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CORNELL 
 UNIVERSITY- 
 LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PQ 6329.A2 1869 
 
 The history of Don Quixote de la Mancha 
 
 3 1924 008 863 924 
 
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 [\l Cornell University 
 yB Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
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THE HISTORY 
 
 07 
 
 DO N QUIXOTE 
 
 DE LA MANCHA. 
 
 FROM THE SPAI^ISH OF CERVANTES. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY GUSTAV DORE. 
 
 PHILA.DELPHIA: 
 
 POETEE & COATES. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 I. The quality and way of living of Don Quixote 1 
 
 n. Which treats of Don Quixote's first sally - 5 
 
 m. An account of the pleasant method taken by Don Quixote to 
 
 be dubbed a knight ... g 
 
 rV. What befell the Knight after he had left the urn 12 
 
 Y. A further account of our Knight's misfortunea - 17 
 
 VI. Of the pleasant and curious scrutiny which the Ourate and the 
 
 Barber made of the library of our ingenious gentleman - 20 
 
 Vn. Don Quixote's second sally in quest of adventures 21 
 
 VnL Of the good success which the valorous Don Quixote had in 
 the most terrifying and incredible adventure of the Wind- 
 miUs, with other transactions worthy to be transmitted to 
 posterity - - - 28 
 
 IX. What passed between Don Quixote and the Goatherds - 29 
 
 X. A continuation Of the story of Marcella 83 
 
 XL The sage discourse continued ; with the adventures of a dead ' 
 
 body ..... 47 
 
 Xn. Which treats of the grand adventure of Mambrino's helmet, 
 
 with other things which befell our invincible Knight 67 
 
 XnL Of what befell Don Qnixote in the Sierra Moiena, being one of 
 the most extraordinary adventures related in this faithful 
 history ... . 66 
 
 XTV. A continuation of the adventures in the Sierra Morena - 72 
 
 XV. Of what happened to Don Quixote's Squire, with the famous 
 
 device of the Curate and the Barber . - . ' 85 
 
 XVL How the Priest and the Barber proceeded in their project ; 
 
 witi other things worthy of being related - - 88 
 
 XVn. Of the new and agreeable adventure that befell the Priest and 
 
 the Barber, and of the beautiful Dorothea - - 95 
 
 XVni. Which treats of the beautiful Dorothea's discretion j with other 
 
 particulars ... . - loa 
 
 XIX. Of the ingenious method pursued to withdraw our enamoured 
 Knight from the rigorous penance which he had imposed 
 on hunself ... . 108 
 
 XX. The pleasant dialogue between Don Quixote and his Sqoire 
 
 continued ; with other adventures - . -116 
 
 XXI. What befell Don Quixote and his company at the inn 121 
 
 XXn. Of the dreadful battle betwixt Don Quixote and certain Wine- 
 skins . - - - - 125 
 
 XXm. Containing an account of many surprising accidents in the inn 127 
 XXIV. The history of the famous Princess Micomicona continued ; 
 
 with other pleasant adventures - - 132 
 
 XXV. A continuation of Don Quixote's curious and excellent dis- 
 course upon arms and learning 137 
 
1 CONTENTS. 
 
 CRAP. jpAO» 
 
 XXVI. Of ocourrencos at the inn; and of many other things worthy 
 
 to be kno^vn 139 
 
 XXVn. The agreeable history of the young muleteer; with other 
 
 strange accidents - - 141 
 
 XXVUI. A continuation of the extraordinary adventures that happened 
 
 in the inn - - 145 
 
 XXIX. In which the dispute concerning Mambrino's helmet is decided; 
 
 with other adventiures that really and truly happened 148 
 
 XXX. The notable adventure of the Holy Brotherhood ; with an ao 
 
 count of the ferocity of our good Knight, Don Quixote 151 
 
 XXXI. Of the strange and wonderful manner in which Don Quixote de 
 la Mancha was enchanted ; with other remarkable occur- 
 rences - - - . . 166 
 
 XXXn. Of the ingenious contest between Don Quixote and the Canon ; 
 
 with other incidents - 161 
 
 XXXin. The Goatherd's natratjive 164 
 
 XXXIV. Of the quarrel between Don Quixote and the Goatherd, with 
 
 the rare adventure of the Disciplinants - 167 
 
 XXXV. Whatpassed between the Curate, the Barber, and Don Quixote, 
 
 concerning his indisposition - - 172 
 
 XXXVL Of the memorable quarrel between Sancho Pajiza and Don Quix- 
 ote's Niece and housekeeper ; with other pleasant passages 178 
 XXXVn. The pleasant discourse between Don Quixote, Sancho Fanza, 
 
 and the bachelor Samson Carrasco - - - 181 
 
 XXXVTn. The discourse continued ; also the wise and pleasant dialogue 
 between Sancho Panza and Teresa Panza his wife ; to- 
 gether with other passages worthy of happy memory 185 
 XXXIX. What passed between Don Quixote, his Niece, and the House- 
 keeper ; being one of the most important chapters in the 
 whole history - - - - - 181 
 XL. Don Quixote's success in his journey to visit the Lady Dul- 
 
 cinea del Toboso - - 19i 
 
 XLI. That ^ves an account of things which you vrill know when 
 
 you have read it - , , - - 19t 
 
 XLU. Wherein is related the stratagem practised by Sancho, of en 
 chanting the Lady Dulcinea ; with, other events no less 
 ludicrous than true - 199 
 
 XLin. Of the strange adventure which befell the valorous Don Quix 
 
 ote with the cart, or Death's caravan - 203 
 
 XLIV. Of the strange adventure which befell the valorous Don Quix 
 
 ote wi& the brave Knight of the Mirrors 206 
 
 XLV. Wherein is continued the adventure of the Knight of the Wood, 
 
 with the wise and witty dialogue between the two Squires 210 
 XLVL Continuation again of the adventure of the Knight of the Wood 213 
 XLVn. Giving an account of the Knight of the Mirrors and his Squire 220 
 XLVm. Of what befell Don Quixote with a worthy gentleman of La 
 
 Mancha ... . . 223 
 
 XLIX Where you will find set forth the highest proof that Don Quix- 
 ote ever gave, or could give, of nis courage ; with the suc- 
 cessful issue of the adventure of the Lions • 227 
 L. How Don Quixote was entertained at the castle or house of the 
 Knight of the Green Coat, with other extraordinary mat- 
 ters asa 
 
CONTENTS. TO 
 
 LI. The adventure of the Shepherd-Lover, and ether truly comical 
 
 passages - - 235 
 
 Ln. An account of rich Camacho's wedding, and what befell poor 
 
 Basil - - - - - 239 
 
 LQL The progress of Camacho's wedding; with other delightful 
 
 accidents . r . . . . . 242 
 
 LIV. An account of the great adventure of Montesino's cave 217 
 
 LV. Of the wonderful things which the unparalleled Don Quixote 
 declared he had seen in the deep cave of Montesinos, the 
 greatness and impossibility of which makes this adventure 
 pass for apociyphal - - - - 250 
 
 LYI. Which gives an account of a thousand trifles and stories, as 
 impertinent as necessary to the right understanding of 
 this great history - - - - - 256 
 
 LVn. Where you find the grounds of the braying adventures, that of 
 the Fnppet-player, and the memorable divining of the 
 fortune-telling Ape - - . 260 
 
 LVni. A pleasant account of the Puppet-play; with other very good 
 
 things - - - - - 266 
 
 LIX. Wherein is shewn Don Quixote's ill success in the braying 
 adventure, which did not end so happily as he desired and 
 expected - - . . . 271 
 
 LX. Of some things which he that reads shall know, if he reads them 
 
 with attention - - 276 
 
 LXI. What happened to Don Quixote with the fair Huntress 279 
 
 LXn. Which treats of many and great matters - - 281 
 
 LXHI. Don Quixote's answer to his reprover; with other grave and 
 
 merry accidents - - ' 28B 
 
 LXIV. Containing ways and means for disenchanting the peerless Dul 
 cinea del Toboso, being one of the most famous adven 
 tnres in the whole book - - - 291 
 
 LXV. Wherein is contained the information given to Don Quixote how 
 
 to disenchant Dulcinea ; with other wonderful passages - 296 
 LXVI. Wherein is recorded the wonderful and inconceivable adventure 
 of the afflicted Duenna, or the Countess of Trifaldi ; and 
 likewise Sancho Fanza's letter to his wife Teresa Fanza 299 
 
 LXVn. In which is continued the fomoqs adventure of the afflicted 
 
 Duenna - - - - 303 
 
 LXVTn. Of the account ^ven by the afflicted Duenna of her misfortunes 304 
 LXIX. Wherein the Countess Trifaldi continues her stupendous and 
 
 meiporfible history ... 308 
 
 LXX. Which treats of matters relating and appertaining to this adven- 
 ture, and to this memorable history . - 310 
 LXXI. Of the arrival of Clavileno ; with the conclusion of this prolix 
 
 adventure .... 313 
 
 LXXII. The instructions which Don Quixote gave to Sancho Panzal 
 before he went to his government ; with other weU-digosted 
 matter - - - - , - 820 
 
 LXXIIL Of the second instruction Don Quixote gave Sancho Psinza - 822 
 LXXIV. How Sancho Fanza was carried to his government ; and of the 
 
 strange adventure that befell Don Quixote in .the castle - 32S 
 LXXV. How the great Sancho Fanza took possession of his island, and 
 
 in what manner he began to govern 328 
 
 LSSVL Of a 4re9^nl alivnn which Don Quixote experience 4 ?31 
 
riU CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PAOl 
 
 LXXVU. Which pves a further account of Sanoho Panza's betaviour in 
 
 his government - - - 334 
 
 LXXVm. What happened to Don Quixote with Donna Rodriguez ; ea also 
 
 other passages worthy to be recorded - . - 840 
 
 LXXIX. What happened to Sancho Fanza as he went the rounds in his 
 
 island - - - • 843 
 
 LXXX. Which narrates the success of the page that caiiied Sancho'd 
 
 letter to his wife ----- 350 
 LXXXI. A continuation of Sancho Panza's government ; with other enter- 
 taining passages . - . . - 355 
 
 LXXXn. A relation of the adventures of the second disconsolate or dis- 
 tressed matron, otherwise called Donna Bodnguez ; with 
 the letters of Teresa Panza to the Duchess and to her 
 husband - . . 360 
 
 LXXXin. The toilsome end and conclusion of Sancho Panza's government 864 
 
 LXXXIV- What happened to Sancho by the way; with other matters 
 
 wluch you win have no more to do than to see - - 868 
 
 LXXXV. Which treats of matters that relate to this history, and no other 370 
 
 LXXXVI. Of the extraordinary and unaccountable combat between Don 
 Quixote de la Mancha and the lackey Tosilos, in vindica- 
 tion of the matron Donna Eodriguez's daughter - 373 
 
 LXXXVn. How adventures crowded so thick on Don Quixote that they trod 
 
 upon one another's heels ... 876 
 
 LXXXVm. Of an extraordinary accident that happened to Don Quixote, 
 
 which may well pass for an adventure - - 384 
 
 LXXXIX. What happened to Don Quixote going to Barcelona - 383 
 
 XO. Of what befell Don Quixote at his entrance into Barcelona; with 
 
 other events more true than ingenious - 897 
 
 XCI. Of the adventure of the enchanted head; with other trifling mat- 
 ters that must not be omitted . , - 899 
 XOn. Of an unlucky adventure which Don Quixote laid most to heart 
 
 of any that had yet befallen him ... 404 
 
 XCm. Wherein is given an account of the Knight of the White Moon ; 
 
 With other matters .... 406 
 
 XCIV. How Don Quixote resolved to turn shepherd, and lead a rural life 
 for the year's time he was obliged not to bear arms ; with 
 other passages truly good and diverting - - 410 
 
 XCV. Of the ominous accidents that crossed Don Quixote as he ent ired 
 his village ; with other transactions that illustrate and 
 adorn this memorable history ... 417 
 
 XCVI. How Don Quixote feH sick, made his last will, and died 430 
 
LIFE AND ACHIEVEMENTS 
 
 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MAKCHA. 
 
 CHAPTEB 1. 
 
 The quality and way of living of Don Quixote. 
 
 ISr a certain village in La Mancha, in the kingdorn 
 of Arragon,of which I cannot remember the name, 
 there lived not long ago one of those old-fashioned 
 gentlemen, who are never without a lance upon a 
 rack, an old target, a lean horse, and a greyhound. 
 His diet consisted more of beef than mutton; 
 and, with minced meat on most nights, lentiles on 
 Fridays, and a pigeon extraordinary oh Sundays, 
 he consumed three quarters of his' revenue ; the 
 rest was laid out \a a plush coat, velvet breeches, with 
 slippers of the same, for holidays ; and a suit of the 
 very best homespun cloth, which he bestowed on him- 
 self for working-days. His whole family was a house- 
 keeper something turned of forty, a niece not twenty, 
 and a man that served him in the house and in the field, and 
 could saddle a horse, and handle the pruning-hook. The 
 master himself was nigh fifty years of age, of a hale and 
 strong complexion, lean-bodied and thin-faced, an early 
 riser, and a lover of hunting. Some say his sirname was 
 Quixada, or Quesada (for authors differ in this particular) ; however 
 we may reasonably conjecture, he was called Quixada {i. e. lantern- 
 jaws), though this concerns us but little, provided we keep strictly to 
 the truth in every point of this history. 
 
 Be it known, then, that when our gentleman had nothing to dp 
 (which was almost all the year round,) he passed his time in reading 
 books of knight-errantry, which he did with that application and 
 delight, that at last he in a manner wholly left off his country 
 sports, and even the care of his estate ; nay, he grew so strangely 
 enamoured of these amusements, that he sold many acres of land tp 
 purchase books of that kmd, by which means he collected as many 
 1 1 
 
2 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 af them as he could ; but none pleased him like the works of tha 
 famous Felicineo del Sylva; for the brilliancy of his prose, and those 
 intricate expressions with which it is interlaced seemed to him so many 
 pearls of eloquence, especially when he came to read the love- 
 addresses and challenges; many of them in this extraordinary style : 
 "The reason of your unreasonable usage of my reason does so 
 enfeeble my reason, that I have reason to expostulate with your 
 beauty." And this, " The sublime heavens, which with your divinity 
 divinely fortify you with the stars, and fix you the. deserver of the 
 desert that is deserved by your grandeur." These, and such-like 
 rhapsodies, strangely puzzled the poor gentleman's understanding, 
 while he was racking his brain to unravel their meaning, which Aris- 
 totle himself could never have found, though he should have been 
 raised from the dead for that very purpose. 
 
 He did not so well like those dreadful wounds which Don Belianis 
 gave and received ; for he considered that all the art of surgery 
 could never secure his face and body from being strangely disfigured 
 with scars. However, he highly commended the author for conclud- 
 ing his book with a promise to finish that unfinishable adventure ; and 
 many times he had a desire to put pen to paper, and faithfully and 
 literally finish it himself; which he had certainly done, and doubt- 
 less with good success, had not his thoughts been wholly engrossed 
 in much more important designs. 
 
 He would often dispute with the curate of the parish, a man of 
 learning, that had taken his degree at Giguenza, as to which was the 
 better knight, Palmerin of England, or Amadis de Gaul ; but Master 
 Nicholas, the barber of the same town, would say, that none of them 
 could compare with the Knight of the Sun ; and that if any one 
 came near him, it was certainly Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis 
 de Gaul ; for he was a man of most commodious temper, neither was 
 he so finical, nor such a winning lover, as his brother ; and as for 
 courage, he vf as not a jot behind him. 
 
 In fine, he gave himself up so wholly to the reading of romances, 
 that at night he would pore on until it was day, and would read on 
 all day until it was night ; and thus a world of extraordinary notions, 
 picked out of his books, crowded into his imagination ; now his head 
 was full of nothing but enchantments, quarrels, battles, challenges, 
 wounds, complaints, love-passages, torments, and abundance of absurd 
 impossibilities; insomuch that all the fables and fantastical tales 
 which he read seemed to him now as true as the most authentic his- 
 tories. He would say, that the Cid Euydiaz was a very brave knight, 
 but not worthy to stand in competition with the Knight of the Burning- 
 sword, who with a single back-stroke would cut in sunder two fierce 
 and mighty giants. He liked yet better Bernardo del Carpio, who, 
 at Eoncesvalles, deprived of life the enchanted Orlando, having lifted 
 
"n I.] DON QUIXOTE. 3 
 
 him from the ground, and choked him in the air, as Hercules did 
 Antaeus, the son of the Earth. 
 
 As for the giant Morgante, he always spoke very civil things of 
 him ; for among that monstrous brood, who were ever intolerably 
 proud and insolent, he alone behaved himself like a civil and well- 
 bred person. 
 
 But of all men in the world he admired Rinaldo of Montalban, and 
 particularly his carrying away the idol of Mahomet, which was ali 
 massy gold, as the history says ; while he so hated that traitor Gala- 
 Ion, that for the pleasure of kicking him handsomely, he would have 
 given up his housekeeper, nay and his niece into the bargain. 
 
 Having thus confused his understanding, he unluckily stumbled 
 upon the oddest fancy that ever entered into a madman's brain ; for 
 now he thought it convenient and necessary, as well for the increase 
 of his own honour, as the service of the public, to turn knight-errant, 
 and roam through the whole world, armed cap-a-pie, and mounted 
 on his steed, in quest Of adventures ; that thus imitating those knight- 
 errants of whom he had read, and following their course of life, 
 redressing all manner of grievances, and exposing himself to danger 
 on all occasional at last, after a happy conclusion of his enterprises, 
 he might purchase everlasting honour and renown. 
 
 The first thing he did was to scour a suit of armour that had 
 belonged to his great grandfather, and had lain time out of mind 
 carelessly rusting in a corner ; but when he had cleaned and repaired 
 it as well as he could,' he perceived there was a material piece want- 
 ing ; for, instead of a complete helmet, there was only a single head- 
 piece. However, his industry supplied that defect ; for with some 
 pasteboard he made a kind of half-beaver, or vizor, which, being 
 fitted to the head-piece, made it look like an entire helmet. Then, to 
 know whether it were cutlass-proof, he drew his sword, and tried its 
 edge upon the pasteboard vizor ; but with the very first stroke he 
 unluckily undid in a moment what he had been a whole week in 
 doing. He did not like its being broke with so much ease, and 
 therefore, to secure it from the like accident, he made it anew, and 
 fenced it with thin plates of iron, which he fixed on the inside of it 
 so artificially, that at last he had reason to be satisfied with the 
 solidity of the work ; and so without any farther experiment, he 
 resolved it should pass to all intents and purposes for a full and 
 sufficient helmet. 
 
 The next moment he went to view his horse, whose bones stuck 
 out like the corners of a Spanish real, being a worse jade than 
 Gonela's, qui tantum pellis et ossafuit; however, his master thought 
 that neither Alexander's Bucephalus nor the Cid's Bavieca could be 
 compared with him. He was four days considering what name to 
 give him ; fir, as he argued with himself, there was no reason that 
 
4 DON QUIXOTK. 
 
 a horse bestrid by so famous a knight, and withal so excellent in him< 
 self, should not be distinguished by a particular name ; so, after many 
 names which he devised, rejected, changed, liked, disliked, and 
 pitched upon again, he concluded to call him Rozinante. 
 
 Having thus given his horse a name, he thought of choosing one 
 for himself ; and having seriously pondered on the matter eight whole 
 days more, at last he determined to call himself Don Quixote. 
 Whence the author of this history draws this inference, that his right 
 name was Quixada, and not Quesada, as others obstinately pretend. 
 And observing that the valiant Amadis, not satisfied with the bare 
 appellation of Amadis, added to it the name of his country, that it 
 might grow more famous by his exploits, and so styled himself Ama- 
 dis de Gaul ; so he, like a true lover of his native soil, resolved to 
 call himself Don Quixote de la Mancha; which addition, to his 
 thinking, denoted very plainly his parentage and Country, and conse- 
 quently would fix a lasting honour on that part of the world. 
 
 And now, his armour being scoured, his head-piece improved to a 
 helmet, his horse and himself new named, he perceived he wanted 
 nothing but a lady, on whom he might bestow the empire of his heart ; 
 for he was sensible that a knight-errant without a mispress was a tree 
 without either fruit or leaves, and a body without a soul. " Should 
 I," said he to himself, " by good or ill fortune, chance to encounter 
 some giant, as it is common in knight-errantry, and happen to lay 
 him prostrate on the ground, transfixed with my lance, or cleft in two, 
 or, in short, overcome him, and have him at my mercy, would it not 
 be proper to have some lady to whom I may send him as a trophy of 
 my valour ? Then when he comes into her presence, throwing him- 
 self at her feet, he may thus make his humble submission : ' Lady, I 
 am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island of Malindrania, van- 
 quished in single combat by that never-deservedly-enough-extolled 
 knight-errant Don Quixote de la Mancha, who has commanded me 
 to cast myself most humbly at your feet, that it may please your 
 honour to dispose of me according to your will.' " Near the place 
 where he lived dwelt a goodrlooking country girl, for whom he had 
 formerly had a sort of an inclination, though, it is believed, she never 
 heard of it, nor regarded it in the least. Her name was Aldonza 
 Lorenzo, and this was she whom he thought he might entitle to the 
 sovereignty of his heart ; upon which he studied to find her out a 
 new name, that might have some affinity with her old one, and yet 
 at the same time sound somewhat like that of a princess, or lady of 
 quality ; so at last he resolved to call her Dulcinea, with the addition 
 of del Toboso, from the place where she was born ; a name in his 
 opinion, sweet, harmonious, and dignified, like the others whxh he 
 lad devised. 
 
