 my ability not reaching the measure of your kindness, I can only 
 show my gratitude by doing that little which is in my power. I 
 therefore engage to maintain, for two whole days, in the middle of 
 the king’s highway leading to Saragossa, that these lady shep- 
 herdesses in disguise are the most beautiful and the most courteous 
 damsels in the world: excepting only the peerless Dulcinea del 
 Toboso, the sole mistress of my thoughts—without offence to any 
 present be it spoken.” 
 
 Here Sancho, who had been listening to him with great attention, 
 could no longer bridle his tongue. ‘‘Is it possible,” cried he, ‘‘that 
 any one should have the boldness to say and swear that this master 
 of mine isa madman? Tell me, gentlemen shepherds, is there a 
 village priest living, though ever so wise, or ever so good a scholar, 
 who could speak as he has spoken? Or is there a knight-errant, 
 though ever so renowned for valour, who could make such an offer 
 as he has done?” Don Quixote turned to Sancho, and, with a 
 wrathful countenance, said, ‘‘ Is it possible, O Sancho, that there 
 should be a single person on the globe who would not say that all 
 over thou art an idiot, lined with the same, and bordered with I 
 know not what of mischief and knavery ? Who gave thee authority 
 to meddle with what belongs to me, or to busy thyself with my 
 folly or my discretion? Be silent, brute; make no reply, but go 
 and saddle Rozinante, if he be unsaddled, and let us depart, that I 
 may perform what I have engaged: for, relying on the justice of 
 my cause, I consider all those who shall presume to dispute the 
 point with me as already vanquished.” Then, in great haste, and 
 with marks of furious indignation in his countenance, he arose from 
 
THE KNIGHT OVERCOME BY THE BULLS. 569 
 
 his seat and rushed forth, leaving the company in amazement, and 
 doubtful whether to regard him as a lunatic or a man of sense. 
 
 They nevertheless endeavoured to dissuade him from his chal- 
 lenge, telling him that they were sufficiently assured of his grate- 
 ful nature as well as his valour, by the true history of his exploits. 
 Resolute, however, in his purpose, the knight was not to be moved ; 
 and, being now mounted upon Rozinante, bracing his shield, and 
 grasping his lance, he planted himself in the middle of the high- 
 way, not far from the Arcadian tents. Sancho followed upon his 
 Dapple, with all the pastoral company, who were curious to see the 
 event of so arrogant and extraordinary a defiance. 
 
 Don Quixote, being thus posted, he made the air resound with 
 such words as these: ‘‘O ye passengers, whoever ye are, knights, 
 squires, travellers on foot and on horseback, who now pass this 
 way, or shall pass, in the course of these two successive days! know 
 that Don Quixote de la Mancha, knight-errant, is posted here, 
 ready to maintain that the nymphs who inhabit these meadows and 
 groves excel in beauty and courtesy all the rest of the world, ex- 
 cepting only the mistress of my soul, Du!cinea del Toboso! Let 
 him, therefore, who dares to uphold the contrary, forthwith show 
 himself, for here I stand ready to receive him.” 
 
 Twice he repeated the same words, and twice they were repeated 
 in vain. But better fortune soon followed, for it so happened that 
 a number of horsemen appeared, several of them armed with 
 lances, hastily advancing in a body. Those who had accompanied 
 Don Quixote no sooner saw them than they retired to a distance, 
 thinking it might be dangerous to remain. Don Quixote alone, 
 with an intrepid heart, stood firm, and Sancho Panza sheltered 
 himself close under Rozinante’s crupper. When the troop of horse- 
 men came up, one of the foremost called aloud to Don Quixote, 
 *“Get out of the way, man! or these bulls will trample you to 
 dust.” ‘‘Caitiffs !’’ replied Don Quixote, ‘‘I fear not your bulls, 
 though they were the fiercest that ever bellowed on the banks of 
 Xarama. Oonfess, ye scoundrels! unsight, unseen, that what I 
 here proclaimed is true; if not, I challenge ye to battle.” 
 
 The herdsmen had no time to answer, nor Don Quixote to get 
 out of the way, had he been willing: for now a herd of fierce bulls, 
 together with some tame kine, hurried past with a multitude of 
 herdsmen and others, who were driving them to a neighbouring town 
 where they were to be baited. Don Quixote, Sancho, Rozinante, 
 and Dapple, were in a moment overturned, and, after being 
 trampled upon without mercy, were left sprawling on the ground. 
 After the whole had passed, here lay Sancho mauled, there Don 
 Quixote stunned, Dapple bruised, and Rozinante in no enviable 
 plight! Nevertheless, they all contrived to recover the use of their 
 legs, and the knight, in great haste, stumbling and reeling, began 
 to pursue the herd, crying aloud, ‘‘Hold! stop! scoundrels! a 
 single knight defies ye all, who scorns the coward maxim, ‘Make a 
 bridge of silver for a flying enemy.’” But the drovers had no time 
 to attend to him, and made no more account of his threats than of 
 last year’s clouds, Fatigue obliged Don Quixote to desist from the 
 
570 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 pursuit ; and, more enraged than revenged, he sat down in the 
 road, to wait for Sancho, Rozinante, and Dapple. On their coming 
 up, the knight and squire mounted again, and with more shame 
 than satisfaction, pursued their journey, without taking leave of 
 the shepherds of new Arcadia, 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER LVIIL 
 
 Wherein is related an extraordinary accident which befell Don Quixote, 
 and which may pass for an adventure. 
 
 Don Quixote and Sancho removed, by immersion in the waters 
 of aclear fountain which they found in a cool and shady grove, 
 the fatigue, the dust, and other effects caused by the rude en- 
 counter of the bulls. Here the way-worn pair seated themselves : 
 and after giving liberty to Rozinante and Dapple, Sancho had re- 
 course to the store of his wallet, and speedily drew out what he 
 was wont to call his sauce. He rinsed his mouth, and Don Quix- 
 ote washed his face, by which they were in some degree refreshed : 
 but the knight, from pure chagrin, refused to eat, and Sancho 
 abstained from pure good manners; though waiting and wishing for 
 his master to begin. At length, seeing his master so wrapped in 
 thought as to forget to convey a morsel to his mouth, he opened 
 his own, and banishing all kind of ceremony, made a fierce attack 
 upon the bread and cheese before him. 
 
 “‘ Kat, friend Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘and support life, 
 which to thee is of more importance than to me, and leave me to 
 expire under my reflections, and the severity of my misfortunes. 
 I, Sancho, was born to live dying, and thou to die eating; and thou 
 wilt allow that I speak truth when thou considerest that I, who am 
 recorded in history, renowned in arms, courteous in deeds, respected 
 by princes, and courted by damsels, should, after ail, instead of 
 psalms, triumphs, and crowns, earned and merited by my valorous 
 exploits, have this morning seen myself trod upon, kicked, and 
 bruised under the feet of filthy and impure beasts !—the thought 
 thereof dulls the edge of my teeth, unhinges my jaws, sickens my 
 appetite, and benumbs my hands, so that 1 am now awaiting death 
 in its cruellest form—hunger.” 
 
 “TE so,” quoth Sancho (still eating as he spoke), ‘‘ your worship 
 does not approve the proverb, which says, ‘ Let Martha die, so that 
 she die well fed.’ For my part, [ have no mind to kill myself; but 
 rather, like the shoemaker, who with his teeth stretches his leather 
 to make it fit for his purpose, I will by eating try all I can to 
 stretch out my life, till it reaches as far as it may please Heaven: 
 and let me tell you, sir, that there is no greater folly than to give 
 way to despair. Believe what I say, and when you have eaten, try 
 
 to sleep a little upon this green mattress, and I warrant on waking — 
 
 you find yourself another man.” 
 
 Don Quixote followed Sancho’s advice, thinking he reasoned — 
 
A CHOICE BILL OF FARE. BTL 
 
 more like a philosopher than a fool: at the same time, he said: 
 ** Ah, Sancho, if thou wouldst do for me what I am going to pro- 
 Poses my sorrow would be diminished, and my relief more certain ; 
 
 t is only this: whilst I endeavour by thy advice to compose myself 
 to sleep, do thou step aside a little, and give thyself, with the reins 
 af Rozinante’s bridle, some three or four hundred smart lashes, in 
 part of the three thousand and odd which thou art bound to give 
 thyself for the disenchantment of Dulcinea: for, in truth, it is a 
 great pity the poor lady should continue under enchantment 
 through thy carelessness and neglect.” 
 
 ‘‘There is a great deal to be said as to that,” quoth Sancho; 
 “‘but for the present let us both sleep, and afterwards Heaven 
 knows what may happen. Besides, I would have you remember, sir, 
 that this lashing one’s self in cold blood is no easy matter; especially 
 when the strokes light upon a body so tender without, and so ill-stored 
 within, as mine is. Let my lady Dulcinea have a little patience, 
 and mayhap, when she least thinks of it, she shall see my body a 
 perfect sieve by dint of lashing. Until death all is life: I am still - 
 alive, and with a full intention to make good my promise.”’ Don 
 Quixote thanked him, ate a little, and Sancho much; and both of 
 them laid themselves down to sleep, leaving Rozinante and Dapple, 
 those inseparable companions and friends, at their own discretion, 
 either to repose or feed upon the tender grass, of which they here 
 had abundance. re 
 
 They awoke somewhat late in the day, mounted again, and pur 
 sued their journey; hastening to reach what seemed to be an inn, 
 about a league before them. An inn it is here called, because Don 
 Quixote himself gave it that name; not happening, as usual, to 
 mistake it for a castle. Having arrived there, they inquired of ‘the 
 host if he could provide them with lodging, and he promised as 
 good accommodation and entertainment as could be found in Sara- 
 gossa. On alighting, Sancho’s first care was to deposit his travel-. 
 ling larder in a chamber of which the landlord gave him the key. 
 He then led Rozinante and Dapple to the stable, and, after seeing 
 them well provided for, he went to receive the further commands 
 of his master, whom he found seated on a stone bench; the squire 
 blessing himself that the knight had not taken the inn for a castle. 
 
 Supper-time approaching, Don Quixote retired to his apartment, 
 and Sancho inquired of the host what they could have to eat. The 
 landlord told him that his palate should be suited—for whatever 
 the air, earth, and sea produced, of birds, beasts, or fish, that inn 
 was abundantly provided with. ‘‘ There is no need of all that,” 
 quoth Sancho, ‘‘roast us but a couple of chickens, and we shall be 
 satisfied ; for my master has a delicate stomach, and I am no glut- 
 ton.” ‘‘As for chickens,” said the innkeeper, ‘‘truly we have 
 none, for the kites have devoured them.” ‘‘Then let a pullet be 
 roasted,” said Sancho; ‘‘only see that it be tender.” ‘‘ A pullet? 
 my father!” answered the host; ‘‘ faith and troth, I sent above 
 fifty yesterday to the city to be ‘sold : but, excepting pullets, ask 
 for whatever you will.” ‘‘ Why, then,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ even give 
 us a good joint of veal or kid, for they cannot be wanting.” ‘‘ Veal 
 
572 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 or kid?” replied the host, ‘‘ah, now I remember we have none in 
 the house at present, for it is all eaten; but next week there will 
 be enough, and to spare.” ‘‘We are much the better for that,” 
 answered Sancho; ‘‘but I dare say all these deticiencies will be 
 made up with plenty of eggs and bacon.” ‘‘ My customer is a 
 
 choice guesser!” answered the host; ‘‘I told him I had neither. 
 
 pullets nor hens, and he expects me to have eggs; talk of other 
 delicacies, but ask no more for hens.” 
 
 ‘‘ Body of me!” quoth Sancho, ‘‘let us come to something—tell 
 me, in short, what you have, master host, and let us have done 
 with your flourishes.” ‘‘ Then,” quoth the innkeeper, ‘‘ what I 
 really and truly have is a pair of cow-heels, that may be taken for 
 calves’ feet; or a pair of calves’ feet, that are like cow-heels. 
 They are stewed with peas, onions, and bacon, and at this very 
 minute are crying out, ‘Come eat me, come eat me.’” ‘‘ From 
 this moment, I mark them for my own,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘and let 
 nobody lay finger on them. I will pay you well, for there is nothing 
 like them—give me but cow-heel, and I care not a fig for calves’ 
 feet.” ‘‘They are yours,” said the host, ‘‘nobody shall touch 
 them ; for my other guests, merely for gentility’s sake, bring their 
 cook, their sewer, and provisions along with them.” ‘‘ As to the 
 matter of gentility,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘nobody is more a gentleman 
 than my master; but his calling allows of no cooking nor butlering 
 as we travel. No, faith; we clap us down in the midst of a green 
 field, and fill our bellies with acorns or medlars.” Such was the 
 conversation Sancho held with the innkeeper, and he now chose to 
 break it off, without answering the inquiries which the host made 
 respecting his master’s calling. 
 
 Supper being prepared, and Don Quixote in his chamber, the 
 host carried in his dish of cow-heel, and, without ceremony, sat 
 himself down to supper. The adjoining room being separated from 
 that occupied by Don Quixote only by a thin partition, he could 
 distinctly hear the voices of persons within. ‘‘ Don Jeronimo,” 
 said one of them, ‘‘I entreat you, till supper is brought in, to let 
 us haye another chapter of Don Quixote de la Mancha.” The 
 knight hearing himself named, got up, and, listening attentively, 
 he heard another person answer, ‘‘ Why, Signor Don John, would 
 you have us read such absurdities? Whoever has read the first 
 part of the history of Don Quixote de la Mancha cannot be pleased 
 with the second.” ‘* But for all that,” said Don John, ‘let us 
 read it; for there is no book so bad as not to have something good 
 init. What displeases me the most in this second part is, that the 
 author describes Don Quixote as no longer enamoured of Dulcinea 
 del Toboso.” 
 
 On hearing this, Don Quixote, full of wrath and indignation, 
 raised his voice, and said, ‘‘ Whoever shall say that Don Quixote 
 de la Mancha has forgotten, or ever can forget, Dulcinea del Toboso, 
 I will make him know, with equal arms, that he asserts what is 
 not true; for neither can the peerless Dulcinea be forgotten, nor 
 Don Quixote ever cease to remember her. His motto is Constancy ; 
 _ and to maintain it his pleasure and his duty.” ‘‘ Who is it that 
 
 a. 
 
WHAT PASSED AT. THE INN. 573 
 
 speaks to us?” replied one in the other room. ‘‘Who should it 
 be,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘but Don Quixote de la Mancha himself ?— 
 who will make good all he says and all he shall say: for a good 
 paymaster is in no want of a pawn.” 
 
 At these words two gentlemen rushed into the room, and one of 
 them, throwing his arms about Don Quixote’s neck, said, ‘‘ Your 
 person belies not your name, nor can your name do otherwise than 
 give credit to your person. I cannot doubt, signor, of your being 
 the true Don Quixote de la Mancha, the north and morning-star of 
 knight-errantry, in despite of him who would usurp your name, and 
 annihilate your exploits, as the author of this book has vainly 
 attempted.” Don Quixote, without making any reply, took up the 
 book ; and, after turning over some of the leaves, he laid it down 
 again, saying, ‘‘In the little I have seen of this volume, three 
 things I have noticed for which the author deserves reprehension. 
 The first is some expressions in the preface; the next that his lan- 
 guage is Arragonian, for he sometimes omits the articles; and the 
 third is a much more serious objection, inasmuch as he shows his 
 ignorance and disregard of truth in a material point of the history: 
 for he says that the wife of my squire Sancho Panza is called Mary 
 Gutierrez, whereas her name is Teresa Panza; and he who errs in 
 a circumstance of such importance may well be suspected of inac- 
 curacy in the rest of the history.” 
 
 Here Sancho put in his word: ‘‘ Pretty work, indeed, of that 
 same history-maker! Sure he knows much of our concerns to call 
 my wife, Teresa Panza, Mary Gutierrez! Pray, your worship, look 
 into it again, and see whether I am there, and if my name be 
 
 changed too.” ‘*‘ By what you say, friend,” quoth Don Jeronimo, 
 **T presume you are Sancho Panza, squire to Signor Don Quixote.” 
 ‘‘That I am,” replied Sancho, ‘‘and value myself upon it.” ‘‘In 
 
 faith, then,” said the gentleman, ‘‘ this last author treats you but 
 scurvily, and not as you seem to deserve. He describes you as a 
 dull fool, and a glutton, without pleasantry—in short, quite a dif- 
 ferent Sancho from him represented in the first part of your mas- 
 ter’s history.” ‘‘ He might as well have left me alone; for” quoth 
 Sancho, ‘‘‘he who knows the instrument should play on it,’ and 
 ‘Saint Peter is well at Rome.’” The two gentlemen entreated 
 Don Quixote to go to their chamber and sup with them, as they 
 well knew the inn had nothing fit for his entertainment. Don 
 Quixote, who was always courteous, consented to their request, 
 and Sancho remained with the flesh-pot, cum mero mixto imperio :* 
 placing himself at the head of the table, with the innkeeper for his 
 messmate, whose love for cow-heel was equal to that of the squire. 
 
 While they were at supper, Don John asked Don Quixote when 
 he had heard from the lady Dulcinea del Toboso; whether she was 
 married ; or whether, if still a virgin, she retained, with modest 
 reserve and maidenly decorum, a grateful sense of the love and 
 constancy of Signor Don Quixote. ‘‘ Dulcinea,” said the knight, 
 ‘‘is still a maiden, and my devotion to her more fixed than ever; 
 
 * That is, with a deputed or subordinate power. 
 
574 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 our correspondence is as heretofore; but alas! her own beautiful 
 person is transformed into that of a coarse country wench.” He 
 then related every particular concerning the enchantment of the 
 lady Dulcinea. He also gave them an account of his descent into 
 the cave of Montesinos, and informed them of the instructions 
 given by the sage Merlin for the deliverance of his mistress. 
 Great was the satisfaction the two gentlemen received at hearing 
 Don Quixote relate his strange adventures, and they were equally 
 surprised at his extravagances, and the elegance of his narrative. 
 One moment they thought him a man of extraordinary judgment, 
 and the next that he was totally bereaved of his senses; nor could 
 they decide what degree to assign him between wisdom and folly. 
 
 Sancho, having finished his supper, left the innkeeper fully 
 dosed with liquor, and joined his master’s party in the next cham- 
 ber. Immediately on entering, he said, ‘‘ May I die, gentlemen, 
 if the writer of that book which you have got, has any mind that 
 he and I should eat a friendly meal together; he calls me glutton, 
 you say. I wish he may not set me down a drunkard too.” ‘‘ In 
 faith, he does,” quoth Don Jeronimo; ‘‘ though I do not remember 
 his words ; only this I know, that they are scandalous, and false 
 into the bargain, as I see plainly by the countenance of honest 
 Sancho here before me.” ‘*Take my word for it, gentlemen,” 
 quoth the squire, ‘‘the Sancho and Don Quixote of that history 
 are in nowise like the men that are so called in the book made by 
 Cid Hamet Benengeli; for they are truly we two ;—my master, 
 valiant, discreet, and a true lover; and I, a plain, merry-conceited 
 fellow ; but neither a glutton nora drunkard.” ‘‘I believe it,” 
 quoth Don John ; ‘‘and, were such a thing possible, I would have 
 it ordered that none should dare to record the deeds of the great 
 Don Quixote but Cid Hamet himself, his first historian ; as Alex- 
 ander commanded that none but Apelles should presume to draw 
 his portrait ; being a subject too lofty to be treated by one of in- 
 ferior talent.” ‘‘ Treat me who will,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ so that 
 they do not maltreat me ; for patience itself will not submit to be 
 overladen with injuries.” ‘‘ No injury,” quoth Don John, ‘‘ can 
 be offered to Signor Don Quixote that he is not able to revenge, 
 should he fail to ward it off with the buckler of his patience, whic’ 
 seems to be both ample and strong.” 
 
 In such conversation they passed the greater part of the night; 
 and though Don John would fain have had Don Quixote read more 
 of the book, he declined it, saying he deemed it read ; and, by the 
 sample he had seen, he pronounced it foolish throughout. He was 
 unwilling, also, to indulge the scribbler’s vanity so far as to let 
 him think he had read his book, should he happen to learn that it 
 had been put into his hands; ‘‘ and, besides, it is proper,” he added, 
 ‘‘that the eyes, as well as the thoughts, should be turned from 
 everything filthy.” 
 
 They then asked him which way he was travelling, and he told 
 them that he should go to Saragossa, to be present at the jousts 
 of that city for the annual prize of a suit of armour. Don John 
 
 told him, that in the new history Don Quixote is said to have been 
 
 oS 
 
SANCHO’S ADVICE TO THE HOST. 575 
 
 there, running at the ring, of which the author gives a wretched 
 account ; dull in the contrivance, mean in style, miserably poor in 
 devices, and rich only in absurdity. ‘‘ For that very reason,” 
 answered Don Quixote, ‘‘I will not set foot in Saragossa, and thus 
 I shall expose the falsity of this new historian, and all the world 
 will be convinced that I am not the Don Quixote of whom he 
 speaks.” ‘‘ In that you will do wisely,” said Don Jeronimo ; ‘‘ and 
 at Barcelona there are other jousts, where Signor Don Quixote may 
 have a full opportunity to display his valour.” ‘‘To Barcelona I 
 will go, gentlemen,” replied the knight; ‘‘and now, permit me to 
 take my leave, for it is time to retire to rest, and be pleased to 
 rank me among the number of your best friends and faithful ser- 
 vants.” ‘‘And me, too,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘for, mayhap, you may 
 find me good for something.” 
 
 Don Quixote and Sancho then retired to their chamber, leaving 
 the two strangers surprised at the medley of sense and madness 
 they had witnessed, and with a full conviction that these were the 
 genuine Don Quixote and Sancho, and those of the Arragonese 
 author certainly spurious. Don Quixote arose early, and, tapping 
 at the partition of the other room, he again bid his new friends 
 adieu. Sancho paid the innkeeper most magnificently, and at the 
 same time advised him either to boast less of the provision of his 
 inn, or to supply it better. 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 Of what befell Don Quixote on his way to Barcelona. 
 
 In the morning, which was cool, and promised a temperate day, 
 Don Quixote left the inn, having first informed himself which was 
 the most direct road to Barcelona, avoiding Saragossa; for he was 
 determined to prove the falsehood of the new history, which he 
 understood had so grossly misrepresented him. Six days he pur- 
 sued his course without meeting with any adventure worth record- 
 ing ; at the end of which time, leaving the high-road, night over- 
 took them among some shaggy trees, but whether of cork or oak 
 it does not appear, Cid Hamet, in this instance, not observing his 
 wonted minuteness of description. Master and man having alighted, 
 they laid themselves down at the foot of these trees. Sancho had 
 _ already taken his afternoon’s collation, and therefore he rushed at 
 once into the arms of sleep; but Don Quixote, not trom hunger, 
 but his restless imagination, could not close his eyes. Agitated by 
 a thousand fancies, now he thought himself in the cave of Montes- 
 inos; now he saw his Dulcinea, in her odious disguise, spring upon 
 her ass; the next moment he heard the words of the sage Merlin, 
 declaring the means of her deliverance; then again he was in de- 
 spair when he recollected the unfeeling negligence of his squire, 
 who, he believed, had given himself only five lashes! a number so 
 small compared with those yet remaining, that, overwhelmed with 
 
 grief and indignation, he thus argued with himself :— ‘‘ If Alexander 
 
576 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the Great cut the Gordian knot, saying, ‘to cut is the same as to 
 untie,’ and became thereby the universal lord of all Asia, exactly 
 the same may happen now in the disenchantment of Dulcinea, if 
 the lashes be applied by force ; for if the virtue of this remedy con- 
 sist in Sancho’s receiving three thousand lashes, what is it to me 
 whether they are applied by himself or another, since the efficacy 
 lies in his receiving them, from whatever hand they may come?” 
 Under this conviction Don Quixote approached his sleeping 
 squire, having first taken Rozinante’s reins and adjusted them, so 
 that he might use them with effect. He then began to loosen his 
 dress. Sancho was soon roused, and cried out, ‘‘ What is the 
 matter?” ‘‘Itis I,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ who am come to 
 atone for thy neglect, and to remedy my own troubles. I am come 
 ’ to whip thee, Sancho, and to discharge, at least in part, the debt 
 for which thou art bound. JDulcinea is perishing; thou lest 
 unconcerned ; and therefore untruss of thine own accord; for it is 
 my intention to give thee, in this convenient solitude, at least two 
 thousand lashes.” ‘‘No, indeed,’ quoth Sancho; ‘‘ body o’ me! 
 keep off, or the dead shall hear of it! The strokes 1 am bound to 
 give myself must be with my own will, and when I please. At 
 erat Iam not in the humour. Let your worship be content that 
 promise to flog and flay myself as soon as ever I am so inclined.” 
 ‘‘ There is no trusting to thy courtesy, Sancho,” said Don Quixote ; 
 ‘*for thou art hard-hearted, and, though a peasant, of very tender 
 flesh.” He then struggled with Sancho, and endeavoured by force 
 to uncover him. Upon which Sancho jumped up, then closing with 
 his master, he threw his arms about him, tripped up his heels, and 
 laid him flat on his back ; whereupon, setting his right knee upon 
 his breast, he held his hands down so fast that he could not stir, 
 and scarcely could breathe. ‘‘How, traitor!” exclaimed the 
 knight, ‘‘dost thou rebel against thy master and natural lord? 
 Dost thou raise thy hand against him who feeds thee?” ‘TI 
 neither raise up nor pull down,” answered Sancho; ‘‘I only defend 
 myself, who am my own lord. If your worship will promise me to 
 let me alone, and not talk about whipping at present, I will set 
 you at liberty ; if not, ‘Here thou diest, traitor, enemy to Donna 
 Sancha.’”* Don Quixote gave him the promise he desired, and 
 swore, by the life of his best thoughts, he would not touch a hair of 
 his garment, but leave the whipping entirely to his own discretion. 
 Sancho now removed to another place, and, as he was going to 
 lay himself under another tree, he thought something touched his 
 head ; and reaching up his hands, he felt a couple of dangling feet, 
 with hose and shoes. Trembling with fear, he moved on a little 
 farther, but was incommoded by other legs, upon which he 
 called to his master for help. Don Quixote went up to him 
 and asked him what was the matter, when Sancho told him that 
 all the trees were full of men’s feet and legs. Don Quixote felt 
 them, and immediately guessing the cause, he said, ‘‘ Be wot afraid, 
 Sancho; doubtless these are the legs of robbers and banditti, who 
 have been punished for their crimes ; for here the officers of justice 
 * Sancho here quotes the last line of an old ballad. 
 