AH. U.\ BON QUIXOTE. i 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 Which treats of Don Quixote's first sally. 
 
 Fhese preparations being made, he found his designs lipe for tction, 
 and thought it now a crime to deny himself any longer to the injured 
 world that wanted such a deliverer ; the more when he considered 
 what grievances he was to redress, what wrongs and injuries to re- 
 move, what abuses to correct, and what duties to discharge. So one 
 morning before day, in the greatest heat of July, without acquainting 
 any one with his design, with all the secrecy imaginable, he armed 
 nimself cap-a-pie, laced on his ill-contrived helmet, braced on his tar- 
 get, grasped his lance, mounted Rozinante, and at the private door 
 of his back-yard sallied out into the fields, wonderfully pleased to see 
 with how much ease he had succeeded in the beginning of his enter- 
 prise< But he had not gone far ere a terrible thought alarmed him 
 a thought that had like to have made him renounce his great under- 
 taking ; for now it came into his mind, that the honour of knighthood 
 had not yet been conferred upon him, and therefore, according to the 
 laws of chivalry, he neither could nor ought to appear in arms against 
 any professed knight ; nay, he also considered, that though he were 
 already knighted, it would become him to wear white armour, and 
 not to adorn his shield with any device, until he had deserved one by 
 some extraordinary demonstration of his valour. 
 
 These thoughts staggered his resolution ; but his frenzy prevailing 
 more than reason, he resolved to be dubbed a knight by the first he 
 should meet, after the example of several others, who, as the romances 
 informed him, had formerly done the like. As for the other dif- 
 ficulty about wearing white armour, he proposed to overcome it, by 
 scouring his own at leisure until it should look whiter than ermine. 
 And having thus dismissed these scruples, he rode calmly on, leaving 
 it to his horse to go which way he pleased ; firmly believing, that in 
 this consisted the very essence of adventures. And as he thus went 
 on, " no doubt," said he to himself, " that when the history of my 
 famous achievements shall be given to the world, the learned author 
 will begin it in this very manner, when he comes to give an account of 
 this my setting out : ' Scarce had the ruddy Phoebus begun to spread 
 liie golden tresses pf his lovely hair over the vast surface of the 
 earthly globe, and scarce had those feathered poets of the grove, the 
 pretty painted birds, tuned their little pipes, to sing their early wel- 
 comes in soft melodious strains to the beautiful Aurora, displaying her 
 rosy graces to mortal eyes from the gates and balconies of the Man- 
 chegan horizon, — vhen the renowned knight Don Quixote de la 
 Mancha, disdaining soft repose, forsook the voluptuous down, and 
 1* 
 
6 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 mounting his famous steed Eozinaiue, entered the ancient and cele- 
 brated plains of Montiel.' " This was indeed the very roac he took 
 and then proceeding, " O happy age ! O fortunate times ! " cried he, 
 " decreed to usher into the world my famous achievements ; achieve- 
 ments worthy to be engraven on brass, carved on marble, and de- 
 lineated in some masterpiece of painting, as monuments of my glo- 
 ry, and examples for posterity ! And thou, venerable sage, wise en- 
 chanter, whatever be thy name ; thou whom fate has ordained to be 
 the compiler of this rare history, forget not, I beseech thee, my trus- 
 ty Eozinante, the eternal compai-uon of all my adventures." Afte. 
 this, as if he had been really in love ; " O Princess Dulcmea," cried 
 he, "lady of this captive heart, much sorrow and woe "you have 
 doomed me to in banishing me thus and imposing on me your rigor- 
 ous commands, never to appear before your beauteous face ! E.e- 
 member^ lady, that loyal heart your slave, who for your love submits 
 to so many miseries." To these extravagant conceits, he added a 
 world of others, all in imitation, and in the very style of those which 
 the reading of romances had furnished him with ; and all this while 
 he rode so softly^ fend the sun's heat increased so fast, and was so 
 violent, that it would have been sufficient to have melted his brains, 
 had he had any left. 
 
 He travelled almost all that day without meeting any adventure 
 worth the trouble of relating, which put him into a kind of despair ; 
 for he desired nothing more than to encounter immediately some per 
 son on whom he might try the vigour of his arm. 
 
 Towards the evening, he and his horse being heartily tired and al- 
 most famished, Don Quixote looked about him, in hopes to discover 
 some castle, or at least some shepherd's cottage, there to repose and 
 refresh himself ; and at last near the road which he kept, he espied 
 an inn, a most welcome sight to his longing eyes. Hastening towards 
 it with all the speed he could, he got thither just at the close of the 
 evening. There stood by chance- at the inn-door two young female 
 adventurers, who were going to Seville with some carriers that hap- 
 pened to take up their lodging there that very evening ; and as what- 
 ever our knight-errant saw, thought, or imagined, was all of a roman- 
 tic cast, and appeared to him altogether after the manner of his fa- 
 vourite books, he no sooner saw the inn but he fancied it to be a castle 
 fenced with four towers, and lofty pinnacles glittering with silver, to- 
 gether with a deep moat, drawbridge, and all tho^e other appurtenan- 
 ces peculiar to such kind of places. 
 
 When he came near it, he stopped a while at a distance from the 
 gate, expecting that some dwarf would appear on the battlements 
 and sound his trumpet to give notice of the arrival of a knight ; but 
 finding that nobody came, and that Eozinante was for making the 
 best of his way tj the stable, he advanced to the door, at which the 
 
CH- II.] DON QUIXOTE. 7 
 
 innkeeper immediately appeared. He was a man whose burden of 
 fat inclined him to peace and quietness, yet when he observed such a 
 strange disguise of human shape in his old armour and equipage, he 
 could hardly forbear laughter ; but having the fear of such a warlike 
 appearance before his eyes, he resolved to give him good words, and 
 therefore accosted him civilly : " Sir Knight," said he, " if your 
 worship be disposed to alight, you will fail of nothing here but of a 
 bed ; as for all other accommodations, you may be supplied to youi 
 mind." Don Quixote observing the humility of the governor of the 
 castle, (for such the iniAeeper and inn seemed to him,) " Senior 
 Castellano," said he, " the least thing in the world suffices me ; for 
 arms are the only things I value, arid combat is my bed of repose." 
 " At this rate. Sir Knight, you may safely alight, and I dare assure 
 you, you can hardly miss being kept awake all the year long in this 
 house, much less one single night." With that he went and held Don 
 Quixote's stirrup, who haying ate nothing all day, dismounted with 
 no small trouble and difficulty. He immediately desired the gover- 
 nor (that is, the innkeeper) to have special care of his steed, assuring 
 him that there was not a better in the universe ; upon which the innkeep- 
 er viewed him narrowly, but could not think him to be half so good as 
 Don Quixote said. However, having set him up in the stable, he came 
 back to the knight to see what he wanted, and whether he would eat 
 anything. " That I will, with all my heart," cried Don Quixote 
 " whatever it be ; for I am of opinion nothing can come to me more 
 seasonably." ' Now, it happened to be Friday, and there was nothing 
 to be had at the inn but some pieces of fish, which they call truchue- 
 la ; so they asked him whether he could eat any of that truchuela, 
 because they had no other fish to give him. Don Quixote imagining 
 they meant small trout, told them, that provided there were more 
 than one, it was the same thing to him, they would serve him as well 
 as a great one ; " for," continued he, " it is all one to me whether I 
 am paid a piece of eight in one single piece, or in eight small reals, 
 . which are worth as much'. Besides, it is probable these small trouts 
 may be like veal, which is finer meat than beef ; or like the kid, which 
 is better than the goat. In short, let it be what it will, so it comes 
 quickly ; for the weight of armour and the fatigue of travel are not 
 to be supported without recruiting food." Thereupon they laid the 
 cloth at the inn-door for the benefit of the fresh air, and the landlord 
 brought him a piece of the salt fish, but ill-watered and as ill-dress- 
 ed ; and as for the bread, it was as mouldy and brown as the knight's 
 armour. 
 
 While he was at supper, a pig-driver happened to sound his cane- 
 trumpet, or whistle of reeds, four or five times as he came 
 near the inn, which made Don Quixote the more positive that he was 
 in a famous castle, where he was entertained with music at supper 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 that the country girls were great ladies, and the innkeeper the goyer. 
 nor of the castle, which made him applaud himself for his resolution, 
 and his setting out on such an account. The only thing that vexed 
 him was, that he was not yet duhhed a knight ; for he fancied he 
 could. not lawfully undertake any adventure till he had received the 
 order of knighthood. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 An account of the pleasant method taken ly Don Quixote to he 
 duhhed a knight. 
 
 Don Quixote's mind being disturbed with that thought, he abridged 
 even his short supper ; and as soon as he had done, he called his host 
 then shut him and hhnself up in the stable, and falling at his feet 
 " I will never rise from this place," cried he, " most valorous knight 
 till you have graciously vouchsafed to grant me a boon, which I will 
 now beg of you, and which will redound to your honour and the good 
 of mankind." The inn-keeper, strangely at a loss to find his guest 
 at his feet, and talking at this rate, endeavoured to make him rise ; 
 but all in vain, till he had promised to grant him what he asked. " I 
 expected no less from your great magnificence, noble sir," replied 
 Don Quixote ; " and therefore I make bold to tell you, that the boon 
 which I beg, and you generously condescend to grant me, is that to- 
 morrow you will be pleased to bestow the honour of knighthood 
 upon me. This night I will watch my armour in the chapel of 
 your castle, and then in the morning you shall gratify me, that I may 
 be duly qualified to seek out adventures in every corner of the uni- 
 verse, to relieve the distressed, according to the laws of chivalry and 
 the inclinations of knights-errant like myself." The inn-keeper, who, 
 as I said, was a sharp fellow, and had already a shrewd suspicion of 
 his guest's disorder, was fully convinced of -it when he heard him talk 
 in this manner ; and, to make sport he resolved to humour him, tell- 
 ing him he was much to be commended for his choicg of such an em- 
 ployment, which was altogether worthy a knight of the first order, 
 such as his gallant deportment discovered him to be : that he himself 
 had in his youth followed that profession, ranging through many parts 
 of the world in search of adventures, till at length he retired to this 
 castle, where he lived on his own estate and those of others, enter- 
 taining all knights-errant of what quality or condition soever, purely 
 for the great affection he bore them, and to partake of what they 
 might share with him in return. He added, that his castle at present 
 had no chapel where the knight might keep the vigil of his arms, it 
 being pulled down in order to be new built ; but that he knew they 
 
CH lll.j DON QUIXOTE. 9 
 
 might lawfully be watched in any other place in a case of necessity, 
 and tlierefore he might do it that night in the court-yard of the castle ; 
 and in the morning all the necessary ceremonies should be performed, 
 so that he might assure himself he should be dubbed a knight, nay as 
 much a knight as any one in the world could be. He then asked 
 Don Quixote whether he had any money > " Not a cross," replied 
 the knight, " for I never read in any history of chivalry that any 
 knight-errant ever carried money about him." " You are mistaken," 
 cried the innkeeper ; " for admit the histories are silent in this matter, 
 the authors thinking it needless to mention things so evidently neces- 
 sary as money and clean shirts, yet there is nO reason to believe the 
 knights went without either ; and you may rest assured, that all the 
 knights-errant, of whom so many histories are full, had their purses 
 well lined to supply themselves with necessaries, and carried also 
 with them some shirts, and a small box of salves to heal their 
 wounds ; for they had not the conveniency of surgeons to cure them 
 every time they fought in fields and deserts, unless they were so 
 happy as to have some sage or magician for their friend to give them 
 present assistance, sending them some damsel or dwarf through the 
 air in a cloud, with a small bottle of water of so great a virtue, that 
 they no sooner tasted a drop of it, but their wounds were as perfectly 
 cured as if they had never received any. But when they wanted 
 such a friend in former ages, the knights thought themselves obliged 
 to take care that their squires should be provided with money and 
 other necessaries ; and if those knights ever happened to have no 
 squires, which was but very seldom, then they • carried those things 
 behind them in a little bag. I must therefore advise you," continued 
 he, " never from this tinle forwards to ride without money, nor 
 without the other necessaries of which I spoke to you, which you will 
 find very beneficial when you least expect it." Don Quixote 
 promised to perform all his injunctions ; and so they disposed every 
 thing in order to his watching his arms in the great yard. To which 
 purpose the knight, having got them all together, laid them in a horse- 
 . trough close by a well ; then bracing his target, and grasping his 
 lance, just as it grew dark, he began to walk about by the horse- 
 trough with a graceful deportment. In the mean while, the innkeeper 
 acquainted all those that were in the house with the extravaggjicies of 
 his guest, his watching his arms, and his hopes of being made a 
 knight. They all marvelled very much at so strange a kind of folly, 
 and went on to observe him at a distance ; where, they saw him 
 sometimes walk about with a great deal of gravity, and sometimes 
 lean on his lance, with his eyes all the while fixed upon his arms. It 
 was now undoubted night, but yet the moon did shine with such a 
 brightness, as might almost have vied with that of the luminary which 
 lent it her ; sc that the knight was wholly expqsed to the spectators 
 
,0 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 View. While he was thus employed, one of the carriers who lodged 
 in the inn came out to water his mules, which he could not do without 
 removing the arms out of the trough. With that, Don Quixote, who 
 saw him make towards them, cried out to him aloud, " O thou, 
 whoever thou art, rash knight, that prepares to lay thy hands on the 
 arms of the most valorous knight-errant that ever wore a sword, take 
 heed ; do not audaciously attempt to profane them with a touch, lest 
 instant death be the too sure reward of thy temerity." But the car- 
 rier regarded not these threats; and laying hold of the armour 
 without any more ado, threw it a good way frorp him ; though it had 
 been better for him to have let it alone ; for Don Quixote no sooner 
 saw this, but lifting up his eyes to heaven, and thus addressing his 
 thoughts, as it seemed, to his lady Dulcinea ; " Assist me, lady," 
 cried he, " in the first opportunity that offers itself to your faithful 
 slave ; nor let your favour and protection be denied me in this first 
 trial of my valour ! " Repeating such-like ejaculations, he let slip his 
 target, and lifting up his lance with both his hands, he gave the carrier 
 such a terrible knock on his inconsiderate head with his lance, 'hat he 
 laid him at his feet in a woful condition ; and had he backed that 
 blow with another, the fellow would certainly have had no need of a 
 surgepn. This done, Don Quixote took up his armour, laid it agaiq 
 in the horse-trough, and then walked on backwards and forwards with 
 as great unconcern as he did at first. 
 
 Soon after another carrier, not knowing what had happened, came 
 also to water his mules, while the first yet lay on the ground in a 
 trance; but as he offered to clear the trough of the armour, Don 
 Quixote, without speaking a word, or imploring any one's assistance, 
 • once more dropped his target, lifted up his lance, and then let it fall 
 so heavily on the fellow's pate, that without damaging his lance, he 
 broke the carrier's head in three or four places. . His outcry soon 
 alarmed and brought thither all the people in the inn, and the landlord 
 among the rest ; which Don Quixote perceiving, " Thou Queen of 
 Beauty," cried he, bracing on his shield, and drawing his sword, 
 ' thou courage and vigour of my weakened heart, now is the time 
 when thou must enliven thy adventurous slave with the beams of thy' 
 greatness, while this moment he is engaging in so terrible an adven- 
 ture 1 " With this, in his opinion, he found himself supplied with 
 such an addition of courage, that had all the carriers in the world at 
 once attacked him, he w;ould undoubtedly have faced them all. On 
 the other side, the carriers, enraged to see their comrades thus used 
 though they were afraid to come near, gave the knight such a volley 
 of stones, that he Wcis forced to shelter himself as well as he could 
 under the covert of his target, without daring to go far from the 
 horse-trough, lest he should seem to abandon his arms. The inn- 
 keeper called to the carriers as loud as he could to let him alone , 
 
CH. III.] DON QUIXOTE. 11 
 
 that he had told them already he was mad, and consequently the 
 law would acquit him, though he should kill them. Don Quixote 
 also made yet more noise, calling them false and treacherous villains, 
 and the lord of the ceistle base and unhospitable, and a disQourteous 
 ''night, for suffering a knight-errant to be so abused. " I would make 
 inee know," cried he, " what a perfidious wretch thou art, had I but 
 received the 'order of knighthood ; but for you, base, ignominious 
 rabble, fling on, do your worst ; come on, draw nearer if you dare, 
 and receive the reward of your indiscretion and insolence." This he 
 spoke with so much spirit and undauntedness, that he struck a terror 
 into all his assailants ; so that, partly through fear, and partly through 
 the innkeeper's persuasions, they gave over flinging stones at him ; 
 and he, on his side, permitted the enemy to carry' off their wounded, 
 and then returned to the guard of his arms as calm and composed as 
 before. 
 
 The innkteeper, who began somewhat to disrelish these mad tricks 
 of his guest, resolved to ' despatch him forthwith, and bestow ori him 
 that unlucky knighthood, to prevent farther misqjiief : so coming to 
 him, he excused himself for the insolence of those base scoundrels, 
 as being done without his privity or consent ; but their audaciousness, 
 he said, was sufiiciently punished. He added, that he had already 
 told him there was no chapel in his castle ; and that indeed there was 
 no need of one to finish the rest of the ceremony of knighthood, 
 which consisted only in the application of the sword to the neck and 
 shoulders, as he had read in the register of the ceremonies of the 
 order ; and that this might be performed as well in a field as any- 
 where else : that he had already fulfilled the obligation of watching 
 his arms, which required no more than two hours' watch, whereas he 
 had been four hours upon the guard. Don Quixote, who easily 
 believed him, told him he was ready to obey him, and desired him to 
 make an end of the basiness as soon as possible ; for if he were but 
 knighted, and should see himself once attacked, he believed he should 
 not leave a man alive in the castle, except those whom he should 
 desire him to spare for his sake. 
 
 Upon this, the innkeeper, lest the knight should proceed to such 
 extremities, fetched the book in which he used to set down the car- 
 riers' accounts for straw and barley ; and having brought with him 
 the two kind females already mentioned, and a boy that held a uiece 
 of lighted candle in his hand, he ordered Don Quixote to kneel : then 
 reading in his manual, as if he had- been repeating some pious ora- 
 • lion, m the midst of his devotion he lifted up his hand, and gave him 
 a good blow on the neck, and then a gentle slap on the back with the 
 flat of his sword, still mumbling some words between his teeth in the 
 tone of a prayer. After this he ordered one of the ladies to gird the 
 sword about the knight's waist : which she did with much solemnity 
 
12 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and I may add, discretion, considering how hard a thing it was to 
 forbear laughing at every circumstance of the ceremony : it is true* 
 the thoughts of the knight's late prowess did not a little contribute 
 to the suppression of her mirth. As she girded on his sword, 
 " Heaven," cried the kind lady, " make your worship a lucky knight, 
 and prosper you wherever you go." Don Quixote desired to know 
 her name, that he might understand to whom he we^ indebted for 
 the favour she had bestowed upon him, and also make her partaker 
 of the honour he was to acquire by the strength of his arm. To 
 which the lady answered with all humility, that her name was Tolosa, 
 a cobbler's daughter, that kept a stall among the little shops of Sancho- 
 binaya at Toledo ; and that whenever he pleased to command her 
 she would be his humble servant. Don Quixote begged of her to do 
 him the favour to add hereafter the title of lady to Jier name, and for 
 his sake to be called from that time the Lady Tolosa ; which she 
 promised to do. Her companion having buckled on' his spurs, 
 occasioned a like conference between them ; and when he had asked 
 aer name, she told, him she went by the name of Molivera, being 
 the daughter of an honest miller of Antequera. Our new knight 
 entreated her also to style herself the Lady Molivera, making 
 her new offers of service. These extraordinaryi ceremonies (the like 
 never seen before) being thus hurried over in a kind of post-haste, 
 Don Quixote could not rest till he had taken the field in quest of 
 adventures ; therefore having immediately saddled his Eozinante, and 
 being mounted, he embraced the innkeeper, and returned him so 
 many thanks at so extravagant a rate, for the obligation he had laid 
 upon him in dubbing him a knight, that it is impossible to give a true 
 relation of them all ; to which the innkeeper, in haste to get rid of 
 him, ' returned as rhetorical though shorter answers ; and without 
 stopping his horse for the reckoning, was glad with all his heart to 
 see him go. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 What hefeU tJie Knight after he had left the inn. 
 
 Atteoka began to usher in the morn, when Don Quixote sallied our 
 of the inn, so oveijoyed to find himself knighted, that he infused the 
 same satisfaction into his horse, who seemed ready to burst his girths- 
 for joy. But calling to mind the admonitions whicn the innkeeper 
 had given him, concerning the provision of necessary accommodation 
 bi his travels, particularly money and clean shirts, he resolved to 
 return home to furnish himself with them, and likewise get him a 
 squire, designing to entertain as such a labouring man, his neighbour, 
 who was poor and had a number of children, but yet very fit for the 
 
 i 
 
en. IV.J DON QUIXOTE. 13 
 
 office. With this resolution he took the road which led to his own 
 village. The knight had not travelled, far, when he fancied he heard 
 an effeminate voice complaining in a thicket on his right hand. " I 
 thank Heaven," said he, when he heard the cries, " fot favouring me 
 so soon with an opportunity to perform the duty of my profession, 
 and reap the fruits of my desire ; for these complaints are certainly 
 the moans of some distressed creature who wants my present help." 
 Then turning to that side with all the speed which Rozinante could 
 make, he no sooner came into the wood but he found a mare tied to 
 an oak, and to another a young lad about fifteen years of age, naked 
 from the waist upwards. This was he who made such a lamentable 
 outcry; and not without cause, for a lusty country-fellow was 
 strapping him soundly with a girdle, at every stripe putting him in 
 mind of a proverb. Keep your mouth shut, and your eyes open. 
 " Good master," cried the boy, " I'll do so no more ; indeed, master, 
 hereafter I '11 take more care of your goods." Don Quixote seeing 
 this, cried in an angry tone, " Discourteous knight, 'tis an unworthy 
 act to strike a person who is not able to defend himself: come,' 
 bestride thy steed, and take thy lance, then I '11 make thee know thou 
 hast acted the part of a coward." The country-fellow, who gave 
 himself for lost at the sight of an apparition in armour hrandishing 
 his lance at his face, answered him in mild and submissive words : 
 " Sir knight," cried he, " this boy, whom I am chastising, is my 
 servant ; and because I correct him for his carelessness or his 
 knavery, he says I do it out of covetousness, to defraud him of his 
 wages ; but, upon my life and soul, he belies me." " Sayest thou 
 this in my presence, vile rustic," cried Don Quixote ; " for thy 
 insolent speech, I have a good mind to run thee through the body, with 
 my lance. Pay the boy this instant, without any more words, or I 
 will immediately despatch and annihilate thee : unbind him, I say, 
 this moment." The countryman hung down his head, and without 
 any further reply unbound the boy ; who being asked by Don Quixote 
 what his master owed him, told him it was nine months' wages, at 
 seven reals a month. ' The knight having cast it up, found it came to 
 sixty-three reals in' all ; which he ordered the farmer to pay the 
 fellow immediately, unless he intended to lose his life that very 
 moment. " The worst is, sir knight," cried the farmer, " that I have 
 no money about me ; but let Andres go home with me, and I '11 pay 
 him every piece out of hand." " What, I go home with him ! " cried, 
 the youngster ; " I know better things : for he 'd no sooner have me 
 by himself, but he 'd flay me alive, like another St. Bartholomew." 
 " He will not dare," replied Don Quixote ; " I command him, and 
 that 's sufficient : therefore, provided he will swear by the order of 
 knighthood which has been conferred upon him, that he will duly 
 observe this regulation, I will freely let him go, and then thou art 
 2 
 
54 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 secure of thy money." " Good sir, take heed what you say," cried 
 the boy ; " for my master is no knight, nor ever was of any order in 
 his life : he's John Haldudo, the rich farmer of Quintinar." " Thia 
 signifies little," answered Don Quixote, " for there may be knights 
 among the Haldudos ; besides, the brave man carves out his fortune, 
 und every man is the son of his own works." " That 's true, sir," 
 quoth Andres ; " but of what works can this master of mine be the 
 son, who denies me my wages, which I have earned with the sweat 
 of my brows ? " " I do not deny to pay thee thy wages, honest 
 Andres," cried the master ; " do but go along with me, and by all the 
 orders of knighthood in the world, I promise to pay thee every piece, 
 as I said." "Be sure," said Don Quixote, " you perform your 
 promise ; for if you fail, I will assuredly return and find you out, and 
 punish you moreover, though you should hide yourself as close as a 
 lizard. And if you will be informed who it is that lays these injunc- 
 tions on you, that you may understand how highly it concerns you to 
 observe them, know, I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, the righter of 
 wrongs, the revenger and redresser of grievances ; and, so farewell : 
 but remember what you have promised and sworn, as you will 
 answer for it at your peril." This said, he clapped spurs to 
 Rozinante, and quickly left them behind. 
 
 The countryman, who followed him with both his eyes, no sooner 
 perceived that he was passed the woods, and quite out of sight, than 
 he went back to his boy Andres. " Come, child," said he, " I will 
 pay thee what I owe thee, as that righter of wrongs and redresser of 
 grievances has ordered me." " Ay," quoth Andres, " on my word, 
 you will do well to fulfil the commands of that good knight, whom 
 Heaven grant long to live ; for he is so brave a man, and so just a 
 judge, that if you don't pay, he will come back and make his words 
 good." " I dare swear as much," answered the master ; " and to 
 shew thee how much I love thee, I am willing to increase the debt, 
 that I may enlarge the payment." With that he caught the youngster 
 by the arm, and tied him again to the tree ; where he handled him 
 so unmercifully, that scarce any signs of life were left in him. 
 " Now call your righter of wrongs, Mr. Andres,^' cried the farmer, 
 " and you shall see he will never be able to undo what I have done ; 
 though I think it is but a, part of what I ought to do, for I have a 
 good mind to flay you alive, as you said I would, you rascal." How- 
 ever, he untied him at last, and gave him leave to go and seek out his 
 judge, in order to have his decree put in execution. Andres went 
 his ways, not very well pleased, you may be sure, yet fully resolved 
 to find out the valorous Don Quixote, and give him an exact 
 account of the whole transaction, that he might pay the abuse 
 with sevenfold usury : in short, he crept off" sobbing and weeping, 
 while his master stayed behind laughing. And in this ma.nneT 
 
CH. IT.] DON QUIXOTB 1{ 
 
 was this wrong redressed by the valorous Don Quixote de la 
 Mancha. 
 
 In the mean time the knight, being highly pleased \vith himself 
 and what had happened, imagining he had given a most fortunate and 
 noble beginning to his feats of arms, went on towards his village, and 
 soon found himself at a place where four roads met ; and this made 
 him presently bethink of those cross-ways which oilen used to put 
 knights-errant to a stand, to consult with themselves which way they 
 should take. That he might follow their example, he stopped a 
 while, and after he had seriously reflected on the matter, gave Rozi- 
 nante the reins, subjecting his own will to that of his horse, who, 
 pursuing his first intent, took the way that led to his own stable. 
 
 Don Quixote had not gone above two miles, when he discovered a 
 company of people riding towards him, who proved to be merchants 
 of Toledo, going to buy silks in Murcia. They were six in all, every 
 one screened with an umbrella, besides four servants on horseback, 
 £md three muleteers on foot. The knight no sooner perceived them 
 but he imagined this to be some new adventure ; so, fixing himself 
 in his stirrups, couching his lance, and covering his breast with his 
 target, he posted himself in the middle of the road, expecting the 
 coming up of the supposed knights-errant. As soon as they came 
 within hearing, with a loud voice and haughty tone^ " Hold," cried 
 he ; " let no man hope to pass further, unless he acknowledge and 
 confess that there is not in tiie universe a more beautiful damsel than 
 the empress of La Mancha, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso." At 
 those words the merchants made a halt, to view the unaccountable 
 figure of their opponent ; and conjecturing, both by his expression 
 and disguise, that the poor gentleman had lost his senses, they were 
 willing to understand the meaning of that strange confession which he 
 would force from them ; and therefore one of the company, who 
 loved raillery, and had discretion to manage it, undertook to talk to 
 him. " Signor cavalier," cried he, " we do not know this worthy 
 lady you talk of; but be pleased to let us see her, and that if we find 
 her possessed of those matchless charms, of which you assert her to 
 be the mistress, we will freely, and without the least compulsion, own 
 the truth which you would extort from us." " Had I once shewn you 
 that beauty," replied Don Quixote, " what wonder would it be to 
 acknowledge so notorious a truth ? the importance of the thing lies in 
 obliging you to believe it, confess it, affirm it, swear it, and maintain 
 it, without seeing her ; and therefore make this acknowledgment this 
 very moment, or know that with me you must join in battle, ye proud 
 and unreasonable mortals ! Come one by one, as the laws of chivalry 
 require, or all at once, according to the dishonourable practice of men 
 of your stamp ; heref I expect you all my single self, and will stand 
 the encounter, confiding in the justice of my cause." " Sir knight," 
 
16 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 replied the merchant, " I beseech you, that for the discharge of iiui 
 consciences, which will not permit us to affirm a thing we never 
 heard or saw, and which, besides, tends so much to the dishonour of 
 the empresses and queens of Alcaria and Estramadura, your worship 
 will vouchsafe to let us see some portraiture of that lady, though it 
 were no bigger than a grain of wheat ; for by a small sample we may 
 judge of the whole piece, and by that means rest secure and satisfied, 
 and you contented and appeased. Nay, I verily believe, that we all 
 find ourselves already so inclinable to comply with you, that though 
 her picture should represent her to be blind of one eye, and distilling 
 vermilion and brimstone at the other, yet to oblige you, we shall be 
 ready to say in her favour whatever your worship desires." " Distil, 
 ye infamous scoundrels," replied Don Quixote in a burning rage, 
 " distil, say you ? know, that nothing distils from her but amber and 
 civet ; neither is she defective in her make or shape, but more straight 
 than a Guadaramian spindle. But you shall all severely pay for the 
 blasphemy which thou hast uttered against the transcendent beauty 
 of my incomparable lady." Saying this, with his lance couched, he 
 ran so furiously at the merchant who thus provoked him, that had 
 not good fortune so ordered it that Eozinante should stumble and fall 
 in the midst of his career, the audacious trifler had paid dear for hia 
 raillery : but as Eozinante fell, he threw down his master, who rolled 
 and tumbled a good way on the ground without being able to get upon 
 his legs, though he used all his skill and strength to effect it, so 
 encumbered he was with his lance, target, spurs, helmet, and the 
 weight of his rusty armour. However, in this helpless condition he 
 played the hero with his tongue : " Stay," cried he ; " cowards, 
 rascals, do not fly ! it is not through my fault that I lie here, but 
 through that of my horse, ye poltroons ! " 
 
 One of the muleteers, who was none of the best-natured creatures, 
 hearing the overthrown knight thus insolently treat his master, could 
 not bear it without returning him an answer on his ribs ; and there- 
 fore coming up to him as he lay wallowmg, he snatched his lance, 
 and having broke it to pieces, so belaboured Don Quixote's sides with 
 one of them, that, in spite of his arms, he thrashed him like a wheat- 
 sheaf. His master indeed called to him not to lay on him so vigor- 
 ously, and to let him alone ; but the fellow, whose hand was in, 
 would not give over till he had tired out his passion and himself; and 
 therefore running to the other pieces of the broken lance, he fell to it 
 again without ceasing, till he had splintered them all on the knight's 
 iron enclosure. At last the mule-driver was tired, and the merchants 
 pursued their journey, sufficiently furnished with matter of discourse 
 at the poor knight's expense. When he found himself alone, he 
 tried once more to get on his feet ; but if he could not do it when he 
 had the use of his ^irabs, how should he do it now, bruised and 
 
aH. V.J DON IJUIXOTE. 17 
 
 battered as he was? But yet for all this, he esteemed himself a 
 happy man, being stUl persuaded that his misfortune was one of those 
 accidents common in knight-errantry, and such a one as he could 
 wholly attribute to the falling of his horse. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A further account of our Knight's misfortunes. 
 
 Don Quixote perceiving that he was not able to stir, resolved to 
 have recourse to his usual remedy, which was to bethink himself 
 what passage in his books might afford him some comfort : and 
 presently his frenzy brought to his remembrance the story of Baldwin 
 and the Marquis of Mantua, when Chariot left the former wounded 
 on the mountain ; a story learned and known by little children, not 
 unknown to young men and women, celebrated, and even believed, 
 by the old, and yet not a jot more authentic than the miracles of 
 Mahomet. This seemed to him as if made on purpose for his present 
 circumstances, and therefore he fell a. rolling and tumbling up and 
 down, expressing the greatest pain and resentment, and breathing 
 out, with a languishing voice, the same complaints which the wounded 
 Knight of the Wood is said to have made ! 
 
 " Alas ! where are you, lady dear, 
 
 T^iat for ray woe you do not moan % 
 You little know what ails me here. 
 Or are to me disloyal grown." 
 
 Thus he went on with the lamentations in that romance, till im 
 came to these verses : — 
 
 " O thou, my uncle and my prince. 
 Marquis of Mantua, noble lord ! " 
 
 When kind fortune so ordered it that a ploughman, who lived in 4he 
 same village, and near his house, happened to pass by, as he cams 
 from the mill yith a sack of wheat. The fellow seeing a man lie at 
 his full lengW on the ground, asked him who he was, and why he 
 made such a sad complaint. Don Quixote, whose distempered brain 
 presently represented to him the countryman ay the Marquis of 
 Mantua, his imaginary uncle, made him no answer, but went on with 
 the romance. The fellow stared, much amazed to hear a man talk 
 such unaccountable stuff; and taking off the vizor of his helmet, 
 broken all to pieces with blows bestowed upon it by the mule-driver, 
 he wiped off the dust that covered his face, and presently knew the 
 gentleman. " Master Quixada ! " cried he (for so he was properly 
 
 a" 8 
 
18 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 called when he had the right use of his senses, and had not yet fiom 
 a sober gentleman transformed himself into a wandering knight) 
 ''how came you in this condition?" But the otler continued hia 
 romance, and made no answers to all the questions the countryman 
 put to him, but what followed in course in the book : which the good 
 man perceiving, he took off the battered adventurer's armour as Veil 
 as he could, and fell a searching for his wounds ; but finding no sign 
 of blood, or any other hurt, he endeavoured to set him upon his legs ; 
 and at last with a great deal of trouble, he heaved him upon his own 
 ass, as being the more easy and gentle carriage : he also got all the 
 knight's arms together, not leaving behind so much as the splinters of 
 his lance ; and having tied them up, and laid them on Rozinante, 
 which he took by the bridle, and his ass by the halter, he led them all 
 towards the village, and trudged on foot himself, while he reflected on 
 the extravagancies which he heard Don Quixote utter. Nor was tha 
 Don himself less melancholy; for he felt himself so bruised and 
 battered that he could hardly sit on the ass , and now and then he 
 breathed such grievous sighs, as seemed to pierce the very skies, 
 which moved his compassionate neighbour once more to entreat him 
 to declare to him the cause of his grief: so he bethought himself of 
 the Moor Abindaraez, whom Rodrigo de Narvaez, Alcade of Ante- 
 quera, took and carried prisoner to his castle ; so that when the 
 husbandman asked him how he did and what ailed him, he answered' 
 word for word as the prisoner Abindaraez replied to Rodrigo de 
 Narvaez, in the Diana of George di Montemayor, where that 
 adventure is related ; applying it so properly to his purpose, that the 
 countryman wished himself anywhere than within the hearing of such 
 strange nonsense ; and being now fully convinced that his neighbour's 
 brains were turned, he made all the haste he could to the village, to 
 be rid of him, Don Quixote in the mean time thus went on : " You 
 must know, Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, that this beautiful Xerifa, of 
 whom I gave you an account, is at present the most lovely Dulcinea 
 del Toboso, for whose sake I have done, still do, and will achieve the 
 most famous deeds of chivalry that ever were, are, or ever shall be 
 seen in the universe." " Good sir," replied the husbandmap, " I am 
 not Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, nor the Marquis of Mantua, but Pedro 
 Alonzo by name, your worship's neighbour; nor are you Baldwin, 
 nor Abindaraez, but only that worthy gentleman Senior Quixada." 
 " I know very well who I am," answered Don Quixote ; "and what's 
 more. I know, that I may not only be the persons I have named, but 
 also the twelve peers of France, nay and the nine worthies all in one ; 
 since my achievements will out-rival not only the famous exploits 
 which made any of them singly illustrious, but all their mighty deeds 
 accumulated together." 
 Thus discoursing, they at last got near their village about sunset 
 
en. v.] DON QUIXOTE. 19 
 
 but the countryman stayed at some distance till it was dark, that the 
 distressed gentleman might not be seen so scurvily mounted, and then 
 he led him home to his own house, which he found in great confusion. 
 The curate and the barber of the village, both of them Don Quixote's 
 mtimate acquaintances, happened to be there at that juncture, as also 
 the housekeeper, who was arguing with them : " What do you think, 
 pray, good Doctor Perez," said she, (for this was the curate's name) 
 " what do you think of my master's mischance ? neither he, nor his 
 horse, nor his target, lance, nor armour, have been seen these six 
 days. What shall I do, wretch that I am ? I dare lay my life, and 
 it is as sure as I am a living creature, that those cursed books of 
 errantry, which he used to be always poring upon, have set him 
 beside his senses ; for now I remember I have heard him often mutter 
 to himself that he had a mind to turn knight-errant, and ramble up 
 and down the world to find out adventures." His niece added, 
 addressing herself to the barber ; " You must know, Mr. Nicholas, 
 that many times my uncle would read you those unconscionable 
 books of disventures for eight-and-forty hours together ; then away 
 he would throw his book, and drawing his sword, he would fall a 
 fencing against the walls ; and when he had tired himself with cutting 
 and slashing, he would cry he had killed four giants as Ijig as any 
 steeples ; and the sweat which he put himself into, he would say was 
 the blood of the wounds he had received in the fight ; then would he 
 swallow a huge jug of cold water, and presently he would be as 
 quiet and as well as ever he was in his life ; and he said that this 
 same water was a sort of precious drink brought him by the sage 
 Esquife, a great magician and his special friend. Now, it is I who 
 am the cause of all this mischief, for not giving you timely notice oi 
 my uncle's raving, that you might have put a stop to it, ere it was too 
 late, and have burnt all these excommunicated books ; for there are I 
 do not know how many of them that deserve as much to be burnt as 
 those of the rankest heretics." " I am of your mind," said the 
 curate ; " and verily to-morrow shall not pass over before I have 
 fairly brought them to a trial, and condemned them to the flames, 
 that they may not minister occasion to such as would read tliem, to 
 be perverted after the example of my good friend." 
 
 The countryman, who, with Don Quixote, stood without, listening 
 to all this discourse, now perfectly understood the cause of his neigh- 
 bour's disorder ; and, without any more ado, he called out, " Open the 
 gates there, for the Lord Baldwin, and the Lord Marquis of Mantua, 
 who is coming sadly wounded ; and for the Moorish Lord Abindaraez, 
 whom the' valorous Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, Alcade of Antequera, 
 brings- prisoner." At which words they all got out of doors ; and the 
 one finding it to be her uncle, and the other to be her master, and the 
 rest their frielid, who had not yet alighted from the ass, becaus« 
 
20 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 indeed he was not able, they all ran to embrace him to whom Don 
 Quixote : " Forbear," said he, " for I am sorely hurt, ly reason that 
 my horse failed me ; carry me to bed, and, if it be possible, let the 
 enchantress Urganda be sent for to cure my wounds." " Now," 
 quoth the housekeeper, ." see whether I did not guess right, on which 
 foot my master halted ! — Come, get to bed, I beseech you ; and, my 
 life for yours, we will take care to cure you without sending for that 
 same Urganda. A hearty curse, 1 say, light upon those books of 
 chivalry that have put you in this pickle ! " Whereupon they carried . 
 him to his bed, and searched for his wounds, but could find none ; and 
 then he told them he was only bruised, having had a dreadful fall 
 from his horse Rozinante while he was fighting ten giants, the most 
 outrageous and audacious upon the face of the earth. " Ho, ho ! " 
 cried the curate, " are there giants too in the dance } nay, then, we 
 will have them all burnt by to-morrow night." Then they asked the 
 Don a thousand questions, but to eveiy one he made no other answer, 
 but that they should give him something to eat, and then leave him to 
 his repose. They complied with his desires ; and then the curate 
 informed himself at large in what condition the countryman had found 
 him ; and having had a full account of every particular, as also of the 
 knight's extravagant talk, both when the fellow found him, and as he 
 brought him home, this increased the curate's desire of effecting what 
 be had resolved to do next morning : at which time he called upon 
 his friend, Mr. Nicholas the barber, and went with him to Don 
 Quixote's house. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Of the pleasant and curious scrutiny which the Curate and the Barter 
 made of the lihrary of our ingenious gentleman. 
 
 The knight was yet asleep, when the curate came, attended by the 
 barber, and desired his niece to let him have the key of the room 
 where her uncle kept his books, the authors of his woes : she readily 
 consented ; and so in they went, and the housekeeper with them. 
 There they found above an hundred large volumes neatly bound, and 
 a good number of small ones. As soon as the housekeeper had spied 
 them out, she ran out of the study, and returned immediately with a 
 holy-water pot and a sprinkler : " Here, doctor," cried she, " pray 
 sprinkle every cranny and corner in the room, lest there should lurk 
 in it some one of the many sorcerers these books swarm with, who 
 might chance to bewitch us, for the ill-will we bear them, in going 
 about to send them out of the world." The curate could not forbear 
 smiling at the good woman's simplicity ; and desired the barber to 
 reach him the books one by oj e, that he might peruse the title-pages 
 
CH. VI.] DON QUIXOTE. 21 
 
 for perhaps he might find some among them that might not deserve 
 this fate. " Oh, by no means," cried the niece; "sp.ire none of 
 Jiem ; they all help, somehow or other, to crack my uncle's brain. 
 I fancy we had best throw them all out at the window in the yard, 
 and lay them together in a heap, and then set them on fire, or else 
 carry them into the back-yard, and there make a pile of them, and 
 burn them, and so the smoke will offend nobody." The housekeeper 
 joined with her, so eagerly bent were both upon the destruction of 
 those poor innocents ; but the curate would not condescend to those 
 irregular proceedings, and resolved first to read at least the title-page 
 of every book. 
 