CAPTURED BY THE BANDITTI. 577 
 
 hang them by scores at a time, when they can lay hold of them, 
 and from this circumstance I conclude we are not far from 
 Barcelona.” In truth, Don Quixote was right in his conjecture, 
 for when day began to dawn, they plainly saw that the legs they 
 had felt in the dark belonged to the bodies of thieves. 
 
 But if they were alarmed at these dead banditti, how much more 
 were they disturbed at being suddenly surrounded by more than 
 forty of their living comrades, who commanded them to stand and 
 not to move till their captain came up. Don Quixote was on foot, 
 his horse unbridled, his lance leaning against a tree at some dis- 
 tance ; in short, being defenceless, he thought it best to cross his 
 hands, hang down his head, and reserve himself for better occasions. 
 The robbers, however, were not idle, but immediately fell to work 
 upon Dapple, and in a trice emptied both wallet and cloak-bag. 
 Fortunately for Sancho, he had secured the crowns given him by 
 the duke, with his other money, in a belt which he wore about his 
 waist; nevertheless, they would not have escaped the searching 
 eyes of these good people, who spare not even what is hid between 
 the flesh and the skin, had they not been checked ky the arrival of 
 their captain. His age seemed to be about four-and-thirty, his 
 body was robust, his stature tall, his visage austere, and his com- 
 plexion swarthy ; he was mounted upon a powerful steed, clad ina 
 coat of steel, and his belt was stuck round with pistols. Observing 
 that his squires (for so they call men of their vocation) were about 
 to rifle Sancho, he commanded them to forbear, and was instantly 
 obeyed, and thus the girdle escaped. He wondered to see a lance 
 standing against a tree, a target on the ground, and Don Quixote 
 in armour, and pensive, with the most sad and melancholy coun- 
 tenance that sadness itself could frame. 
 
 Going up to the knight, he said, ‘‘ Be not so dejected, good sir, 
 for you are not fallen into the hands of a cruel Osiris, but into 
 those of Roque Guinart, who has more of compassion in his 
 nature than cruelty.” ‘‘ My dejection,” answered Don Quixote, 
 “ig not on account of having fallen into your hands, O valorous 
 Roque, whose fame extends over the whole earth, but for my 
 negligence in having suffered myself to be surprised by your 
 soldiers, contrary to the bounden duty of a knight-errant, which 
 requires that I should be continually on the alert, and at all hours 
 my own sentinel ; for, let me tell you, illustrious Roque, had they 
 met me on horseback, with my lance and my target, they 
 would have found it no very easy task to make me yield. Know, 
 sir, 1 am Don Quixote de la Mancha, he with whose exploits the 
 whole globe resounds.”’ 
 
 Roque Guinart presently perceived Don Quixote’s infirmity, and 
 that it had in it mcre of madness than valour; and though he had 
 sometimes heard his name mentioned, he always thought that what 
 had been said of him was a fiction, conceiving that such a chare 
 acter could not exist; he was therefore delighted with this meeting, 
 as he might now know, from his own observations, what degree of 
 credit was actually due to the reports in circulation. ‘‘ Be not 
 concerned,” said Roque, addressing himself to Don Quixote, ‘‘nor 
 
 20 
 
578 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 tax Fortune with unkindness; by thus stumbling, you may chance 
 to stand more firmly than ever; for Heaven, by strange and cir- 
 cuitous ways, incomprehensible to men, is wont to raise the fallen, 
 and enrich the needy.” 
 
 Don Quixote was about to return his thanks for his courteous 
 reception, when suddenly a noise was heard near them, like the 
 trampling of many horses; but it was caused by one only, upon 
 which came, at full speed, a youth, seemingly about twenty 
 years of age, clad in green damask edged with gold lace, trousers, 
 and a loose coat; his hat cocked in the Walloon fashion, with 
 straight waxed-leather boots, spurs, dagger, and gold-hilted sword ; 
 a small carbine in his hand, and a brace of pistols by his side. 
 Roque, hearing the noise of a horse, turned his head, and observed 
 this handsome youth advancing towards him. ‘‘ Valiant Roque,” 
 said the cavalier, ‘‘ you are the person I have been seeking; for 
 with you I hope to find some comfort, though not a remedy, In my 
 afflictions. Not to keep you in suspense, because I perceive that 
 you do not know me, I[ will tell you who I am. I am Claudia 
 Jeronima, daughter of Simon Forte, your intimate friend, and the 
 particular enemy of Claquel Torellas, who is also yours, being of 
 the faction which is adverse to you. You know, too, that Torellas 
 has a son, called Don Vincente de Torellas, at least so he was 
 called not two hours ago. That son of his—to shorten the story of 
 my misfortune—ah, what sorrow he has brought upon me !—that 
 son, I say, saw me, and courted me; I listened to him, and loved 
 him, unknown to my father. In short, he promised to be my 
 spouse, and I pledged myself to become his, without proceeding 
 any farther. Yesterday I was informed, that forgetting his engage- 
 ment to me, he was going to be married to another, and that this 
 morning the ceremony was to be performed. The news confounded 
 me, and [ lost all patience. My father being out of town, I took 
 the opportunity of equipping myself as you now see me; and by the 
 speed of this horse, I overtook Don Vincente about a league hence, 
 and, without stopping to reproach him, or hear his excuses, I fired 
 at him not only with this piece, but with both my pistols, and 
 lodged, I believe, not a few balls in his body: thus washing 
 away with blood the stains of my honour. I left him to his ser- 
 vants, who either dared not, or could not prevent the execution of 
 my purpose; and am come to seek your assistance to get to France, 
 where I have relations, with whom I may live; and to entreat you 
 likewise to protect my father from any cruel revenge on the part of 
 Don Vincente’s numerous kindred.” 
 
 Roque was struck with the gallantry, bravery, figure, and also 
 the adventure of the beautiful Claudia; and said to her ‘‘ Come, 
 madam, and let us first be assured of your enemy’s death, and then 
 we will consider what is proper to be done for you.” Don Quixote, 
 who had listened attentively to Claudia’s narration, and the reply 
 of Roque Guinart, now interposed, saying, ‘‘ Let no one trouble 
 himself with the defence of this lady, for I take it upon myself. 
 Give me my horse and my arms, and wait for me here while I go 
 in quest of the perjured knight, and, whether living or dead, make 
 
STORY OF CLAUDIA AND DON VINCENTE. 579 
 
 him fulfil his promise to so much beauty.” ‘‘ Ay, ay, let nobody 
 doubt that,” quoth Sancho: ‘‘my master is a special hand at 
 match-making. *Iwas but the other day he made a young rogue 
 consent to marry a damsel he would fain have left in the lurch, 
 after he had given her his word; and, had not the enchanters, who 
 always torment his worship, changed the bridegroom into a lacquey, 
 that same maid by this time would have been a matron.” 
 
 Roque, who was more intent upon Claudia’s business than the 
 discourse of master and man, heard them not: and, after command- 
 ing his squires to restore to Sancho all they had taken from Dapple, 
 and likewise to retire to the place where they had lodged the night 
 before, he went off immediately with Claudia, at full speed, in 
 quest of the wounded, or dead, Don Vincente. They presently 
 arrived at the place where Claudia had overtaken him, and found 
 nothing there except the blood which had been newly spilt; but, 
 looking round, at a considerable distance they saw some persons 
 ascending a hill, and concluded (as indeed it proved) that it was 
 Don Vincente being conveyed by his servants either to a doctor or 
 his grave. ‘They instantly pushed forward to overtake them, which 
 they soon effected, and found Don Vincente in the arms of his ser- 
 vants, entreating them in a low and feeble voice to let him die in 
 that place, for he could no longer endure the pain of his wounds. 
 
 Claudia and Roque, throwing themselves from their horses, drew 
 near; the servants were startled at the appearance of Roque, and 
 Claudia was troubled at the sight of Don Vincente; when, divided 
 between tenderness and resentment, she approached him, and, 
 taking hold of his hand, said, ‘‘ Had you but given me this hand, 
 according to our contract, you would not have been reduced to this 
 extremity.” The wounded cavalier opened his almost closed eyes, 
 and, recognizing Claudia, he said, ‘‘I perceive, fair and mistaken 
 lady, that it is to your hand I owe my death :—a punishment un- 
 merited by me, for neither in thought or deed could I offend you.” 
 ‘‘It is not true, then,” said Claudia, ‘‘ that, this very morning, 
 you were going to be married to Leonora, daughter of the rich Bal- 
 vastro?” ‘‘No, certainly,” answered Don Vincente; ‘‘my evil 
 fortune must have borne you that news, to excite your jealousy to 
 bereave me of life; but since I leave it in your arms, 1 esteem 
 myself happy; and, to assure you of this truth, take my hand, and, 
 if you are willing, receive me for your husband ; for I can now give 
 you no other satisfaction for the injury which you imagine you 
 have received.” 
 
 Claudia pressed his hand, and such was the anguish of her heart, 
 that she swooned away upon the bloody bosom of Don Vincente, 
 and at the same moment he was seized with a mortal paroxysm. 
 Roque was confounded, and knew not what to do; the servants 
 ran for water, with which they sprinkled their faces; Claudia 
 recovered, but Don Vincente was left in the sleep of death. When 
 Claudia was convinced that her beloved husband no longer breathed, 
 she rent the air with her groans, and pierced the skies with her 
 lamentations. She tore her hair, scattered it in the wind, and 
 with her own merciless hands wounded and disfigured her face, 
 
580 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 with every other demonstration of grief, distraction, and despair. 
 ‘*O rash and cruel woman!” she exclaimed, ‘‘ with what facility 
 wert thou moved to this evildeed! O maddening sting of jealousy, 
 how deadly thy effects! O my dear husband! whose love for me 
 hath given thee, for thy bridal bed, a cold grave!” 
 
 So piteous, indeed, were the lamentations of Claudia, that they 
 forced tears even from the eyes of Roque, where they were seldom 
 or never seen before. The servants wept and lamented; Claudia 
 was recovered from one fainting-fit, only to fall into another ; and 
 all around was a scene of sorrow. At length Roque Guinart ordered 
 the attendants to take up the body of Don Vincente, and convey it 
 to the town where his father dwelt, which was not far distant, 
 that it might be there interred. Claudia told Roque that it was 
 ‘hér determination to retire to a nunnery, of which her aunt was 
 abbess, there to spend what remained of her wretched life, looking 
 to heavenly nuptials and an eternal spouse. Roque applauded 
 her good design, offering to conduct her wherever 1t was her de- 
 sire to go, and to defend her father against the relatives of Don 
 Vincente, or any one who should offer violence to him. Claudia 
 expressed her thanks in the best manner she could, but declined 
 his company, and, overwhelmed with affliction, took her leave of 
 him. At the same time Don Vincente’s servants carried off his 
 dead body, and Roque returned to his companions. Thus ended 
 the amour of Claudia Jeronima; and no wonder that it was so 
 calamitous, since it was brought about by the cruel and irresistible 
 power of jealousy. 
 
 Roque Guinart found his band of desperadoes in the place he 
 had appointed to meet them, and Don Quixote in the midst of 
 them, endeavouring, in a formal speech, to persuade them to quit 
 that kind of life, so prejudicial both to soul and body. But his 
 auditors were chiefly Gascons, a wild and ungovernable race, and 
 therefore his harangue made but little impression upon them. Roque 
 having asked Sancho Panza whether they had restored to him all 
 the property which had been taken from Dapple, he said they had 
 returned all but three nightcaps, which were worth three cities. 
 ‘¢ What does the fellow say?” quoth one of the party; ‘‘I have got 
 them, and they are not worth three reals.” ‘‘'That is true,” quoth 
 Don Quixote; ‘‘ but my squire justly values the gift for the sake 
 of the giver.” Roque Guinart insisted upon their being immedi- 
 ately restored; then, after commanding his men to draw up ina 
 line before him, he caused all the clothes, jewels, and money, 
 and, in short, all they had plundered since the last division, to be 
 brought out and spread before them; which being done, he made 
 
 -a short appraisement, reducing into money what could not be 
 divided, and shared the whole among his company with the utmost 
 exactness and impartiality. 
 
 After sharing the booty in this manner, by which all were satis- 
 fied, Roque said to Don Quixote, ‘‘If I were not thus exact in 
 dealing with these fellows, there would be no living with them.” 
 ‘* Well,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ justice must needs be a good thing, for 
 it is necessary, I see, even among thieves.” On hearing this, one 
 
SANCHO’S NARROW ESCAPE. 581 
 
 of the squires raised the butt-end of his piece, and would surely 
 have split poor Sancho’s head, if Roque had not called out to him 
 to forbear. ‘Terrified at his narrow escape, Sancho resolved to seal 
 up his lips while he remained in such company. 
 
 Just at this time intelligence was brought by the scouts that, 
 not far distant, on the Barcelona road, a large body of people were 
 seen coming that way. ‘‘Can you discover,” said Roque, ‘‘ whether 
 they are such as we look for, or such as look for us?” ‘‘ Such as 
 as we look for, sir.” ‘‘ Away, then,” said Roque, ‘‘and bring them 
 hither straight—and see that none escape.” The command was 
 instantly obeyed; the band sallied forth, while Don Quixote and 
 Sancho remained with the chief, anxious to see what would follow. 
 In the meantime Roque conversed with the knight on his own way, 
 of living. ‘‘ This life of ours must appear strange to you, Signor 
 Don Quixote—new accidents, new adventures, in constant suc- 
 cession, and all full of danger and disquiet : it isa state, I confess, 
 in which there is no repose either for body or mind. Injuries 
 which I could not brook, and a thirst of revenge first led me into 
 it, contrary to my nature; for the savage asperity of my present 
 behaviour is a disguise to my heart, which is gentle and humane. 
 Yet, unnatural as it is, having plunged into it, I persevere; and, 
 as one sin is followed by another, and mischief is added to mis- 
 chief, my own resentments are now so linked with those of others, 
 and I am so involved in wrongs, and factions, and engagements, that 
 nothing but the hand of Providence can snatch me out of this en- 
 tangled maze. Nevertheless, I despair not of coming, at last, into 
 a safe and quiet harbour.” 
 
 Don Quixote was surprised at these sober reflections, so different 
 from what he should have expected from a banditti chief, whose 
 occupation was robbery and murder. ‘‘Signor Roque,” said he, 
 ‘the beginning of a cure consists in the knowledge of the distemper, 
 and in the patient’s willingness to take the medicines prescribed 
 to him by his physician. You are sick; you know your malady, 
 and God, our Physician, is ready with medicines, that, in time, will 
 certainly effect a cure. Besides, sinners of good understanding are 
 nearer to amendment than those who are devoid of it ; and, as your 
 superior sense is manifest, be of good cheer, and hope for your en- 
 tire recovery. If in this desirable work you would take the shortest 
 way, and at once enter that of your salvation, come with me, and 
 I will teach you to be a knight-errant—a profession, it is true, full 
 of labours and disasters, but which, being placed to the account of 
 penance, will not fail to lead you to honour and felicity.” - Roque 
 smiled at Don Quixote’s counsel, but, changing the discourse, he 
 related to him the tragical adventure of Claudia Jeronima, which 
 grieved Sancho to the heart; for he had been much captivated by 
 the beauty, grace, and sprightliness of the young lady. 
 
 The party which had been despatched by Roque now returned 
 with their captives, who consisted of two gentlemen on horseback, 
 two pilgrims on foot, and a coach full of women, attended by six 
 servants, some on foot, and some on horseback, and also two mule- 
 teers belonging to the gentlemen. They were surrounded by the 
 
582 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 victors, who, as well as the vanquished, waited in profound silence 
 till the great Roque should declare his will. He first asked the 
 gentlemen who they were, whither they were going, and what 
 money they had? ‘‘ We are captains of infantry, sir,” said one of 
 them, ‘‘and are going to join our companies, which are at Naples, 
 and, for that purpose, intend to embark at Barcelona, where, it is 
 said, four galleys are about to sail for Sicily. Two or three hundred 
 crowns is somewhere about the amount of our cash, and with that 
 sum we accounted ourselves rich, considering that we are soldiers, 
 whose purses are seldom overladen.” The pilgrims being ques- 
 tioned in thé same manner, said their intention was to embark for 
 Rome, and that they had about them some threescore reals. The 
 coach now came under examination, and Roque was informed, by 
 one of the attendants, that the persons within were the lady Donna 
 Guiomar de Quinones, wife of the Regent of the vicarship of Naples, 
 her younger daughter, a waiting-maid, and a duenna; that six ser- 
 vants accompanied them, and their money amounted to six hundred 
 crowns. ‘‘ It appears, then,” said Roque Guinart, ‘‘that we have 
 here nine hundred crowns, and sixty reals: my soldiers are sixty in 
 number; see how much falls to the share of each; for I am myself 
 but an indifferent accomptant.”’ 
 
 His armed ruffians, on hearing this, cried out, ‘‘ Long live Roque 
 Guinart ! in spite of the dogs that seek his ruin.” But the officers 
 looked chapfallen, the lady-regent much dejected, and the pilgrims 
 nothing pleased at witnessing this confiscation of their eftects. 
 Roque held them awhile in suspense, but would not long protract 
 their suffering, which was visible a bow-shot off, and therefore, 
 turning to the captains, he said, ‘‘ Pray, gentlemen, do me the 
 favour to lend me sixty crowns ; and you, lady-regent, fourscore, 
 as a slight perquisite which these honest gentlemen of mine expect : 
 for ‘the abbot must eat that sings for his meat;’ and you may 
 then depart, and prosecute your journey without molestation ; 
 being secured by a pass which I will give you, in case of your meet- 
 ing with any other of my people, who are dispersed about this part 
 of the country: for it is not a practice with me to molest soldiers, 
 and I should be loath, madam, to be found wanting in respect to 
 the fair sex—especially to ladies of your quality.” 
 
 The captains were liberal in their acknowledgments to Roque for 
 his courtesy and moderation in having generously left them a part 
 of their money; and Donna Guiomar de Quinones would have 
 thrown herself out of the coach to kiss the feet and hands of the 
 great Roque, but he would not suffer it, and entreated her pardon 
 for the injury he was forced to do them, in compliance with the 
 duties of an office which his evil fortune had imposed upon him. 
 The lady then ordered the fourscore crowns to be immediately paid 
 to him, as her share of the assessment; the captains had already 
 disbursed their quota, and the pilgrims were proceeding to offer 
 their little all, when Roque told them to wait; then, turning to 
 his men, he said, ‘‘ Of these crowns two fall to each man’s share, 
 and twenty remain; let ten be given to these pilgrims, and the 
 other ten to this honest squire, that, in relating his travels, he may 
 
ROQUE GUINART’S AUTHORITY. 583 
 
 have cause to speak well of us.” Then, producing his writing- 
 implements, with which he was always provided, he gave them a 
 pass, directed to the chiefs of his several parties ; and, taking his 
 leave, he dismissed them, all admiring his generosity, his gallantry, 
 and extraordinary conduct, and looking upon him rather as an 
 Alexander the Great, than a notorious robber. * 
 
 On the departure of the travellers, one of Roque’s men seemed 
 disposed to murmur, saying, in his Catalonian dialect, ‘‘ This cap- 
 tain of ours is wondrous charitable, and would do better among 
 friars than with those of our trade; but if he must be giving, let 
 it be with his own.” The wretch spoke not so low but that Roque 
 overhead him, and, drawing his sword, he almost cleft his head in 
 two, saying, ‘‘ Thus I chastise the mutinous.” The rest were silent 
 and overawed ; such was their obedience to his authority. Roque 
 then withdrew a little, and wrote a letter to a friend at Barcelona, 
 to inform him that he hal with him the famous Don Quixote de la 
 Mancha, of whom so much had been reported, and that, being on 
 his way to Barcelona, he might be sure to see him there on the ap- 
 proaching festival of St John the Baptist, parading the strand, 
 armed at all points, mounted on his steed Rozinante, and attended 
 by his squire Sancho Panza, upon an ass; adding, that he had 
 found him wonderfully sagacious and entertaining. He also de- 
 sired him to give notice of this to his friends the Niarra, that they 
 might be diverted with the knight, and enjoy a pleasure, which he 
 thought too good for his enemies the Cadells, though he feared it 
 was impossible to prevent their coming in for a share of what all 
 the world must know and be delighted with. He despatched this 
 epistle by one of his troop, who, changing the habit of his vocation 
 for that of a peasant, entered the city, and delivered it as directed. 
 
 
 
 C,H AcP.T, Ey Ria LX: 
 
 Of what befell Don Quixote at his entrance into Barcelona, with other 
 events more true than ingenious. 
 
 Three days and three nights Don Quixote sojourned with the great 
 Roque; and, had he remained with him three hundred years, in 
 such a mode of life he might still have found new matter for ob- 
 servation and wonder. Here they sleep, there they eat, sometimes 
 flying from they know not what, at others lying in wait for they 
 know not whom; often forced to steal their nap standing, and every 
 moment liable to be roused. Now they appear on this side of the 
 country, now on that; always on the watch, sending out spies, 
 posting sentinels, blowing the matches of their muskets—though 
 
 * Pellicer proves that this robber Guinart, properly named Pedro Rocha Guinarda, 
 was a person actually existing in the time of Cervantes, and the captain of a band 
 of freebooters. About the same period there were, likewise, other Andalusian 
 robbers in Sierra Cabrilla, who were no less equitable, and even more scrupulous, 
 than the great Roque himself. Their garb was that of good reformed people, and 
 they took from travellers but half their property. 
 
584 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 they had but few, being chiefly armed with pistols. Roque passed 
 the nights apart from his followers, making no man privy to his 
 lodgings; for the numerous proclamations which the viceroy of 
 Barcelona had published against him, setting a price upon his head, 
 kept him in continual apprehension of surprise, and even of the 
 treachery of his own followers ; making his life irksome and wretched 
 beyond measure. 
 
 Roque, Don Quixote, and Sancho, attended by six squires, set 
 out for Barcelona, and, taking the most secret and unfrequented ways, 
 at night reached the strand on the eve of St John. Roque now 
 embraced the knight and squire, giving to Sancho the promised ten 
 crowns; and thus they parted, with many friendly expressions and 
 a thousand offers of service on both sides. 
 
 Roque returned back, and Don Quixote remained there on horse- 
 back waiting for daybreak : and it was not long before the beautiful 
 Aurora appeared in the golden balconies of the east, cheering the 
 flowery flelds, while at the same time the ears were regaled with 
 the sound of numerous kettledrums and jingling morrice-bells, 
 mixed with the noise of horsemen coming out of the city. Aurora 
 now retired, and the glorious sun gradually rising, at length ap- 
 peared broad as an ample shield on the verge of the horizon, Don 
 Quixote and Sancho now beheld the sea, which to them was a 
 wondrous novelty, and seemed so boundless and so vast, that the 
 lakes of Ruydera, which they had seen in la Mancha, could not be 
 compared to it. They saw the galleys too, lying at anchor near the 
 shore, which, onremoving their awnings, appeared covered with flags 
 and pennants all flickering in the wind, and kissing the surface of the 
 water. Within them was heard the sound of trumpets, hautboys, 
 and other martial instruments, that filled the air with sweet and 
 cheering harmony. Presently the vessels were put in motion, and 
 on the calm sea began a counterfeit engagement; at the same time 
 a numerous body of cavaliers, in gorgeous liveries and nobly 
 mounted, issued from the city, and performed corresponding move- 
 ments on shore. Cannon were discharged on board the galleys, 
 which were answered by those on the ramparts; and thus the air 
 was rent by mimic thunder. The cheerful sea, the serene sky, only 
 now and then obscured by the smoke of the artillery, seemed to 
 
 _ exhilarate and gladden every heart. 
 
 Sancho wondered that the bulky monsters which he saw moving 
 on the water should have so many legs: and while his master stood 
 in silent astonishment at the marvellous scene before him, the body 
 of gay cavaliers came galloping up towards him, shouting in the 
 Moorish manner ; and one of them—the person to whom Roque had 
 written, came forward, and said, ‘‘ Welcome to our city, thou mirror 
 and beacon, and polar-star of knight-errantry! Welcome, I say, 
 O valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha, not the spurious, the 
 fictitious, the apocryphal one, lately sent amongst us in lying 
 histories, but the true, the legitimate, the genuine Quixote of Cid 
 Hamet Benengeli, the flower of historians!” Don Quixote answered 
 not a word, nor did the cavaliers wait for any answer, but, wheeling 
 round with all their followers, they began to curvet in a circle 
 
AFFRONT TO THE KNIGHT AND HIS SQUIRE. 585 
 
 about Don Quixote, who, turning to Sancho, said, ‘‘ These people 
 seem to know us well, Sancho; I dare engage they have read our 
 history, and even that of the Arragonese, lately printed.” 
 
 The gentleman who spoke to Don Quixote again addressed him, 
 saying, ‘‘ Be pleased, Signor Don Quixote, to accompany us, for we 
 are all the intimate and devoted friends of Roque Guinart.” To 
 which Don Quixote replied, ‘‘If courtesy beget courtesy, yours, 
 good sir, springs from that of the great Roque; conduct me whither 
 you please, for I am wholly at your disposal.” The gentlemen an- 
 swered in expressions no less polite, and, enclosing him in the midst 
 of them, they all proceeded, to the sound of martial music, towards 
 the city ; at the entrance of which, two boys, more audacious than 
 the rest, contrived to insinuate themselves within the crowd of 
 horsemen, and one lifting Dapple’s tail, and the other that of Rozi- 
 nante, they lodged under each a handful of briers, the stings 
 whereof being soon felt by the poor animals, they clapped their tails 
 only the closer, which so augmented their suffering, that, plunging 
 and kicking from excess of pain, they quickly brought their riders 
 to the ground. Don Quixote, abashed and indignant at the affront, 
 hastened to relieve his tormented steed, while Sancho performed 
 the same kind office for Dapple. Their cavalier escort would have 
 chastised the offenders, but the young rogues presently found shelter 
 in the rabble that followed. The knight and the squire then mounted 
 again, and, accompanied by the same music and acclamations, pro- 
 ceeded until they reached the conductor’s house, which was large 
 and handsome, declaring the owner to be a man of wealth and con- 
 sideration; and there we will leave them; for such is the will and 
 pleasure of the author of this history, Cid Hamet Benengeli. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER LXI. 
 