 The first that Mr. Nicholas put into his hands was Amadis de Gaul, 
 in four volumes. " There seems to be some mystery in this book's 
 being the first taken down," cried the curate, as soon as he had 
 looked upon it ; " for I have heard it is the first book of knight- 
 errantry that ever was printed in Spain, and the model of all the rest ; 
 and therefore I am of opinion, that, as .the first teacher and author of 
 so pernicious a sect, it ought to be condemned to the fire without 
 mercy." " I beg a reprieve for him," cried the barber ; " for I have 
 been told 'tis the best book that has been written in that kind ; and 
 therefore, as the only good thing of that sort, it may deserve a 
 pardon." " Well, then," replied' the curate, " for this time let him 
 have it. Let 's see that other, which lies next to him." " These," 
 said the barber, " are the exploits of Esplandian, the son of Amadis 
 de Gaul." " Verily," said the curate, " the father's goodness shall 
 not excuse the want of it in the son. Here, good mistress house- 
 keeper, open that window, and throw it into the yard, and let it serve 
 as a foundation to that -pile we are to set a blazing presently." She 
 was not slack in her obedience ; and thus poor Don EsplandiarTwas 
 sent headlong into the yard, there patiently to wait the time of 
 punishment. 
 
 " To the next," cried the curate. " This," said the barber, " is 
 Amadis of Greece ; and I 'm of opinion that all those that stand on 
 this side are of the same family." "Then let them all be sent 
 packing into the yard," replied the curate. They were delivered to 
 the housekeeper accordingly, and many they were ; and to save 
 herself the labour of carrying them down stairs, she fairly sent them 
 flying out at the window. 
 
 " What overgrown piece of lumber have we here ? " cried the 
 curate. ^' Olivante de Laura," returned the barber. " The same 
 author wrote the Garden of Flowers ; and, to deal ingenuously with 
 you, I cannot tell which of the two books has most truth in it, or, to 
 speak more properly, less lies : but this I know for certain, that he 
 shall march into the back-yard, like a nonsensical arrogant blockhead 
 as he is." 
 
2S DON QiriXOTE. 
 
 "The next," cried the barber, "is Florismart of liyrcania." 
 * How ! my Lord Florismart, is he herie ? " replied the curate : " nay, 
 then truly, he shall e'en follow the rest to the yard, in spite of his 
 wonderful birth and incredible adventures ; for his rough, dull, and 
 insipid style deserves no better usage. Come, toss him into the yard, 
 and this other too, good mistress." 
 
 "Here's the noble Don Plat! r," cried the barber. "'Tisanold 
 Dook," replied the curate, " and I can think of nothing in him that 
 deserves a grain of pity : away with him, without any more words ; " 
 and down he went accordingly. 
 
 Another book was opened, and it- proved to be the Knight of the 
 Cross. " The holy title," cried the curate, " might in some measure 
 atone for the badness of the book ; but then, as the saying is. The 
 devil lurks behind the cross ! To the flames with him." 
 
 Then opening another volume, he found it to be Palmerin de 
 Oliva, and the next to that Palmerin of England. " Ha, have I 
 found you ! " cried the curate. " Here, take that Oliva, let him be 
 torn to pieces, then burnt, and his ashes scattered in the air ; but let 
 Palmerin of England be preserved as a singular relic of antiquity ; 
 and let such a costly box be made for him as Alexander found among 
 the spoils of Darius, which he devoted to enclose Homer's works : 
 for I must tell you, neighbour, that book deserves particular respect 
 for two things ; first, for its own excellencies ; and, secondly, for the 
 sake of its author, who is said to have been a learned king of 
 Portugal : then all the adventures of the Castle of Miraguarda are 
 well and artfully managed, the dialogue very courtly and clear, and 
 the decorum strictly observed in equal character, with equal propriety 
 and judgment. Therefore, Master Nicholas," continued he, " with 
 submission to your better advice, this and Amadis de Gaul shall be 
 exempted from the fire : and let all the rest be condemned, without 
 any further inquiry or examination." " By no means, I beseech 
 you," returned the barber, " for this which 1 have in my hands is the 
 famous Don Bellianis." " Truly," cried the curate, " he, with his 
 second, third, and fourth parts, had need of a dose of rhubarb to 
 purge his excessive choler : besides, his Castle of Fame should be 
 demolished, and a heap of other rubbish removed ; in Order to which 
 1 give my vote to grant them the benefit of a reprieve ; and as they 
 shew signs of amendment, so shall mercy or justice be used towards 
 them : in the mean time, neighbour, take them into custody, and keep 
 them safe at home ; but let none be permitted to converse with them." 
 " Content," cried the barber ; and to save himself the labour of 
 looking on any more books of that kind, he bid the housekeeper take 
 all the great volumes, and throw them into the yard. This was not 
 spoken to one stupid or deaf, but to one who had a greater mind to 
 be burnmg them, than weaving the finest and largest wejb : so tha 
 
C«. /!.] TJON Q!TIXOTE. 23 
 
 laying hdi of no less than eight volumes at once, she presently made 
 them leap towards the place of execution. " But what shall we do 
 with all these smaller hooks that are left ? " said the barber. " Cer- 
 tainly," replied the curate, "these cannot be books of knight- 
 errantry, they are too small; you will find they are only poets."' 
 And so opening one, it happened to be the Diana of Montemayor; 
 which made him say, (believing all the rest to be of that stamp) 
 " These do not deserve to be punished like the others, for they 
 neither have done, nor can do, that mischief which those stories of 
 chivalry have done, being generally ingenious books, that can do 
 nobody any prejudice." " Oh ! good sir," cried the niece, " burn 
 them with the rest, I beseech you ; for should my uncle get cured of 
 his knight-errant frenzy, and betake himself to the reading of these 
 books, we should have him turn shepherd, and so wander through the 
 woods and fields ; nay, and what would be v/orse yet, turn poet, 
 which they say is a catching and incurable disease." " The gentle- 
 woman is in the right," said the curate ; " and it will not be amiss to 
 remove that stumbling-block out of our friend's way ; and since we 
 began with the Diana of Montemayor, I am of opinion we ought not 
 to burn it, but only take out that part of it which treats of the 
 magician Felicia and the enchanted water, as also all the longer 
 poems ; and let the work escape with its prose, and the honour of 
 being the first of that kind." "Here," quoth the barber, "I've a 
 book called the Ten Books of the Fortunes of Love, by Anthony de 
 Lofraco, a Sardinian poet." " Now we have got a prize," cried the 
 curate, " I do not think since Apollo was Apollo, the muses muses, 
 and the poets poets, there ever was a more humorous, more whim- 
 sical book ! Of all the works of the kind commend me to this, for in 
 its way 'tis certainly the best and most singular that ever was pub- 
 lished ; and he that never read it may safely think he never in his 
 life read any thing that was pleasant." With that he laid it aside 
 with extraordinary satisfaction ; and the barber went on : " The 
 next," said he, " is the Shepherd of Filida." " He 's no shepherd," 
 returned the curate, " but a very discreet courtier ; keep him as a 
 precious jewel." " Here 's a bigger," cried the barber, " called the 
 Treasure of divers Poems." " Had there been less of it," said the 
 curate, " it would have been more esteemed. 'Tis fit the book should 
 be pruned and cleared of some inferior things that encumber and 
 deform it : keep it, however, because the author is my friend, and for 
 the sake of his other more heroic and lofty productions. What's the 
 next book } " " The Galatea of Miguel de Cervantes," replied the 
 barber. " That Cervantes has been my intimate acquaintance these 
 many years," cried the curate ; " and I know he has been more con- 
 versant witb. misfortunes than with poetry. His book, indeed, has J 
 don't knew vnat, that looks like a good design ; he aims at some- 
 
24 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 thing, but concludes nothing : therefore we must stay for the second 
 part, which he has promised us ; perhaps he may make us amends, 
 and obtain a full pardon, which is denied him for the present ; til! 
 that time keep him close prisoner at your house." " I will," quoth 
 I'he barber : " but see, I have here three more for you, the Araucg^a 
 of Don Alonzo de Ercilla : the Austirada of Juan Rufib, a magis- 
 trate of Cordova ; and the Monserrato of Christopher de Virves, a 
 Valentian poet." " These," cried the curate, " are the best heroic 
 poems we have in Spanish, and may vie with the most celebrated of 
 Italy : reserve them as the most valuable performances which Spain 
 has to boast of in poetry." 
 
 At last the curate grew so tired with prying into so many volumes, 
 mat he ordered all the rest to be burnt at a venture. But the barber 
 shewed him one which he had opened by chance ere the dreadful 
 sentence was past. " Truly," said the curate, who saw by the title 
 it was the Tears of Angelica, " I should have wept myself, had I 
 caused such a book to share the condemnation of the rest ; for the 
 author was not only one of the best poets in Spain, but in the whole 
 world, and translated some of Ovid's fables with extraordinary 
 success." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Don Quixote's second sally in quest of adventures. 
 
 Full fifteen days did our knight remain quietly at home, without 
 betraying the least sign of his desire to renew his rambling ; during 
 which time there passed a great deal of pleasant discourse between 
 him and his two friends, the curate and the barber ; while he main- 
 tj.ined, that there was nothing the world stood so much in need of as 
 knights-errant ; wherefore he was resolved to revive the order : in 
 which disputes Mr. Curate sometimes contradicted him, and some- 
 times submitted; for had he not now and then given way to his 
 fancies, there would have been no conversing with him. 
 
 In the mean time Don Quixote solicited one of his neighbours, a 
 country labourer and honest fellow, though poor in purse as well as in 
 brains, to become his squire ; in short, the knight talked long to him, 
 plied him with so many arguments, and made him so many fair ' 
 promises, that at last the poor silly clown consented to go along with 
 !iim, and be his squire. Among other inducements to entice him to 
 do it willingly, Don Quixote forgot not to tell him, that it was like'y 
 such an adventure would present itself, as might secure him. the 
 conquest of some island in the time (hat he might be picking up a 
 straw or two, and then the squire might promise himself to be made 
 governor of the place. Allured with these large premises, and many 
 
CH. VH.] DON QUIXOTE. 25 
 
 Others, Sancho Panza (for that was the name of the fellow) forsook 
 his wife and children to he his neighbour's squire. 
 
 Tnis done, Don Quixote made it his business to furnish himself 
 with money ; to which purpose, selling one house, mortgaging 
 another, and losing by all, he at last got a pretty good sum together.^ 
 He also borrowed a target of a friend ; and having patched up his 
 head-piece and beaver as well as he could, he gave his squire notice 
 of the day and hour when he intended to set out, that he might also 
 furnish himself with what he thought necessary, but, above all, he 
 charged him to provide himself with a wallet : which Sancho prom- 
 ised to do, telling him he would also take his ass along with him, 
 which being a very good one, might be a great ease to him, for he 
 was not used to travel much a-foot. The mentioning of the ass 
 made the noble knight pause a while ; he mused and pondered 
 whether he had ever read of any knight-errant, whose squire used to 
 ride upon an ass ; but he could not remember any precedent for it : 
 however, he gave him leave at last to bring his ass, hoping to mount 
 him more honourably with the first opportunity, by unhorsing the 
 next discourteous knight he should meet. He also furnished himself 
 with linen, and as many other necessaries as he could conveniently 
 carry, according to the innkeeper's advice. Which being done, 
 Sancho Panza, without bidding either his wife or children good-bye ; 
 and Don Quixote, without taking any more notice of his housekeeper 
 or of his niece, stole out of the village one night, not sq much as 
 suspected by anybody, and made such haste, that by break of day 
 they thought themselves out of reach, should they happen to be 
 pursued. As for Sancho Panza, he rode like a patriarch, with his 
 canvass knapsack, or wallet, and his leathern bottle ; having a huge 
 desire to see himself governor of the island, which his master had 
 promised him. 
 
 As they jogged on, " I beseech your worship, sir knight-errant,' 
 quoth Sancho to his master, " be sure you don't forget what you 
 promised me about the island : for I dare say I shall make shift to 
 govern it, let it be never so big." " You must know, friend Sancho," 
 replied Don Quixote, "that it has been the constant practice of 
 knights-errant in former ages to make their squires governors of the 
 islands or kingdoms they conquered : now I am resolved to outdo my 
 predecessors ; for whereas sometimes other knights delayed rewarding 
 their squires till they were grown old, and worn out with services, 
 and then put them off with some title, either of count, or at least 
 marquis of some valley or province, of great or small extent ; now, 
 if thou and I do but live, it may happen, that before we have passed 
 six days together, I may conquer some kingdom, having many other 
 kingdoms annexed to its imperial crown; and this would fall out 
 most luckily for thee ; for then would I presently crown thee king oi* 
 3 
 
86 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 one of them. Nor do thou imagine this to be a mighty matter; for 
 so strange accidents -and revolutions, so sudden and so unforeseen, 
 attend the profession of chivalry, that I might easily give thee a great 
 deal more than I have promised." " Why, should this come to pass," 
 quoth Sancho Panza, ^' and I be made a king by some such miraclr 
 as your worship says, then Mary Gutierez w^ould be at least a queen, 
 and my children infantas and princes, an't like your vcorship.' 
 "Who doubts of that.?" .cried Don Quixote. "1. doubt of it," 
 replied Sancho Panza ; " for I cannot help believing, that though il 
 should rain kingdoms down upon the face of the earth, not one of 
 them would sit well upon Mary Gutierez's head ; for I must needs 
 tell you, she 's not worth two brass jacks to make a queen of : no, 
 countess would be better for her ; and that, too, will be as much as 
 she can handsomely manage." " Eecommend the matter to provi- 
 dence," returned Don Quixote ; " 'twill be sure to give what is most 
 expedient for thee." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Of the good success wJiich the valorous Don Quixote had in the most 
 . terrifying and incredihle adventure of tlie Windmills, with other 
 transactions worthy to be transmitted to posterity. 
 
 As they were thus discoursing, they discovered some thirty or forty 
 windmills, in the plain ; and as soon as the knight had spied them, 
 " Fortune," cried. he, " directs our affairs better than we could' have 
 wished :' look yonder, Sancho, there are at least thirty outrageous 
 giantSjW'hom I intend to encounter; and having deprived them of 
 life, we will begin to enrich ourselves with their spoils : for they are 
 lawful prize; and the extirpafton of that cursed brood will be an 
 acceptable service to heaven." " What giants ,? " quoth Sancho 
 Panza. " Those whom thou ■ seest yonder," answered Don Quixote 
 " with their long extended arms ; some of that detested race have 
 arms of so immense a size that sometimes they reach two leagues 
 in length." "Pray look^ better, sir," quoth -Sancho : " those things 
 yonder are no giants, but windmills, and the arms are their sails, 
 which being whirled about by the wind, make the mill ,go.". " 'Tis 
 d sign," -cried Don Quixote, "thou art but little acquainted with 
 adventures! I tell thee, they are giants; and therefore if . thou art 
 afraid, go aside and; say thy prayers, for I am resolved to engage in 
 Eombat with them all." This said, he clapped spurs to his horse, 
 without giving ear to his squire, who bawled out to him, and assured 
 him that they were' windmills, and no giants; But he was so fully 
 Dossessed with a, strong conce t of the conteary, that he did not sc 
 much as hear his squire, no was he sensible of what they were 
 
CH. VIII.] BON QUIXOTE. 27 
 
 altliough he was already very near them. " Stand, cowards ! " cried 
 he as loud as he could ; " stand your ground, ignoble creatures, and 
 fly not basely from a single knight, who dares encounter you fill.'' 
 At the same time the wind rising, the mill-sails began to move, 
 which, when Don Quixote spied, " Base miscreants," cried he, " though 
 you move more arms than the giant Briareus, you shall pay for youi. 
 arrogance." He most devoutly recommended himself to his Lady 
 Dulcinea, imploring her assistance in this perilous adventure ; and so 
 sovering himself with his shield, and couching his letnce, he rushed 
 with Eozinante's utmost speed upon the first windmill he could come 
 at, and running his lance into the sail, the wipd whirled it about with 
 such swiftness, that the rapidity of the motion presently brokB the 
 lance into shivers, and hurled aw&y both knight and horse along with 
 it, till down he fell, rolling a good way off in the field. Sancho 
 Panza ran as fast as his ass could drive to help his master, whom he 
 found lying, and not able to stii:. " Did not I give your worship fair 
 warning ? " cried he ; " did not I tell you thny were windmills, and 
 that nobody could think otherwise, unless he had also windmills ii^ 
 his head > " " Peace, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote ; " there 
 is nothing so subject to the inconstancy of fortune as war. I am 
 verily persuaded, that cursed necromancer Freston, who carried away 
 my study and my books, has transformed these giants into windmills, 
 to deprive me of the honour of the victory ; such is his inveterate 
 malice against me :but in the end, all his pernicious wiles and strata- 
 gems shall prove ineffectual against the prevailing edge of my sword." 
 " So let it be," replied Sancho. And heaving him up again upon his 
 legs, once more the knight mounted poor Eozinante, who was half 
 disjointed with his fall. 
 
 This adventure was the subject of their discourse, as they made 
 the best of their way towards the pass of Lapice ; for Don Quixote 
 took that road, believing he could not miss of adventures in one so 
 mightily frequented. 
 
 Sancho desired him now to consider that it was high time to go to 
 dinner ; but his master answered him, that he might eat whenever he 
 pleased ; as for himself, he was not yet disposed to do so. Sancno 
 having obtained leave, fixed himself as orderly as he could upon his 
 ass ; and taking some victuals out of his wallet, fell to munching 
 lustily ; and ever and anon he lifted his bottle to his nose, and fetched 
 such hearty pulls, that it would have made the best-pampered vintner 
 in Malaga dry to have seen him. 
 
 In fine, they passed that night under some trees; from one of 
 which Don Quixote tore a withered branch, which in some sort was 
 able to serve him for a lance, and to this he fixed the head or spear of 
 his broken lance. But he did not sleep all that night, keeping his 
 >houghts intent on his dear Dulcinea, in imitation of what he had read 
 
i£ DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 in books of chiva.ry, where the knights pass their time, withsut sleep, 
 in forests and deserts, wholly taken up with entertaining thoughts of 
 their absent ladies. The next day they went on directly towards the 
 pass of Lapice, which they discovered about three o'clock. When 
 they came near it, " Here it is, brother Sancho," said Don Quixote. 
 '' that we may, as it were, thrust our arms up to the very elbows in 
 chat which we call adventures. But let me give thee one necessary 
 caution ; know, that though thou shouldst see me in the greatest ex- 
 tremity of danger, thou must not offer to draw thy sword in my de- 
 fence, unless thou findestme assaulted by base plebeians and vile scoun- 
 drels ; for in such a case thou mayest assist thy master ; but if those 
 with whom I am fighting are knights, thou must not Ho it ; for the laws 
 of Chivalry do not allow thee to encounter a knight till thou art one 
 thyself." " Never fear," quoth Sancho ; " I '11 be sure to obey your 
 worship in that, I'll warrant you ; for I have ever loved peace and 
 quietness, and never cared to thrust myself into frays and quarrels." 
 As they were talking, they spied coming towards them two monks 
 of the order of St. Benedict mounted on two dromedaries, for the mules 
 on which they rode were so high and stately, that they seemed little 
 less. After them came a coach, with four or five men on horseback, 
 and two muleteers on foot. There proved to be in the coach a Bis- 
 cay?in lady, who was going to Seville to meet her husband, that was 
 there in order to embark for the Indies, to take possession of a con- 
 siderable post. Scarce had the Don perceived the monks, who were 
 not of the same company,, though, they went the same way, but he 
 cried to his squire, " Either I am deceived, or this will prove th« 
 most famous adventure that ever was known ; for without all question 
 those two black things that move towards us must be necromancers, 
 that are carrying away by force some princess in that coach ; and 'tis 
 my duty to prevent so great an injury." " I fear me, this will prove a 
 worse job than the windmills," quoth Sancho, "take warning, sir, and 
 do not be led away a second time." " I have already told thee, 
 Sancho," replied Don Quixote, " thou art miserably ignorant in mat- 
 ters of adventures ; what I say is true, and thou shalt find it so pre- 
 sently." This said, he spurred on his horse, and posted himself just 
 in the midst of the road where the monks were to pass. And when 
 they came within hearing, he immediately cried out in a loud and 
 haughty tone, " Release those high-born princesses whom you are 
 violently conveying away in the coach, or else prepare to meet with in- 
 stant death, as the just punishment of your deeds." The monks stop- 
 ped, no less astonished at the figure than at the expressions of the 
 speaker. " Sir knight," cried they, " we are no such persons as you 
 are pleased to term us, but religious men of the order of St. Benedict, 
 that travel about our affairs, and are wholly ignort Jl '.*-hether or no 
 there are any princesses carried away by force ir ('^. cor.oh," " 1 
 
«H IX.] DON QUIXOTE. 29 
 
 am not to be deceived," replied Don Quixote ; " I know you well 
 enough, perfidious caitiffs : " and immediately, without waiting their 
 reply, he set spurs to Ro7,inante, and ran so furiously, with his lance 
 couched, against the first monk, that if he had not prudently flung 
 himself to the ground, the knight would certainly have laid him either 
 dead, or grievously wounded. The other observing this, clapped his 
 heels to his mute's flanks, and scoured over the plain as if he hud 
 jeen running a race with the %ind. Suncho no sooner saw the monk 
 fall, but he leapt off his ass, and running to him, began to strip him 
 immediately ; but the two muleteers, who waited on the monks, 
 came up to him and asked why he offered to strip him ? Sancho 
 told them that this belonged to him as lawful plunder, being the 
 spoils won in battle by his lord and master Don Quixote. The fel- 
 lows, with whom there was no jesting, not knowing what he meant 
 by his spoils and battle, and seeing Don Quixote at a good distance in 
 deep discourse by the side of the coach, fell both upon poor Sancho, 
 threw him down, tore his beard from his chin, trampled on him, and 
 there left him lying without breath or motion. In the mean while the 
 monk, geared out of his wits and as pale as a ghost, got upon his 
 mule again as fast as he could, and spurred after his friend, who 
 stayed for him at a distance, expecting the issue of this strange adven- 
 ture ; but being unwilling to stay to see the end of it, they made the 
 best of their way, making more signs of the cross than if the devil 
 had been posting after them. 
 