 Which treats of the adventure of the enchanted head, with other 
 trifling matters that must not be omitted. 
 
 Learned, rich, sensible, and good-humoured, was Don Antonio 
 Moreno, the present host of Don Quixote; and, being cheerfully 
 disposed, with such an inmate, he soon began to consider how he 
 might extract amusement from his whimsical infirmity ; but with- 
 out offence to his guest—for the jest that gives pain is no jest, nor 
 is that lawful pastime which inflicts an injury. Having prevailed 
 upon the knight to take off his armour, he led him to a balcony at 
 * the front of his house, and there, in his strait chamois doublet, 
 (which has already been mentioned), exposed him to the populace, 
 who stood gazing at him as if he had been some strange baboon. 
 The gay cavaliers again appeared, and paraded before him as in 
 compliment to him alone, and not in honour of that day’s fes- 
 tival. Sancho was highly delighted to find unexpectedly what 
 he fancied to be another Camacho’s wedding; another house like 
 that of Don Diego de Miranda, and another duke’s castle. 
 
 m, 
 
586 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 On that day several of Don Antonio’s friends dined with him, all 
 paying homage and respect to Don Quixote as a knight-errant ; 
 with which his vanity was so flattered that he could scarcely con- 
 ceal the delight which it gave him. And such was the power of 
 Sancho’s wit, that every servant of the house, and, indeed, all who 
 heard him, hung, as it were, upon his lips. While sitting at table, 
 Don Antonio said to him, ‘‘ We are told here, honest Sancho, that 
 you are so great a lover of capons and sausages, that when you have 
 crammed your belly, you stuff your pockets with the fragments for 
 another day.” ‘‘’Tis not true, an’t please your worship ; [ am not 
 so filthy, nor am Ia glutton, as my master Don Quixote here present 
 can bear witness; for he knows we have often lived day after day, 
 ay, a whole week together, upon a handful of acorns or hazel-nuts. 
 It is true, I own, that if they give me a heifer, I make haste with 
 a halter,—my way is to take things as I find them, and eat what 
 comes to hand ; and whoever has said that Iam given to greediness, 
 take my word for it, he is very much out; and I would tell my 
 mind in another manner, but for the respect due to the honourable 
 beards here at table.” 
 
 ‘Tn truth, gentlemen,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ the frugality of my 
 squire and his cleanliness in eating deserve to be recorded on plates 
 of brass, to remain an eternal memorial for ages to come. I confess 
 that, when in great want of food, he may appear somewhat 
 ravenous, eating fast and chewing on both sides of his mouth ; but, 
 as for cleanliness, he is therein most punctilious; and when he was 
 a governor, such was his nicety in eating, that he would take up 
 grapes, and even the grains of a pomegranate, with the point of a 
 fork.” ‘*‘How!” quoth Don Antonio, ‘‘has Sancho been a 
 governor?” ‘‘ Yes, i’faith, I have,” replied Sancho, ‘‘and of an 
 island called Barataria. Ten days I governed it at my own will 
 and pleasure; but I paid for it in sleepless nights, and learned to 
 hate with all my heart the trade of governing, and made such haste 
 to leave it that I fell into a pit, which I thought would be my grave, 
 but I escaped alive out of it, by a miracle.”? Hereupon Don Quixote 
 related minutely all the circumstances of Sancho’s government, to 
 the great entertainment of the hearers. 
 
 The dinner being ended, Don Quixote was led by his host into a 
 distant apartment, in which there was no other furniture than a 
 small table, apparently of jasper, supported by a pillar of the same ; 
 and upon it was placed a bust, seemingly of bronze, the effigy of 
 some high personage. After taking a turn or two in the room, 
 Don Antonio said, ‘‘ Signor Don Quixote, now that we are alone, I 
 will make known to you one of the most extraordinary circum- 
 stances, or rather, I should say, one of the greatest wonders, 
 imaginable, upon condition that what I shall communicate be 
 deposited in the inmost recesses of secrecy.” ‘‘It shall be there 
 buried,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘and, to be more secure, I will 
 cover it with a tombstone; besides, I would have you know, 
 Signor Don Antonio” (for by this time he had learned his name), 
 ‘‘that you are addressing one who, though he has ears to hear, has 
 no tongue to betray; so that if it please you to deposit it in my 
 
HISTORY OF THE ENCHANTED HEAD. 587 
 
 breast, be assured it is plunged into the abyss of silence.” ‘I am 
 satisfied,” said Don Antonio, ‘‘and, confiding in your promise, I 
 will at once raise your astonishment, and disburthen my own 
 breast of a secret which I have long borne with pain, from the want 
 of some person worthy to be made a confidant in matters which are 
 not to be revealed to everybody.” 
 
 Thus having, by his long preamble, strongly excited Don Quixote’s 
 curiosity, Don Antonio made him examine carefully the brazen 
 head, the table, and the jasper pedestal upon which it stood; he 
 then said, ‘‘ Know, Signor Don Quixote, that this extraordinary 
 bust is the production of one of the greatest enchanters or wizards 
 that ever existed. He was, I believe, a Polander, and a disciple 
 of the famous Escotillo,* of whom so many wonders are related. 
 He was here in my house, and, for the reward of a thousand 
 crowns, fabricated this head for me, which has the virtue and pro- 
 perty of answering to every question that is put to it. After much 
 study and labour, drawing figures, erecting schemes, and frequent 
 observation of the stars, he completed his work. To-day, being 
 Friday, it is mute, but to-morrow, signor, you shall surely witness 
 its marvellous powers. In the meantime, you may prepare your 
 questions, for you may rely on hearing the truth.” 
 
 Don Quixote was much astonished at what he heard, and could 
 scarcely credit Don Antonio’s relation; but, considering how soon 
 he should be satisfied, he was content to suspend his opinion, and 
 express his acknowledgments to Don Antonio for so great a proof 
 of his favour. Then leaving the chamber, and carefully locking the 
 door, they both returned to the saloon, where the rest of the com- 
 pany were diverting themselves with Sancho’s account of his mas- 
 ter’s adventures. 
 
 The same evening they carried Don Quixote abroad, to take 
 the air, mounted on a large easy-paced mule, with handsome fur- 
 niture, himself unarmed, and with a long wrapping-coat of tawny- 
 coloured cloth, so warm that it would have put even frost into a 
 sweat. They had given private orders to the servants to find 
 amusement for Sancho, so as to prevent his leaving the house, 
 as they had secretly fixed on the back of Don Quixote’s coat a 
 parchment, on which was written in capital letters:—‘‘ This is 
 Don Quixote de la Mancha.” 
 
 They had no sooner set out, than the parchment attracted the 
 eyes of the passengers, and the inscription being read aloud, Don 
 Quixote heard his name so frequently repeated, that, turning to 
 Don Antonio with much complacency, he said, ‘‘How great the 
 prerogative of knight-errantry, since its professors are known and 
 renowned over the whole earth! Observe, Signor Don Antonio, 
 even the very boys of this city know me, although they never 
 could have seen me before!” ‘‘It is very true, Signor Don Quixote,” 
 answered Don Antonio; ‘‘for, as fire is discovered by its own 
 light, so is virtue by its own excellence ; and no renown equals in 
 splendour that which is acquired by the profession of arms.” 
 
 * Michael Scotus. 
 
588 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 As Don Quixote thus rode along amidst the applause of the 
 people, a Castilian, who had read the label on his back, exclaimed, 
 ‘“‘ What ! Don Quixote de la Mancha! How hast thou got here 
 alive after the many drubbings and bastings thou hast received? 
 Mad indeed thou art! Had thy folly been confined to thyself, the 
 mischief had been less; but thou hast the property of converting 
 into fools and madmen all that keep thee company—witness these 
 gentlemen here, thy present associates. Get home, blockhead, to 
 thy wife and children; look after thy house, and leave these 
 fooleries that eat into thy brain and skim off the cream of thy 
 understanding !” . 
 
 ‘*Go, friend,” said Don Antonio, ‘‘ look after your own business, 
 and give your advice where it is required; Signor Don Quixote is 
 wise, and we, his friends, know what we are doing. Virtue 
 demands our homage wherever it is found; begone, therefore, in an 
 evil hour, nor meddle where you are not called.” ‘‘ Truly,” 
 answered the Castilian, ‘‘ your worship is in the right; for to give 
 that lunatic advice, is to kick against the pricks. Yet am I[ 
 grieved that the good sense which he is said to have, should run to 
 waste and be lost in the mire of knight-errantry. And may the 
 evil hour, as your worship said, overtake me and all my genera- 
 tion, if ever you catch me giving advice again to anybody, asked 
 or not asked, though I were to live to the age of Methuselah.” 
 So saying, the adviser went his way ; but the rabble still pressing 
 upon them to read the inscription, Don Antonio contrived to have 
 it removed, that they might proceed without interruption. 
 
 On the approach of night the cavalcade returned home, where pre- 
 parations were made for a ball by the wife of Don Antonio, an 
 accomplished and beautiful lady, who had invited other friends, 
 both to do honour to her guest, and to entertain them with his 
 singular humour. The ball, which was preceded by a splendid re- 
 past, began about ten o’clock at night. Among the ladies, there 
 were two of an arch and jocose disposition, who, though they were 
 modest, behaved with more freedom than usual; and, to divert 
 themselves and the rest, so plied Don Quixote with dancing that 
 they worried both his soul and body. A sight it was indeed to 
 behold his figure, long, lank, lean, and swarthy, straitened in his 
 clothes, so awkward, and with so little agility. 
 
 These roguish ladies took occasion privately to pay their court 
 to him, and he as often repelled them; till, at last, finding himself 
 so pressed by their attentions—‘‘ Fugite, partes adverse!” cried he 
 aloud: ‘‘avaunt, ladies! you are poison to my soul! Leave me to 
 repose, ye unwelcome thoughts, for the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso 
 is the sole queen of my heart!” He then threw himself on the 
 floor, where he lay quite shattered by the violence of his exertions. 
 Don Antonio ordered that the wearied knight should -be taken up 
 and carried to bed. Sancho was among the first to lend a helping 
 hand; and as he raised him up, ‘‘ What, sir,” said he, ‘‘ put you 
 upon this business? Think you that all who are valiant must be 
 caperers, or all knights-errant dancing-masters? If so, you are 
 much mistaken, I can tell you. Body of me! some that I know 
 
CONSULTING THE ORACLE. 589 
 
 would rather cut a giant’s weasand than a caper. Had you been 
 for the shoe-jig,* I could have done your business for you, for I can 
 frisk it away like any jer-falcon; but as for your fine dancing, I 
 cannot work a stitch at it.” The company were much diverted by 
 Sancho’s remarks, who now led his master to bed, where he left 
 him well covered up, to sweat away the ill effects of his dancing. 
 
 The next day, Don Antonio determined to make experiment of 
 the enchanted head: and for that purpose the knight and squire, 
 the two mischievous ladies (who had been invited by Don Antonio’s 
 lady to sleep there that night), and two other friends, were con- 
 ducted to the chamber in which the head was placed. After lock- 
 ing the door, Don Antonio proceeded to explain to them the pro- 
 perties of the miraculous bust, of which, he said, he should now, 
 for the first time, make trial, but laid them all under an injunction 
 of secrecy. ‘The artifice was known only to the two gentlemen, 
 who, had they not been apprised of it, would have been no less 
 astonished than the rest at so ingenious a contrivance. ‘The first 
 who approached the head was Don Antonio himself, who whispered 
 in its ear, not so low but he was overheard by all, ‘‘ Tell me,” said 
 he, ‘‘thou wondrous head, by the virtue inherent in thee, what 
 are my present thoughts?” Ina clear and distinct voice, without 
 -any perceptible motion of its lips, the head replied, ‘‘I have no 
 knowledge of thoughts.” 
 
 All were astonished to hear articulate sounds proceed from the 
 head, being convinced that no human creature present had uttered 
 them. ‘‘ Then tell me,” said Don Antonio, ‘‘ how many persons 
 are here assembled?” ‘‘ Thou and thy wife, with two of thy friends, 
 and two of hers; and also a famous knight, called Don Quixote de 
 la Mancha, with his squire, Sancho Panza.” 
 
 At these words, the hair on every head stood erect with amaze- 
 ment and fear. ‘‘ Miraculous head!” exclaimed Don Antonio: 
 (retiring a little from the bust), ‘‘ I am now convinced he was no 
 impostor from whose hands I received thee, O wise, oracular, and 
 eloquent head! Let the experiment be now repeated by some other.” 
 
 As women are commonly impatient and inquisitive, one of the 
 two ladies next approached the oracle. ‘‘ Tell me, head,” said 
 she, ‘‘what means shall I take to improve my beauty?” ‘‘ Be 
 modest,” replied the head. ‘‘I have done,” said the lady. 
 
 Her companion then went up and said, ‘‘I would be glad to know, 
 wondrous head, whether I am beloved by my husband.” ‘‘ That 
 thou mayest discover by his conduct towards thee,” said the oracle. 
 ‘‘That is true,” said the married lady, ‘‘and the question was 
 needless ; for surely by a man’s actions may be seen the true dis- 
 position of his mind.” 
 
 One of the gentlemen now approached the bust, and said, ‘‘ Who 
 am 1?” ‘*Thou knowest,” was the answer. ‘‘ That is not an 
 answer to my question—tell me, head, knowest thou who I am?” 
 ‘“Don Pedro Noriz,” replied the head. ‘‘’Tis enough—amazing 
 bust !” exclaimed the gentleman, ‘‘ thou knowest everything.” 
 
 * “Zapatera;” when the dancers slap the sole of their shoe with the palm of their 
 hand, in time and measure. 
 
590 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 The other gentleman then put his question. ‘‘ Tell me, head, I 
 beseech thee,” said he, ‘‘ what are the chief wishes of my son and 
 heir?” ‘‘Thou hast already heard that I speak not of thoughts,” 
 answered the head, ‘‘ yet be assured thy son wishes to see thee en- 
 tombed.” ‘‘ Truly, I believe it,” said the gentleman: ‘‘it is but 
 too plain. I have done.” 
 
 Then came the lady of Don Antonio, and said, ‘‘I know not 
 what to ask thee, yet I would fain know if I shall enjoy my dear 
 husband many years.” Then listening, she heard these words: 
 “‘ Yes, surely, from temperance and a sound body thou mayest ex- 
 pect no less.” 
 
 Now came the flower of chivalry, ‘‘Tell me, thou oracle of truth,” 
 said the knight, ‘‘ was it a reality or only an illusion that I beheld 
 in the cave of Montesinos? Will the penance imposed on my 
 squire, Sancho Panza, ever be performed? Will Dulcinea ever be 
 disenchanted ?”” ‘*What thou sawest in the cave,” replied the bust, 
 ‘‘ partakes both of truth and falsehood: Sancho’s penan¢e will be 
 slow in performance: and in due time the disenchantment of Dul- 
 cinea will be accomplished.” ‘‘I am satisfied,” said Don Quixote ; 
 ‘when I shall see the lady of my soul released from her present 
 thraldom, fortune will have nothing more to give me.” 
 
 The last querist was Sancho. ‘Shall I,” quoth he, ‘‘ have 
 another government? Shall I quit this hungry life of squireship ? 
 Shall I see again my wife and children?” ‘‘If thou returnest 
 home,” said the oracle, ‘‘ there shalt thou be a governor, and see 
 again thy wife and children; and shouldst thou quit service, thou 
 wilt cease to be a squire.” ‘* Odds my life!” quoth Sancho Panza, 
 ‘*T could have told as much myself, and the prophet Perogrullo* 
 could have told me no more.” ‘‘ Beast!” quoth Don Quixote, 
 
 ~**what answer wouldst thou have? Is it not enough that the 
 answers given thee should correspond with the questions?” ‘‘ Yes, 
 truly, sir, quite enough; only I wish it had not been so sparing 
 of its knowledge.” 
 
 Thus ended the examination of the enchanted head, which left 
 the whole company in amazement, excepting Don Antonio’s two 
 friends. Cid Hamet Benegeli, however, was determined to divulge 
 the secret of this mysterious head, that the world might not ascribe 
 its extraordinary properties to witchcraft or necromancy. He de- 
 clares, therefore, that Don Antonio caused it to be made in imita- 
 tion of one which he had seen at Madrid, intending it for his own 
 amusement, and to surprise the ignorant; and he thus describes 
 the machine: The table, including its legs and four eagle-claws, 
 was made of wood, and coloured in imitation of jasper. The head, 
 being a resemblance of one of the Czsars, and painted like bronze, 
 was hollow, with an opening below corresponding with another in 
 the middle of the table, which passed through the leg, and was 
 continued, by means of a metal tube, through the floor of the cham- 
 ber into another beneath, where a person stood ready to receive 
 the questions, and return answers to the same: the voice ascending 
 
 * The Spanish saying, “The prophecies of Perogrullo,” is of similar satirical 
 meaning as the “‘ Verités de M. de la Palaisse,” of the French. 
 
SECRET OF THE MYSTERIOUS HEAD. 591 
 
 and descending as clear and articulate as through a speaking- 
 trumpet; and, as no marks of the passage of communication were 
 visible, it was impossible to detect the cheat. A shrewd, sensible 
 youth, nephew to Don Antonio, was on this occasion the respondent, 
 having been previously instructed by his uncle in what concerned 
 the several persons with whom he was to communicate. The first 
 question he readily answered, and to the rest he replied as his 
 judgment directed. 
 
 Cid Hamet further observes that this oracular machine continued 
 to afford amusement to its owner during eight days; when it got 
 abroad that Don Antonio was in possession of an enchanted head 
 that could speak and give answers to all questions; and, appre- 
 hensive that it might come to the ears of the watchful sentinels of 
 our faith, he thought it prudent to acquaint the officers of the In- 
 quisition with the particulars; upon which they commanded him 
 to destroy the bust, in order to avert the rage of the ignorant popu- 
 lace, who might think the possession of it scandalous and profane. 
 Nevertheless, in the opinion of Don Quixote and Sancho it remained 
 still an enchanted head,* and a true solver of questions; more, in- 
 deed, to the satisfaction of the knight than of his squire. The 
 gentlemen of the city, out of complaisance to Don Antonio, and for 
 the entertainment of Don Quixote—or, rather, for their own amuse- 
 ment—appointed a public running at the ring, which should take 
 place in six days; but they were disappointed by an accident that 
 will be hereafter told. 
 
 Don Quixote, being now desirous to view the city, thought he °* 
 should be able to do it on foot with less molestation from the boys 
 than if he rode; he therefore set out with Sancho, to perambulate 
 the streets, attended by two servants assigned him by Don Antonio. 
 Quixote saw, in large letters, written over a door, ‘‘ Here books 
 are printed ;” at which he was much pleased, for, never having seen 
 the operation of printing, he was curious to know how it was per- 
 formed. He entered it, with his followers, and saw workmen 
 drawing off the sheets in once place, correcting in another, compos- 
 ing in this, revising in that—in short, all that was to be seen in a 
 great printing-house. 
 
 The knight inquired successively of several workmen what they 
 were employed upon, and was gratified by their ready information. 
 Making the same inquiry of one man, he answered, ‘‘ I am compos- 
 ing for the press, sir, a work which that gentleman there”—point- 
 ing to a person of grave appearance—‘‘has translated from the 
 Italian into our Castilian.” ‘‘ What title does it bear?” said Don 
 Quixote. ‘‘The book, in Italian, sir,” answered the author, ‘‘is 
 called Le Bagatelle.” ‘‘ And what answers to Bagatelle in our 
 language?” said Don Quixote. ‘‘ Le Bagatelle,” said the author, 
 
 * By the importance given to the Enchanted Head, it would seem that in the 
 time of Cervantes it was a novelty in Spain, where the people, being accustomed to 
 hear much of miracles wrought by the aid of good or bad agents, were likely to 
 view it with extraordinary interest, and perhaps give full credit to its oracular 
 powers ; for which reason, no doubt, the grave historian Cid Hamet has here thought 
 it necessary to set the world right, and show that it was all a trick, having really 
 nothing in it either magical or supernatural. 
 
592 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ‘* signifies trifles; but though its title promises little, it contains 
 
 much good and substantial matter.” ‘‘I know a little,” quoth 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘of the Tuscan language, and pique myself upon my 
 recitation of some of Ariosto’s stanzas; but, good sir, tell me, I be- 
 seech you (and I ask not to ascertain your skill, but merely out of 
 curiosity), have you ever, in the course of your studies, met with 
 the word pignata?” ‘*Yes, frequently,” replied the author. 
 ** And how do you translate it into Castilian?” quoth Don Quixote. 
 ‘* How should I translate it,” replied the author, ‘‘ but by the word 
 olla?” 
 
 ‘* Body of me,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ what a progress you have 
 made, signor, in the Tuscan language! I would venture a good 
 
 . wager that where the Tuscan says piace, you say, in Castilian, 
 plaze; and where he says piu, you say, mas; and su, you translate 
 by the word arriba; and giu by abazo.” ‘‘I dogo, most certainly,”’ 
 quoth the author, ‘‘for such are the corresponding words.” ‘‘And 
 yet I dare say, sir,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘that you are scarcely 
 known in the world ; but it is the fate of all ingenious men. What 
 abilities are lost, what genius obscured, and what talents despised ! 
 Nevertheless, I cannot but think that translation from one language 
 into another, unless it be from the noblest of all languages, Greek 
 and Latin, is like presenting the back of a piece of tapestry, where, 
 though the figures are seen, they are obscured by innumerable 
 knots and ends of thread; very different from the smooth and 
 agreeable texture of the proper face of the work ; and to translate 
 easy languages of a similar construction requires no more talent 
 than transcribing one paper from another. But I would not hence 
 infer that translating is not a laudable exercise; for a man may be 
 worse and more unprofitably employed. Nor can my observation 
 apply to the two celebrated translators, Doctor Christopher de 
 Figuero, in his Pastor Fido, and Don John de Xaurigui, in his 
 Aminta; who, with similar felicity, have made it difficult to decide 
 which is the translation and which is the original. But tell me, 
 signor, is this book printed at your charge, or have you sold the 
 copyright to some bookseller ?” 
 
 “*T print it, sir, on my own account,” answered the author, ‘‘and 
 expect a thousand ducats by this first impression of two thousand 
 copies; at six reals each copy they will go off in atrice.” ‘‘’Tis 
 mighty well,” quoth Don Quixote; ‘‘ though I fear you know but 
 little of the tricks of booksellers, and the juggling there is amongst 
 them. Take my word for it, you will find a burden of two thou- 
 
 sand volumes upon your back no trifling matter—especially if the 
 book be deficient in sprightliness.” ‘‘ What, sir!” cried the 
 author, ‘‘ would you have me give my labour to a bookseller, who, 
 if he paid me three maravedis for it, would think it abundant, and 
 say I was favoured? No, sir, fame is not my object—of that I am 
 already secure ; profit is what I now seek, without which fame is 
 nothing.” 
 
 ‘* Well, so be it, sir!” said the knight, who, passing on, observed 
 aman correcting a sheet of a book entitled, ‘‘ The Light of the 
 Soul.” On seeing the title ho said, ‘‘ Books of this kind, numerous 
 
THE KNIGHT VISITS THE FLEET. 593. 
 
 as they already are, ought still to be encouraged ; for numerous~ 
 are the benighted sinners that require to be enlightened.” He 
 
 went forward and saw another book under the corrector’s hand, 
 -and, on inquiring the title, they told him it was the second part of 
 
 the ingenious gentleman Don Quixote de la Mancha, written by 
 such a one, of Tordesillas. ‘‘I know something of that book,” 
 quoth Don Quixote; ‘‘and on my conscience, | thought that it had 
 been burnt long before now for its stupidity ; but its Martinmas* 
 will come, as it does to every hog. Works of invention are only so 
 far good as they come near to truth and probability : as general his- 
 tory is valuable in proportion as it is authentic.” 
 
 So saying he went out of the printing-house, apparently in dis- 
 gust. On the same day Don Antonio proposed to show him the 
 galleys at that time lying in the road; which delighted Sancho, as 
 the sight was new to him. Don Antonio gave notice to the com- 
 modore of the four galleys of his intention to visit him that after- 
 noon, with his guest, the renowned Don Quixote de la Mancha, 
 whose name by this time was well known in the city: and what 
 befell him there shall be told in the following chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIL 
 
 Of Sancho Panza’s misfortune on board the galleys; and the extra- 
 ordinary adventure of the beautiful Moor. 
 
 Don Quixote made profound reflections on the answers of the en- 
 chanted head, none giving him the slightest hint of any imposition 
 practised upon him, and all centering on the promise on which he 
 relied, of the disenchantment of Dulcinea; and he exulted at the 
 prospect of its speedy accomplishment. As for Sancho, though he 
 abhorred being a governor, he still felt some desire to command 
 again, and be obeyed :—such, unfortunately, is the effect of power 
 once enjoyed, though it were only the shadow of it! 
 
 In the afternoon, Don Antonio Moreno and his two friends, 
 with Don Quixote and Sancho, sallied forth, with an intention to 
 go on board the galleys; and the commodore, who was already 
 apprised of their coming, no sooner perceived them approach the 
 shore than he ordered all the galleys to strike their awnings, and 
 the musicians to play; at the same time he sent out the pinnace, ~ 
 spread with rich carpets and crimson velvet cushions, to convey 
 them on board. The moment Don Quixote entered the boat, he 
 was saluted by a ese of artillery from the forcastle guns of 
 the captain galley, which was repeated by the rest; and as he 
 ascended the side of the vessel, the crew gave him three cheers, 
 agreeable to the custom of receiving persons of rank and distinction, 
 When on deck, the commander, who was a nobleman of Valencia, t 
 
 * The feast of St Martin was the time for killing hogs for bacon. 
 + Don Pedro Colomo, Count Elda, commanded the squadron of Barcelona, 
 when the Moors were expelled from Lig 
 P 
 
594 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 gave him his hand, and embracing him, said, ‘‘ This day, sir 
 knight, will I mark with white, as one of the most fortunate of my 
 life, in having been introduced to Signor Don Quixote de la Mancha, 
 in whom is combined and centered all that is valuable in knight- 
 errantry.” 
 