 Don Quixote was all this while engaged with the lady in the coach, 
 " Lady,"' cried he, " your discretion is now at liberty to dispose of 
 your beautiful self as you please ; for the presumptuous arrogance of 
 those who attempted to enslave your person lies prostrate in the dust, 
 overthrown by this arm : and that you may not be at a loss for the 
 name of your deliverer, know I am called Don Quixote de la Mancha, 
 by profession a knight-errant and adventurer, captive to that peerless 
 beauty Donna Dulcinea del Toboso : nor do I desire any other rec- 
 ompense for the service I have done you, but that you return to 
 Toboso to present yourself to that lady, and let her know what I 
 have done to purchase your deliverance." So saying he bade her 
 courteously farewell, and pursued his way. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 WTiat passed hetween Don Quixote and the Goatherds. 
 
 Aftee travelling the remainder of the day without further adven- 
 ture, they came to a place where some goatherds had set up some 
 email huts : and there they concluded to take up their lodging that 
 night. Tiiis was as great a mortification to Sancho, who was altogether 
 3* 
 
3C DON QiriXOTE. 
 
 for a good town, as it was a pleasure to his master, who was Ibi 
 sleeping in the open fields ; and who believed that as offen as he did 
 it, he confirmed his title to knighthood by a new act of possession. 
 
 The knight was very courteously received by the goatherds ; and 
 as for Sancho, after he had set up Eozinante and his ass as well as 
 he could, he presently repaired to the attractive smell of some pieces 
 of kid's flesh which stood boiling in a kettle over the fire. The hun- ■ 
 gry squire would immediately have tried whether they were fit to be 
 removed out of the kettle into the stomach, but was not put to thai 
 troubte ; for the goatherds took them ofl^the fire, and spread some sheep- 
 skins on the ground, and soon got their rural feast ready ; and cheer- 
 fully invited his master and him to partake of what they. had. Next, 
 with some coarse compliment, after the country way, they dessired 
 Don Quixote to sit down on a trough with the bottom upwards ; and 
 then six of them, who were all that belonged to that fold, squatted 
 them down round the skins, while Sancho stood to wait upon his mas- 
 ter, and gave him drink in a horn cup, which the goatherds used. 
 But he seeing his man stand behind, said to him, " Sancho, it is my 
 pleasure that thou sit thee down by me, in the company of these good 
 people, that there be no difference now observed between thee and 
 me, thy natural lord and master ; for it may be said of knight-errant- 
 ry as of love, that it makes all things equal." " I thank your wor- 
 ship," cried Sancho ; " but yet I must needs own, had I but a good 
 deal of meat before me, I 'd eat it as well, or rather better, standing, 
 and by myself, than if I sat by an emperor; and, to deal plainly 
 and truly with you, I had rather munch a crust of brown bread and 
 an onion in a corner, without any more ado or ceremony, than feed 
 upon turkey at another man's table, where one is fain to sit minching 
 and chewing his meat an hour together, drink little, be always wiping 
 his fingers and his mouth, and never dare to cough or sneeze, though 
 he has never so much a mind to it, nor do a many things which a 
 body may do freely by one's self: therefore, good sir, change those 
 tokens of your kindness, which I have a right to by being your wor- 
 ihip's squire, into something that may do me more good. As foi 
 these same honours, I heartily thank you as much as if I had accepted 
 them ; but yet I give up my right to them for this time to the world's 
 end." "Talk no more," replied Don Quixote, "but sit thee down, 
 for the humble shall be exalted ; " and so pulling him by the arms, he 
 ibrced him to sit by him. 
 
 All this while the goatherds said nothing, but stared upon theis 
 guests ; who swallowed whole luncheons as big as their fists with a 
 mighty appetite. 
 
 A young fellow, who used to bring them provisions from the next 
 village, happened to come while they were eating, and addressing 
 himself to the goatherds, " Hark ye, friends," said he, " d'ye hear 
 
«li- IX.] DON QUIXOTE. 3 
 
 the news ?" " What news ?" cried one of the company. " That fine 
 shepherd and scholar Chrysost<)me died this morning," answered the 
 other ; " and they say it was for love of Marcella, daughter of Wil- 
 i'am the rich, that goes up and down the country in the habit of a 
 shepherdess." " For Marcella ! " cried one of the goatherds. " I 
 say for her," replied the fellow ; " and what is more, it is reported 
 he has ordered by his will they should bury him in the fields like any 
 heathen Moor, hard by the cork-tree fountain, where they say he first 
 saw her. Nay, he has likewise ordered many other strange things to 
 be done,, which- the clergy cannot allow of; while Ambrose, the oth- 
 er scholar, who likewise apparelled himself like a shepherd, is re- 
 solved to have his friend Chrysostome's will fulfilled in every thing 
 just as he has ordered it. It is thought that Ambrose and his friends 
 will carry the day ; and to-morrow morning he is to be buried in 
 great state where I told you ; I fancy it will be worth seeing ; and I 
 intend to go and see it, even though I should not get back again to- 
 morrow." " We will all go," cried the goatherds, " and cast lots 
 who shall tarry to look after the goats." " Well said, Pedro," cried 
 one of the goatherds ; " but as for casting of lots, I will save you 
 that labour, for I will stay myself, not so much *ut of kindness to 
 you neither, or want of curiosity, as because of the thorn in my toe, 
 that will not let me go." Don Quixote, who heard all this, entreated 
 Pedro to tell him who the deceased was, and also to give him a short 
 , account of the shepherdess. 
 
 Pedro answered, that all he knew of the matter was, ;that the de- 
 ceased was a wealthy gentleman, who had been several years at the 
 university of Salamanca, and came home mightily improved in his 
 learning. Within some few months after he had left the university, 
 on a certain morning we saw him come dressed for all the world like 
 a shepherd, and driving his flock, having laid down the long gown, 
 which he used to wear as a scholar. At the same time one Ambrose, 
 who had been his fellow-Scholar, also took upon him to go like a 
 shepherd, and keep him company, which we all did not a little mar- 
 vel at. Somewhat before that time Chrysostome's father died, and 
 left him a large estate ; and in truth he deserved it all, for he was 
 bountiful to the poor, a friend to all honest people, and had a face 
 like any blessing. At last it came to be known, that the reason of 
 his altering his garb in that fashion was only that he might go up and 
 down after that shepherdess Marcella, whom our comrade told you 
 of before, for he has fallen mightily in love with her. And now I 
 will tell you who this lady is. You must know that there lived near 
 us one William, a yeoman, who was richer yfet than Chrysostome's 
 father ; now he had no child but a daughter ; whose mother was as 
 good a woman as ever went upon two legs : methinks I see her yet 
 standing afore me, with that blessed face of hers. She was an ex 
 
38 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 cellent housewife, and did a deal of gbod among the pocr ; fi.r which. 
 I believe, she is at this very time in paradise. Alas, her death broke 
 old William's heart ; he soon followed her, poor man, and left all 
 to his little daughter, that Marcella by name, giving charge of her 
 to her uncle, the parson of our parish. When she came to be four- 
 teen or fifteen years of age, no man set his eyes on her that did not 
 bless heaven for having made her so handsome ; so that most men fell 
 in love with her, and were ready to run mad for her. All this whilo 
 her uncle kept her very close : yet the report of her great beaut}" 
 and wealth spread far and near ; insomuch that almost all the young 
 men in our town asked- her of her uncle ; nay there flocked whole 
 droves of suitors, and the very best in the country too, who all beg- 
 ged, and sued, and teased her uncle to let them have her. But though 
 he' d have been glad to have got fairly rid of her, yet would not he 
 advise or marry her against her will ; for he's a good man, I'll say 
 that for him, and a true Christian every inch of him, and scorns to 
 keep her from marrying to make a benefit of her estate ; and, to his 
 praise be it spoken, he has been mainly commeiided for it more than 
 once, when the people of our parish meet together. Fot 1 would 
 have you know, Sft- Errant, that here in the country, and in our little 
 towns, there is not the least thing can be said or done but people will 
 talk and find fault : indeed, the parson must be essentially good who 
 could bring his whole parish to give him a good word. " Thou art 
 in the right," cried Don Quixote, " and therefore go on ; for the story 
 is pleasant, and thou tellest it with a grace." " May I never want 
 God's grace," quoth Pedro, " for that is the most to the purpose. 
 But for our parson, as I told you before, though he took care to let 
 her know of all the proposals, yet would she never answer otherwise, 
 but ihat she had no mind to wed as yet, as finding herself too young 
 for the burden of wedlock. But behold, when we least dreamed of 
 it, the coy lass must needs turn shepherdess ; an'd neither her uncle, 
 nor all those of the village who advised her against it, could persuade 
 her, but away she went to the fields to keep her own sheep with the 
 other young lasses of the town. But then it was ten times worse ; 
 for no sooner was she seen abroad, when I cannot tell how many 
 spruce gallants, both gentlemen and rich farmers, changed their garb 
 for love of her, and followed her up and down in shepherd's guise. One 
 of them, as I have told you, was this same Chrysostome, who now 
 lies dead, of whom it is said he not only loved, but worshipped her. 
 In this way Marcella does more harm in this country than the plague 
 would do ; for her courteousness and fair looks draw on every body 
 to love her ; but then her reserve and disdain break their hearts ; and 
 all they can do, poor wretches, is to make a heavy complaint, ana 
 call her cruel, unkind, ungrateful, and a world of such names, where- 
 by they plainly shew what a sad condition they are in : were you 
 
'■"■ X.l DON QlilXOTE. 33 
 
 but to stay here some time, you would hear these hills and valleys 
 ring again with tl.e doleful moans of those she has denied, who yet 
 have not courage to give over following her. Here sighs one shep- 
 herd, there another moans ; here is one singing doleful ditties, there 
 another is wringing his hands and making woful complaints. And 
 <ill this while the hard-hearted Marcella never minds anyone of them, 
 and does not seem to be the least concerned for them. We are all 
 at a loss to know what will be the end of all this pride and coyness, 
 and who Shall be the happy man that shall at last succeed in taming 
 her. Now, because there is nothing more certain than all this, I am 
 the more apt to give credit to /what our comrade has told us, as to the 
 occasion of Chrysostome's death ; and therefore I would needs 
 have you go and see him laid in his grave to-morrow ; which 1 be- 
 lieve will be worth your while, for he had many friends, and it is not 
 half a league to the place where it was his will to be buried." " I 
 mtend to be there," answered Don Quixote ; " and in the mean time 
 I return thee many thanks for the extraordinary satisfaction this story 
 has afforded me." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 A continuation of the story of Marcella. 
 
 Scarce had 'day begun to appear from the balconies of the east, when 
 five of the goatherds got up, and having waked Don Quixote, asked 
 nim if he held to his resolution of going to the funeral, whither they 
 were ready to bear him company. Thereupon the knight presently 
 arose, and ordered Sancho to get ready immediately ; which he did 
 with all expedition, and then they set forwards. They had not gone 
 a quarter of a league before they saw advancing out of a cross path 
 six shepherds clad in black skins, their heads crowned with garlands 
 of cypress and bitter rose-bay-tree, with long holly-staves in their 
 hands. Two gentlemen on horseback, attended by three young lads 
 on foot, followed them ; as they drew near, they saluted one another 
 civilly, and after the usual question, — " Which way do you travel.'" 
 they found they were all going the same way, to see the funeral ; and 
 so they all joined company. " I fancy. Senior Vivaldo," said one ot 
 the gentlemen, addressing himself to the other, " we shall not think 
 our time misspent iii going to see this famous funeral, for it must of 
 necessity be very extraordinary, according to the account which these 
 men have given us of the dead shepherd and his murdering shepherd- 
 ess." " I am so far of your opinion," answered Vivaldo, " that I 
 would not stay one day, but a whole week, rather than miss the^sight." 
 After this, Vivaldo asked the knight why he travelled so completely 
 armed in so peaceable a country i " My profession," answered the 
 
 3 
 
34' DON QUIXOTE ' 
 
 champion, " does not permit me to ride otherwise. Luxurious feasts, 
 sumptuous dresses, and downy ease, were invented for effeminate 
 courtiers ; but labour, vigilance, and arms are the portion of those 
 whom the world calls knights-errant, of which number I have the 
 honour to be one, though the most unworthy." He needed to say no 
 more to satisfy them that his brains were out of order ; however, that 
 they might the better understand the nature of his folly, Vivaldo asked 
 him what he meant by a knight-errant ? " Have you not read, then," 
 cried Don Quixote, " the Annals and History of Britain, where are 
 recorded the famous deeds of King Arthur, who, according to an 
 ancient tradition in that kingdom, never died, but was turned into a 
 raven by enchantment, and shall one day resume his former shape, 
 and recover his kingdom again } For which reason, since that'time 
 the people of Great Britain dare not offer to kill a raven." 
 
 After a great deal of conversation of this kind, the travellers were 
 sufficiently convinced of Don Quixote's frenzy. Nor were they less 
 surprises than were all those who had hitherto discovered so unac- 
 countable a distraction in one who seemed a rational creature. How- 
 ever, Vivaldo, who was of a gay disposition, had no sooner made the 
 discovery than he resolved to make the best advantage of it that the 
 shortness of the way would allow him. 
 
 " Methinks, Sir Knight-errant," said he, " you have taken up one 
 of the strictest and most mortifying professions in the world. I do not 
 think but that even a Carthusian friar has a better time of it than you 
 have." " The profession of the Carthusian," answered Don Quixote, 
 " may be as austere, but ours is perhaps hardly less beneficial to the 
 world. We knights, like soldiers, execute what they pray for, and pro- 
 cure those benefits to mankind, by the strength of our arms, and at the 
 hazard of our lives, for which they only intercede. Nor do we do 
 this sheltered from the injuries of the air, but under no other roof 
 than that of the wide heavens, exposed to summer's scorching heat 
 and winter's pinching cold. However, gentlemen, do not imagine 1 
 would insinuate as if the profession of a knight-errant was a state of 
 perfection equal to that of a holy recluse: I would only infer fron 
 what I have .said, and what I myself endure, that ours without ques 
 tion is more laborious, more subject to the discipline of heavy blows 
 to maceration, to the penance of hunger and thirst, and, in a word 
 to rags, to want, and misery. For if you find that some knights-er 
 rant have at lust by their valour been raised to thrones and empires 
 you may be sure it has been still 'at the expense of much sweat and 
 blood. And had even those happier knights been deprived of those 
 assisting sages and enchanters, who helped them in all emergencies 
 they would have been strangelj' disappointed of their mighty expec- 
 tations." " I am of the same opinion," replied Vivaldo. " But onu 
 tiling I would ask, sir, since I understand it is so much the being of 
 
CH. X.] DON QUIXOTE. 35 
 
 \ 
 
 knight-errantry to be in love, I presume you, who are of that profes- 
 sion, cannot be without a mistress. And therefore, if you do not set 
 up for secrecy, give me leave to beg of you. in the name of all the 
 company, that you will be pleased so far to oblige us as to let us know 
 the name and quality of your lady, the place of her birth, and the 
 charms of her person. Fgr, without doubt, she cannot b-it esteem 
 lierself fortunate in being known to all the world to be tb'i object of 
 the wishes of a knight so accomplished as yourself." With that Don 
 Quixote, breathing out a deep sigh, "I cannot tell," said he, "whether 
 this lovely enemjr of my repose is the least affected whh the world's 
 being informed of her power over my heart ; all I dare say, in com- 
 pliance with your request, is, that her name is Dulciiiea, her country 
 La Mancha, and Toboso the happy place which she honours with her 
 residence. As for her quality, it caimot be less than princess, seeing 
 she is my lady and my queen. Her beauty transcends all the united 
 charms of her whole sex ; even those chimerical perfections, which 
 the hyperbolical imaginations of poets in love have assigned to their 
 mistresses, cease to be incredible descriptions when applied to her, in 
 whom all those miraculous endowments are most divinely centred. 
 The curling locks of her bright flowing hair are purest gold ; her 
 smooth forehead the Elysian plain ; her brows are two celestial bows ; 
 her eyes two glorious suns ; her cheeks two beds of roses ; her lips 
 are coral ; her teeth are pearl ; her neck is alabaster ; her breasts 
 marble ; her hands ivory ; and snow would lose its whiteness near her 
 bosom." 
 
 As they went on in this and like discourse, they saw, upon the hollow 
 road between the neighbouring mountains, about twenty shepherds 
 more, all accoutred in black skins, with garlands on their heads, which, 
 as they afterwards perceived, were all of yew or cypress ; six of them 
 carried a bier covered with several sorts of boughs and flowers : which 
 one of the goatherds espying, " Those are. they," cried he, " that are 
 carrying poor Chrysostome to his grave ; and it was in yonder hollow 
 that he gave charge they should bury his corpse." This made them 
 all double their pace, that they might get thither in time : and so they 
 arrived just as the bearers had set down the bier upon the ground, and 
 four of them had begun to open the ground with their spades at the 
 foot of a rock. They all saluted each other courteously, and cor.doled 
 their mutual loss ; and then Don Quixote, with those who came with 
 him, went to view the bier ; where they saw the dead body of a young 
 man in shepherd's weeds all strewed over with flowers. The de- 
 ceased seemed to be about thirty years old ; and, dead as he was, it 
 was easily, perceived that both his face and shape were extraordinarily 
 handsome. This doleful object so strangely filled all the company 
 with sadness, that not only the beholders, but also the grave-makera 
 and the mourning shepherds, remained a long time silent ; till at Ins'. 
 
36 DON QUIXOTE 
 
 one cf the bearers, addressing himself to one of the rest, "Look 
 Ambrose," cried he, " whether this be the place which Chrysostome 
 meant, since you must needs have his will so punctually performed ? " 
 " This is the very place," answered the other ; " there it was that my 
 anhappy friend many times told me the sad story of his cruel fortune ; 
 and there it was that he first saw that mortal enemy of mankind ; 
 there it was that he made the first discovery of his passion, no less 
 innocent than violent; there, it was that the relentless Marcella last 
 denied, shunned him, and drove him to that extremity of sorrow and 
 despair that hastened the sad catastrophe of his miserable life ; and 
 there it was that, in token of so many misfortunes, he desired to be 
 committed to the bosom of the earth." 
 
 Then addressing himself to Don Quixote and the rest of the trav- 
 ellers, "This body, gentlemen," said he, "which here you now 
 behold, was once enlivened by a soul which heaven had enriched with 
 the ' greatest part of its most valuable graces. This is the body of 
 that Chrysostome who was unrivalled in wit, matchless in courteous- 
 ness, incomparable m gracefulness, a phoenix in friendship, generous 
 and magnificent without ostentation, prudent and grave without pride, 
 modest without affectation, pleasant and complaisant without mean- 
 ness ; in a word, the first in every thing good, though second to none 
 in misfortune ; he loved well, and was hated ; he adored, and was 
 disdained ; he begged pity of crueity itself ; he strove to move obdurate 
 marble ; pursued the wind ; made his moans to so'itary deserts ; was 
 constant to ingratitude ; and, for the recompense of his fidelity, 
 became a prey to death in the flower of his age, through the barbarity 
 of a shepherdess, whom he strove to immortalize by his verse ; as 
 these papers which are here deposited might testify, had he not com- 
 manded me to sacrifice them to the flames, at the same time that his 
 body was committed to the earth." 
 
 " Should you do so," cried Vivaldo, " you would appear more cruel 
 to them than their unhappy author. Consider, sir, 'tis net consistent 
 with discretion, nor even with justice, so nicely to perform the request 
 of the dead, when it is repugnant to reason. Augustus Cajsar himself 
 would have forfeited his title to wisdom, had he permitted that to have 
 been effected which the divine Virgil had ordered by his will. There- 
 fore, sir, now that you resign your friend's body to the grave, do not 
 hurry thus the noble and only remains of that dear unhappy man to 
 a worse fate, the death of oblivion. What though he has doomed 
 them to perish in the height of his resentment, you ought not indis- - 
 erectly to be their executioner ; but rather reprieve and redeem them 
 from eternal silence, that they may live, and, flying through the world, 
 transmit to all ages the dismal story of your friend's virtue and Mar- 
 cella's ingratitude, as a warning to others, that they may avoid such 
 tempting snares and enchanting destructions ; for not only to me, bu' 
 
CH. X."! DON QUIXOTE. 37 
 
 to all here present, is well known the histoiy of your enamoured and 
 desperate friend : we aire no strangers to the friendship that was 
 between you, as also to Marcella's cruelty which occasioned his death. 
 Last night being informed that he was to be buried here to-day, mov- 
 ed not so much by curiosity as pity, we are come to behold with our 
 eyes that which gave us so much trouble to hear. Therefore in the 
 name of all the company, — deeply affected like me, with a sense'of 
 Chrysostome's extraordinary merit, and his unhappy fate, and desir- 
 ous to prevent such deplorable disasters for the future, — I beg that 
 you will permit me to save some of these papers, whatever you re- 
 solve to do with the rest" And so, without waiting for an answer, 
 he stretched out his arm, and took out those papers which lay next to 
 his hand. " Well, sir," said Ambrose, " you have found a way to 
 make mc submit, and you may keep those papers ; but for the rest, 
 nothing shall make me .alter my resolution of burning them." Vival- 
 do said no more ; but being impatient to see what those papers were 
 which he had rescued from the flames, he opened one of them im- 
 '•'pdiately, and read the title of it, which was, 'The despairing Lover.' 
 
 'nat, said Ambrose, " was the last piece my dear friend ever 
 wrote ; and therefore, that' you may all hear to what a sad condition 
 his unhappy passion had reduced him,' read it aloud, I beseech you, 
 sir, while the grave is making." " With all my heart," replied 
 Vivaldo ; and so the company, having the same desire, presently gath- 
 ered round about him while he read the lines. 
 
 The verses were well approved by all the company ; and Vival- 
 do. was about to read another paper, when they were unexpectedly 
 prevented by a kind of apparition that offered itself to their view. It 
 was Marcella herself, who appeared at the top of the rock, at the foot 
 of which they were digging the grave ; but so beautiful, that fame 
 seemed rather to have lessened than to have magnified her charms : 
 !^ose who had never seen her before gazed on her with silent wonder 
 "light ; nay, those who used to see her every day seemed no 
 --=« ^- m admiration than the rest. But scarce had Ambrose spied 
 her, when, with anger and indignation in his heart, he cried out, 
 " What dost thou there, thou cruel, basilisk of these mountains ? comest 
 thou to see whether the wounds of thy unhappy victim will bleed 
 afresh at thy presence .'' or comest thou to glory in the fatal effects of 
 thy inhumanity, like another Nero at the sight of flaming Eome ? " 
 " I come not here to any of those ungrateful ends, Ambrose," replied 
 Marcella ; " but only to clear my innocence, and • shew the injustice 
 of all those who lay their misfortunes and Chrysostome's death lo my 
 charge : therefore, I entreat you all who are here at *his time to hear 
 me a little, for I shall not need to use many words to convince people 
 of sense of an evident truth. Heaven, you are pleased to say, has 
 made me lieautiful. and that to such a degree that you are forced 
 4 
 
38 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 nay, as it were, compelled to love me, in spite of your endeavours to 
 the contrary ; and for the sake of that love, you say I ought to 
 love you again. Now, though I am sensible that whatever is beauti- 
 ful is lovely, I cannot conceive that what is loved for being handsomt, 
 should be bound to love that by which it is loved merely because it is 
 loved. He that loves a beautiful object may happen to be ugly ; and 
 as what is ugly deserves not to be loved, it would be ridiculous to say, 
 I love you because you are handsome, and therefore you must love me 
 again though I am ugly. But suppose two persons of different sexes 
 are equally handsome, it does not follow that their desires should he 
 alike and reciprocal ; for all beauties do not kindle love ; some only re- 
 create the sight, and never reach nor captivate the heart. Alas, should 
 whatever is beautiful produce love, and enslave the mind, mankind's 
 desires would ever run confused and wandering, without being able 
 to fix their determinate choice ; for as there is an infinite number of 
 beautiful objects, the dtesires would consequently be also infinite ; 
 whereas, on the contrary, I have heard that true love is still confined 
 to one, and is voluntary and unforced. This being granted, wh;- 
 would you have me force nay inclinations for no other reason but tha. 
 you say you love me ? Tell me, I beseech of you, had Heaven forili 
 ed me as ugly as it has made me beautiful, could I justly complain 
 of you for not loving me ? Pray consider also, that I do not possess 
 those charms by choice ; such as they are, they were freely bestowed 
 on me by Heaven ; and as the viper is not to be blamed for the poi- 
 son with which she kills, seeing it was assigned her by nature, so I 
 ought not to be censured for that beauty which 1 derive from the same 
 cause ; for beauty in a virtuous woman is but like a distant flame, or 
 a sharp-edged sword, and only burns and wounds those who approach 
 too near it. Honour and virtue are the ornaments of the soul, and 
 that body that is destitute of them cannot be esteenied beautiful, 
 though it be naturally so. If, then, honour be one cf those endow- 
 ments which most adorn the body, why should she that is belovf"'. 
 for her beauty expose herself to the loss of it, merely to gratify the 
 inclinations of one who, for his own selfish ends, uses all th£ mean«: 
 imaginable to make her lose it .- 1 was born free, and, that I might 
 continue so, I retired to these solitary hills and plains, where trees are 
 my companions, and clear fountains my looking-glasses. With the 
 trees and with the waters I communicate my thoughts and my beauty. 
 I am a distant flame, and a sword far of : those whom I have attracted 
 with my sight I have undeceived with my words ; and if hope be the 
 food of desire, as I never gave any encouragement to Chrysostome, 
 nor to any other, it may well be said, it was rather his own obstinacy 
 than my cruelty that shortened his life. If you tell me that his in- 
 tentions were honest, and therefore ought to have been complied with, 
 1 answer, tliat wher, at the very place where his grave is making, ho 
 
CH. X.] DON QUIXOTE. 39 
 
 discoverea his passion, I tod him I was resolved to live and die single, 
 and that the earth alone should reap the fruit of my reservednesa 
 and enjoy the spoils of my heauty ; and if, after all the admoni- 
 tions I gave him, he would persist in his obstinate pursuit, and sail 
 against the wind, what wonder is it he should perish in the waves of 
 his indiscretion ? Had I ever encouraged him, or amused him \\ i'di 
 ambiguous words, then I had been false ; and had I gratified his wish- 
 es, I had acted contrary to my better resolves : he persisted, though I 
 had given him a due caution, and he despaired without being hated. 
 Now I leave you to judge whether I ought to be blamed for his suf- 
 ferings. If I have deceived any one, let him complain ; if I have 
 b'roke my promise to any one, let him despair ; if I encourage any 
 one, let him presume ; if I entertain any one, let him boast : but let ho 
 man cktt. me cruel nor murderer until I either deceive, break my 
 promise, encourage or entertain him. Let him that calls me a tigress 
 and basilisk avoid me as a dangerous thing ; and let him that calls me 
 ungrateful give over serving me : I assure them I will never seek nor 
 pursue them. Therefore let none hereafter make it their business to 
 disturb my ease, nor strive to make me hazard among men the peace I 
 aow enjoy, which I am persuaded is not to be found with them. I 
 have wealth enough; I neither love nor hate any one ; the innocent 
 conversation of the neighbouring shepherdesses, with the care of my 
 flocks, help me to pass away my time, without either coquetting with 
 this man, or practising arts to ensnare that other. My thoughts are 
 limited by these mountains ; and if they wander further, it is only to 
 admire the beauty of heaven, and thus by steps to raise my soiil to- 
 wards her original dwelling^" 
 
 As soon as she had said this, without waiting for any answer, she 
 left the place, and ran into the thickest of thfe adjoining wood, 
 leaving all that heard her charmed with her discretion,- as well 
 as her beauty. 
 
 However, so prevalent were the charms of the latter that some of 
 the company, who were desperately struck, could not forbear offering 
 to follow her, without being in the least deterred by the solemn pro- 
 testations which they had heard ; her make that very moment. But 
 Don Quixote perceiving their design, and believing he had now a fit 
 opp9rtunity to exert his knight-errantry : " Let no man," cried he, " of 
 what quality or condition soever, presume to follow the fair Marcella, 
 under the penalty of incurring my displeasure. She has made it 
 appear, by undeniable reasons, that she was not guilty of Chrysos- 
 tome's death ; and has positively declared her firm resolution never 
 to condescend to the desires of any of her admirers : for which rea- 
 son, instead of being importuned and persecuted, she ought to be 
 esteemed and honoured by all good men as being one of the few 
 
40 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 women in the world who have lived with such a virtuous resei »cd 
 ness." 
 
 Now, whether it were that Don Qu'xote's threats terrified them, oi 
 that Ambrose's persuasion prevailed with them to stay and see their 
 friend interred, none of the shepherds left the place, till the grave 
 being made, and the papers burnt, the body was deposited in the 
 bosom of the earth, not without many teajs from all the assistants. 
 They covered the grave with a great s^tone, and strew-sd upon it many 
 flowers and boughs : and every one having condoled a while with his 
 friend Ambrose, they took their leave of him, and dej^arted. Vivaldo 
 and his companion did the like ; as did also Don Quixote, who was not 
 a person to forget himself on such occasions : he likewise bid adieu to' 
 the kind goatherds that had entertained him, and to the two travellers, 
 who desired him to go with them to Seville, assuring him there was 
 no place in the world more fertile in adventures, every street and 
 every corner there producing some. Don Quixote returned them 
 thanks for their kind information, but told them, " he neither would 
 nor ought to go to Seville till he had cleared all those mountains of 
 the thieves and robbers which he heard very rtmcn infested all those 
 parts." Thereupon the travellers, being unwilling to divert him 
 from so good a design, took their leaves of him once more, and pur- 
 sued their journey, sufficiently supplied with matter to discourse on 
 from the story of Marcella and Chrysostome, and the follies of Don 
 Quixote. 
 
 The knight and his squire continued their journey, and on quitting ■ 
 • an inn, which, notwithstanding the remonstrances of S^ancho, the Don, 
 as usual, insisted was a castle, all the people in the yard, 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 to proceed from the 
 bottom of his heart. 
 
 Bemg now both mounted, and at the door of the inn, he called to 
 the host, and, in a grave and solemn tone of voice, said to him: 
 " Many and great are the favours, signer governor, which in this 
 your castle I have received, and I am bound to be grateful to you all 
 the days of my life. If I can make you some compensation by 
 taking vengeance on any proud miscreant who hath insulted yea, 
 know that the duty of my profession is no other than to strengthen 
 the weak, to revenge the injured, and to chastise the perfidious. Con- 
 sider, and if your memory recall anything of this nature to recom- 
 mend to me, you need only declare it ; for 1 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 avenging any 
 wrong for me ; I know how to take the proper revenge when any 
 
CH. X.] DON QUIXOTE. 41 
 
 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. " Ay, and a very creditable 
 one," answered the host. " Hitherto, then, I have been in an error," 
 answered Don Quixote ; " for in truth 1 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 noth- 
 ing to the contrary) that they never paid for lodging or anything else 
 in the innswherethey reposed ; because every accommodation is leg- 
 ally and justly due to them, in return for the insufferable 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 inclemencies 
 of heaven, and to all the inconveniences of earth." " I see little to 
 my purpose in all this," answered the host ; " pay me what is my 
 due, and let us have none of your stories and knight-errantries ; all 
 I want is to get my own." " Thou art a blockhead, and a pitiful inn- 
 keeper," answered Don Quixote : so clapping spurs to Kozinante, 
 and brandishing his lance, he sallied out of the inn without opposi- 
 tion, and, never turning to see whether his squire followed him, was 
 soon a good way off. 
 
 The host, seeing him go without paying, ran to seize on Sancho 
 Panza, who said that, since his master would not pay, neither would 
 he pay ; for being squire to a knight-errant, the same rule and reason 
 held as good for him as for his master. The inn-keeper, irritated on 
 hearing this, threatened, that if he did not pay him, he should repent 
 his obstinacy. 
 
 Poor Sancho's ilHuck 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, — frolicksome fellows, who, instigated and moved 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 above only by the sky. Thither Sancho was carried ; and, 
 jeing placed in the middle of the blanket, they began to toss him 
 aloft, and divert themselves with him as with a dog af. Shrovetide. 
 The cries which the poor blanketed squire sent forth were so 
 many and so loud that they reached his master's ears; who, 
 stpppmg to hsten attentively, believed that some new adventure was 
 at hand, until he plainly recognised the voice of his squire ; then 
 hirning the reins, he perceived the wieked sport they were m£^king 
 4* 
 
42 DON QiriXOTE. 
 
 with his squire. He saw him ascend and descend through the air with 
 so much agility, that, if his indignation would have suffered him, he 
 certainly would have laughed ' outright. But they suspended neither 
 their laughter nor their labour ; nor did the flying Sancho cease to 
 pour forth lamentations, mingled now with threats, now with entrea- 
 ties ; 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 maid of the inn, 
 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 instantly began to drink ; but at the first sip, finding it 
 was water, he would proceed no further, and besought Maritornes to 
 bring him some wine, which she did willingly, and paid for it with 
 her own money ; for it is indeed said of her that, although in that 
 station, she had gome 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 had carried his point, though at the expense of his usual pledge, 
 namely his back. The landlord, it is true, retained his wallets in 
 payment of what was due to him ; but Sancho never missed them in 
 the hurry of his departure. The inn-keeper would have fastened 
 the Qoor well after him, as soon as he saw him out ; but the blan- 
 keteei J would not let him, being persons of that sort that, though Don 
 Quixotb had really been one of the knights of the round table, Ihey 
 would not have cared two farthings for him. 
 
 Sancho came up to his master so faint and dispirited that he was 
 not able tt urge his ass forward. Don Quixote, perceiving him in 
 that conditi.m, said : " Honest Sancho, that castle, or inn, I am now 
 convinced, is enchanted ; for they who so cruelly sported with thee, 
 what could Jiey be but phantoms and inhabitants of another world ! 
 And I am confirmed in this from having found that, when I stood at 
 the pales of Ihe yard, beholding the acts of your sad tragedy, I could 
 not possibly get over them, nor even alight from Rozinante ; so that 
 they must certainly have held me enchanted. If I could have got 
 over, or alighted, I would have avenged thee in such a manner as 
 would have made those poltroons and assassins remember the jest as 
 long as they lived, even though I should have thereby transgressed 
 the laws of chivalry ; for as I have often told the^ they do not allow 
 a knight to lay hand on his sword against any one who is not so, un- 
 'ess it be in defence of his own life and person, and in cases of ur- 
 gent and extreme necessity." " And I too," quoth Sancho, " would 
 have revenged myself if I had been able, knight or no knight, but 1 
 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; a ad each of thera, as I heard while they were tossing me, had 
 
CH. X.] DON QTTIXOTE. 43 
 
 his proper name ; so that, sir, as to your not being able to leap over 
 the pales, nor to alight from your horse, the fault lay not in enchant- 
 ment, but in something else. And. what 1 gather clearly from all 
 this is, that these adventures we are in quest of will in the long-run 
 bring us into so many misadventures 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 business, nor go rambling thus 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 sat- 
 isfaction 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 ; we have 
 had nothing but drubbings upon drubbings, cuffs upon cuffs, with my 
 blanket-tossing into the bargain, and by persons enchanted, on whom 
 1 cannot revenge myself, and thereby know 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 henceforward 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 ; and perhaps fortune may put me in posses- 
 sion of that of Amadis, when he called himself " Knight of the 
 Burning Sword," which was one of the best weapons that ever v/as 
 worn by knight ; for, beside the virtue aforesaid, it cut like a razor ; 
 and no armour, however strong or enchanted, could withstand it." 
 " Such is my luck," quoth Sancho, " that though this were so, and 
 your worship should find such a sword, it would be of service onlj 
 to those who are dubbed knights ; 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 travelling, a 
 ireat 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, there to remain to all succeeding 
 ages. Seest thou that cloud of dust, Sancho .' It is raised by a pro- 
 
44 DON QTTIXOTE. 
 
 digious army of divers nations, who are on the march this way." "If 
 so, there must be two armies," said Sancho ; " for here, on this side 
 arises just another cloud of dust." Don Quixote turned, and seeing 
 that it really was so, he rejoiced exceedingly, taking it for granted 
 they were two armies coming to engage in the midst of that spacious 
 plain ; for at all hours and moments his imagination was full of the 
 battles, enchantments, adventures, extravagances, combats, and chal- 
 lenges detailed in his favourite books ; and in every thought, word, 
 and action he reverted to them. Now the cloud of dust he saw was 
 raised by two great flocks of sheep going the same road from dif- 
 ferent parts, and as the dust concealed them until they came near, 
 and Don Quixote affirmed so positively that they were armies, San- 
 cho began to believe it, and said, " Sir, what then must wc do ? " 
 " What," replied Don Quixote, "but favour and assist the 'weaker 
 side ? Thou must know, Sancho, that the army which marches to- 
 wards us in front is led and commanded by the great Emperor Ali- 
 fanfaron, lord of the great island 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 most beautiful, and 
 also a Christian ; but her father will not give her in marriage to the 
 pagan king unless he will first renounce the religion of his false pro,- 
 phet 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 wilt thou do thy duty, Sancho," said 
 Don Quixote ; " but listen with attention whilst I give thee an ac- 
 count 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." Seeing, how- 
 ever, in his imagination, what did not exist, he began, with a loud 
 voice, to say: "The knight thou seest yonder with the gilded ar- 
 mour, who bears on his shield a lion crowned, couchant at a damsel's 
 feet, is the valorous Laurcalco, Lord of the Silver Bridge. The oth- 
 er, with the armour flowered with gold, who bears three crowns argent, 
 in a field azure, is the formidable Micocolembo, Grand Duke of Qui- 
 racia. The third, with gigantic limbs, who marches on his right, is 
 the undaunted Brandabarbaran of Boliche, Lord of the three Ara- 
 bias. 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 tem- 
 ple which Samson pulled down when with his death he avenged him' 
 self upon his enemies." 
 
 In this manner he went on naming sundry knights of each squad* 
 
CH. X.] DON CITIIXOTE. 45 
 
 ron, as his fancy dictated, and giving to each their arms, colours, de- 
 vices, and mottos, extempore ; and, without pausing, he continued 
 thus : " That squadron in the front is formed and composed of peo- 
 ple of different nations. Here stand those who drink the sweet 
 waters of the famous Xanthus ; the mountaineers who tread the Mas- 
 silian fields ; those who sift the pure and fine gold-dust of Arabia 
 Felix ; those who dwell along the famous and refreshing bank of the 
 clear Thermodon ; those who drain, by divers and sundiy ways, the 
 golden veins of Pactolus ; the Numidians, unfaithful in their promises ; 
 the Persians, famous for bows and arrows ; the Parthians and Medes, 
 who fight flying ; the Arabians, perpetually changing their habitations ; 
 the Scythians, as cruel as fair ; the broad-lipped Ethiopians : and an 
 infinity of other nations, whose countenances I see and know, although 
 I cannot recollect their names." 
 
 How many provinces did he name ! how many nations did he enu- 
 merate, giving to each, with wonderful readiness, its peculiar attributes ! 
 Sancho Panza stood confounded at his discourse, without speaking a 
 ?irord ; and now and then he turned his head about, to see whether he 
 could discover the knights and giants his master named. Bu* seeing 
 none, he said, " Sir, not a man, or giant, or knight, of all you have 
 named, can I see any where." "How sayest thou, Sancho ? " an- 
 swered Don Quixote ; " hearest thou not the neighing of the steeds, 
 the sound of the trumpets, and the rattling of the drums .'" " I hear 
 nothing," answered 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 msure victory jo that side which I favour with my assistance : " 
 then, clapping spurs to Rozinante, and setting his lance in his rest, he 
 darted down the hillock like lightning. Sancho cried out to him : 
 " Hold, Signer Don Quixote, come back ! they are only lambs and 
 sheep you are going to encounter ; pray come back ; what madness is 
 this ! there is neither giant, nor knight, nor horses, nor arms, nor 
 shields quartered or entire, nor true azures, nor devices : what are 
 you doing, sir .? " 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 Taprobana." With these 
 words he rushed into the midst of the squadron of sheep, as cour- 
 ageously and intrepidly as if in good earnest he was engaging his 
 mortal enemies. The shepherds and herdsmen who came wirh the 
 flocks called out to him to desist ; but seeing it was to no purpose, 
 
46 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 they unbuckled their slings, and began to salute his ears >vith a shower 
 of stones. Don Quixote cared not for the stones, but, galloping about 
 on all sides, cried out : " Where art thou, proud Alifanfaron ? Present 
 thyself before me ; I am a single knight, desirous to prove thy valour . 
 hand to hand, and to punish thee with the loss of life for the wrong 
 thou dost to the valiant Pentapolin Garamanta." At that instant a 
 large stone struck him with such violence that he believed himself 
 either slain or sorely wounded ; and remembering some balsam which 
 he had, 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 hit him full on the hand, and dashed the cruse to 
 pieces : carrying off three or four of his teeth by the way, and griev- 
 ously 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. 
 
 AH this while Sancho stood upon the hillock, beholding his master's 
 actions -•- tearing his beard, and cursing the unfortunate hour and mo- 
 ment 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 veiy ill plight, 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 ! However, do one thing, Sancho, for my sake, to undeceive 
 thyself, and see the trutH of what I tell thee ; mount thy ass, and fol- 
 low them fair and softly, and thou wilt find that, when they are got a 
 little farther off", they will return to their first form, and, ceasing to 
 be sheep, will become men, proper and tall, as I described them at 
 first. But do not go now, for I want thy assistance ; come hither to 
 me, and see how many of my teeth are deficient ; for it seems to me 
 that I have not one left in my head." 
 