 Don Quixote replied to him in terms no less courteous, exceed- 
 _ingly elated to find himself so honoured. The visitors were then 
 conducted to the quarter-deck, which was richly adorned, and 
 there seated themselves. Presently the signal was given for the 
 rowers to strip, when instantly a vast range of naked bodies were 
 exposed to view, that filled Sancho with terror; and when, in a 
 moment after, the whole deck was covered with its awning, he 
 ’ thought all the devils were let loose. But this prelude was sugar- 
 cake and honey compared with what followed. 
 
 Sancho had seated himself on the right side of the deck, and 
 close to the sternmost rower, who, being instructed what he was to 
 do, seized upon the squire, and lifting him up, tossed him to the 
 next man, and he to a third, and so on, passing from bank to 
 bank through the whole range of slaves, with such astonishing 
 celerity that he lost his sight with the motion, and fancied that 
 the devils themselves were carrying him away ; nor did he stop 
 till he had made the circuit of the vessel and was again replaced on 
 the quarter-deck, where they left the poor man, bruised, breathless, 
 and in a cold sweat, scarcely knowing what had befallen him. 
 
 Don Quixote, who beheld Sancho’s flight without wings, asked 
 the general if that was a ceremony commonly practised upon per- 
 sons first coming aboard the galleys ; for if so, added he, he must 
 claim an exemption, having no inclination to perform the like ex- 
 ercise ; then, rising up, and grasping his sword, he vowed that if 
 any one presumed to lay hold of him to toss him in that manner, 
 he would hew their souls out. 
 
 At that instant they struck the awning, and, with great noise, 
 lowered the main-yard from the top of the mast to the bottom. 
 Sancho thought the sky was falling off its hinges and tumbling 
 upon his head ; and stooping down, he clapped it in terror between 
 his legs. Nor was Don Quixote without alarm, as plainly appeared 
 by his countenance and manner. With the same swiftness and 
 noise, the yard was again hoisted, and during all these operations 
 not a word was heard. The boatswain now made the signal for 
 ' weighing anchor, and, at the same time, with his whip he laid 
 about him on the shoulders of the slaves, while the vessel gradually 
 moved from the shore. Sancho seeing so many red feet (for such the 
 oars appeared to him) in motion all at once, said to himself, ‘‘ Ay, 
 these indeed are real enchantments, and not the things we have 
 seen before !--I wonder what these unhappy wretches have done to 
 be flogged at this rate. And how does that whistling fellow dare 
 to whip so many? Surely, this must be purgatory at least.” 
 
 Don Quixote seeing with what attention Sancho observed all 
 that passed, ‘‘ Ah, friend Sancho,” said he, ‘‘ if thou wouldst now 
 but strip to the waist, and place thyself among these gentlemen, 
 how easily and expeditiously mightest thou put an end to the 
 
 % 
 
CHASE OF A MOORISH GALLEY. 595 
 
 enchantment of Dulcinea! For, having so many companions in 
 pat thou wouldst feel but little of thine own; besides, the sage 
 
 erlin would perhaps reckon every lash of theirs, coming from so 
 good a hand, for ten of those which, sooner or later, thou must 
 give thyself.” 
 
 The commander would have asked what lashes he spoke of, and 
 what he meant by the disenchantment of Dulcinea, but was 
 prevented by information that a signal was perceived on the fort of 
 Montjuich, of a vessel with oars being in sight to the westward. 
 On hearing this, he leaped upon the middle gangway and cheered 
 the rowers, saying, ‘‘ Pull away, my lads, let her not escape us; 
 she must be some Moorish thief!” The other galley now coming 
 up to the commodore for orders, two were commanded to push out 
 to sea immediately, while he attacked them on the land side, and 
 thus they would be more certain of their prey. The crews of the 
 different galleys plied their oars with such diligence that they 
 seemed to fly. A vessel was soon descried about two miles off, which 
 they judged to be one of fourteen or fifteen banks of oars; but on 
 discovering the galleys in chase, she immediately made off, in the 
 hope of escaping by her swiftness. Unfortunately, however, for her, 
 the captain galley was a remarkably fast sailer, and gained upon 
 her so quickly that the corsairs seeing they could not escape a 
 superior force, dropped their oars, in order to yield themselves 
 prisoners, and ‘not exasperate the commander of the galley by 
 their obstinacy. But fortune ordained otherwise, for just as the 
 captain-galley had nearly closed with her, and she was summoned 
 to surrender, two drunken Turks who, with twelve others, were on 
 board, discharged their muskets, with which they killed two of 
 our soldiers upon the prow; whereupon the commander swore he 
 would not leave a man of them alive; and, coming up with all 
 fury to board her, she slipped away under the oars of the galley. 
 The galley ran ahead some distance: in the meantime the corsairs, 
 as their case was desperate, endeavoured to make off, but their 
 presumption only aggravated their misfortune, for the captain 
 galley presently overtook them again, when, clapping her oars on 
 the vessel, she was instantly taken possession of, without more 
 bloodshed. 
 
 By this time the two other galleys had come up, and all four 
 returned with the captured vessel to their former station near the 
 shore, where a multitude of people had assembled to see what had 
 been taken. On coming to anchor, the commander sent the pin- 
 nace on shore for the viceroy, whom he saw waiting to be conveyed 
 on board, and at the same time ordered the main-yard to be lowered, 
 intending, without delay, to hang the master of the vessel and the 
 rest of the Turks he had taken in her, about six-and-thirty in num- 
 ber, all stout fellows, and most of them musketeers. The com- 
 mander inquired which was their master, when one of the captives 
 (who was afterwards discovered to be a Spanish renegado) answer- 
 ing him in Castilian, ‘‘ That young man, sir, is our captain,” said 
 he, pointing to a youth of singular grace and beauty, seemingly 
 under twenty years of age. ‘Tell me, ill-advised dog,” said the 
 
 « 
 
596 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 commodore, ‘‘ what moved you to kill my soldiers, when you saw 
 it was impossible to escape? Is this the respect due to captain- 
 galleys? Know you not that temerity is not valour, and that 
 doubtful hopes should make men bold, but not rash ?” 
 
 The youth would have replied, but the commodore left him to 
 receive the viceroy, who was at that moment entering the galley, 
 with a numerous train of servants and others. ‘‘ You have had a 
 fine chase, commodore,” said the viceroy. ‘‘So fine,” answered the 
 other, ‘‘ that the sport is not yet over, as your excellency shall see.” 
 ‘‘How so?” replied the viceroy. ‘‘ Because,” replied the com- 
 modore, ‘‘ these dogs, against all law and reason, and the custom 
 of war, having killed two of my best soldiers, I have sworn to hang 
 ‘every man I took prisoner, especially that beardless rogue there, 
 master of the brigantine ;” pointing to one who had his hands tied, 
 and a rope about his neck, standing in expectation of immediate 
 death. 
 
 The viceroy was much struck with his youth, his handsome per- 
 son, and resigned behaviour, and felt a great desire to save him, 
 ‘‘Tell me, corsair,” said he, ‘‘ what art thou? a Turk, Moor, or 
 renegado?” ‘J am neither Turk, Moor, nor renegado,” replied 
 the youth, in the Castilian tongue. ‘‘ What, then, art thou?” de- 
 manded the viceroy. ‘‘ A Christian woman, sir,” answered the 
 youth. ‘*A woman and a Christian, in this garb, and in such a 
 post!” said the viceroy: ‘‘this is indeed more wonderful than 
 credible.” 
 
 ‘*Gentlemen,”’ said the youth, ‘‘allow me to tell you the brief 
 story of my life: it will not long delay your revenge.” The request 
 was urged so piteously, that it was impossible to deny it, and the 
 commodore told him to proceed, but not to expect pardon for his 
 offence. The youth then spoke as follows :— 
 
 ‘*T am of that unhappy nation whose miseries are fresh in your 
 memories. My parents being of Moorish race, I was hurried into 
 Barbary by the current of their misfortunes, but more especially 
 by the obstinacy of two of my uncles, with whom [I in vain pleaded 
 that I was a Christian. True as my declaration was, it had no in- 
 fluence either on them or the officers charged with our expulsion, 
 who believed it to be only a pretext for remaining in the country 
 where I was born. My father, a prudent man, was a true Chris- 
 tian, and my mother also, from whom, with a mother’s early 
 nourishment, I imbibed the Catholic faith.” 
 
 ‘* I was virtuously reared and educated, and neither in language 
 nor behaviour gave indication of my Moorish descent. With these 
 endowments, as I grew up, what little beauty I have began to 
 appear, and, in spite of my reserve and seclusion, I was seen by a 
 youth called Don Gaspar Gregorio, eldest son of a gentleman whose 
 estate was close to the town in which we lived. How we met, and 
 conversed togther, how he was distracted for me, and how I was 
 little less so for him, would be tedious to relate, especially at a 
 time when I am under apprehensions that the cruel cord which 
 threatens me may cut short my narrative. I will therefore only 
 say that Don Gregorio resolved to bear me company in our banish- 
 
THE PRISONER'S STORY. 597 
 
 ment; and accordingly he joined the Moorish exiles, whose lan- 
 guage he understood, and getting acquainted with my two uncles, 
 who had the charge of me, we all went together to Barbary, and 
 took up our residence at Algiers, or, I should rather say, purgatory 
 itself. My father, on the first notice of our banishment, had pru- 
 dently retired to a place of refuge in some other Christian country, 
 leaving much valuable property in pearls and jewels secreted in a 
 certain place, which he discovered to me alone, with strict orders 
 not to touch it until his return. 
 
 ‘*On arriving at Algiers, the king, understanding that I was 
 beautiful and rich—a report which afterwards turned to my ad- 
 vantage—sent for me, and asked me many questions concerning 
 my country and the wealth I had brought with me. I told him 
 where we had resided, and also what money and jewels had been 
 left concealed, and said that if I might be permitted to return, the 
 treasures could be easily brought away. This I told him in the 
 hope that his avarice would protect me from his violence. 
 
 ‘While the king was making these inquiries, information was 
 brought to him that a youth of extraordinary beauty had accom-: 
 panied me from Spain. I knew that they could mean no other 
 than Don Gaspar Gregorio, for he indeed is most beautiful, and I 
 was alarmed to think of the danger to which he was exposed among 
 barbarians, where, as I was told, a handsome youth is more valued 
 than the most beautiful woman. The king ordered him to be 
 brought into his presence, asking me, at the same time, if what 
 had been said of him was true. Inspired, as I believe, by some 
 good angel, I told him that the person they so commended was not 
 a young man, but one of my own sex, and begged his permission to 
 have her dressed in her proper attire, whereby her full beauty would 
 _ be seen, and she would be spared the confusion of appearing before 
 his majesty in that unbecoming habit. He consented, and said 
 that the next day he would speak with me about my returning to 
 Spain for the treasure which had been left behind. Ithen repaired 
 to Don Gaspar, and having informed him of his danger, dressed him 
 like a Moorish lady, and the same day introduced him as a female 
 to the king. His majesty was struck with admiration, and deter- 
 mined to reserve the supposed lady as a present to the Grand 
 Signor; and in the meantime, to avoid the temptation of so great 
 a beauty among his own women, he gave him in charge to a Moor- 
 ish lady of distinction, to whose house he was immediately con- 
 veyed. 
 
 ue The grief which this separation caused—for I will not deny 
 that I love him—can only be imagined by those who have felt the 
 pangs of parting love. By the king’s order, I presently embarked 
 in this vessel, accompanied by the two Turks—the same that killed 
 your soldiers; and this man also, who spoke to you first, and 
 whom, though a renegado, I know to be a Christian in his heart, 
 and more inclined to stay in Spain than return to Barbary. The 
 rest are Moors and Turks employed as rowers; their orders were to 
 set me and the renegado on shore, in the habits of Christians, on 
 the nearest coast of Spain; but these insolent Turks, regardless of 
 
598 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 their duty, must needs cruise along the coast, in the hope of taking 
 some prize before they had landed us; fearing, if we had been first 
 set on shore, we might be induced to give information that such a 
 vessel was at sea, and thereby expose her to be taken. Last night 
 we made this shore, not suspecting that any galleys were so near 
 us; but, being discovered, we are now in your hands. Don Gre- 
 gorio remains among the Moors as a woman, and in danger of his 
 life; and here am I, with my hands bound, expecting, or rather 
 fearing, to lose that life which, indeed, is now scarcely worth pre- 
 serving. This, sir, is my lamentable story; equally true and 
 wretched. All I entreat of you is to let me die like a Christian, 
 since, as I have told you, I have no share in the guilt of my 
 nation.”’ 
 
 Here she ceased, and the tears that filled her lovely eyes drew 
 many from those of her auditors. The viceroy himself was much 
 affected, being a humane and compassionate man, and he went up 
 to her to untie the cord with which her beautiful hands were fas- 
 tened. 
 
 While the Christian Moor was relating her story, an old pilgrim, 
 who came aboard the galley with the viceroy’s attendants, fixed 
 his eyes on her, and scarcely bad she finished, when, rushing to- 
 wards her, he cried, ‘‘O, Anna Felix! my dear unfortunate daugh- 
 ter! I am thy father Ricote, and was returning to seek thee, 
 being unable to live without thee, who art my very soul.” 
 
 At these words Sancho raised his head, and, staring at the pil- 
 grim, recognized the same Ricote whom he had met with upon 
 the day he had quitted his government; and now putting in his 
 word, he said, ‘‘I know Ricote well, and answer for the truth of 
 what he says of Anna Felix being his daughter; but as for the 
 story of going and coming, and of his good or bad intentions, I 
 meddle not with them.” 
 
 An incident so remarkable could not fail to make a strong im- 
 pression upon all who were present; so that the commodore, 
 sharing in the common feeling, said to the fair captive, ‘‘ My oath, 
 madam, is washed away with your tears; live, fair Anna Felix, all 
 the years Heaven has allotted you.” 
 
 They now consulted on the means of Don Gregorio’s deliverance. 
 ~The expedient most approved was the proposal of the renegado, 
 who offered to return to Algiers in a small bark of six banks, 
 manned with Christians, for he knew when and where he might 
 land, and was, moreover, acquainted with the house in which Don 
 Gregorio was kept. 
 
 The viceroy then returned on shore, charging Don Antonio 
 Moreno with the care of Ricote and his daughter. 
 
THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON. 599 
 
 CHAPTER LXIII 
 
 Treating of the adventure which gave Don Quixote more vexration 
 than any which had hitherto befallen him. 
 
 It is related in this history that the wife of Don Antonio Moreno 
 received Anna Felix with extreme pleasure, and was equally de- 
 lighted with her beauty and good sense: for the young lady ex- 
 celled in both. Don Quixote took occasion to inform Don Antonio 
 that he could by no means approve of the expedient they had adopted 
 for the redemption of Don Gregorio, as being more dangerous than 
 promising ; a much surer way, he added, would be to land him, with 
 his horse and arms, in Barbary, and they would see that he would 
 fetch the young gentleman off, in spite of the whole Moorish race 
 —as Don Gayferos had done by his spouse Melisendra. 
 
 “‘Remember, sir,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ that when Signor Don Gay- 
 feros rescued his wife, and carried her into France, it was all done 
 on dry land; but here, if we chance to rescue Don Gregorio, our 
 road lies directly over the sea.”’ ‘‘ For all things except death there 
 is a remedy,” replied Don Quixote ; ‘‘ let a vessel be ready on shore 
 to receive us, and the whole world shall not prevent our embarka- 
 tion.”’ ‘‘O master of mine, you are a rare contriver,” said Sancho, 
 ‘‘but saying is,one thing, and doing is another; for my part, I 
 stick to the renegado, who seems an honest, good sort of a man.” 
 ‘Tf the renegado should fail,” said Don Antonio, ‘‘it will then be 
 time for us to accept the offer of the great Don Quixote.” Two 
 days after that, the renegado sailed in a small bark of twelve oars, 
 with a crew of stout and resolute fellows. 
 
 One morning, Don Quixote having sallied forth to take the air on 
 the strand, armed at all points—his favourite costume, for arms, he 
 said, were his ornament, and fighting his recreation—he observed 
 a knight advancing towards him, armed also like himself, and 
 bearing a shield, on which was portrayed a resplendent moon; and 
 when near enough to be heard, in an elevated voice he addressed him- 
 self to Don Quixote, saying, ‘‘ Illustrious knight, and never-enough- 
 renowned Don Quixote dela Mancha, Iam the knight of the White 
 Moon, of whose incredible achievements, peradventure, you have 
 heard. I come to engage in combat with you, and to try the 
 strength of your arm, in order to make you confess that my 
 mistress, whoever she may be, is beyond comparison more beau- 
 tiful than your Dulcinea del Toboso—a truth, which if you 
 fairly confess, you will spare your own life, and me the trouble 
 of taking it. ‘The terms of the combat I require are, that if the 
 victory be mine, you relinquish arms and the search of adven- 
 tures for the space of one year, and that, returning forthwith to 
 your own dwelling, you there live during that period in a state 
 of profound quiet, which will tend both to your temporal and 
 spiritual welfare ; but if, on the contrary, my head shall lie at 
 your mercy, then shall the spoils of my horse and arms be yours, 
 and the fame of my exploits be transferred to you. Consider 
 
“a 
 
 600 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 which is best for you, and determine quickly, for this very day 
 must decide our fate.” 
 
 Don Quixote was no less surprised at the arrogance of the 
 knight of the White Moon than the reason he gave for challeng- 
 ing him; and, with much gravity and composure, he answered, 
 ‘* Knight of the White Moon, whose achievements have not as yet 
 reached my ears, I dare swear you have never seen the illustrious 
 Dulcinea ; for, if so, I am confident you would have taken care not 
 to engage in this trial, since the sight of her must have convinced 
 
 
 
 you that there never was, nor ever can be, beauty comparable to 
 hers; and, therefore, without giving you the lie, I only affirm that 
 you are mistaken, and accept your challenge; and that too upon 
 the spot, even now, this very day, as you desire. Of your condi- 
 tions I accept all but the transfer of your exploits, which being 
 unknown to me, I shall remain contented with my own, such as_ 
 they are. Choose then your ground, and expect to meet me; and © 
 he whom Heaven favours may St Peter bless.” & 
 
 In the meantime, the viceroy, who had been informed of the 
 

 
 
 
 OVERTHROW OF THE KNIGHT. 601 
 
 appearance of the stranger knight, and that he was holding parley 
 with Don Quixote, hastened to the scene of action, accompanied 
 by Don Antonio and several others; not doubting but that it was 
 some new device of theirs to amuse themselves with the knight. 
 He arrived just as Don Quixote had wheeled Rozinante about to 
 take the necessary ground for his career, and perceiving that they 
 were ready for the onset, he went up and inquired the cause of so 
 sudden an encounter. The knight of the White Moon told him it 
 was a question of pre-eminence in beauty, and then briefly repeated 
 what he had said to Don Quixote, mentioning the conditions of the 
 combat. The viceroy, in a whisper to Don Antonio, asked him if 
 he knew the stranger knight, and whether it was some jest upon 
 Don Quixote. Don Antonio assured him, in reply, that he neither 
 knew who he was, nor whether this challenge was in jest or earnest. 
 Puzzled with this answer, the viceroy was in doubt whether or 
 not he should interpose, and prevent the encounter; but being 
 assured it could only be some pleasantry, he withdrew, saying, 
 ‘*Valorous knights, if there be no choice between confession and 
 death; if signor Don Quixote persists in denying, and you, Sir 
 Knight of the White Moon, in affirming,—to it, gentlemen, in Hea- 
 ven’s name !” 
 
 The knights made their acknowledgments to the viceroy for his 
 gracious permission ; and now Don Quixote, recommending himself 
 to Heaven, and (as usual on such occasions) to his lady Dulcinea, 
 retired again to take a larger compass, seeing his adversary do the 
 like; and without sound of trumpet or other warlike instrument, 
 to give signal for the onset, they both turned their horses about at 
 the same instant; but he of the White Moon being mounted on the 
 fleetest steed, met Don Quixote before he had run half his career, 
 and then, without touching him with his lance, which he seemed 
 purposely to raise, he encountered him with such impetuosity that 
 both horse and rider came to the ground; he then sprang upon 
 him, and, clapping his lance to his vizor, he said, ‘‘ Knight, you are 
 vanquished and a dead man, if you confess not, according to the 
 conditions of our challenge.” 
 
 Don Quixote, bruised and stunned, without lifting up his vizor, 
 and as if speaking from a tomb, said in a feeble and low voice, 
 ‘¢ Dulcinea del Toboso is the most beautiful woman in the world, 
 and I am the most unfortunate knight on earth, nor is it just that 
 my weakness should discredit this truth; knight, push on your 
 lance, and take away my life, since you have despoiled me of my 
 honour.” 
 
 ** Not so, by my life!” quoth he of the White Moon, ‘‘long may 
 the beauty and fame of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso flourish! All 
 I demand of the great Don Quixote is, that he submit to one year’s 
 domestic repose and respite from the exercise of arms.” 
 
 The viceroy, Don Antonio, with many others, were witnesses to 
 all that passed, and now heard Don Quixote promise, that since he 
 required nothing of him to the prejudice of his lady Dulcinea, he 
 
 should fulfil the terms of their engagement with the punctuality of 
 a true knight. 
 
602 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 This declaration being made, he of the White Moon turned about 
 his horse, and bowing to the viceroy, at a half-gallop entered the 
 city, whither the viceroy ordered Don Antonio to follow him, and 
 by all means to learn who he was. They now raised Don Quixote 
 from the ground, and, uncovering his face, found him pale, and 
 bedewed with cold sweat, and Rozinante in such a plight that he 
 was unable to stir. 
 
 Sancho, quite sorrowful and cast down, knew not what to do or 
 
 
 
 say ; sometimes he fancied he was dreaming; at others that the 
 whole was an affair of witchcraft and enchantment. He saw his 
 master discomfited, and bound, by his oath, to lay aside arms for a 
 whole year! His glory, therefore, he thought was for ever extin- 
 guished, and his hopes of greatness scattered, like smoke, to the 
 wind. Indeed, he was afraid that both horse and rider were crip- 
 pled, and hoped that it would prove no worse. 
 
 Finally, the vanquished knight was conveyed to the city in a 
 
 : 
 
ACCOUNT OF THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON. 603 
 
 chair, which had been ordered by the viceroy, who returned thither 
 himself, impatient for some information concerning the knight who 
 had left Don Quixote in such evil plight. 
 
 
 
 tio tts he Li Vs 
 
 In which an account is given who the Knight of the White Moon 
 was; and of the deliverance of Don Gregorio ; with other events. 
 
 Don Antonio Moreno rode into the city after the knight of the 
 White Moon, who was also pursued to his inn by a swarm of boys ; 
 and he had no sooner entered the chamber where his squire waited 
 to disarm him, than he was greeted by the inquisitive Don Antonio. 
 Conjecturing the object of his visit, he said, ‘‘I doubt not, signor, 
 but that your design is to learn who I am; and as there is no cause 
 for concealment, while my servant is unarming me I will inform 
 you without reserve. My name, signor, is the bachelor Sampson 
 Carrasco, and I am of the same town with Don Quixote de la Man- 
 cha, whose madness and folly have excited the pity of all who knew 
 him. I have felt, for my own part, particularly concerned, and, 
 believing his recovery to depend upon his remaining quietly at 
 home, my projects have been solely directed to that end. About 
 three months ago\I sallied forth on the highway like a knight- 
 errant, styling myself Knight of the Mirrors, intending to ight and 
 conquer my friend, without doing him harm, and making his sub- 
 mission to my will the condition of our combat.- Never doubting of 
 success, I expected to send him home for twelve months, and-hoped 
 that, during that time, he might be restored to his senses. But 
 fortune ordained it otherwise, for he was the victor; he tumbled 
 me from my horse, and thereby defeated my design. He pursued 
 his journey, and I returned home vanquished, abashed, and hurt by 
 my fall. However, I did not relinquish my project, as you have 
 seen this day; and, as he is so exact and punctual in observing the 
 laws of knight-errantry, he will doubtless observe my injunctions. 
 And now, sir, I have only to beg that you will not discover me 
 to Don Quixote, that my good intentions may take effect, and his 
 understanding be restored to him, which, when freed from the follies 
 of chivalry, is excellent.” 
 
 “QO, sir!” exclaimed Don Antonio, ‘‘ what have you to answer 
 for in robbing the world of so diverting a madman? [sit not plain, 
 sir, that no benefit to be derived from his recovery can be set against 
 the pleasure which his extravagances afford? But I fancy, sir, his | 
 case is beyond the reach of your art; and I cannot forbear wishing 
 you may fail in your endeavours; for by his cure we should lose 
 not only the pleasantries of the knight, but those of his squire, 
 which are enough to transform Melancholy herself into mirth. 
 Nevertheless, I will be silent, and wait in the full expectation that 
 signor Carrasco will lose his labour.” ‘‘ Yet, all things considered,” 
 said the bachelor, ‘‘ the business is in a promising way—I have no 
 doubt of success.”’ 
 
604 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Don Antonio then politely took his leave; and that same day the 
 bachelor, after having his armour tied upon the back of a mule, 
 mounted his charger, and quitted the city, directing his course 
 homewards, where he arrived without meeting with any adventure 
 on the road worthy of a place in this faithful history. Don Antonio 
 reported his conversation with the bachelor Carrasco to the viceroy, 
 who regretted that such conditions should have been imposed upon 
 Don Quixote, as they might put an end to that diversion which he 
 had so liberally supplied to all who were acquainted with his whim- 
 sical turn of mind. 
 
 During six days Don Quixote kept his bed, melancholy, thought- 
 _ ful, and out of humour, still dwelling upon his unfortunate over- 
 throw. Sancho strove hard to comfort him: ‘‘ Cheer up, my dear 
 master,” said he, ‘‘ pluck up a good heart, sir, and be thankful you 
 have come off without a broken rib. Remember, sir, ‘they that 
 give must take ;’ and ‘ every hook has not its flitch.’ Come, come, 
 sir—a fig for the doctor! you have no need of him. Let us pack 
 up, and be jogging homeward, and leave this rambling up and down 
 to seek adventures—odds bodikins! after all, I am the greatest 
 loser, though mayhap your worship suffers the most; for though, 
 after a taste of governing, I now loathe it, I have never lost my 
 longing for an earldom or countship, which I may whistle for if 
 your worship refuses to be a king, by giving up knight-errantry.” 
 ‘¢ Peace, friend Sancho,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘and remember that 
 my retirement is not to exceed a year, and then I will resume my 
 honourable profession, and shall not want a kingdom for myself, 
 nor an earldom for thee.” ‘‘ Heaven grant it, and sin be deaf!” 
 quoth Sancho; ‘‘ for I have always been told that good expectation 
 is better than bad possession.” 
 