 He 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 lean- 
 ing with his breast upon the ass, and his cheek reclining upon his hand, 
 in the postare of a man overwhelmed with thought. Don Quixote 
 seeing him thus, and to all appearances so melancholy, said to him, 
 '' Know, Sancho, that one man is no more than another, only, inas- 
 much as he does mtre than another. So do not afflict thyself for the 
 mischances that befall me, since thou hast no share in them." " How ? 
 no share in them ! " ar swered Sancho ; " peradventure he they tossed 
 
CH. XI.] DON QUIXOTE. 47 
 
 in a blanket yesterday was not my father's son, and thj wallets I liavo 
 lost to-day, with all my movables, belong to somebody else ? " " What ! 
 are the wallets lost ? " quoth Don Quixote. " Yes, they are," an- 
 swered Sancho. " Then we have nothing to eat to-day ? " replied 
 Don Quixote. " It would be so," answered Sancho, " if these fields 
 did not produce those herbs which your worship says you know, and 
 with which unlucky knights-errant like your worship are used to sup- 
 ply such wants." " Nevertheless," said Don Quixote, " at this time 
 I would rather have a slice of bread and a couple of salt pilchards 
 than all the herbs described by Dioscorides, though commented upon 
 by Doctor Laguna himself. But, good Sancho, get upon thy ass, and 
 follow me ; for God, who provides for all, will not desert us, since he 
 neglects neither the birds of the air, the beasts of the earth, nor the 
 fish of the waters ; more especially being engaged, as we are, in his 
 service." " Your worship," said Sancho, " would make a better 
 preacher than a knight-errant." " Sancho," said Don Quixote, " the 
 Knowledge of knights-errant must be universal ; there have been 
 knights-errant, in times past, who would make sermons or harangues 
 on the king's highway as successfully as if they had taken their de- 
 grees in the university of Paris ; whence it may be inferred that the 
 lance nevei: 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 God it be where 
 there are neither blankets or blanket-heavers, hobgoblins or enchant- 
 ed Moors." 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 The sage discourse continued, with the adventures of a dead body. 
 
 Thus discoursing, night overtook them, and they were still in the 
 high road ; 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 saw advancing towards 
 them a great number of lights, resembling so many moving stars. 
 Sancho stood aghast at the sight of them, nor was Don Quixote un- 
 moved. 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. " I beseech thee, Sancho, to be of 
 good cijuragel for experience shall give thee sufficient proof of mine." 
 « I wil. if It please God," answered Sancho; and, retiring a little on 
 
48 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 one siu'e oC ilie road, and again endeavouring to discover what those 
 waiKJng lights niight be, they soon after perceived a great many per> 
 sons clothed in white ; this dreadful spectacle completely annihilated 
 the courage of Sancho, whose teeth began to chatter, as if seized 
 with a quartan ague. 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, where 
 on was carried some knight sorely wounded or slain, whose revenge 
 was reserved for him alone. He therefore, without delay, couched 
 his spear, seated himself firm in his saddle, and, with grace and spir- 
 it, advanced into the middle of the road by which the procession 
 must pass ; and when they were near he raised his voice, and said : 
 "Ho! knights, whoever ye are, halt, and, give me an account to 
 whom ye belong, whence ye come, whither ye are going, and what 
 it is ye carry upon that bier ; for, in all appearance, either ye have 
 done some injury to others, or others to you , and it is expedient and 
 necessary that I be informed of it, either to chastise ye for the evil 
 ye have done, or to revenge ye of wrongs sustained." " We are in 
 haste," answered one in the procession; "the inn is a 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, Tbighly re- 
 senting this answer, laid hold of his bridle, and said, " Stand, and 
 with more civility give me the account I demand ; otherwise I chal- 
 lenge ye all to battle." The mule was timid, and started so much 
 upon his touching the bridle, that, rising on her hind-legs, she threw 
 her rider over the crupper to the ground. A lacquey that came on 
 foot, seeing the man in white fall, began to revile Don Quixote ; 
 whose choler being now raised, he coliched his spear, and immedi- 
 ately attacking one of the mourners, laid him on the ground grievous- 
 ly wounded ; then turning about to the rest, it was worth seeing with 
 what agility he attacked and defeated them ; it seemed as if wings at 
 that instant had sprung on Rozinante — so lightly and swiftly he mov- 
 ed ! All the white-robed people, being timorous and unarmed, soon 
 quitted the skirmish, and ran over the plain with their lighted torches, 
 looking like so many masqueraders on a carnival or a festival night. 
 The mourners were so wrapped up and muffled in their long robes 
 that they could make no exertion ; so that the Don, with entire safety 
 to himself, assailed them all, and, sorely against their will, obliged 
 them to quit the field ; for they thought him no man, but the devil 
 broke loose upon them to seize the dead body they were conveying 
 m 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 on 
 the ground, near the first whom the mule had overthrown ; by tho 
 
CH. XI.J DON QUIXOTE. 49 
 
 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 sur- 
 rendered enough already, since I cannot stir, for one of my legs is 
 broken. I beseech you, sir, if you are a Christian gentleman, Jo 
 not kill me ; you would commit a great sacrilege ; for I am a licen- 
 tiate, and have taken the lesser orders." " What, then, I pray you," 
 said Don Quixote, " brought you hither, being an ecclesiastic } " 
 " What, sir ? " replied the fallen man, " but my evil fortune." " A 
 worse fate now threatens you," said Don Quixote, " unless you re- 
 ply satisfactorily to all my first questions." " Your worship shall 
 soon be satisfied," answered the licentiate ; " arid therefore you 
 must know, sir, that though I told you before that I was a licentiate, 
 I am, in fact, only a bachelor of arts, and my name is Aionzo Lopez. 
 I am a native of Alcovendas, and came from the city of Baeza, with 
 eleven more ecclesiastics, the same who fled with the torches ; we 
 were attending the 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, " Heaven 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 decree of God, 
 there is nothing expected from us ,but patience and resignation ; for 
 just the same must I have done, had it been his pleasure to pronounce 
 the fatal sentence upon me. It is proper that your reverence should 
 know that I am a knight of La Mancha, Don Quixote by name ; and 
 that it is my ofiice and profession to go all over the world, righting 
 wrongs and redressing grievances." " I do not understand your way 
 of righting wrongs," said the bachelor ; " for from right you have set 
 me wrong, having broken my leg, which will never be right again 
 whilst I live. But since my fate ordained it so, I beseech you, signor 
 knight-errant, who have done me such arrant mischief, to help me to 
 get from under this mule : for my leg is held fast between the stirrup 
 and tiie 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 follciw the track of 
 5 4 
 
50 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 his companions, and beg their pardon, in his name, for the irjury 
 which he could not avoid doing them. Sancho likewise said, " If 
 perchance those gentlemen would know who is the champion that 
 routed them, tell them it is the famous Don Quixote de la Mancha, 
 otherwise called the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure." 
 
 The bachelor being gone, Don Quixote asked Sancho what induc- 
 ed him to call him the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, at that time 
 more than at any other ? " I will tell you," answered Sancho ; " il 
 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 
 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, likethe 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 
 Phosnix ; 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 thy thoughts and into thy mouth to call 
 me the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, as I purpose to call myself 
 froni this day forward ; and that this name may fit me the better, I 
 determine, when an opportunity offers, to have a most sorrowful 
 figure painted on my shield." " You need not spend time and money 
 in getting this figure made," said Sancho ; " your worship need only 
 shew your own, and, without any other image or shield, they will 
 immediately call you him of the Sorrowful Figure ; and be assured 1 
 tell you the truth ; 'or I promise you, sir, (mind, I speak in jest,) that 
 hunger and the loss if your teeth makes you look so ruefiilly that, as 
 I said before, the sorrowful picture may very well be spared." 
 
 Don Quixote smiled at Sancho's pleasantry ; nevertheless, he re- 
 solved to call himself by that name, and to have his shield or bucklei 
 painted accordingly ; and he said, " I conceive, Sancho, that I am 
 liable to excommunication for having laid violent hands on holy 
 things, ' Juxta illud, Siquis suadente diabolo,' &c. : although I know 
 I did not lay my hands, but my spear, upon them ; besides, I did not 
 know that I was engaging with priests, or things belonging 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 perfectly remember, what befell the Cyd 
 Ruy Diaz, when he broke the chair of that king's ambassador in the 
 presence of his holiness the Pope, for which he was excommunicat» 
 ed ; yet honest Roderigo da Vivar passed that day for an honourabli 
 and courageous knight." 
 
CH. II.] DON QUIXOTE. 51 
 
 They had not gone far between two hills, when they found them- 
 selves in a retired and spacious valley, where they alighted. Sancho 
 disburdened his beeist ; and, extended on the green grass, with hunger 
 for sauce, they despatched their breakfast, dinner, afternoon's lunch, 
 eon, and supper all at once ; regaling their palates with more than 
 one cold mess, which the ecclesiastics who attended the deceased had 
 brought with them on the sumpter mule. But there was another mis- 
 fortune, which Sancho accounted the worst of all ; namely, they had 
 no wine, nor even water, to drink •, and were, moreover, parched with 
 thirst. 
 
 But they had not gone two hundred paces when a great noise of 
 water reached 'lie'r ears, like that of some mighty cascade pouring 
 down from a /tisa and steep rock. The sound rejoiced them exceed- 
 ingly, 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. 
 I say they heard a dreadful din of irons and rattling chains, accom- 
 panied 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, espec- 
 ially 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 fte place where they were in. But Don 
 Quixote, supported by his intrepid heart, leaped upon Kozinante, 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 hp for whom -dangers, great exploits, and valo- 
 rous achievements, are reserved ; I am he, I say again, who am des- 
 tined 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- 
 ?rrant of times past. Stay for me here three days, and no more : if 
 return not in that time, thou mayest go back to our village , and 
 thence, to oblige me, repair to Tobciso, 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 h*s master, he dissolved into 
 tears, and said, " Sir, I cannot think why your worship should en- 
 
52 ■ DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 counter this fearful adventure. It is now night, and nobody sees lis. 
 We may easily turn aside, and get out of danger, though we sliould 
 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. I left my country and forsook my wife and 
 children to follow and serve your worship ; 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 worship in a place remote from every thing 
 human." " Be silent," said Don Quixote ; " for God, who has in- 
 spired me with courage to attempt this unparalleled and fearful ad- 
 venture, will not fail to watch over my safety, and Qomfort thee in thy 
 sadness. All thou hast to do is to girth Rozinante well, and remain 
 here ; for I will quickly return, alive or dead." 
 
 Sancho now had 'recourse to stratagem ; therefore, while he was 
 tightening the horse's girths, spftly, and unperceived, 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 contrivance, 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." This made the 
 Don quite desperate, and the more he spurred his horse the less he 
 could move him ; he therefore thought it best to be quiet, and wait 
 either until day appeared or until Rozinante , could proceed ; never 
 suspecting the artifice of Sancho, whom he thus addressed : " Since 
 so it is, Sancho, that Rozinante cannot move, I consent to remain un- 
 til the dawn smiles, although I weep in the interval." " You need 
 not weep," answered Sancho; " for I will entertain you until day by 
 ►elling you stories, if you had not rather alight and compose yourself 
 CO 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 en- 
 gaging 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 
 ■ny profession." " Pray, good sir, be not angry," answered Sancho ; 
 ' I did, not mean to offend you : " and, coming close to him, he laid 
 lold of the saddle before and behind, and thus stood embracing his 
 Tiaster's left thigh, without daring to stir from him a. finger's breadth. 
 w ijuch was he afraid of the blows which still contmued to sound in 
 
CH. XI.]- BO. I QUIX0TT2. 53 
 
 regular succession. Don Quixote bade him tell some sto/y 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 wor- 
 ship 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. 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." " Proceed with thy tale, 
 Sancho," said Don Quixote, " and leave to my care the road we are 
 to follow." " 1 say, then," continued Sancho, " that in a village of 
 Estremadura, there was a shepherd, I mean a goatherd : which shep- 
 herd, or goatherd, as my story says, was called Lope Ruiz ; and this 
 Lope Euiz was in love with a shepherdess called Torralva ; which 
 shepherdess 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, " thou wilt not have done these two days ; 
 tell it concisely, and like a man of sense, or else say no more." " I 
 tell it in the same manner that they tell all stories in my country," 
 answered Sancho ; " and I 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 shepherd . 
 was in love with the shepherdess Torralva, who was a merry strapping 
 wench, somewhat scornful, and somewhat masculine ; but, in process 
 of time, it came about that the love which the shepherd bore to the 
 shepherdess turned into hatred ; and the cause 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 absent himself from that country, and go where his eyes 
 should never more behold her. Torralva, who found herself disdain- 
 ed 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." 
 
 " It fell out," proceeded Sancho, " that the shepherd put his design 
 into execution : and, collecting together his goa:ts, went over the plains 
 of Estremadura,. in order to pass over into the kingdom of Portugal. 
 Upon which, Torralva followed him at a distance, on foot and bare- 
 legged, with a pilgrim's staff in her hand, and a wallet about her 
 neck. Presently, the shepherd came with his flock to pass the river 
 Guadiana, v/hich at that time was swollen, and had almost overflow- 
 ed its banks ; and on the side he came to there was neither boat noi 
 5* 
 
54 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 any body to ferry him or his flock , over to the other side : which 
 grieved him mightily : for he saw that Torralva was at his heels, and 
 would give him much disturbance by her 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 with him to carry over 
 himself and his three hundred goats. The fisherman got into, the 
 boat, and carried over a goat ; he returned and carried over another ; 
 he came back again, and carried over another. Pray, sir, keep an ac- 
 count 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 impossible to 
 tell a word more of it. I go on then, and say that the landing-place 
 on the opposite side was covered with mud, and slippery, and the 
 fisherman was a great while in coming and going. However, he re- 
 turned for another goat, and another, and another." " Suppose them 
 all carried over," said Don Quixote, " and do not be going and com- 
 ing in this manner ; or thou wilt not have finished carrying them over 
 in a twelvemonth." " Tell me 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 now an end of the story ; I can go no farther." " How can this 
 be } " answered Don Quixote. " Is it so essential to the story to know 
 the exact number of goats that passed over, that if one error be made, 
 the story can proceed no farther ? " " Even so," answered Sancho ; 
 " for when I desired your worship to tell me how many goats had 
 p£.ssed, and you answered you did not know, at that very instant all 
 that I had to say fled out of my memory ; though, in truth, it was 
 very edifying and satisfactory." " So then," said Don Quixote, "the 
 story is at an end .? " " To be sure it is," quoth Sancho. "Verily," 
 answered Don Quixote, " thou hast told one of the rarest tales, fables, 
 or histories, imaginable ; and thy mode of relating and concluding it 
 is such as never was, nor ever will be, equalled ; although I expected 
 nc less from thy good sense : however, I do not wonder at it, fdr 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 goatsS" " Let it end where it will," said Don 
 Quixote, " and let us see whether Rozinante can stir himself." Again 
 he clapt spurs to him, and again the animal jumped, and then stood 
 stock still, so effectually wais he fettered. 
 
 Thus passed the night ; and when Sancho perceived the dawn of 
 morning, with much caution he unbound Rozinante, who being at liber- 
 ty, though naturally not over-mettlesome, seemed to feel himself alive, 
 and began to paw the ground ; but as fpr curvetting (begging his 
 pardon) he knew nothing about it. Don Quixote, perceiving that Ro- 
 
''H. XI.] DON QUIXOTE. 5S 
 
 zinante began to be active, took it for a gooc >men, and a signal that 
 he should forthwith attempt the tremendous adventure. The dawn 
 now making the surrounding objects visible, Don Quixote perceived 
 he was beneath 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 farther delay, he made Rozi- 
 nante feel the spur, and again taking leave of Sancho, commanded 
 him to wait there three days at the farthest, as he had said before, 
 and that if he returned not by that time, he might conclude that it was 
 the will of Heaven that he should end his days in that perilous adven- 
 ture. And now, dissembling as well as he could, he advanced towards 
 the place whence the noise of the water and strokes seemed to proceed. 
 Sancho followed him on foot, leading his ass — that constant com- 
 panion of his fortunes, 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 
 precipitated itself. At the foot of these rocks were several wretched 
 huts, that seemed more like ruins than habitable dwellings ; and it 
 was from them, they now discovered, that the fearful din proceeded. 
 Rozinante was startled at the noise ; but Don Quixote, after quieting 
 him, went slowly on towards the huts, recommending himself devout- 
 ly to his lady, and beseeching her to favour him in so terrific an en- 
 terprise. Sancho kept close to his side, stretching out his neck 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 in the utmost confusion. 
 Sancho looked at him, and saw he hung dovjfn his head upon his breast, 
 with manifest indications of being abashed. Don Quixote looked 
 alsb at Sancho, and seeing his cheeks swollen, and his mouth full of 
 laughter, betraying evident signs of being ready to explode, notwith- 
 standing his vexation he could not forbear laughing himself at the 
 sight of his squire, who, thus encouraged by his master, broke forth 
 in so violent a manner that he was forced lo apply both hands to his 
 sides, to secure himself from bursting. Don Quixote, perceiving that 
 Sancho made a jest of him, was so enrf ged 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 joke's, and fearing lest his 
 master should proceed farther, with much humility said, " Pray sir, 
 be pacified ; as truly as I live, I did but jest."' " Though thou m? yest 
 
&6 DON QUIICVE. 
 
 jest, I do not,' answered Don Quixote. " C ame hither, merry sir • 
 what thinkest thou ? Suppose these mill-hammers had really been 
 some perilous adventure, have I not given proof of the courage requi- 
 site 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) T had nev- 
 er 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 
 fuUing-hammers be transformed into six giants, and let them beard 
 me one by one, or altogether, and if I do not set them all on their 
 heads, then make what jest thou wilt of me." " It is enough, good 
 sir," replied Sancho ; " I confess I have been a little too jocose ; but 
 pray tell me, now that it is peace between us, was it not a thing to be 
 laughed at, and worth telling, what a fearful taking we were in last 
 night — I mean, that I was in f — for I know that your worship is a 
 stranger to fear." " I do not deny," answered Don Quixote, " thai 
 what has befallen us may be risible, but it is not proper to be repeat- 
 ed ; for all persons have not the sense to see things in fheir 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 ; let that pass, for I have heard say, ' he lovea 
 thee well who makes thee weep ; ' and, besides, your people of con- 
 dition, when they have given a servant a hard word, presently give 
 him some old hose, though what is usually given after a beating 1 
 cannot tell, unless it be that your knights-errant, after bastinados, be- 
 stow 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 considerate ; for know that 
 first impulses are not under a 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 chivalry I ever read, numerous as 
 they are, I recollect no example of a squire who conversed so much 
 with his master as thou dost with thine. And really I account it a 
 great fault both in thee and in myself; in thee, because thou payest 
 me so little respect ; in me, that 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 after the Turkish fashion. 
 What shall we say of Gasabel, squire to Don Galaor, who was so 
 silent that, to illustrate the excellence of his marvellous taciturnity, 
 his name is mentioned but once in all that great and faithful history ? 
 From what I have said,- thou mayest infer, Sancho, that there ought to 
 be a difference between master and man, between lord and lacquey, 
 and knight and squire ; so that, from this day forward, we must be treat- 
 ed with more respect : for howsoever thou mayest excite my anger, ' il 
 
CH. XII.] DON QUIXOTE 51 
 
 will go ill with the pitcher.' The favours and henefits I promised 
 ■hee will Qome 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 faui know (if perchance the time of the fav- 
 ours should not come, and it- should be necessary to have recourse to 
 he article of the wages) how much might the squire of a knight-er • 
 rant 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 appointed 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 valorous a knight as your worship." 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 Which treats of the great adventure of Mamhrino''s helmet, mth 
 other things which befell our invincible Knight. 
 
 Abottt this time it began to rain, and Sancho proposed entering the 
 fulling-mill ; but Don Quixote had conceived such an abhorrence 
 for the late jest that he would by no means go in. Soon after 
 he discovered a man on horseback, who had on his head something 
 which glittered, as if it had been of gold ; and turning to Sancho, he 
 said, " I am of opinion, Sancho, there is no proverb but what is true, 
 because they are all sentences drawn from ■ experience ; especially 
 that which says, ' Where one door is shut, another is opened.' I say 
 this because, if fortune last night shut the door, against us with the 
 fulling-mills, it now opens another, for a better and more certain ad- 
 venture, in which, if I am deceived, the fault will be mine, without 
 imputing it to my ignorance of fulling-mills, or to the darkness of 
 night This I say because, if I mistake not, there comes one towards 
 us who carries on his head Mambrino's helmet." " 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 Sanoho ; " but if I might 
 talk as much as \ used to do, perhaps I could give such reasons that 
 your worship would see you are mistaken in what you say." ' How 
 can I be mistaken .' " said Don Quixote. " Seest thou not yon 
 
58 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 knight coming towards us on a dapple-grey steed, with a helmet of 
 gold on his head ? " " What I see and perceive," answered Sancho 
 " is only a man on a grey ass like mine, with something on his head 
 that glitters." " Why, that is Mambrino's helmet," said Don Quix- 
 ote ; " retire, and leave me alone to deal with him, and thou shall 
 see how, in order to save time, I shall conclude this adventure with- 
 out speaking a word, and the helmet I have so much desired remain 
 my own." " I shall take care to get out of the way," replied San- 
 cho ; " but 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. 
 