 Here their conversation was interrupted by Don Antonio, who 
 entered the chamber with signs of great joy. ‘‘ Reward me, Signor 
 Don Quixote,” said he, ‘‘for my good news—Don Gregorio and 
 the renegado are safe in the harbour—in the harbour, said I ?—by 
 this time they are at the viceroy’s palace, and will be here pre- 
 sently.” Don Quixote seemed to revive by this intelligence. 
 **Truly,” said he, ‘‘I am almost sorry at what you tell me, for, 
 had it happened otherwise, I should have gone over to Barbary, 
 where, by the force of my arm, I should have given liberty not 
 only to Don Gregorio, but to all the Christian captives in that land 
 of slavery. But what do I say? wretch that | am! Am I not 
 vanquished ? Am I not overthrown? Am I not forbidden to un- 
 sheath my sword for twelve whole months? Why, then, do I 
 promise and vaunt? A distaff better becomes my hand than a 
 sword !” 
 
 ‘‘No more, sir,’’? quoth Sancho: ‘‘let the hen live, though she 
 have the pip; to-day for you, and to-morrow for me; and, as for 
 
 these matters of encounters and bangs, never trouble your head ~ 
 
 about them; he that falls to-day may rise to-morrow; unless he 
 chooses to lie in bed and groan, instead of getting into heart and 
 spirits, ready for fresh encounters. Rise, dear sir, and welcome 
 Don Gregorio ; for, by the bustle in the house, I reckon he is come.” 
 
 q 
 

 
 THE KNIGHT SETS OUT HOME. 605 
 
 And this was the fact. Don Gregorio, after giving the viceroy 
 an account of the expedition, impatient to see his Anna Felix,. 
 hastened with his deliverer, the renegado, to Don Antonio’s house. 
 Ricote and his daughter went out to meet him—the father with 
 tears, and the daughter with modest joy. 
 
 Two days afterwards, Don Quixote, who had hitherto been unable 
 to travel, on account of his bruises, set forward on his journey 
 home, Sancho trudging after him on foot—because Dapple was now 
 employed in bearing his master’s armour. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER LXV. 
 
 Treating of matters which he who reads will see, and he who listens to 
 them, when read, will hear. 
 
 As Don Quixote was leaving the city of Barcelona, he cast his 
 eyes to the spot whereon he had been defeated; and pausing, he 
 cried :— ‘‘There stood Troy! There my evil destiny, not cowardice, 
 despoiled me of my glory ; there I experienced the fickleness of for- 
 tune: there the lustre of my exploits was obscured; and, lastly, 
 there fell my happiness, never more to rise!” Upon which Sancho 
 said to him, ‘‘ Great hearts, dear sir, should be patient under mis- 
 fortunes, as well as joyful when all goes well; and in that I judge by 
 myself ; for when I was made a governor, I was blithe and merry, 
 and now that Iam a poor squire on foot, Iam not sad. I have 
 heard say, that she they call Fortune is a drunken freakish dame, 
 and withal so blind that she does not see what she is about ; neither 
 whom she raises, nor whom she pulls down.” 
 
 ‘Thou art much of a philosopher, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, 
 ‘‘and hast spoken very judiciously. Where thou hast learned it, I 
 know not; but one thing I must tell thee, which is, that there is 
 no such thing in the world as fortune, nor do the events which fall 
 out, whether good or evil, proceed from chance, but by the parti- 
 cular appointment of Heaven; and hence comes the saying that 
 every man is the maker of his own fortune. I have been so of 
 mine; but, not acting with all the prudence necessary, my pre- 
 sumption has undone me. I ought to have recollected that the 
 feeble Rozinante was not a match for the powerful steed of the 
 knight of the White Moon. However, I ventured; I did my best: 
 I was overthrown: and, though I lost my glory, I still retain my 
 integrity, and therefore shall not fail in my promise. When I was 
 a knight, daring and valiant, my arms gave credit to my exploits ; 
 and, now that I am only a dismounted squire, my word at least 
 shall be respected. March on, then, friend Sancho, and let us pass 
 at home the year of our noviciate; by which retreat we shall ac- 
 quire fresh vigour to return to the never-by-me-to-be-forgotten exer- 
 cise of arms.” 
 
 ‘‘ Sir,” replied Sancho, as he trotted by his side, ‘‘this way of 
 marching is not so pleasant that I must needs be in such haste ; let 
 
606 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 us hang this armour upon some tree, like the thieves we see there 
 dangiing, and when I am mounted again upon Dapple, with my feet 
 from the ground, we will travel at any pace your worship pleases ; 
 but to think that I can foot it all the way at this rate 1s to expect 
 what cannot be.” ‘‘I approve thy advice, Sancho,” answered Don 
 Quixote: ‘‘my armour shall be suspended as a trophy; and be- 
 neath or round it we will carve on the tree that which was written 
 on the trophy of Orlando’s arms :— 
 
 ‘Let none presume these arms to move 
 Who Roldan’s fury dare not prove.’ ” 
 
 “‘That is just as I would have it,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘and were it 
 not for the want of Rozinante on the road, it would not be amiss to 
 leave him dangling too.” ‘‘ Now I think of it,” said Don Quixote, 
 ‘‘neither him nor the armour will I suffer to be hanged, that it 
 may not be said, ‘ For good service, bad recompense.’” ‘‘ Faith, 
 that is well too,” said Sancho, ‘‘ for ’tis a saying among the wise, 
 that the faults of the ass should not be laid on the pack-saddle ; 
 and, since your worship is alone to blame in this business, punish 
 yourself, and let not your rage fall upon the poor armour, battered 
 and bruised in your service; nor upon your meek and gentle beast 
 that carries you, nor yet upon my tender feet; making them suffer 
 more than feet can bear.” 
 
 In such like discourse they passed all that day, and even four 
 more, without meeting anything to impede their journey: but on 
 the fifth, it being a holiday, as they entered a village, they ob- 
 served a great number of people regaling themselves at the door of 
 aninn. When Don Quixote and Sancho drew near to them, a peas- 
 ant said aloud to the rest, ‘‘ One of these two gentlemen who are 
 coming this way, and who know not the parties, shall decide our 
 wager.” ‘That I will do with all my heart,” answered Don 
 Quixote, ‘and most impartially, when I am made acquainted with 
 it.” ‘Why, the business, good sir, is this,” quoth the peasant ; 
 ‘fan inhabitant of our village, who is so corpulent that he weighs 
 eleven arrobas, has challenged a neighbour, who weighs not above 
 five, to run with him a hundred yards, upon condition of carrying 
 equal weight. Now, he that gave the challenge, being asked how 
 the weight should be made equal, says that the other, who weighs 
 but five arrobas, should carry a weight of six more, and then both 
 lean and fat will be equal.” ‘‘ Not so,” quoth Sancho, before Don 
 Quixote could return an answer; ‘‘ and it is my business, who was 
 so lately a governor and judge, as all the world knows, to set this 
 matter right, and give my opinion in all disputes.” ‘‘ Do so, then,” 
 said Don Quixote; ‘‘for I am unfit to throw crumbs to a cat, my 
 brain is so troubled and out of order.” 
 
 With this license, Sancho addressed the country-fellows who 
 crowded about him: ‘‘ Brothers,” said he, ‘‘I must tell you the 
 fat man is wrong: there is no manner of reason in what he asks; 
 for, if the custom is fair for him that is challenged to choose his 
 weapons, it must be unjust for the other to make him take such as 
 will be sure to hinder him from gaining the victory; and therefore 
 
SANCHO’S EQUITABLE SENTENCE. 607 
 
 my sentence is that the fat man, who gave the challenge, should 
 cut, pare, slice, and shave away the flesh from such parts of his 
 body as can best spare it, and when he has brought it down to the 
 weight of five arrobas, then will he be a fair match for the other, 
 and they may race it upon even terms.” ‘‘I vow,” quoth one of 
 the peasants, ‘‘this gentleman hath spoken like a saint, and given 
 sentence like a canon; but I warrant the fat fellow loves his flesh 
 too well to part with a sliver of it, much less with the weight of six 
 arrobas.”’ ‘‘ Then the best way,” quoth another of the countrymen, 
 ‘will be not to run at all; for then neither lean will break his 
 back with the weight, nor fat lose flesh; but let us spend half the 
 wager in wine, and take these gentlemen to share it with us in the 
 tavern that has the best; so ‘give me the cloak when it rains,’” 
 ‘*T return you thanks, gentlemen, for your kind proposal,” an- 
 swered Don Quixote, ‘‘ but I cannot accept it; for melancholy 
 thoughts, and disastrous events, oblige me to travel in haste, and 
 to appear thus uncivil.” 
 
 Whereupon, clapping spurs to Rozinante, he departed, leaving 
 them in surprise both at the strangeness of his figure, and the 
 acuteness of him whom they took to be his servant. ‘‘If the man 
 be so wise,” said one of them, ‘‘ bless us! what must his master 
 be! If they go to study at Salamanca, my life for it, they will 
 become judges at a court ina trice. Nothing more easy—it wants 
 only hard study, good luck, and favour, and when a man least 
 thinks of it, he finds himself with a white rod in his hand, or a 
 mitre on his head.” 
 
 That night the master and man took up their lodgings in the 
 middle of a field, under the spangled roof of heaven ; and the next 
 day, while pursuing their journey, they saw a man coming towards 
 them on foot, with a wallet about his neck, and a javelin, or half- 
 pike, in his hand—the proper equipment of a foot-post ; who, when 
 he had got near them, quickened his pace, and running up to Don 
 Quixote, embraced his right thigh—for he could reach no higher— 
 and, testifying great joy, he said, ‘‘Oh! Signor Don Quixote de 
 la Mancha! how rejoiced will my lord duke be when he hears that 
 your worship is returning to his castle, where he still remains 
 with my lady duchess !” 
 
 ‘‘T know you not, friend,” answered Don Quixote; ‘‘nor can I 
 conceive who you are unless you tell me.” ‘‘Signor Don Quixote,” 
 answered the courier, ‘‘ 1 am Tosilos, the duke’s lacquey ; the same 
 who would not fight with your worship about Donna Rodriguez’s 
 daughter.” ‘‘ Heaven defend me!” exclaimed Don Quixote, ‘‘are 
 you he whom the enchanters, my enemies, transformed into the 
 lacquey, to defraud me of the glory of that combat?”  ‘‘ Softly, 
 good sir,” replied the messenger; ‘‘there was neither enchantment 
 nor change in the case. Tosilos, the lacquey, I entered the lists, 
 and the same I came out. I refused fighting, necause I had a mind 
 to marry the girl; but it turned out quite otherwise; for your 
 worship had no sooner left the castle than, instead of a wife, I got 
 a sound banging, by my lord duke’s order, for not doing as he-would 
 have had me in that affair; and the end of it all is, that the girl is 
 
608 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 turned nun, and Donna Rodriguez packed off to Castile; and I am 
 now going to Barcelona with a packet of letters from my lord to the 
 viceroy ; and if your worship will please to take a little of the dear 
 creature, I have here a calabash full at your service, with a slice of 
 good cheese that will awaken thirst, if it be sleeping.” ‘‘I take 
 you at your word,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘and, without more ado, let us 
 be at it, good Tosilos, in spite of all the enchanters in the Indies.” 
 
 ‘In truth, Sancho,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘thou art a very glut- 
 ton, and, moreover, the greatest simpleton on earth, to doubt that 
 this courier is enchanted, and a counterfeit Tosilos. But if thou 
 art bent upon it, stay, and eat thy fill, while I go on slowly, and 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 wait thy coming.” The lacquey laughed, unsheathed his calabash, 
 and unwalleted his cheese; and taking out a little loaf, he and 
 Sancho sat down upon the grass, and in peace and good-fellowship 
 quickly despatched the contents, and got to the bottom of the pro- 
 vision-bag, with so good an appetite that they licked the very 
 packet of letters, because it smelt of cheese. 
 
 While they were thus employed, ‘‘Hang me, friend Sancho,” 
 said Tosilos, ‘‘if I know what to make of that master of yours—he 
 must needs be a madman.” ‘‘Need!” quoth Sancho; ‘‘ faith, he 
 has no need! for, if madness pass current, he has plenty to pay 
 every man his own. That I can see full well, and full often I tell 
 him of it; but what boots it!—especially now that it is all over 
 
THE STATE OF THE KNIGHT’S THOUGHTS. 609 
 
 with him; for he has been worsted by the knight of the White 
 Moon.” 
 
 Tosilos begged him to relate what had happened to him; but 
 Sancho excused himself. He then rose up, shook the crumbs from 
 his beard and apparel, and took leave of Tosilos, then, driving 
 Dapple before him, he set off to overtake his master; whom he 
 found waiting for him under the shade of a tree. 
 
 
 
 Gray ET ER. DXV.1 
 
 Of the resolution which Don Quixote took to turn shepherd, and lead 
 a pastoral life, till the promised term should be expired; with 
 other incidents truly diverting and good. 
 
 Tf the mind of Don Quixote had been afflicted and disturbed 
 before his defeat, how greatly were his sufferings increased after 
 that misfortune! While waiting for Sancho, as before mentioned, a 
 thousand thoughts rushed into his head, buzzing about like flies in 
 a honey-pot; some dwelling on the disenchantment of Dulcinea, 
 and others on the life he should lead during his forced retirement. 
 On Sancho’s coming up, and commending Tosilos as the civilest 
 lacquey in the world, ‘‘ Is it possible, Sancho,” said he, ‘‘ that thou 
 shouldst still persist in his being really a lacquey? It seems to have 
 quite escaped thy memory that thou hast seen Duicinea transformed 
 into a country wench, and the knight of the Mirrors into the 
 bachelor Sampson Carrasco :—all the work of enchanters who per- 
 secute me; but, tell me, didst thou inquire of that man touching 
 the fate of Altisidora? Doth she still bewail my absence; or hath 
 she already consigned to oblivion the thoughts that tormented her 
 whilst I was present?” 
 
 ‘**Troth, sir,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘I was too well employed to think 
 of such fooleries. Body of me! is your worship now in a condition 
 to be inquiring after other folks’ thoughts—especially on love mat- 
 ters?” ‘Observe, Sancho,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘ there is a great 
 deal of difference between love and gratitude. It is very possible 
 for a gentleman not to be in love; but, strictly speaking, it is im- 
 ——- he should be ungrateful. Altisidora, to all appearance, 
 
 oved me; she gave me three nightcaps, as thou knowest: she also 
 wept at my departure; she cursed me, vilified me, and, in spite of 
 shame, complained publicly of me: certain proofs that she adored 
 me; for in such maledictions the anger of lovers usually vents 
 itself. I had neither hopes to give her, nor treasures to offer her; 
 for mine are all engaged to Dulcinea; and the treasures of knights- 
 errant, like those of fairies, are delusory, not real, and, therefore, 
 to retain her in remembrance is all I can do for her, without pre- 
 judice to the fidelity I owe to the mistress of my soul, who every 
 moment suffers under thy cruelty in neglecting to discipline that 
 flesh of thine—would that the wolves had it! since thou wouldst 
 
 _ rather keep it for the worms, than apply it to the relief of that 
 
 poor lady.’ 
 2Q 
 
610 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ‘‘ Sir,” answered Sancho, ‘‘to deal plainly with you, I cannot 
 see what the lashing of my body has to do with disenchanting the 
 enchanted ; it is just as if you should say, ‘When your head aches, 
 anoint your knee-pans ;’ at least, I dare be sworn, that of all the 
 histories your worship has ever read of knight-errantry, none ever 
 told you of anybody being unbewitched by flogging. However, be 
 that as it will, when the humour takes me, and time fits, Pll set 
 about it, and lay it on to some tune.” ‘‘ Heaven grant,” said Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘and give thee grace to understand how much it is thy 
 duty to relieve my lady, who is also thine, since thou belongest 
 to me.” ; 
 
 Thus conversing, they travelled on till they arrived at the very 
 spot where they had been trampled upon by the bulls. Don Quixote 
 recollecting it, ‘‘ There, Sancho,” said he, ‘‘is the meadow where 
 we met the gay shepherdesses and gallant shepherds who proposed 
 to revive, in this place, another pastoral Arcadia. The project was 
 equally new and ingenious, and if thou thinkest well of it, Sancho, 
 we will follow their example, and turn shepherds: at least for the 
 term of my retirement, Iwill buy sheep, and whatever is necessary 
 for a pastoral life; and I, assuming the name of the shepherd 
 Quixotiz, and thou that of the shepherd Panzino, we will range the 
 woods, the hills, and the valleys, singing here and sighing there ; 
 drinking from the clear springs, or limpid brooks, or the mighty 
 rivers; while the oaks, with liberal hand, shall give us their 
 sweetest fruit—the hollow cork-trees, lodging—willows, their shade, 
 and the roses, their delightful perfume. The spacious meads shall 
 be our carpets of a thousand colours ; and, ever breathing the clear, 
 pure air, the moon and stars shall be our tapers of the night, and 
 light our evening walk; and thus, while singing will be our pleasure 
 and complaining our delight, the god of song will provide har- 
 monious verse, and love a never-failing theme—so shall our fame be 
 eternal as our song!” 
 
 ‘* Certes !” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ that kind of life squares and corners 
 with me exactly: and I warrant if once the bachelor Sampson 
 Carrasco, and Master Nicholas the barber, catch a glimpse of it, 
 they will follow us, and turn shepherds too: and Heaven grant that 
 the priest have not an inclination to make one in the fold—he 
 is so gay and merrily inclined.” ‘‘ Thou sayest well,” quoth Don 
 Quixote: ‘‘and if the bachelor Sampson Carrasco will make one 
 amongst us, as I doubt not he will, he may call himself the shep- 
 herd Sampsonino, or Carrascon. Master Nicholas the barber may 
 be called Niculoso, as old Boscan called himself Nomoroso. As for 
 the curate, I know not what name to bestow upon him, unless it 
 can be one derived from his profession, calling him the shepherd. 
 Curiambro. - As to the shepherdesses, who are to be the objects of 
 our love, we may pick and choose their names as we do pears; and, 
 since that of my lady accords like with a shepherdess and a princess, 
 I need not be at the pains of selecting one to suit her better. Thou, 
 Sancho, mayest give to thine whatever name pleaseth thee best.” 
 **T do not intend,” answered Sancho, ‘‘to give mine any other 
 name than Teresona; which will fit her fat sides well, and is so 
 
THEY PROPOSE TO BECOME SHEPHERDS. 611 
 
 near her own, too, that, when I come to put it in my verses, every- 
 
 body will know her to be my own wife, and commend me for not 
 coveting other men’s goods, and secking for better bread than 
 wheaten. As for the priest, he must be content without a mistress, 
 for good example’s sake; and, if the bachelor Sampson wants one, 
 his soul is his own.” 
 
 ‘Friend Sancho!” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘ what a life shall we 
 lead! what a melody we shall have of bagpipes and rebecks, and 
 pipes of Zamora! And, if to all this we add the albogues, our 
 pastoral band will be nearly complete.” ‘‘Albogues!” quoth 
 Sancho, ‘‘what may that be? I never heard of such a thing.” 
 ‘‘Albogues,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘are concave plates of brass, 
 like candlesticks, which, being struck against each other, produce 
 a sound, not very agreeable, it is true, yet not offensive, and it 
 accords well enough with the rusticity of the pipe and tabor. Al- 
 bogues, Sancho, is a Moorish word, as are all those which in Spanish 
 begin with al: as Almoaza, Almorzar, Alhombra, Alguacil, Alu- 
 zema, Almacen, Alcancia, with some others; our language has only 
 three Moorish words ending in i, which are Borzegui, Zaquizami, 
 and Maravedi; Alheli and Afaqui, both by their beginning and 
 ending are known to be Arabic. This I just observe by the way, 
 as the mention of Albogues brought it tomy mind. One circum- 
 stance will contribute much to make us perfect in our new pro- 
 fession, which is, my being, as thou well knowest, somewhat of a 
 poet, and the bachelor Sampson Carrasco an excellent one. Ofthe 
 ean I will say nothing; yet will I venture a wager that he too 
 -has the points of a poet; and Master Nicholas the barber, also, I 
 make no doubt: for most or all of that faculty are players on the 
 guitar, and song-makers. I will complain of absence ; thou shalt 
 extol thyself for constancy ; the shepherd Carrascon shall complain 
 of disdain; and the priest Curiambro may say or sing whatever he 
 pleaseth: and so we shall go on to our hearts’ content.” 
 
 ** Alas! sir,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘J am so unlucky that I shall never 
 see those blessed days! O what neat wooden spoons shall I make 
 when I amashepherd! What curds and cream! what garlands! 
 what pretty nick-nacks! An old dog I am at these trinkums, 
 which though they may not set me up for one of the seven wise 
 men, will get-me the name of a clever fellow. My daughter San- 
 china shall bring our dinner to us in the field—but hold there: 
 she’s a sightly wench, and shepherds are sometimes roguishly 
 given; and I would not have my girl go out for wool and come 
 back shorn. Your love-doings and wanton tricks are as common 
 in the open fields as in crowded cities; in the shepherd’s cot as in 
 the palaces of lords and princes. Take away the opportunity, and 
 you take away the sin; what the eye views not, the heart rues 
 not; a leap from behind a bush may do more than the prayer of a 
 good man.” 5 
 
 ‘Enough, Sancho, no more proverbs,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘ for 
 any one of those thou hast cited would have been sufficient to ex. 
 press thy meaning. I have often advised thee not to be so prodigal 
 of these sentences, and to keep a strict hand over them; but it is 
 
612, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 preaching in the desert; ‘the more my mother whips me, the more — 
 [ rend and tear.’ ” 
 
 «¢ Faith and troth, sir.” cried Sancho, ‘‘is not that the pot calling 
 the kettle smut? You chide me for speaking proverbs, and you 
 string them yourself by scores.”’ 
 
 ‘‘Observe, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘ this important 
 difference between thy proverbs and mine: when I make use of 
 them they fit like a ring to the finger; whereas by thee they are 
 dragged in by head and shoulders. I have already told thee, if I 
 mistake not, that proverbs are short maxims of human wisdom, 
 the result of experience and observation, and are the gifts of ancient 
 sages: yet the proverb which is not aptly applied, instead of being 
 wisdom is stark nonsense. But enough of this at present; as night 
 approaches, let us retire a little way out of the high-road to pass 
 the night, and God knows what to-morrow may bring us.” 
 
 They accordingly retired, and made a late and scanty supper, 
 much against Sancho’s inclination, for it brought the hardships 
 of knight-errantry fresh upon his thoughts, and he grieved to 
 think how seldom he encountered the plenty that reigned in the 
 house of Don Diego de Miranda, at the wedding of the rich Cama- 
 cho, and at Don Antonio Moreno’s; but again reflecting that it 
 could not be always day, nor always night, he betook himself to 
 sleep, leaving his master thoughtful and awake. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER LXVII. 
 Of the bristly adventure which befell Don Quixote. 
 
 Don Quixote followed nature, and being satisfied with his first 
 sleep, did not solicit more. As for Sancho, he never wanted a 
 second, for the first lasted him from night to morning: indicating 
 a sound body and mind free from care ; but his master, being unable 
 to sleep himself, awakened him, saying, ‘‘ Iam amazed, Sancho, at 
 the torpor of thy soul; it seems as if thou wert made of marble or 
 brass, insensible of emotion or sentiment! I wake whilst thou 
 sleepest, I mourn whilst thou art singing, I faint with long fasting, _ 
 whilst thou canst hardly move or breathe from pure gluttony! It 
 is the part of a good servant to share his master’s pains, and were 
 it but for decency, to be touched with what affects him. Behold 
 the serenity of the night and the solitude of the place, inviting us 
 to intermingle some watching with our sleep; get up, good Sancho, 
 I conjure thee, and retire a short distance from hence, and with a 
 willing heart and grateful courage, inflict on thyself three or four 
 hundred lashes, upon the score of Dulcinea’s disenchantment; and 
 this Task asafavour. I will not come to wrestling with thee again, 
 for I know thou hast a heavy hand; and that being done, we will 
 pass the remainder of the night in singing—I of absence, thou of 
 constancy ; commencing from this moment the pastoral occupation 
 which we are henceforth to follow.” . 
 
SANCHO’S ELOQUENCE. 613 
 
 ‘* Sir,” answered Sancho, ‘‘I am neither monk nor friar, to start 
 up in the middle of the night and discipline myself at that rate: 
 neither do I think it would be an easy matter to be under the rod 
 one moment, and the next to begin singing. Talk not of whipping, 
 I beseech you, sir, and let me sleep, or you will make me swear 
 never to touch a hair of my coat, much less of my flesh.” ‘‘O thou 
 soul of flint!” cried Don Quixote ; ‘‘O remorseless squire! O bread 
 ill-bestowed! A poor requital for favours already conferred and 
 those intended! Through me thou hast been a governor; through 
 me art thou in a fair way to have the title of an earl, or some other 
 equally honourable, and which will be delayed no longer than this 
 year of obscurity ; for Post tenebras spero lucem.” 
 
 **T know not what that means,” replied Sancho; ‘‘I only know 
 that while I am asleep I have neither fear nor hope, nor trouble nor 
 glory. Blessings light on him who first invented sleep !—it covers 
 a man all over, body and mind, like a cloak: and it is meat to the 
 hungry, drink to the thirsty, heat to the cold, and cold to the hot: 
 it is the coin that can purchase all things: the balance that. makes 
 the shepherd equal with the king, the fool with the wise man. It 
 has only one fault, as I have heard say, which is, that it looks like 
 death : for between the sleeper and the corpse there is but little to 
 choose.” 
 
 ‘‘T never heard thee talk so eloquently, Sancho,” quoth Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘ which proves to me the truth of that proverb thou often 
 hast cited, ‘Not with whom thou art bred, but with whom thou 
 art fed.’” ‘‘Odds my life, sir!” replied Sancho, ‘‘it is not I alone 
 that am a stringer of proverbs—they come pouring from your wor- 
 ship’s mouth faster than from mine. Your worship’s, I own, may 
 be more pat than mine, which tumble out at random : yet no matter— 
 they are all proverbs.” 
 
 Thus were they engaged, when they heard a strange, dull kind of 
 noise, with harsh sounds, issuing from every part of the valley. 
 Don Quixote started up, and laid his hand to his sword ; and Sancho 
 squatted down under Dapple, and fortified himself with the bundle 
 of armour on one side of him, and the ass’s pannel on the other, 
 trembling no less with fear than Don Quixote with surprise. Every 
 moment the noise increased as the cause of it approached, to the 
 great terror of one at least—for the courage of the other is tov well 
 known to be suspected. Now the cause of this fearful din was 
 this :—some hog-dealers, eager to reach the market, happened at that 
 early hour to be driving above six hundred of these creatures along 
 the road to a fair, where they were to be sold; which filthy herd, 
 with their grunting and squeaking, made such a horrible noise that 
 both the knight and squire were stunned and confounded, and 
 utterly at a loss how to account for it. 
 
 The wide-spreading host of grunters came crowding on, and with- 
 out showing the smallest degree of respect for the lofty character of 
 Don Quixote or of Sancho his squire, threw down both master and 
 man, demolishing Sancho’s entrenchment, and laying even Rozinante 
 in the dust! On they went, and bore all before them, overthrowin 
 pack-saddle, armour, knight, squire, horse, and all; treading an 
 
~ 
 
 614 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 trampling over everything without remorse. Sancho with some 
 difficulty recovered his legs, and desired his master to lend him his 
 sword, that he might slay half-a-dozen at least of those unmannerly 
 swine—for he had now discovered what they were; but Don 
 Quixote admonished him not to hurt them. ‘‘ Heaven,” said he, 
 ‘*has inflicted this disgrace upon my guilty head: it is no more than 
 a just punishment that dogs should devour, hornets sting, and hogs 
 trample on a vanquished knight-errant.”’ 
 
 ** And Heaven, I suppose,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ has sent fleas to sting 
 and bite, and hunger to famish us poor squires, for keeping such 
 knights company. If we squires were the sons of the knights we 
 serve, or their kinsmen, it would be no wonder that we should share 
 in their punishments, even to the third and fourth generation: but 
 what have the Panzas to do with the Quixotes? Well, let us to 
 our litter again, and try to sleep out the little that is left of the 
 night, and God will send daylight, and mayhap better luck.” 
 “Sleep, thou, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ who wert born to sleep, 
 whilst I, who was born to watch, allow my thoughts, till daybreak, 
 to range, and give a tuneful vent to my sorrow in a little madrigal 
 which I have just composed.” ‘‘ Methinks,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ that 
 a man cannot be suffering much when he can turn his brain to verse- 
 making. However, madrigal it as much as your worship pleases, 
 and I will sleep as much as I can.” Then, measuring off what 
 ground he wanted, he rolled himself up and fell into a sound sleep: 
 neither debts, bails, nor troubles of any kind, disturbed him. Don 
 Quixote, leaning against a beech or cork tree (for Cid Hamet Ben- 
 engeli does not specify the tree), to the music of his own sighs, 
 sang as follows :— 
 
 O love, when, sick of heartfelt grief, 
 I sigh, and drag thy cruel chain, 
 To death I fly, the sure relief, 
 Of those who groan in ling’ring pain. 
 
 But, coming to the fatal gates, 
 The port in this my sea of woe, 
 The joy I feel new life creates, 
 And bids my spirits brisker flow. 
 
 Thus dying every hour I live, 
 And living I resign my breath: 
 Strange power of love, that thus can give 
 A dying life and living death! 
 
 The many sighs and tears that accompanied this tuneful lamenta- 
 tion proved how deeply the knight was affected by his late disaster 
 and the absence of his lady. Daylight now appeared, and the sun 
 darting his beams full on Sancho’s face; at last awoke him; where- 
 upon, rubbing his eyes, yawning, and stretching his limbs, he per- 
 ceived the swinish havoc made in his cupboard. . 
 
 The knight and squire now started again, and journeyed on through 
 
THE KNIGHT AND SQUIRE TAKEN PRISONERS. 615 
 
 the whole of that day,when towards evening they saw about half 
 a score of men on horseback, and four or five on foot, making 
 directly towards them. Don Quixote was much agitated by the 
 sight of these men, and Sancho trembled with fear: for they were 
 armed with lances and shields, and other warlike implements. 
 «‘ Ah, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘had I my hands at liberty, I 
 would make no more of that hostile squadron than if it were composed 
 of gingerbread. However, matters may not turn out so bad as they 
 promise.” The horsemen soon came up, and instantly surrounded 
 the knight and the squire, and in a threatening manner presented 
 the points of their lances at their prisoners. One of those on foot 
 putting his finger to his lips, as if commanding Don Quixote to be 
 mute, seized on Rozinante’s bridle, and drew him out of the road ; 
 while the others, in like manner, took possession of Dapple and his 
 rider, and the whole then moved on in silence. Don Quixote several 
 times would have inquired whither they meant to take him, but 
 scarcely had he moved his lips to speak, when they were ready to 
 close them with the points of their spears. And so it was with 
 Sancho: no sooner did he show an inclination to speak than one of 
 those on foot pricked him with a goad, driving Dapple in the same 
 manner, as if he also wished to speak. 
 
 Night advancing, they quickened their pace, and the fear of the 
 prisoners likewise increased ; especially when they heard the fellows 
 ever and anon say to them, ‘‘ On, on ye Troglodytes! Peace, ye 
 barbarian slaves! Pay, ye Anthropophagi! Complain not, ye 
 Scythians? Open not your eyes, ye murderous Polyphemuses—ye 
 butcherly lions!” With these and other such names they tor- 
 mented the ears of the unhappy master and man. Sancho went 
 along, muttering to himself—What! call us ‘ortolans! barbers! 
 slaves! Andrew popinjays! and Polly famouses !—I don’t like the 
 sound of such names—a bad wind this to winnow our corn; mis- 
 chief has been lowering upon us of late, and now it falls thick, like 
 kicks to a cur. It looks ill, God send it may not end worse!” 
 Don Quixote proceeded onwards, quite confounded at the reproach- 
 ful names that were given to him, and he could only conclude that 
 no good was to be expected, and much harm to be feared. In this 
 perplexing situation, about an hour after nightfall, they arrived at 
 a castle, which Don Quixote presently recollected to be that be- 
 longing to the duke, where he had lately been. ‘‘ Heaven defend 
 me !”’ said he, as soon as he knew the place, ‘‘ what can this mean? 
 In this house all is courtesy and kindness !—but, to the vanquished, © 
 good is converted into bad, bad into worse.” On entering the prin- 
 cipal court, they saw it decorated, and set out in a manner that 
 added still more to their fears, as well as their astonishment, as 
 will be seen in the following chapter. 
 
616 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 CHAPTER oLXVLIL 
 
 Of the newest and strangest adventure of all that befell Don Quixote 
 in the whole course of this great history. 
 
 No sooner had the horsemen alighted, than, assisted by those 
 on foot, they seized Don Quixote and Sancho in their arms, and 
 placed them in the midst of the court; where a hundred torches, 
 and above five hundred other lights, dispersed in the galleries 
 around, set the whole in a blaze; insomuch, that in spite of the 
 darkness of the night, it appeared like day. In the middle of the 
 court was erected a tomb, six feet from the ground, and over it was 
 spread a large canopy of black velvet ; round which, upon its steps, 
 were burning above a hundred wax tapers in silver candlesticks. 
 On the tomb was visible the corpse of a damsel, so beautiful as to 
 make death itself appear lovely. Her head was laid upon a cushion 
 of gold brocade, crowned with a garland of fragrant flowers, and in 
 her hands, which were laid crosswise upon her breast, was placed 
 a green branch of victorious palm. On one side of the court was 
 erected a theatre, where two personages were seated, whose crowns 
 on their heads and sceptres in their hands denoted them to be kings, 
 either real or feigned. On the side of the theatre, which was as- 
 cended by steps, were two other seats, upon which Don Quixote 
 and Sancho were placed. This was performed in profound silence, 
 and by signs they were both given to understand they were to hold 
 their peace: though the caution was needless, for astonishment had 
 tied up their tongues. 
 
 Two great persons now ascended the theatre with a numerous 
 retinue, and seated themselves in two chairs of state, close to those 
 who seemed to be monarchs. These Don Quixote immediately 
 knew to be the duke and duchess who had so nobly entertained 
 him. Everything he saw filled him with wonder, and nothing more 
 than his discovery that the corpse lying extended on the tomb was 
 that of the fair Altisidora! When the duke and duchess had taken 
 their places, Don Quixote and Sancho rose up, and made them a 
 profound reverence, which their highnesses returned by a slight in- 
 clination of the head. Immediately after, an officer crossed the 
 area, and, going up to Sancho, threw over him a robe of black buck- 
 ram, painted over with flames, and, taking off his cap, he put on 
 his head a pasteboard mitre, three feet high, like those used by the 
 penitents of the Inquisition ; bidding him, in a whisper, not to open 
 his lips, otherwise he would be either gagged or slain. Sancho 
 viewed himself from top to toe, and saw his body covered with 
 flames: but, finding they did not burn him, he cared not two straws. 
 He took off his mitre, and saw it painted all over with devils: but 
 he replaced it again on his head, saying within himself, ‘‘ All is 
 well enough yet; these flames do not burn, nor do these imps fly 
 away with me.” Don Quixote also surveyed him, and in spite of 
 his perturbation he could not forbear smiling at his strange appear- 
 ance. 
 
SANCHO’S SECOND PENANCE. 617 
 
 And now, in the midst of that profound silence (for not a breath 
 was heard), a soft and pleasing sound of flutes stole upon the ear, 
 seeming to proceed from the tomb. Then, on a sudden, near the 
 couch of the dead body, appeared a beautiful youth, ina Roman 
 habit, who, in a sweet and clear voice, to the sound of the harp, 
 which he touched himself, sang the two following stanzas :— 
 
 Till Heaven, in pity to the weeping world, 
 Shall give Altisidora back to day, 
 By Quixote’s scorn to realms of Pluto hurled, 
 Her every charm to cruel death a prey ; 
 While matrons throw their gorgeous robes away, 
 To mourn a nymph by cold disdain betrayed : 
 To the complaining lyre’s enchanting lay 
 Pll sing the praises of this hapless maid, 
 In sweeter notes than Thracian Orpheus ever played. 
 
 Nor shall my numbers with my life expire, 
 Or this world’s light confine the boundless song : 
 To thee, bright maid, in death I’ll touch the lyre, 
 And to my soul the theme shall still belong. 
 When, freed from clay, the flitting Ghosts among 
 My spirit glides the Stygian shores around, 
 Though the cold hand of death has sealed my tongue, 
 Thy praise the infernal caverns shall rebound, 
 And Lethe’s sluggish waves move slower to the sound. + 
 
 ‘**nough,” said one of the kings, ‘‘ enough, divine musician! it 
 were an endless task to describe the graces of the peerless Altisidora 
 —dead, as the ignorant world believes, but still living in the breath 
 of fame, and through the penance which Sancho Panza, here pre- 
 sent, must undergo, in order to restore her to light: and therefore, 
 O Rhadamanthus! who, with me, judges in the dark caverns of 
 Pluto, since thou knowest all that destiny has decreed touching 
 the restoration of this damsel, speak—declare it immediately ; nor 
 delay the promised felicity of her return to the world.” 
 
 Scarcely had Minos ceased, when Rhadamanthus, starting up, 
 cried, ‘‘ Ho, there! ye ministers and officers of the household, high 
 and low, great and small! Proceed ye, one after another, and mark 
 me Sancho’s face with four-and-twenty twitches, and let his arms 
 and sides have twelve, and thrust therein six times the pin’s sharp 
 point: for on the due performance of this ceremony depends the 
 restoration of that lifeless corse.” 
 
 Sancho, hearing this, could hold out no longer. ‘‘I vow,” cried 
 he, ‘‘I will sooner turn Turk than let my flesh be so handled! 
 Body of me! how is the mauling of my visage to give life to the 
 dead? ‘The old woman has had a taste, and now her mouth waters.’ 
 Dulcinea is enchanted, and to unbewitch her I must be whipped! 
 and now, here Altisidora dies of some disease that God has sent her, 
 and, to bring her to life again, my flesh must be tweaked and 
 pinched, and corking-pins thrust into my body! No, put these 
 
618 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE, 
 
 tricks upon a brother-in-law; I am an old dog, and am not to be 
 coaxed with a crust.” 
 
 “Relent!” said Rhadamanthus, in a loud voice, ‘‘ relent, tiger, 
 or thou diest! Submit, proud Nimrod! suffer, and be silent, 
 monster! Impossibilities are not required of thee; then talk noteof 
 difficulties. T'witched thou shalt be; pricked thou shalt feel thy- 
 self, and pinched even to groaning. Ho, there! officers do your 
 duty—or, on the word of an honest man, thy destiny shall be ful- 
 filled !” 
 
 Immediately six duennas were seen advancing in procession along 
 the court, four of them with spectacles, and all of them with their 
 right hands raised, and four fingers’ breadth of their wrist bared, to 
 make their hands seem the longer, according tothe fashion. Nosooner 
 had Sancho got a glimpse of his executioners than bellowing aloud, 
 he cried, ‘‘ Do with me whatever you please: pour over me a sackful 
 of mad cats to bite and claw me, as my master was served in this 
 castle ; pierce and drill me through with sharp daggers ; tear off my 
 flesh with red-hot pincers, and I will bear it all with patience to 
 oblige your worships: but never shall a duenna put a finger upon 
 my flesh !” 
 
 Don Quixote could no longer keep silence. ‘‘ Have patience, my 
 son,” said he; ‘‘ yield to the command of these noble persons, and 
 give thanks to Heaven for having imparted to thy body a virtue 
 so wonderful, that, by a little torture, thou shouldst be able to break 
 the spells of enchanters, and restore the dead to life.” 
 
 By this time Sancho was surrounded by the duennas, and, being 
 softened and persuaded by his master’s entreaties, he fixed himself 
 firmly in his chair, and held out his face and beard to the executioners. 
 The first gave him a dexterous twitch, and then made him a low 
 curtsey. ‘‘Spare me your complaisance, good madam, and give less 
 of your slabber-sauce ; for, your fingers stink of vinegar.” In short, 
 all the duennas successively performed their office, and after them 
 divers other persons repeated the same ceremony of tweaking and 
 pinching, to all of which he submitted: but when they came to 
 pierce his flesh with pins he could contain himself no longer, and 
 starting up in a fury, he caught hold of a lighted torch and began to 
 lay about him with such agility that all his tormentors were put to 
 flight. ‘‘ Away!” he cried; ‘‘scamper, ye imps! do you take me 
 to be made of brass, and suppose I cannot feel your cursed tor- 
 ments?” 
 
 At this moment Altisidora (who must have been tired with lying 
 so long upon her back), turned herself on one side ; upon which the 
 whole assembly cried out with one voice, ‘‘ She lives! she lives! 
 Altisidora lives!” Rhadamanthus then told Sancho to calm his 
 rage, for the work was accomplished. The moment Don Quixote 
 gi ihe Altisidora move, he went to Sancho, and, kneeling before 
 
 im, said, ‘‘ Now is the time, dear son of my bowels, rather than 
 my squire, to inflict on thyself some of those lashes for which thou 
 art pledged, in order to effect the disenchantment of Dulcinea ; this, 
 I say, is the time, now that thy virtue is seasoned, and of efficacy 
 to operate the good expected from thee.” ‘‘ Why, this,” replied 
 
DISENCHANTMENT OF ALTISIDORA. 619 
 
 Sancho, ‘‘is tangle upon tangle, and not honey upon fritters ! 
 A good jest, indeed, that pinches and prickings must be followed by 
 lashes! Do, sir, take at once a great stone and tie it about my 
 neck, and tumble me into a well; better kill me outright than 
 break my back with other men’s burthens. Look ye, if you meddle 
 any more with me, as I have a living soul, all shall out!” 
 
 Altisidora had now raised herself, and sat upright on her tomb, 
 whereupon the music immediately struck up, and the court re- 
 sounded with the cries of ‘‘ Live, live, Altisidora! Altisidora, 
 live!” The duke and duchess arose, and with Minos, Rhadaman- 
 thus, Don Quixote, and Sancho, went to receive the restored damsel, 
 and assist her to descend from the tomb. Apparently near faint- 
 ing, she bowed to the duke and duchess and the two kings; then, 
 casting a side-glance at Don Quixote, she said, ‘‘ Heaven forgive 
 thee, unrelenting knight! by whose cruelty I have been imprisoned 
 in the other world above a thousand years, as it seems to me, and 
 where I must have for ever remained had it not been for thee, O 
 Sancho! Thanks, thou kindest and best of squires, for the life I 
 now enjoy! and, in recompense for thy goodness, six of my smocks 
 are at thy service, to be made into as many shirts for thyself; and, 
 if they are not all whole, at least they are allclean.”” Sancho, with 
 his mitre in his hand, and his knee on the ground, kissed her 
 hand. The duke ordered him to be disrobed and his own garments 
 returned to him}; but Sancho begged his grace to allow him to keep 
 the frock and the mitre, that he might carry them to his own 
 village, in token and memory of this unheard-of adventure. Where- 
 upon the duchess assured him of her regard, and promised him that 
 the frock and the mitre should certainly be his. The court was 
 now cleared by the duke’s command ; all the company retired, and 
 Don Quixote and Sancho were conducted to the apartments which 
 they had before occupied. 
 
 —___——_ 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 Which treats of matters indispensable to the perspicuity of this history. 
 
 Sancho slept that night on a truckle-bed, in the same chamber 
 with Don Quixote—an honour he would gladly have avoided; well 
 knowing that he should be disturbed by his master’s ill-timed ques- 
 tions, which he was then in no mood to answer. Still smarting 
 from the penance he had undergone, he was sullen and silent, and 
 at that time would rather have lain in a hovel alone than in that 
 rich apartment, so accompanied. His fears were well founded, for 
 no sooner was his master in bed than he opened upon the squire. 
 ‘What thinkest thou, Sancho,” said he, ‘‘ of this night’s adven- 
 ture? Great and terrible are the effects of love rejected, as thine 
 own eyes can testify, which beheld Altisidora dead, not by sword 
 or dagger, or other mortal weapon; no, nor poisonous draught, but 
 simply my disregard of her passion!” 
 
620 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ‘‘She might have died how and when she pleased,” answered 
 Sancho, ‘‘so that she had left me alone, for I neither loved nor 
 slighted her. In truth, I cannot see what the recovery of Altisi- 
 dora, a damsel more light-headed than discreet, should have to do 
 with the tweaking and pinching of Sancho Panza’s flesh! Now, 
 indeed, I plainly see that there are enchanters and enchantments 
 in the world, from which, good Lord, deliver me! since I know not 
 how to deliver myself. But all I wish for now is that your worship 
 would let me sleep, and not talk to me, unless you would have me 
 jump out of the window.” ‘‘ Sleep, friend Sancho,” answered Don 
 Quixote: ‘‘if the prickings and pinchings thou hast endured will 
 give thee leave.” ‘‘No smart, sir,” replied Sancho, ‘‘is equal to 
 the disgrace of being fingered by duennas—confound them! But 
 I would fain sleep it off, if your worship would let me; for sleep is 
 the best cure for waking troubles.” ‘‘Then do so,” quoth Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘and Heaven be with thee !” 
 
 Both master and man were soon asleep, and Cid Hamet, the 
 author of this grand history, ‘took the opportunity to inform the 
 world what had moved the duke and duchess to think of contriving 
 the solemn farce which had just been enacted. Accordingly he says 
 that the bachelor Sampson Carrasco, not forgetting his overthrow 
 when Knight of the Mirrors, by which all his designs had been 
 baffled, was inclined to try his hand again, in the hope of better 
 fortune ; and gaining intelligence of Don Quixote’s route from the 
 page who was charged with the letter and presents to Teresa Panza, 
 he procured a better steed and fresh armour, with a shield display- 
 ing a White Moon. Then, placing his arms upon a mule, which was 
 led by a peasant (not choosing to trust his former squire, lest he 
 should be discovered by Sancho Panza), he set off, and arrived at 
 the duke’s castle, where he was informed by his grace of the knight’s 
 departure, the road he had taken, and his intention to be present 
 at the tournaments of Saragossa. He related to him also the jests 
 which had been put upon him, with the project for disenchanting 
 Dulcinea, at the expense of Sancho. The bachelor was also told of 
 the imposition which Sancho practised upon his master, in making 
 him believe that the lady Dulcinea was transformed into a country 
 wench ; and also that the duchess afterwards made Sancho believe 
 his own lie. The bachelor was much diverted at what he heard. 
 and wondered afresh at the extraordinary madness of the knight, . 
 and the shrewdness and simplicity of his squire. The duke re- 
 quested him, whether he was victorious or not, to call at the castle 
 on his return, to acquaint him with the event. This the bachelor 
 promised; and, departing, he proceeded straight to Saragossa, where, 
 not finding the knight, he continued the pursuit, and at length 
 overtogk him ; the result of which meeting has been already told. 
 
 On the bachelor’s return, he stopped at the castle, agreeably to 
 his promise, and informed the duke of what had passed, and also 
 that Don Quixote, intending honourably to fulfil the conditions of 
 the combat, was now actually on his return home, where he was 
 bound to remain twelve months, in which time he hoped the poor 
 gentlemen would recover his senses; declaring, moreover, that no- 
 
WHAT ALTISIDORA SAW IN PURGATORY. 621 
 
 thing but the concern he felt on seeing the distracted state of so 
 excellent an understanding could have induced him to make the 
 attempt. He then took leave of the duke, expecting to be shortly 
 followed byethe vanquished knight. 
 
 The duke, who was never tired with the humours of Den Quixote 
 and his squire, had been tempted to amuse himself in the manner 
 which has been described; and to make sure of meeting them on 
 their return, he despatched servants on horseback, in different 
 directions, with orders to convey them, whether willing or not, to 
 the castle; and the party whose chance it was to fall in with them, 
 having given the duke timely notice of their success before they 
 appeared, everything was prepared so as to give the best effect 
 possible to the fiction. And here Cid Hamet observes, that in his 
 opinion, the deceivers and the deceived, in these jests, were all 
 mad alike, and that even the duke and duchess themselves were 
 within two fingers’ breadth of appearing so, for taking such pains 
 to make sport with these two wandering lunatics; one of whom 
 was then happily sleeping at full swing, and the other, as usual, 
 indulging his waking fancies: in which state they were found when 
 day first peeped into their chamber, giving Don Quixote an inclina- 
 tion to rise; for whether vanquished or victorious, he took no 
 pleasure in the bed of sloth. 
 
 About this time Altisidora—so lately, in Don Quixote’s opinion, 
 risen from the dead—entered his chamber; her head still crowned 
 with the funereal garland, her hair dishevelled, clad in a robe of 
 white taffeta, flowered with gold, and supporting herself by a staff 
 of polished ebony, she stood before him. The knight was so amazed 
 and confounded at this unexpected sight that he was struck dumb ; 
 but, being determined to show her no courtesy, he covered himself 
 well over with the sheets. Altisidora then sat down in a chair at 
 his bedside, and, heaving a profound sigh, in a soft and feeble voice, 
 she said: ‘‘ When women of virtue, and of a superior order, can 
 allow their tongues openly to declare the secret wishes of their 
 heart, they must indeed be reduced to great extremities. I, Signor 
 Don Quixote de la Mancha, am one of those unhappy persons, djs- 
 tressed, vanquished, and enamoured, but withal patient, long- 
 suffering, and modest to such a degree that my heart burst in silence, 
 and silently I quitted this life. It is now two days since, O flinty 
 knight, harder than marble to my complaints! that the sense of 
 your unfeeling cruelty brought death upon me, or something so like 
 it that all who saw me concluded my soul was fled to another world ; 
 and had not love, in pity, placed my recovery in the sufferings of 
 this good squire, there it must for ever have remained !” 
 
 “Truly,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘if love had given that- business to 
 my Dapple, I should have taken it as kindly. But pray tell me, 
 signora, what saw you in the other world? What did you find in 
 purgatory—for whoever dies in despair must needs go thither, 
 whether they like it or not.” ‘To tell you the truth,” quoth 
 Altisidora, ‘‘I did not quite die, and therefore I did not go so far ; 
 for, had I once set foot therein, nothing could have got me out 
 again, however much I might have wished it. The fact is, I got to 
 
622 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the gate, where I observed about a dozen devils playing at tennis, 
 in their waistcoats and drawers, their shirt-collars ornamented with 
 Flanders lace, and rufiles of the same, with four inches of their 
 wrists bare, to make their hands seem the larger, in» which they 
 held rackets of fire; and what still more surprised me was, that 
 instead of the common balls they made use of books, that seemed 
 to be stuffed with wind and wool—a marvellous thing, you will 
 allow; but what added to my wonder was to see, that instead of 
 the winners rejoicing, and the losers complaining, as it is usual 
 with gamesters, they all grumbled alike, cursing and hating one 
 another with all their hearts!” 
 
 ‘‘There is nothing strange in that,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘for devils, 
 play or not play, win or not win, can never be contented.” ‘‘ That 
 is true,” quoth Altisidora; ‘‘but there is another thing I wonder 
 at—I mean I wondered at it then— which was, that a single toss 
 seemed always to demolish the ball; so that, not being able to use 
 it a second time, the volumes were whipped up in an astonishing 
 manner. ‘To one in particular that I noticed, which was spick and 
 span new, and neatly bound, they gave such a smart stroke that 
 out flew the contents, in leaves fairly printed, which were scattered 
 about in all directions. ‘ Look,’ said one devil to the other, ‘ how 
 it flies ! see what book it is.’ ‘’Tis the second part of Don Quixote 
 de la Mancha,’ cried the other: ‘not that by Cid Hamet, its first 
 author, but by an Arragonese, who calls himself a native of 'Torde- 
 sillas.’ ‘Away with it,’ quoth the other devil, ‘and down with it 
 to the bottomless pit, that it may never be seen more.’ ‘Is it so 
 bad then?’ said the other. ‘So bad,’ replied the first, ‘that had 
 I endeavoured to make it worse I should have found it beyond my 
 skill.’ So they went on tossing about their books; but having 
 heard the name of Don Quixote, whom I love and adore, I retained 
 this vision in my memory.” 
 
 ‘* A vision, doubtless, it must have been,” quoth Don Quixote, 
 ‘‘for I am the only person of that name existing, either dead or 
 alive, and just so the book you speak of is here tossed about from 
 we to hand, remaining in none :—every one has a kick at it. 
 
 or am I concerned to hear that any phantom, assuming my name, 
 should be wandering in “darkness or in light, since I am not the 
 person mentioned in the book you saw shattered to pieces. The 
 history that is good, faithful, and true, will survive for ages ; but 
 should it have none of these qualities, its passage will be short be- 
 tween the cradle and the grave.” 
 
 Altisidora was then about to renew uez complaint against the 
 obdurate knight, when he interrupted her: ‘‘ Madam,” said he, 
 ‘“‘T have often cautioned you against fixing your affections on a man 
 who is utterly incapable of making you a suitable return. I was 
 born for Dulcinea del Toboso: to her the fates, if any there be, 
 have devoted me: and, being the sole mistress and tenant of my 
 soul, it is impossible for any other beauty to dispossess her. This, 
 I hope, may suffice to show the fallacy of your hopes, and recal 
 you to virtue and maidenly decorum ; for it is wild to expect from 
 man what is impossible.” ‘Thou stock-fish !” exclaimed Altisi- 
 
THE KNIGHT'S REMEDY FOR ALTISIDORA. 623 
 
 dora, in a furious tone, ‘‘soul of marble! stone of date! more 
 stubborn and insensible than a courted clown! Monster! I’d tear 
 your eyes out if I could come at you! Have you the impudence, 
 Don Cudgelled, Don Beaten-and-battered, to suppose that I died 
 for love of your lantern jaws? No, no such matter, believe me; 
 all that you have seen to-night has been sheer counterfeit: I am 
 not the woman to let the black of my nail ache, much less to die, 
 for such a dromedary as thou art!’ ‘‘ By my faith, I believe 
 thee,” quoth Sancho; ‘‘for as to dying for love, it is all a jest: 
 folks may talk of it, but as for doing it,—hbelieve it, Judas !” 
 
 At this time the musical poet jomed them, who had sung .the 
 stanzas composed for the solemnities of the night; and, approach- 
 ing Don Quixote, with a profound reverence, he said: ‘‘I come, 
 sir knight, to request you will vouchsafe to number me among 
 your most humble servants: an honour which I have been long 
 ambitious to receive, both on account of your fame and your won- 
 derful achievements.” ‘‘ Pray, sir,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘ inform 
 me who you are, that I may duly acknowledge your merits.” The 
 young man said that he was the musician and panegyrist of the 
 preceding night. ‘Truly, sir,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘ your voice 
 is excellent; but what you sang did not seem to me applicable to 
 the occasion: for what have the stanzas of Garcilasso to do with 
 the death of this lady?” ‘‘ Wonder not at that, sir,” answered the 
 musician; for, among the green poets of our times, it is common 
 to write as the whim guides, whether to the purpose or not: pick- 
 ing and stealing wherever it suits; and every senseless thing sung 
 or said is sure to find its apology in poetical license.” 
 
 Don Quixote would have replied, but was prevented by the 
 entrance of the duke and duchess, who had come to visit him. 
 Much relishing conversation then passed between them, in the 
 course of which Sancho extorted fresh admiration from their graces, 
 by his wonted shrewdness and pleasantry. In conclusion, Don 
 Quixote besought them to grant him leave to depart that same 
 day ; for a vanquished knight like himself should rather dwell in 
 a sty with hogs than in a royal palace. His request was granted, 
 and the duchess desired to know whether Altisidora had attained 
 any share in his favour. ‘‘ Madam,” said he, ‘‘ your ladyship 
 should know that the chief cause of this good damsel’s suffering is 
 idleness, the remedy whereof is honest and constant employment. 
 Lace, she tells me, is much worn in purgatory; and since she can- 
 not but know how to make it, let her stick to that; for while her 
 fingers are assiduously employed with her bobbins, the images that 
 now haunt her imagination will keep aloof, and leave her mind 
 tranquil and happy. This, madam, is my opinion and advice.” 
 ‘¢ And mine, too,” added Sancho, ‘‘ for I never in my life heard of 
 a lacemaker that died for. love; for your damsels that bestir them- 
 selves at some honest labour, think more of their work than of 
 their sweethearts. I know it by myself; when I am digging, I 
 never think of my Teresa, though I love her more than my very 
 eyelids.” 
 
 Me You say right, Sancho,” quoth the duchess, ‘‘and it shall 
 
 ‘ 
 
624 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 henceforth be my care to see that Altisidora is well employed ; she 
 knows how to make use of her needle, and it shall not lie idle.” 
 ‘“‘There is no need, madam,’ answered Altisidora, ‘‘ of any such 
 remedy ; the cruel treatment I have received from that monster is 
 quite sufficient to blot him out of my memory, without any other 
 help; and, with your grace’s leave, I will withdraw, that I may no 
 longer have before my eyes, I will not say that rueful, but that 
 abominable, hideous, and horrible figure.” ‘‘I wish,” quoth the 
 duke, ‘‘ this may not confirm the saying, ‘ A lover railing is not far 
 from forgiving.’ ” 
 
 Altisidora, then, pretending to wipe the tears from her eyes, 
 and making a low curtsey to her lord and lady, went out of the 
 room. ‘‘ Poor damsel!’’ quoth Sancho, ‘‘I forbode thee ill-luck, 
 since thou hast to do with a soul of rusbes, and a heart as tough 
 as oak,—’i faith, had it been me thou hadst looked on with kind- 
 ness, thy pigs would have been broughf to a better market.” Here 
 the conversation ceased: Don Quixote arose and dressed himself, 
 dined with the duke and duchess, and departed the same afternoon. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER LXX. 
 
 Of what befell Don Quixote and his squire Sancho on their way to 
 thew village. 
 
 The vanquished knight pursued his journey homeward, some- 
 times overcome with grief, and sometimes joyful: for if his spirits 
 were depressed by the recollection of his overthrow, they were 
 again raised by the singular virtue that seemed to be lodged in the 
 body of his squire, still giving him fresh hopes of his lady’s restora- 
 tion ; at the same time, he was not without some qualms respecting 
 Altisidora’s resurrection. Hven Sancho’s thoughts were unpleasant 
 and gloomy, for he was not at all pleased that Altisidora should 
 have paid no regard to her solemn promise concerning the smocks. 
 Full of his disappointment, he said to his master, ‘‘ Faith and 
 troth, sir, there never was a more unlucky physician than I am. 
 Other doctors kill their patients and are well paid for it, though 
 their trouble be nothing but scrawling a piece of paper, with direc- 
 tions to the apothecary, who does all the work: whilst I give life 
 to the dead at the expense of my blood, and the scarification of my 
 flesh to boot: yet never a fee do I touch. But I vow to Heaven, 
 the next time they catch me curing people in this way, it shall not 
 be for nothing. ‘The abbot must eat that sings for his meat ;’ 
 besides, Heaven, I am sure, never gave this wonderful trick of 
 curing, without meaning that I should get something by it.” 
 
 ‘‘ Thou art in the right, friend Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, 
 ‘‘and Altisidora behaved very ill in not giving thee the smocks 
 
 which she promised, although the faculty whereby thou performest 
 these miracles was given thee gratis, and costs thee nothing in the 
 practice but a little bodily pain. For myself, I can say, if thou 
 would be paid for disenchanting Dulcinea, I should readily satisfy 
 
SANCHO’S BARGAIN WITH HIS MASTER. E25 
 
 thee. Yet I know not whether payment be allowed in the condi- 
 tions of the cure, and I should be grieved to cause any obstruction 
 to the effects of the medicine. However, I think there can be no 
 risk in making a trial; therefore, Sancho, consider of it, and fix 
 thy demand, so.that no time may be lost. Set about the work 
 immediately, and pay thyself in ready money, since thou hast cash 
 of mine in thy hands.” 
 
 At these offers Sancho opened his eyes and ears a span wider, 
 resolving to strike the bargain without delay... ‘‘Sir,” said he, ‘“‘T 
 am ready and willing to give you satisfaction, since your worship 
 speaks so much to the purpose. You know, sir, I have a wife and 
 children to maintain, and the love I bear them makes me look to 
 the main chance: how much, then, will your worship pay for each 
 lash?” ‘‘ Were I to pay thee, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, 
 ‘‘in proportion to the magnitude of the service, the treasure of 
 Venice and the mines of Potosi would be too small a recompense: 
 but examine and feel the strength of my purse, and then set thine 
 own price upon each lash.” ‘‘'The lashes to be given,” quoth 
 Sancho, ‘‘are three thousand three hundred and odd; five of that 
 number I have already given myself—the rest remains. Setting 
 the five against the odd ones, let us take the three thousand three 
 hundred, and reckon them at a quartil* each—and, for the world, 
 I would not take less—the whole amount would be three thousand 
 three hundred quartils. Now the three thousand quartils make 
 one thousand five hundred half-reals, which comes to seven hun- 
 dred and fifty reals, and the three hundred quartils make a hun- 
 dred and fifty half-reals, or seventy-five reals ; which, added to the 
 seven hundred and fifty, make, in all, eight hundred and twenty- 
 five reals. That sum, then, I will take from your worship’s money 
 in my hands, and with it I shall return home, rich and contented, 
 though soundly whipped: but trouts are not to be caughtt with 
 dry breeches.” ‘‘O blessed Sancho! O amiable Sancho !” replied 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘how much shall Dulcinea and I be bound to serve 
 thee as long as Heaven shall be pleased to give us life! Should 
 she be restored to her former state, as she certainly will, her mis- 
 fortune will prove a blessing—my defeat a most happy triumph ! 
 and when, good Sancho, dost thou propose to begin the discipline ? 
 I will add another hundred reals for greater despatch.” ‘*‘ When,” 
 replied Sancho; ‘‘even this very night, without fail: do you take 
 care to give me room enough, and open field, and I will take care 
 to lay my flesh open.” 
 
 So impatient was Don Quixote for night, and so slowly it seemed 
 to approach, that he concluded the wheels of Apollo’s chariot had 
 been broken, and the day thereby extended beyond its usual 
 length; as it is with expecting lovers, who always fancy time to ° 
 be stationary. At length, however, it grew dark; when, quitting 
 the road, they seated themselves on the grass under some trees, 
 and took their evening’s repast on such provisions as the squire’s 
 wallet afforded. Supper being ended, Sancho made himself a 
 
 _* A small coin about the fourth of a real. 
 
 + The entire proverb is, “‘ They do not catch trouts with dry breeches.” 
 
 2R 
 
626 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. _ 
 
 powerful whip out of Dapple’s halter, with which he retired about 
 twenty paces from his master. Don Quixote, seeing him proceed 
 to business with such resolution and spirit, said to him, ‘‘ Be care- 
 ful, friend, not to lash thyself to pieces; take time, and pause be- 
 tween each stroke; hurry not thyself so as to be overcome in the 
 midst of thy task. I mean, I would not have thee lay it on so 
 unmercifully as to deprive thyself of life before the required num- 
 ber be completed. And that thou mayst not lose by a card too 
 much or too little, I will stand aloof, and keep reckoning upon my 
 beads the lashes thou shalt give thyself: so Heaven prosper thy 
 pious undertaking!” ‘‘The good paymaster needs no pledge,” 
 quoth Sancho; ‘‘I mean to lay it on so that it may smart, without 
 killing me: for therein, as I take it, lies the secret of the cure.” 
 
 He then stripped himself, and, snatching up the whip, began to 
 lash it away with great fury, and Don Quixote to keep account of 
 strokes. But Sancho had not given himself above six or eight, 
 when, feeling the jest a little too heavy, he began to think his 
 terms too low, and stopping his hand, he told his master that he 
 had. been deceived, and must appeal, for every lash was well worth 
 half a real, instead of a quartil. ‘‘ Proceed, friend Sancho,” quoth 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘and be not faint-hearted: thy pay shall be 
 doubled.” ‘If so,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘away with it, and let it rain 
 lashes.”” But the sly knave, instead of laying them on his back, 
 laid them on the trees, fetching, ever and anon, such groans, that 
 he seemed to be tearing up his very soul by the roots. Don 
 Quixote, besides being naturally humane, was now fearful that 
 Sancho would destroy himself, and thus, by his indiscreet zeal, the 
 object would be lost: and therefore he cried out, ‘‘ Hold, friend 
 Sancho—let the business rest there, I conjure thee; for this 
 medicine seems to me too violent when so administered , take it, 
 friend, more at leisure :—Zamora* was not gained in one hour. 
 Thou hast already given thyself, if I reckon right, above a thou- 
 sand lashes: let that suffice at present—for the ass (to speak in 
 homely phrase) will carry the load, but not a double load.” ‘‘No, 
 no,” answered Sancho, ‘‘ it shall never be said of me, ‘the money 
 paid, the work delayed.’ Pray, sir, get a little farther off, and let 
 me give myself another thousand lashes at least; for a couple of 
 such bouts will finish the job, and stuff to spare.” ‘‘Since thou art 
 oe poad a disposition,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘go on; I will retire 
 a little.’ 
 
 Sancho returned to his task with the same fury as before, and 
 with so much effect did he apply the lash, that the trees within his 
 reach were already disbarked. At length, exalting his voice, in 
 accompaniment to a prodigious stroke on the body of a beech, he 
 cried, ‘‘ Down, down with thee, Sampson, and all that are with 
 thee!” The frightful exclamation and blow were too much for 
 the knight’s tenderness, and he ran immediately to seize hold 
 of the twisted halter, saying, ‘‘ Heaven forbid, friend Sancho, that 
 thy death, and the ruin of thy helpless family, should be laid at 
 
 * This was a town in the kingdom of Leon, a long while disputed for by the 
 Arabs and Christians. 
 
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 DISENCHANTMENT OF DULCINEA. 
 
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628 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 be able to finish thy task with safety.” ‘‘Since itis your worshtp’s 
 pleasure that I should leave off, be it so: and pray fling your 
 cloak over my shoulders, for I am all in a sweat, and am loth to 
 catch cold, as new disciplinants are apt to do.” Don Quixote took 
 off his cloak, and did as Sancho desired, leaving himself in his 
 doublet; and the crafty squire, being covered up warm, fell fast 
 asleep, and never stirred until the sun waked him. 
 
 The knight and squire now pursued their journey, and having 
 travelled about three leagues, they alighted at the door of an inn, 
 which, it is to be remarked, Don Quixote did not take for a 
 turreted castle with its moat and drawbridge: indeed, since his 
 defeat, he was observed at times to discourse with a more steady 
 judgment than usual. He was introduced to a room on the 
 ground-floor, which, instead of tapestry, was hung with painted 
 serge, aS 1s common in country places. In one part of these hang- 
 ings was represented, by some wretched dauber, the story of 
 Helen’s elopement with Faris; and in another was painted the 
 unfortunate Dido, upon a high tower, making signals, with her 
 bed-sheet, to her fugitive lover, who was out at sea, crowding all 
 the sail he could to get away from her. Of the first the knight 
 remarked that Helen seemed not much averse to be taken off, for 
 she had a roguish smile on her countenance; but the beauteous 
 Dido seemed to let fall from her eyes tears as big as walnuts. 
 «These two ladies,” said he, ‘‘ were most unfortunate in not being 
 born in this age, and I above all men unhappy that I was not 
 born in theirs; for, had I encountered those gallants, neither had 
 Troy been burnt nor Carthage destroyed :—all these calamities 
 had been prevented simply by my killing Paris.” 
 
 “*T will lay a wager,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘that, before long, there will 
 not be either victualling-house, tavern, inn, or barber’s shop, in 
 which the history of our exploits will not be painted ; but I hope 
 they may be done by a better hand than the painter of these.” 
 **Thou art in the right, Sancho,” quoth Don Quixote ; ‘‘ for this 
 pa is like Orbaneja of Ubeda, who, when he was asked what 
 
 e was painting, answered, ‘As it may happen ;’ and if it chanced 
 to be a cock, he prudently wrote under it, ‘This is a cock,’ lest it 
 should be mistaken for a fox. Just such a one, methinks, Sancho, 
 the painter, or writer (for it is all one), must be, who wrote the 
 history of this new Don Quixote, lately published: whatever he 
 painted, or wrote, was just as it happened. Or he is like a poet 
 some years about the court, called the Mauleon, who answered all 
 questions extempore; and, a person asking him the meaning of 
 Deum de Deo, he answered, Dé donde diere.* But setting all this 
 aside, tell me, Sancho, hast thou any thoughts of giving thyself the 
 other brush to-night? and wouldst thou rather it should be under 
 a roof, or i the open air?” 
 
 ‘*Faith, sir,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ for the whipping I intend to give 
 myself, it matters little to me whether it be in a house or in a field ; 
 though methinks I had rather it were among trees, for they seem 
 
 * Whatever it hits.” 
 
DON ALVARO TARFE. 629 
 
 to_have a fellow-feeling for me, as it were, and help to bear my 
 suffering marvellously.” ‘‘ However, now I think of it, friend 
 Sancho,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘to give you time to recover your 
 strength, we will defer the remainder till we reach home, which 
 will be the day after to-morrow at furthest.” 
 
 “*That shall be as your worship pleases,” quoth Sancho: ‘for 
 my own part, I am for making an end of the job, out of hand, now 
 I am hot upon it, and while the mill is going, for delay breeds 
 danger. ‘Pray to God devoutly, and hammer away stoutly ;’ one 
 ‘take’ is worth two ‘Ill give thees;’ and ‘a sparrow in hand is 
 better than a vulture on the wing.’” ‘‘ No more proverbs,” quoth 
 Don Quixote ; ‘‘for methinks, Sancho, thou art losing ground, and 
 returning to Sicut erat., Speak plainly, as I have often told thee, 
 and thou wilt find it worth a loaf per cent. to thee.” ‘‘I know not 
 how I came by this unlucky trick,” replied Sancho; ‘ I cannot bring 
 you in three words to the purpose without a proverb, nor give you 
 a proverb which, to my thinking, is not to the purpose: but I will 
 try to mend.” And here the conversation ended for this time. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXtL 
 How Don Quixote and Sancho arrived at thir village. 
 
 That day Don Quixote and Sancho remained at the inn, waiting 
 for night ; the one to finish his penance in the open air, and the 
 other to witness an event which promised the full accomplishment 
 of all his wishes. While they were thus waiting, a traveller on 
 horseback, attended by three or four servants, stopped at the inn. 
 ‘‘Here, Signor Don Alvaro Tarfe,” said one of the attendants to his 
 master, ‘‘ you may pass the heat of the day; the lodging seems to 
 be cool and cleanly.” ‘‘If I remember right, Sancho,” said Don 
 Quixote, on hearing the gentleman’s name, ‘‘ when [ was turning 
 over the book called the second part of my history, I noticed the 
 name of Don Alvaro Tarfe.” ‘‘It may be so,” answered Sancho: 
 “Jet him alight, and then we will put the question to him.” 
 
 The gentleman alighted, and the landlady showed him into a 
 room on the ground-floor adjoining to that of Don Quixote, and, 
 like his, also hung with painted serge. This newly-arrived 
 cavalier undressed and equipped himself for coolness, and stepping 
 out to the porch, which was airy and spacious, where Don Quixote was 
 walking backwards and forwards, he said to him, ‘‘ Pray, sir, whither 
 are you bound?” ‘‘To my native village, sir,” replied Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘ which is not far distant. Allow me, sir, to ask you the 
 same question.” ‘‘I am going, sir,” answered the gentleman, ‘‘ to 
 
 "Grenada, the country where I was born.” ‘‘And a fine country it 
 is,” replied Don Quixote. ‘‘ But pray, sir, will you favour me with 
 your name? for I believe it particularly imports me to know it.” 
 
630 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ‘¢My name is Don Alvaro Tarfe,” answered the new guest. ‘‘ Then, 
 
 I presume,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ you are that Don Alvaro Tarfe 
 
 mentioned in the second part of the history of Don Quixote de la 
 
 Mancha, lately printed and published?” ‘‘The very same,” 
 
 answered the gentleman, ‘‘and that Don Quixote, the hero of the 
 said history, was an intimate acquaintance of mine: and it was I, 
 
 indeed, who drew him from his home—I mean, I prevailed upon 
 him to accompany me to Saragossa, to be present at the jousts and 
 tournaments held in that place: and in truth, while we were there, 
 
 I did him much service, in saving his back from being well stroked 
 
 by the hangman for being too daring.” ‘‘ But pray, sir,” said Don 
 
 Quixote, ‘‘am I anything like that Don Quixote you speak of ?” 
 
 ‘‘No, truly,” answered the other, ‘‘the furthest from it in the 
 
 world.” ‘And had he,” said the knight, ‘‘a squire named Sancho 
 
 Panza?” ‘Yes, truly,” answered Don Alvaro, ‘‘one who had the 
 
 reputation of being a witty, comical fellow, but for my part I 
 
 thought him a very dull blockhead.” ‘‘I thought so,” quoth 
 Sancho, abruptly, ‘‘for it is not everybody that can say good 
 
 things, and the Sancho you speak of must be some pitiful 
 
 ragamuffin, some idiot and knave, Ill warrant you; for the true 
 
 Sancho Panzo am I;—'tis I am the merry-conceited squire, that 
 have always a budget full of wit and waggery. Do but try me, sir, 
 
 —-keep me company but for a twelvemonth, and you will bless 
 
 yourself at the notable things that drop from me at every step ;— 
 they are so many, and so good too, that I make every beard wag 
 
 without meaning it, or knowing why or wherefore. And there, sir, 
 
 you have the true Don Quixote de la Mancha, the stanch, the 
 famous, the valiant, the wise, the loving Don Quixote de la Mancha; 
 
 the righter of wrongs, the defender of the weak, the father of the 
 fatherless, the safeguard of widows, the murderer of damsels; he 
 whose sole sweetheart and mistress is the peerless Dulcinea del 
 
 Toboso; here he is, and here am [, his squire; all other Don Quix- 
 
 otes and all other Sancho Panzas are downright phantoms and 
 cheats.’ 
 
 ‘‘ Now, by St Jago! honest friend, I believe it,” said Don Alvaro, 
 ‘* for the little thou hast now said has more of the spice of humour 
 than all I ever heard from the other, though it was much. The 
 fellow seemed to carry his brains in his stomach, for his belly sup- 
 plied all his wit, which was too dull and stupid to be diverting ; 
 indeed, Iam convinced that the enchanters, who persecuted the 
 good Don Quixote, have, out of spite, sent the bad one to persecute 
 me. Yet I know not what to make of this matter, for I can take 
 my oath that I left one Don Quixote under the surgeon’s hands, at 
 the house of the nuncio in Toledo, and now here starts up another 
 that has no resemblance to him !” 
 
 “‘T know not,” said Don Quixote, ‘‘ whether I ought to avow 
 myself the good one, but I dare venture to assert that [ am not the 
 bad one; and asa proof of what I say, you must know, dear Signor 
 Alvaro Tarfe, that I never in my life saw the city of Saragossa; so 
 far from it, that having been informed this usurper of my name was 
 at the tournaments of that city, I resolved not to go thither, that 
 

 
 
 
 DEPOSITION BEFORE A MAGISTRATE. 631 
 
 ‘ all the world might see and be convinced that he was an impostor. 
 Instead, therefore, of going to Saragossa, I directed my course to 
 Barcelona—that seat of urbanity, that asylum of strangers, the 
 refuge of the distressed, birthplace of the brave, avenger of the 
 injured, the abode of true friendship, and moreover the queen of 
 cities for beauty and situation. And though certain events oc- 
 curred to me that are far from grateful to my thoughts,—indeed, 
 such as excite painful recollections,—yet I bear them the better for 
 having had the satisfaction of seeing that city. In plain truth, 
 Signor Don Alvaro Tarfe, I am Don Quixote de la Mancha; it is 
 I whom iame has celebrated, and not the miserable wretch who 
 has taken my name, and would arrogate to himself the honour of 
 my exploits. I therefore hope, sir, that you, as a gentleman, will 
 not refuse to make a deposition before the magistrate of this town, 
 that you never saw me before in your life till this day; and that I 
 am not the Don Quixote mentioned in the second part which has 
 been published, nor this Sancho Panza, my squire, the same you 
 formerly knew.” 
 
 “¢ That I will with all my heart,” answered Don Alvaro; ‘‘ though 
 I own it perplexes me to see two Don Quixotes and two Sancho 
 Panzas, as different in their nature as alike in name, insomuch that 
 I am inclined to believe that | have not seen what I have seen, nor 
 has that happened to me which I thought had happened.” ‘* Past 
 all doubt,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘ your worship is enchanted, like my lady 
 Dulcinea del Toboso; and would your disenchantment depended 
 upon my giving myself another such three thousand and odd lashes, 
 as I do for her !—I would do your business, and would lay them on, 
 without fee or reward.” ‘Ido not understand what you mean by 
 lashes,” guoth Don Alvaro. Sancho said it was a tale too long to 
 tell at that time, but he should hear it if they happened to travel 
 the same road. 
 
 Don Quixote and Don Alvaro dined together; and as it chanced 
 that a magistrate of the town called at the inn, accompanied by a 
 notary, Don Quixote, requested they would take the deposition of 
 a gentleman there present, Don Alvaro Tarfe, who proposed to make 
 oath that he did not know another gentleman then before them, 
 namely, Don Quixote de la Mancha, and that he was not the man 
 spoken of in a certain book called ‘‘The Second Part of Don Quix- 
 ote de la Mancha, written by such a one, De Avellaneda, a native 
 of Tordesillas.” In short, the magistrate complied, and a deposi- 
 tion was produced according to the regular form, and expressed in 
 the strongest terms, to the great satisfaction of Don Quixote and 
 Sancho—as if the difference between them and their spurious imi- 
 tators had not been sufficiently manifest without any such attesta- 
 tion. Many compliments and offers of service passed between Don 
 Alvaro and Don Quixote, in which the great Manchegan showed 
 so much good sense, that Don Alvaro Tarfe was convinced he had 
 been deceived, and also that there was certainly some enchantment 
 in the case, since he had touched with his own hand two such 
 opposite Don Quixotes. 
 
 In the evening they all quitted the inn, and after proceeding 
 
632 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 together about half a league, the road branched into two; the one 
 led to Don Quixote’s village, and the other was taken by Don 
 Alvaro. During the short distance they had travelled together, 
 Don Quixote informed him of his unfortunate defeat, the enchant- 
 ment of Dulcinea, and the remedy prescribed by Merlin, to the 
 great amusement of Don Alvaro, who, after embracing Don Quixote 
 and Sancho, took his leave, each pursuing his own way. 
 
 Don Quixote passed that night among the trees, to give Sancho 
 an opportunity to resume his penance, in the performance of which 
 the cunning rogue took special care, as on the preceding night, that 
 the beech-trees should be the sufferers; for the lashes he gave 
 
 
 
 his back would not have brushed off a fly fromit. The cheated 
 knight counted the strokes with great exactness, and reckoning 
 tbose which had been given him before, he found the whole amount 
 to three thousand and twenty-nine. The sun seemed to rise earlier 
 than usual to witness the important sacrifice, and to enable them to 
 continue their journey. They travelled onward, discoursing to- 
 gether on the mistake of Don Alvaro, and their prudence in having 
 obtained his deposition before a magistrate, and in so full and 
 authentic a form. All that day and the following night they pro- 
 

 
 COMPLETION OF SANCHO’S PENANCE. 633 
 
 ceeded without meeting with any occurrence worth recording unless 
 it be that when it was dark Sancho finished his task, to the great 
 joy of Don Quixote, who when all was over, anxiously waited the 
 return of day, in the hope of meeting his disenchanted lady ; and 
 for that purpose, as he pursued his journey, he looked narrowly at 
 every woman he came near, to recognize Dulcinea del Toboso ; fully 
 relying on the promises of the sage Merlin. 
 
 Thus hoping and expecting, the knight and squire ascended a 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 little eminence, whence they discovered their village ; which Sancho 
 no sooner beheld, than, kneeling down, he said: ‘‘ Open thine eyes, 
 O my beloved country! and behold thy son, Sancho Panza, return- 
 ing to thee again, if not rich, yet well whipped! Open thine arms, 
 and receive thy son Don Quixote too! who, though worsted by an- 
 other, has conquered himself, which, as I have heard say, is the best 
 
684 «4 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 kind of victory! Money I have gotten, and though I have been 
 soundly banged, I have come off like a gentleman.” ‘* Leave these 
 fooleries, Sancho,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘ and let us go directly to 
 our homes, where we will give full scope to our imagination, and 
 settle our intended scheme of a pastoral life.” They now descended 
 the hill, and went straight to the village. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXIL 
 
 Of the omens which Don Quwixote met with at the entrance into his 
 village, with other matters which adorn and illustrate this great 
 history. 
 
 At the entrance of the village, as Cid Hamet reports, Don Quix- 
 ote observed two boys standing on a threshing-floor, disputing with 
 each other. ‘‘ You need not trouble yourself, Perquillo,” said one 
 of them, ‘‘for you shall never see it again.” Don Quixote hearing 
 these words, said: ‘‘ Dost thou mark that, Sancho? MHearest thou 
 what he says? ‘you shall never see it again!’” ‘‘ Well, and what 
 then?” said Sancho. ‘‘ What,” replied Don Quixote, ‘‘ dost thou 
 not perceive, that, applying these words to myself, I am to under- 
 stand that I shall never more behold my Dulcinea?”’ 
 
 Sancho would have answered, but was prevented by seeing a hare 
 come running across the field, which, pursued by a number of dogs 
 and sportsmen, took refuge between Dapple’s feet. Sancho took 
 up the fugitive animal and presented it to Don Quixote, who imme- 
 diately cried out, ‘* Malum signum/ Malum signum/—a hare flies, 
 dogs pursue her, and Dulcinea appears not.” ‘‘ Your worship,” 
 auoth Sancho, ‘‘is a strange man; let us suppose now that this 
 hare is the lady Dulcinea, and the dogs that pursue her those wicked 
 enchanters, who transformed her into a scurvy wench; she flies, I 
 catch her, and put her into your worship’s hands, who have her in 
 your arms, and pray make much of her. Now where is the barm 
 of all this?” 
 
 The two boys who had been quarrelling now came up to look at 
 the hare, when Sancho asked one of them the cause of their dis- 
 pute, and was told by him who said ‘‘ you shall never see it again,” 
 that he had takena cage full of crickets from the other boy, which 
 he intended to keep. Sancho drew four maravedis out of his pocket 
 and gave them to the boy for his cage, which he also delivered to 
 Don Quixote, and said: ‘‘ Look here, sir, all your omens and signs 
 of ill luck are come to nothing : to my thinking, dunce as I am, 
 they have no more to do with our affairs than last year’s clouds; 
 and if I remember right, I have heard our priest say that good 
 Christians and wise people ought not to regard these trumperies ; 
 and it was but a few days since that your worship told me your- 
 self that people who minded such signs and toxens were little 
 
THE KNIGHT ARRIVES HOME. Goo 
 
 better than fools. So let us leave these matters as we found them, 
 and get home as fast as we can.” 
 
 The hunters then came up, and demanded their hare, which Don 
 Quixote gave them, and passed on; and in a field adjoining the 
 village, they met the curate and the bachelor Sampson Carrasco, 
 repeating their breviary. It must here be mentioned that Sancho 
 Panza, by way of sumpter-cloth, had thrown the buckram robe 
 painted with flames, which he had worn on the night of Altisidora’s 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 revival, upon his ass; never was an ass so honoured and bedizened. 
 The priest and bachelor, immediately recognizing their friends, ran 
 towards them with open arms. Don Quixote alighted, and embraced 
 them cordially. In the meantime, the boys, whose keen eyes 
 nothing can escape, came flocking from all parts. ‘‘Ho!”.cries 
 one, “‘here comes Sancho Panza’s ass, as gay as a parrot, and Don 
 Quixote’s old horse, leaner than ever !” 
 
636 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Thus, surrounded by the children, and accompanied by the priest 
 and the bachelor, they proceeded through the village till they 
 arrived at Don Quixote’s house, where, at the door, they found the 
 housekeeper and the niece, who had already heard of his arrival. 
 it had lkewise reached the ears of Sancho’s wife Teresa, who, 
 in all haste and dragging Sanchica after her, ran to meet her hus- 
 band; and seeing him not so well equipped as she thought a 
 governor ought to be, she said: ‘‘What makes you come thus, my 
 husband ? methinks you come afvot, and foundered. This, I trow, 
 is more like the condition of a beggar than a governor.” ‘‘ Peace, 
 wife,” quoth Sancho, ‘‘for the bacon is not so easily found as the 
 pin to hang it on. Let us g0 home, and there you shall hear 
 wonders. I have got money, and honestly, too, without wronging 
 anybody.” ‘* Hast thou got money, good husband ?—nay, then, 
 
 
 
 ’tis well, however it be gotten, for, well or ill, it will have brought 
 up no new custom in the world.” 
 
 Sanchica clung to her father, and asked him what he had brought 
 her home, for she had been wishing for him as they do for showers 
 in May. ‘Teresa then taking him by the hand on one side, and 
 Sanchica laying hold of his belt on the other, and at the same time 
 pulling Dapple by the halter, they went home, leaving Don Quixote 
 to the care of his niece and housekeeper, and in the company of the 
 priest and the bachelor. 
 
 Don Quixote, without waiting for a more fit occasion, imme- 
 diately took the priest and bachelor aside, and briefly told them of 
 his having been vanquished, and the obligation he had conse- 
 quently been laid under to abstain from the exercise of arms for 
 the space of twelve months, and which he said it was his intention 
 
PROPOSAL TO TURN SHEPHERD. 6387 
 
 strictly to observe, as became a true knight-errant. He also told 
 them of his determination to turn shepherd, and during the period 
 of his recess to pass his time in the rural occupations appertaining 
 to that mode of life: that while thus innocently and virtuously 
 employed, he might give free scope to his amorous thoughts. He 
 then besought them, if they were free from engagements of greater 
 moment, to follow his example, and bear him company; adding 
 that it should be his care to provide them with sheep, and what- 
 ever was necessary to equip them as shepherds; and, moreover, 
 that his project had been so far matured, that he had already 
 chosen names that would suit them exactly. The priest having 
 inquired what they were. he informed him that the name he pro- 
 posed to take himself was the shepherd Quixotiz; the bachelor 
 should be the shepherd Carrascon; and he, the curate, the shep- 
 herd Curiambro: and Sancho Panza, the shepherd Panzino. 
 
 
 
 Sancho at home. 
 
 This new madness of Don Quixote astonished his friends; but, 
 to prevent his rambling as before, and hoping also that a cure 
 might, in the meantime, be found for his malady, they entered into 
 his new project, and expressed their entire approbation of it; con- 
 senting also to be companions of his rural life. ‘This is excel- 
 lent:” said the bachelor; ‘‘it will suit me to a hair, for, as every- 
 body knows, I am a choice poet, and shall be continually compos- 
 ing amorous ditties and pastorals, to divert us as we range the 
 flowery fields. But there is one important thing to be done, which 
 is, that each of us should choose the name of the shepherdess he 
 intends to celebrate in his verses, and inscribe it on the bark of 
 
 _ every tree he comes near, according to the custom of enamoured 
 k 
 
 swains.” ‘‘ Certainly,” said the knight, ‘that should be done !— 
 not that I have occasion to look out for a name, having the peer- 
 less Dulcinea del Toboso, the glory of these banks, the ornament of 
 
6388 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 these meads, the flower of beauty, the cream of gentleness, and, 
 lastly, the worthy subject of all praise, however excessive !” 
 
 ‘‘ That is true,” said the priest; ‘‘ but as for us, we must look 
 out shepherdesses of an inferior stamp, and be content ; if they 
 square not with our wishes, they may corner with them; and, 
 when our invention fails us in the choice of names, we have only to 
 apply to books, and there we may be accommodated with Phillises, 
 Amarillises, Dianas, Floridas, Galateas, and Belisardas in abun- 
 dance, which, as they are goods for any man’s penny, we may pick 
 and choose. If my mistress, or, rather my shepherdess, should be 
 called Anna, I will celebrate her under the name of Anarda; and 
 if Frances, I will call her Francesina; and if Lucy, Lucinda; and 
 so on; and if Sancho Panza make one.of our fraternity, he may 
 celebrate his wife, Tereza Panza, by the name of Teresona.” Don 
 Quixote smiled at the turn given to the names; the priest again 
 commended his laudable resolution, and repeated his offer to join 
 the party whenever the duties of his function would permit. They 
 then took their leave, entreating him to take care of his health by 
 every means in his power. 
 
 No sooner had his friends left him than the housekeeper and 
 niece, who had been listening to their conversation, came to him. 
 ‘* Bless me, uncle!” cried the niece, ‘‘ what has now got into your 
 head? When we thought you were coming to stay at home, and 
 live a quiet and decent life, you are about to entangle yourself in 
 new mazes, and turn shepherd, forsooth !—in truth, uncle, ‘the 
 straw is too hard to make pipes of.’” Here the housekeeper put 
 in her word: ‘‘ How is your worship to bear the summer’s heat 
 and winter’s pinching cold, in the open fields? And the howling 
 of the wolves! No, good sir, don’t think of it ; this is the busi- 
 ness of stout men who are born and bred to it :—why, as I live, 
 your worship would find it worse even than being a knight-errant. 
 Look you, sir, take my advice—which is not given by one full of 
 bread and wine, but fasting, and with fifty years over my head 
 —stay at home, look after your estate, go often to confession, 
 and relieve the poor; and, if any ill come of it, let it lie at my 
 door.” 
 
 ‘‘Peace, daughters,” answered Don Quixote, ‘‘for I know my 
 duty; only help me to bed, for methinks I am not very well; and 
 assure yourselves that whether a knight-errant or a shepherd-errant, 
 I will not fail to provide for you, as you shall find by experience.” 
 The two good creatures—for they really were so—then carried him 
 to bed, where they brought him food, and attended upon him with 
 all imaginable care. 
 
 Ue 
 
THE KNIGHT FALLS SICK. 439 
 
 CHAPTER LXXIIL. 
 How Don Quixote fell sick, made his will, and died. 
 
 As all human things, especially the lives of men, are transitory, 
 ever advancing from their beginning to their decline and final ter- 
 mination, and as Don Quixote was favoured by no privilege of ex- 
 emption from the common fate, the period of his dissolution came 
 —and when he least thought of it. Whether that event was has- 
 tened by the melancholy occasioned by the recollection of his de- 
 feat, or that his destined hour was come, true it is that he was 
 seized with a fever, which, after six days’ confinement to his bed, 
 terminated his mortal course. During that time he was often 
 visited by his friends the priest, the bachelor, and the barber; and 
 his trusty squire Sancho Panza never quitted his bedside. 
 
 Supposing that the mortification of being vanquished, and the 
 disappointment of his hopes as to the restoration of Dulcinea, were 
 the causes of his present malady, they endeavoured by all possible 
 means to revive his spirits. The bachelor bid him be of good 
 courage, and to think soon of beginning their pastoral life ; telling 
 him that he had already composed an eclogue on the occasion, 
 which would eclipse all that Sannazarius had written, and that he 
 had also bought ef a shepherd of Quintanar two excellent dogs, to 
 guard the flock, the one called Barcino and the other Butron. 
 Nevertheless, Don Quixote’s dejection still continued ; it was, there- 
 fore, thought necessary to send fora physician, who, perceiving some 
 unfavourable symptoms in his pulse, advised his patient to look to 
 his soul’s health, for that of his body wasin danger. Don Quixote 
 heard this admonition with more tranquillity than those about him ; 
 for his housekeeper, his niece, and his squire, began to weep as 
 bitterly as if he were already dead, and laid out before their eyes. 
 Grief and other troublesome cares, the doctor told them, had brought 
 him to this pass. 
 
 Don Quixote now feeling an inclination to sleep, desired that he 
 might be left alone. They complied, and he slept full six hours at 
 a stretch (as it is termed), so that the niece and housekeeper thought 
 he would never awake more. At the end of that time, however, he 
 awaked, and immediately exclaimed in an audible voice—‘‘ Praised 
 be Almighty God, who has vouchsafed me so great a blessing !— 
 Boundless are his mercies; nor can the sins of men either lessen or 
 obstruct them !” 
 
 The niece listened attentively to her uncle’s words; for she 
 thought she had perceived in him, especially since his illness, more 
 consistency than usual, and she said to him, ‘‘ What is it you say, 
 sir? Has anything extraordinary happened? What mercies and 
 what sins do you speak of?” ‘*My good niece,” replied Don 
 Quixote, ‘‘the mercies I mean are those which God hath, in this 
 instance, been pleased to show me, though my sins are so many. 
 My judgment is now clear, and freed from the dark clouds of ignor- 
 
640 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ance with which the continual reading of those detestable books of 
 chivalry had obscured it. I now see their extravagance and folly, 
 and am only grieved that this discovery happens so late as to leave 
 me no time to profit by such books as might improve and enlighten 
 my soul I feel myself, niece, at the point of death, and I would 
 fain wash away the stain of madness from my character; for though 
 in my life I have been deservedly accounted a lunatic, I earnestly 
 desire that the truth thereof shall not be confirmed at my death. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Go, therefore, dear child, and call hither my good friends the 
 
 priest, the bachelor Sampson Carrasco, and Master Nicholas the 
 
 barber; for I would fain make my confession and my will.” 
 Fortunately, at that moment, his three friends entered. Ag soon 
 
 as Don Quixote saw them, he exclaimed, ‘‘Give me joy, good 
 
 gentlemen, that I am no longer Don Quixote de la Mancha, but 
 Alonzo Quixano, the same whom the world, for his fair and honest 
 life, was pleased to surname the Good. I am now an utter enemy 
 
 Sh ae SS ee 
 
 
 
THE KNIGHT’S WILL. : 641 
 
 to Amadis de Gaul and all his generation. Now the senseless and 
 profane histories of knight-errantry are to me disgusting and odious ; 
 IT now acknowledge my folly, and perceive the danger into which I 
 was led by reading them ; and now, through the mercy of God, and 
 my own dear-bought experience, I abhor them.” 
 
 When his three friends heard bim speak thus, they imagined that 
 some new frenzy had seized him. ‘‘ What! Signor Don Quixote,”’ 
 said the bachelor, ‘‘now that we have news of the Lady Dulcinea 
 being disenchanted, do you talk at this rate? And now that we 
 are just upon the point of becoming shepherds, to sing and live 
 like princes, would you turn hermit? Think not of it—be your- 
 self again, and leave these idle stories.” ‘‘ Such, indeed,” replied 
 Don Quixote, ‘‘ were the stories that to me have proved so baneful: 
 but my death, with Heaven’s assistance, shall convert them to my 
 good. I feel, good sirs, that death advances fast upon me; let us, 
 then, be serious, and bring me a confessor, and a notary to draw up 
 my will; for a man in my state must not trifle with his soul. Let 
 the notary be sent for, I beseech you, while my friend here, the 
 priest, is taking my confession.” 
 
 They looked at each other in surprise at his expressions, and 
 though still dubious, they were inclined to believe him, and could 
 not but regard as a fatal symptom this sudden change from mad- 
 ness to sanity. He then conversed again in so rational and 
 Christian a manner, that no doubt remained of the perfect restora- 
 tion of his intellects. The priest desired all the rest to leave the 
 room, and when alone, he received his confession. The bachelor 
 went for the notary, and presently returned with him, followed by 
 Sancho Panza, who having learned from the bachelor the hopeless 
 situation of his master, and seeing the niece and housekeeper in 
 tears, he also began to weep like the rest. The priest, having 
 taken his dying friend’s confession, came out of the room, and told 
 them that the good Alonzo Quixano was near his end, and certainly 
 in his right senses; he therefore advised them to go in, as it was 
 full time that his will should be made. This sad intelligence 
 opened still wider the sluices of grief, and torrents of tears issued 
 from the swollen eyes of the housekeeper, his niece, and Sancho 
 Panza his trusty squire, and from the bottom of their aggrieved 
 hearts a thousand sighs and groans; for, in truth, as it has been 
 said before, both while he was plain Alonzo Quixano, and while 
 he was Don Quixote de la Mancha, he was ever of an amiable 
 disposition, and kind and affable in his behaviour; so that he 
 was beloved, not only by those of his own family, but by all 
 that knew him. 
 
 The notary now entered the room with the others, and after the 
 preamble of the will had been written, and Don Quixote had dis- 
 posed of his soul in the usual Christian forms, coming to the distri- 
 bution of his wordly goods he directed the notary to write as follows : 
 namely— 
 
 ‘‘Ttem, it is my will, that, in regard to certain monies which 
 Sancho Panza, whom in the wildness of my folly I called my 
 
642, ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 squire, has in his custody, there being between him and me some 
 reckonings, receipts, and disbursements, he shall not be charged 
 with them, nor called to any account for them; but if, after he has 
 paid himself, there should be any overplus, which will be but little, 
 it shall be his own, and much good may it do him; and if, as in my 
 distracted state I procured him the government of an island, I could, 
 now that I am in my senses, procure him that of a kingdom, I 
 would readily do it: for the simplicity of his heart, and the fidelity 
 of his dealings, well deserve it.” 
 
 Then, turning to Sancho, he said: ‘‘ Forgive me, friend, for per- 
 verting thy understanding, and persuading thee to believe that 
 there were, and still are, knights-errant in the world.” 
 
 ‘¢ Alas! good sir,” replied Sancho, ‘‘do not die, I pray you; but 
 take my advice, and live many years: for the greatest folly a man 
 ‘can commit in this world, is to give himself up to death, without 
 any good cause for it, but only from melancholy. Good your wor- 
 ship, be not idle, but rise and let us be going to the tield, dressed 
 like shepherds, as we agreéd to do: and who knows but behind 
 some bush or other we may find the lady Dulcinea disenchanted as 
 fine as heart can wish? If you pine at being vanquished, lay the 
 blame upon me, and say you were unhorsed because I had aot duly 
 girthed Rozinante’s saddle; and your worship must have seen in 
 your books of chivalry that nothing is more common than for one 
 knight to unhorse another, and that he who is vanquished to-day 
 may be the conqueror to-morrow.” 
 
 ‘It is so, indeed,” quoth the bachelor; ‘‘ honest Sancho is very 
 much in the right.” ‘‘Gentlemen,” quoth Don Quixote, ‘‘let us 
 proceed fair and softly ; look not for this year’s birds in last year’s 
 nests. I was mad; I am now sane: I was Don Quixote de la 
 Mancha; I am now, as formerly, styled Alonzo Quixano the Good, 
 and may my repentance and sincerity restore me to the esteem you 
 once had for me !—now let the notary proceed.” 
 
 ‘‘Ttem, I bequeath to Antonia Quixano, my niece, here present, 
 all my estate, real and personal, after the payment of all my debts 
 and legacies; and the first to be discharged shall be the wages due 
 te my housekeeper for the time she has been in my service, and 
 twenty ducats besides for a suit of mourning. 
 
 ‘¢T appoint for my executors signor the priest and signor bachelor 
 Sampson Carrasco, here present. Item, it is also my will that, if 
 Antonia Quixano my niece should be inclined to marry, it shall be 
 only with a man who, upon the strictest inquiry, shall be found to 
 know nothing of books of chivalry; and, in case it appear that he 
 is acquainted with such books, and that my niece, notwithstanding, 
 will and doth marry him, then shall she forfeit all I have bequeathed 
 her, which my executors may dispose of in pious uses as they think 
 proper. And finally, I beseech the said gentlemen, my executors, 
 that if haply they should come to the knowledge of the author of a 
 certain history, dispersed abroad, entitled, ‘The Second Part of the 
 Exploits of Don’ Quixote de la Mancha,’ they will, in my name, 
 most earnestly entreat him to pardon the occasion I have unwit- 
 
CID HAMET’S FAREWELL. 648 
 
 tingly given him of writing so many and such gross absurdities as 
 are contained in that book; for I depart this life with a burden 
 upon my conscience, for having caused the publication of so much 
 folly.” 
 
 The will was then closed; and being seized with a fainting-fit, he 
 stretched himself out at length in the bed, at which all were alarmed, 
 and hastened to his assistance; yet he survived three days: often 
 fainting during that time in the same manner, which never failed 
 to cause much confusion in the house: nevertheless, the niece ate, 
 the housekeeper drank, and Sancho Panza consoled himself—for 
 legacies tend much to moderate grief that nature claims for the de- 
 ceased. At last, after receiving the sacrament, and making all 
 such pious preparations, as well as expressing his abhorrence, in 
 strong and pathetic terms, of the wicked books by which he had 
 been led astray, Don Quixote’s last moment arrived. The notary 
 was present, and protested he had never read in any book of chi- 
 valry of a knight-errant dying in his bed in so composed and Chris- 
 tian a manner as Don Quixote, who, amidst the plaints and tears of 
 all present, resigned his breath—I mean to say, he died. When 
 the priest saw that he was no more, he desired the notary to draw 
 up a certificate, stating that Alonzo Quixano, commonly called Don 
 Quixote de la Mancha, had departed this life and died a natural 
 death ; which testimonial he required, lest any other author besides 
 Cid Hamet Benengeli, should raise him from the dead, and impose 
 upon the world with their fabulous stories of his exploits. 
 
 This was the end of that extraordinary gentleman of La Mancha, 
 whose birthplace Cid Hamet was careful to conceal, that all the 
 towns and villages of that province might contend for the honour 
 of having produced him, as did the seven cities of Greece for the 
 glory of giving birth to Homer. The lamentations of Sancho, the 
 niece, and the housekeeper, are not here given, nor the new epitaphs 
 on the tomb of the deceased knight, except the following one, com- 
 posed by Sampson Carrasco :— 
 
 Here lies the valiant cavalier 
 
 Who never had a sense of fear: 
 
 So high his matchless courage rose, 
 
 He reckoned death among his vanquished foes. 
 
 Wrongs to redress, his sword he drew, 
 And many a caitiff giant slew ; 
 
 His days of life, though madness stained, 
 In death his sober senses he regained. 
 
 The sagacious Cid Hamet, now addressing himself to his pen, said, 
 ‘‘Here, O my slender quill! whether well or ill cut—here, by this 
 brass wire suspended, shalt thou hang upon this spit-rack, and live 
 for many long ages yet to come, unless presumptuous or wicked 
 scribblers take thee down to profane thee. But, before they lay 
 their vile hands upon thee, tell them, as well as thou art able, to 
 beware of what they do; say to them, ‘Off —off, ye caitiffs! 
 
- 
 
 644 ADVENTURES OF DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Approach me not! for this enterprise, good king, was reserved for 
 me alone.’ For me alone was Don Quixote born, and I for him: he 
 knew how to act, and I to record: we were destined for each other, 
 in spite of that bungling impostor of Tordesillas, who has dared, 
 with his clumsy and ill-shaped ostrich quill, to describe the exploits 
 of my valorous knight—-a burden much too weighty for his 
 shoulders—an undertaking too bold for his impotent and frozen 
 genius. Warn him, if perchance occasion offers, not to disturb the 
 wearied and mouldering bones of Don Quixote; nor vainly 
 endeavour, in opposition to all the ancient laws and customs of 
 death, to show him again in Old Castile, impiously raking him out 
 of the grave, wherein he lies really and truly interred, utterly un- 
 able ever to make another sally, or attempt another expedition: for 
 enough has been done to expose the follies of knight-errantry by 
 those he has already happily accomplished, and which in this and 
 other countries have gained him so much applause. Thus shalt thow 
 have fulfilled thy Christian duty, in giving salutary admonition: to 
 those who wish thee ill: and I shall rest satisfied, and proud also, 
 to have been the first author who enjoyed the felicity of witnessing 
 the full effects of his honest labours ; for the sole object of mine was 
 to expose to the contempt they deserved the extravagant and silly 
 tricks of chivalry, which this of my true and genuine Don Quixote 
 has nearly accomplished; their credit in the world being now 
 actually tottering, and will doubtless soon sink altogether, never 
 to rise again. Farewell.” 
 
 y] 
 
 THE END. 
 

 

 
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