 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 neith- 
 er shop nor barber, but the other adjoining to it had both ; therefore 
 the barber of the larger served also the less, wherein one customer 
 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 ; and when the knight 
 drew near, he advanced at Rozinante's best speed, and couched his 
 lance, intending to run him through and through ; but when close up- 
 on him, without checking the fury of his career, he cried out, " De- 
 fend thyself,, caitiff, or instantly surrender what is justly mjn due ! " 
 The barber had no other way to avoid the thrust of the lance than to 
 slip down from the ass : and leaping 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, vi^ith which Don 
 Quixote Vas satisfied. 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 ; and, not finding it, he said, " Doubt- 
 less the pagan for whom this famous helmet was originally forged 
 must have had a prodigious head — the worst of it is, that one half 
 is wanting." When Sancho heard the 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 what a huge head the pagan had who owned that helmet, which 
 is for a) the world just like a barber's basin." " Knowest thou, San- 
 
CII. HI.] DON QUIXOTE. 59 
 
 cho, what I conceive to be the case ? This famous pit t v, thia 
 enchanted lielmet, by some strange accident must have fallen into 
 the possession of one who, ignorant of its true value as a helme*, 
 and seeing it to be of the piyest 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 impor- 
 tance, for I will have it so repaired, in the first town where there is a 
 smith, that it shall not be surpEissed, nor even equalled. In the mean 
 time I will wear it as I can; for somethipg 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 worshipS chops. 
 As to being tossed again in a blanket, I say nothing ; for it is difficult 
 to prevent such mishaps, and if they do come, there is nothing to be 
 done-but to wink, hold one's breath, and submit to go whither fortune 
 and the blanket shall please." " Thou art no good Christian, San- 
 cho," said Don Quixote, " since thou dost not forget an injury once 
 done thee ; but know it is inherent in generous and noble minds to dis- 
 regard trifles. What leg of thine is lamed, or what rib or head brok- 
 en, that thou canst not forget that jest ? for, properly considered, it 
 was a mere jest and pastime ; otherwise I should long ago have returned 
 thither, and done more 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 beau- 
 ty as she is I " and here he heaved a sigh towards heaven. " Let it 
 pass, then, for a jest," said Sancho, " since it is not likely to be re- 
 venged in earnest : but I know of what kind the jests and the earnests 
 were ; and I know also they will no more slip out of my memory than 
 off my shoulders. But, setting this aside, tell me, sir, what shall we 
 do with this dapple-grey steed which looks so like a grey ass, and 
 which that caitiff whom your worship overthrew has left behind here, 
 to shift for itself; for, by his scouring off so hastily, he does not think 
 of ever returning for him ; and, by my beard, the beast is a special 
 one." " It is not my custom," said Don Quixote, " to plunder those 
 whom 1 overcome, nor is it the usage of chivalry to take from the 
 vanquished their horses, and leave them on foot, unless the victor hath 
 lost his own in the conflict ; in such a case it is lawful to take that of 
 the enemy, as fairly won in battle. Therefore, Sancho, leave this 
 horse, or ass, or whatever thou wilt have it be ; for, when we are 
 gone, his owner will return for him." 
 
 They now 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 wts the abhor- 
 rence in which thev were held. Being thus refreshed and comfoi ed, 
 
60 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 both m body and mind, they mounted, and, without determining upon 
 what road to follow, according to the custom of knights-errant, they 
 went on as Eozinante's will directed, which was a guide to his mas- 
 ter and also to Dapple, who also foUowed^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 harsh command of silence, 
 sundry things have been rotting in my breast, and I have one just 
 now at my tongue's end that I would not for a;nything should mis- 
 carry." " 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 consid- 
 ering how little is gained by wandering about in quest of those 
 adventures your worship is seeking through these deserts and cross 
 ways, where, though you should overcome and alchieve the most peril- 
 ous, 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. This is what 1 
 would be at," quoth Sancho ; " this I stick to : for every tittle of this 
 must happen." " Doubt not that this will happen, Sancho," replied 
 Don Quixote ; " for by those very means and those very steps which 
 we are pursuing, knights-errant do rise, and have risen, to be kings 
 and emperors. All that remains to be done is to look out and' find 
 what king of the Christians or of the Pagans is at war, and has a 
 beautiful daughter — but there is time enough to think of this ; for 
 you know we must' procure renown elsewhere before we repair to 
 court. Besides, there is yet another difficulty ; for, if a king were 
 'bund who is at war and has a handsome daughter, and I had acquir- 
 ed incredible fame throughout the whole universe, I do not see how 
 It can be made to 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. 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 de- 
 grees, until they have become great lords. So that the difierence is 
 
en. III.] DON QTJIXOTE. 61 
 
 that some have been what now they are not, and others are now what 
 they were not before ; and who knows but I may be one of the form- 
 er, 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 he should not, then is the time to 
 take her away by force, and convey her whither I please ; there to 
 remain until time or death put a period to the displeasure of he." 
 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 a hundred petitiops.' 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." " Say what 
 they will," rejoined Don Quixote, " 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 of a company, and the 
 beadle's gown became me so well that everybody said I had a pres- 
 ence fit to be a 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 ia foreign count } I am of opinion folks will come a hundred 
 leagues to see me." " Thou wilt make a goodly appearance indeed," 
 said Don Quixote ; " but it will be necessary to trim thy beard a littl.e 
 oftener, for it is so rough and-matted that, if thou shavest not every 
 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 folr 
 low me like a gentleman of the horse to a grandee." " How earnest 
 thou to know," demanded Don Quixote, " that grandees have their 
 gentlemen of horse to follow them .? " " I will tell you," said Sancho 
 " some years ago I was near the court for a month, and I often saw a 
 very little gentleman riding about, who, they said, was a very great 
 lord ; and behind him I noticed a man on horseback, tuming.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 
 6 
 
62 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the horse, and that it was the custom for noblemen to be followed by 
 them ; and from that day to this I havt never forgottisn it." " Thor 
 art in the right," said Don Quixote, " and in the same manner tnou 
 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 wh 
 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 
 oarber to me," said Sancho ; " and let it be your worship's care to 
 oecome a king and to make me an earl." 
 
 Presently our knight 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, ani 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 any body ? " " I mean not so," answered Sancho, " but 
 that they are persons who, for their crimes, are condemned by law to 
 the galleys, w'here they are forced to serve the king." " In truth, 
 then," replied Don Quixote, " these people are conveyed by force, 
 and not voluntarily ? " " So it is," said Sancho. " Then," said his 
 master, " here the execution of my ofRce takes place, which is to de- 
 feat 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." 
 But his master gave no heed to him. 
 
 By this time the chain of galley-slaves had reached them, and Don 
 Quixote desired the guard to inform him of the cause or causes 
 for which they conducted those persons in» that manner. One of 
 the guards answered that they were slaves, and on their way 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 individually, of the cause of his mis- 
 fortune." To these he added such other courteous expressions, 
 entreating the information he desired, that the other horseman said, 
 " Though we have here the certificate of the sentence of each of these 
 wretches, this is no time to produce them ; make your inquiry of them- 
 selves ; 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 Don Quixote went up to them, and demanded of the first 
 for what offence he marched in suo'i evil plight ? He answered that 
 it was for being in love. " For thai alone ? " replied the Don • " if 
 people are sent to the galleys for be ng in love, I might long since 
 havr been rowing in them myself." ' It was not such love as your 
 
CH- xii.j DON Quixoia. 63 
 
 worship iinagi les," said the galley-slave ; " limine was a strong affec 
 tion for a basket of fine linen. The process was short ; they gave 
 me a hundred lashes, and sent me to the galleys." 
 
 Don Quixote put the same question to the second, who returned no 
 answer, he was so melancholy and dejected ; but the first answered 
 for him, and said, " 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 sing- 
 ers ? " " 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." " I do not understand that," said Don Quixote. ' One of 
 the guards said to him, " Signer Cavalier, to sing in an agony means, 
 in the cant of these rogues, to confess upon the rack. This oflfender 
 was put to the torture, and confessed his crime, which T*as that of a 
 stealer of cattle ; and, because he confessed, he is sentenced for six 
 years, besides two hundred lashes on the shoulders. He is pensive 
 and sad, because all the other- rogues abuse, vilify, flout, and despise 
 him for confessing, and not having the courage to say No : for, say 
 they. No does not contain more letters than Ay ; 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 so I think," answered Don Quixote ; 
 who, passing on to the third, interrogated him as he had done the 
 others. He answered very readily, and with much indiSerence, " I 
 am also- going for five years, merely for want of ten ducats." " I 
 will give twenty, with all my hearty" said Don Quixote, " to redeem 
 you from this misery." " That," said the convict, "is like having 
 money at sea, where, though dying for hunger, nothing can be bought 
 with it. I say this because, if I had been possessed in time of those 
 twenty ducats you now offer me, I would have so greased the clerk's 
 pen and sharpened my advocate's wit that T should have been this day 
 upon the market-place of Toledo, and not upon this road, coupled 
 and dragged like a hound r but God is great ; patience and — that i.i 
 enough." 
 
 Behind all these came a man of about thirty years of age, of a 
 goodly aspect, only that his eyes looked at each other. 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 togethei' ; and that he was so bold and desperate a villain 
 that, although shackled in that manner, they were not secure of him, 
 but were still afraid he would make his escape. " What kind of vil- 
 lanies has he committed } " said Don Quixote. " He goes for ten 
 years," said the guard, " which is a kind of civil death. Tou need 
 
64 DON qxrixoTE. 
 
 only be told that this hpnest gentleman is the famous Gines de Passa 
 monte, alias Ginesillo de Parapilla." " Fair and softly, signor com- 
 missary," 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 Parapilla, as you say ? " 
 " Are you not so called, lying rascal ? " said the guard. " Yes," an- 
 swered Gines ; " but I will make them cease calling me so, or I will 
 flay them where I care not at present to say. Signer Cavalier," con- 
 tinued he, " if you have anything to give us, let us have it now, and 
 God be with you ; for you tire us with inquiring 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, " that woe be to Lazarillo de 
 Tormes, and to all that have written or shall write in that way. What 
 I can affirm is, that it relates truths, and truths so ingenious and en- 
 tertaining 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 ? " " You seem to be an ingenious fellow," said 
 Don Quixote. " And an unfortunate one," answered Gines ; " but 
 misfortunes always persecute genius." 
 
 The commissary lifted up his staff" to strike Passamonte, in return 
 for his threats ; but Don Quixote interposed, and desired he would 
 not illtreat him, since it was but fair that he who had his hands so tied 
 up should have his tongue a little at liberty. After questioning several 
 more in a similar fashion, the Don thus addressed the company : 
 " From all you have told me, dearest brethren, I clearly gather that, 
 although it be only the punishment of your crimes, you do not much 
 relish what you are to suffer, and that you go to it with ill-will, and 
 much against your inclination. Now this being the case, my mind 
 prompts 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 ; for it seems to me a hard case 
 to make slaves of those whom God and nature made free." " This 
 ia pleasant fooling," answered the commissary. " An admirable con- 
 ceit he has hit upon at last 1 Go on your way, signer, and give us nc 
 more of your meddling impertinence." " Insulting scoundrel ! " an- 
 swered Den Quixote ; and thereupon, with a word and a blow, he 
 attacked him so suddenly that, before he could stand upon his defence 
 
-^••J DON QtJ XOTE, 05 
 
 he threw mm to the ground, much wounded with a thrust of the lance. 
 'ine rest of the guards were astonished and confounded at the unex- 
 pected encounter ; and the galley-slaves seized the opportunity now 
 offered to them of recovering their liberty, by breaking the chain with 
 which they were linked together. The confusion was such that the 
 guards could do nothing to any purpose. Sancho, for his part, assist- 
 ed in releasing Gines de Passamonte ; who, attacking the commissary 
 took away his sword and his gun, by levelling which first at one, then 
 at another, he cleared the field of all the guard. 
 
 " It is well," said Don Quixote ; " but I know what is first expedi- 
 ent to be done." Then, having called all the slaves before him, they 
 gathered round to know his pleasure ; when he thus addressed them : 
 " To be grateful for benefits received is natural to persons well born. 
 This I say, gentlemen, because you already know, by manifest expe- 
 rience, the benefit you have received at my hands ; in return for 
 which it is my desire that 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 
 present his service to her ; and recount to her every circumstance of 
 this memorable adventure, to the point of restoring you to your 
 wished-for liberty : this done, you may go wherever good fortune may 
 lead you." 
 
 Gines de Passamonte answered for them all, and said, " What your 
 worship commands us, noble sir and our deliverer, is of all impossi- 
 bilities the most impossible to be complied with ; for we dare not be 
 seen together on the road, but must go separate, each man by him- 
 self, and endeavour to hide "ourselves in the very bowels of the earth 
 from the holy brotherhood, who doubtless will be out in quest of us. 
 To think that we will now return to our chains, and put ourselves on 
 our way to Toboso, is to imagine it already night, whereas it is not 
 yet ten o'clock in the morning ; and to expect this from us is to ex- 
 pect pears from an elm-tree." " I vow, then," quoth Don Quixote 
 in a rage, " that you Don Ginesillo de Parapilla, or whatever you call 
 yourself, shall go there alone and the whole chain upon your back." 
 Passamonte, who was not over passive, seeing himself thus treated, 
 gave a signal to his comrades, upon which they all began to rain such 
 a shower of stones upon the knight 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 upcn 
 them both. Don Quixote could not screen himself sufficiently to 
 avoid the stones, which came against him with such force that they 
 Drought him to the ground. They stripped him of a jacket he wore 
 over his armour, and would have taken his trousers too, if the greave.s 
 nad not hindered them. They tpok Sancho's cloak, leaving hipi 
 6» 5 
 
(M DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Stripped ; and after dividing the spoils of the battle, they made the best 
 of their way off, each taking a different course ; moite solicitous l" 
 escape the holy brotherhood than to drag their chains to Toboso and 
 present themselves before the Lady Dulcinea. 
 
 CHAPTER Xm. 
 
 Of what befell Don Quixote in the Sierra Morena, leiiig one of tke 
 most extraordinary adventures related in this faithful history. 
 
 Don Quixote, finding himself thus ill-requited, said to his squire ; 
 ■' Sancho, I have always heard it said that to do good to the vulgar is 
 '.o 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 pa- 
 tience, and henceforth take warning." " Your worship will as much 
 take warning," answered Sancho, " as I am a Turk ; but since you 
 say that if you had believed me this mischief would have been pre- 
 vented, believe me now, and you will avoid what is still worse ; for, 
 let me tell you, there is no putting oif 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," sedd Don 
 Quixote ; " but that thou mayest not say I am obstinate, and that ] 
 never do what thou advisest, I will for once take thy counsel, and re- 
 tire from that fury of which thou art in so much fear ; but upon this 
 one condition — that, neither living nor dying thou shalt ever say that 
 I retired and withdrew myself from this peril out of fear, but that I 
 did it out of mere compliance with thy entreaties." " 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 conduct ; therefore 
 repent not of having taken my advice, but get upon Eozinante if you 
 can, if not I will assist you, and folloV me : for my head tells me 
 that, for the present, we have more need of heels than hands." Don 
 Quixote mounted without replying a word more ; and, Sancho lead- 
 ing the way apon his ass, they entered on one side of the Sierra 
 JVIorena, 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 them- 
 selves for some days among those craggy rocks, in case the holy 
 brotherhood should come in search of them. He was encouragea 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 
 
Bjr. XIII.J "DON QtflXOrE. f / 
 
 miracle, considering what the slaves took away, and how narrowly 
 Jhoy searched. 
 
 That night thoy got into the heart of the Sierra Morena, where Sanche 
 thought it would he well to pass the remainder of the night, if not 
 some days, or at least as long as their provisions lasted. But destiny 
 .<o ordered it that Gines de Passamonte, (whom the valor and frenzy 
 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 where Don Quixote and Sancho Panza had taken 
 refuge. Now, as the wicked are always ungrateful, Gines, who had 
 neither gratitude nor good-nature, resolved to steal Sancho Panza's 
 ass ; not caring for Bozinante, as a thing neither pawnable nor sale- 
 able. 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 dole- 
 ful lamentations, insomuch that Don Quixote awakened at his cries, 
 and heard him say, " O darling of my heart, born in my house, the 
 joy of my children, the entertainment of my wife, the envy of my 
 neighbours, the relief of my burdens, and lastly, the half of my main- 
 tenance ! For, with the six and twenty maravedis which I have 
 earned every day by thy means have I half supported my family ! " 
 Doi) 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 shewed him. Don Quixote's heart gladdened 
 upon entering among the mountains, 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 solitudes and deserts. He went on meditating 
 on these things, and his mind was so absorbed in them that he thought 
 of nothing else. Nor had Sancho any other concern than to appease 
 his hunger with what remained of the clerical spoils ; and thus he 
 jogged after his master, emptying the bag and stuffing his paunch ; 
 and while so employed he would not have given two maravedis for 
 the rarest adventure that could have happened. 
 
 While thus engaged, he raised his eyes, and observed that his mas- 
 ter, who had stopped, was endeavouring, with the point of his lance, 
 to raise something that lay on the ground ; upon which he hastened 
 to assist him, if necessary, and came up to him just as he had turned 
 over with his lance a saddle-cushion and a portmanteau fastened to it 
 half, or rather quite, rotten and torn, but so heavy that Sancho was 
 forced to stoop down in order t« take it up. His master ordered him 
 
68 DON QtriXOTK.' 
 
 to examine it. Sancho very readily obeyed, and although tne port 
 manteau was secured with its chain and padlock, he could see through 
 the chasm 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 espied than he 
 exclaimed : " Blessed be heaven, which heis presented us with one 
 profitable adventure ! " And, searching further, he found a little 
 pocket-book, richly bound ; which Don Quixote, desired to have, bid- 
 ding him take the money and keep it for himself. Sancho kissed his 
 hands for the favour ; and, taking the linen out of the portmanteau, he 
 put it in the provender-bag. All this was perceived by Don Quixote, 
 who said, " I am of opinion, Sancho (nor can it possibly be otherwise^, 
 that some traveller must have lost his way in these mountains, an 1 
 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 any thing written in it that may lead to a discovery." 
 He opened it, and the first thing he found was a rough copy of verses, 
 and,' being legible, he read aloud, that Sancho might hear it, the fol- 
 lowing sonnet : 
 
 Love either cruel is or blind. 
 Or gtill unequal to tlie cause 
 
 Is this distemper of the mind. 
 That with infernal torture gnaws. 
 
 Of all my sufferings and my woe 
 
 Is Chloe, then, the fatal source *? 
 Sure ill from good can never flow. 
 
 Or so much beauty gild a curse ! * 
 
 " From those 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 named 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, 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 in verse 
 
 * From Smollett's translation 
 
««. XIII.l DON QUIXOTE. 69 
 
 for knoWjSancho, that all or most of the knights-errant of times [last 
 were great poets and great musicians ; these two accomplishments, 
 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 farther," 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 San- 
 cho desired, he found it to this effect : 
 
 " Thy broken faith and my certain misery drive me to a place 
 •whence thou wilt sooner hear the news of my death than the cause 
 of my complamt. Thou hast renounced me, O ungrateful maid, for 
 one of larger possessions, but not of more worth than myself. 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 ! " 
 
 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, but the purport 
 was the same in all — their sole contents being reproaches, lamenta- 
 tions, suspicions, desires,- dislikings, favours, and slights, interspersed 
 with rapturous praises and mournful complaints. While Don Quixote 
 was examining the book, Sancho examined the portmanteau, without 
 leaving a corner which he did not scrutinize, nor seam which he did 
 not rip, nor lock of wool which he did not carefully pick — that noth- 
 ing might be lost through carelessness — such was the cupidity excit- 
 ed in him by the discovery of this golden treasure, consisting of 
 more than a hundred crovyns ! And although he could find no more, 
 he thought himself abundantly rewarded for the tossings in the blank- 
 et, 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 Knight of the Sorrowful Figure was extremely desirous to 
 know who was the ow/ier of .the portmanteau ; hut as no information 
 could be expected in that rugged place, he had only to proceed, tak- 
 ing whatever road Rozinante pleased, and still' thinking that among 
 the rocks he should certainly meet with some strange adventure. 
 
 As he went onward, impressed with this idea, he espied, on the 
 top of a rising ground not far from him, a man springing from rock 
 to rock with extraordinary agility. Don Quixote immediately con- 
 osived that this must be the owner of the portmanteau, and resolved 
 
W BON qUIIOTI. 
 
 therefore to go in sairch oi" him, even though it should prove a twelve- 
 month's labour, in Jiat 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* To which' Sancho replied, 
 " It would be much more prudent not to look after him ; for if we 
 should find him, and he, perchance, proves to be the owner of the 
 money, it is plain I must restore it ; and therefore it would be better 
 to preserve it faithfully until its owner shall find us out ; by which 
 time, perhaps, I 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. Then he pricked Rozi- 
 nante on, when, having gone round part of the mountain, they found 
 a; dead mule, saddled and bridled, which confirmed them- in the opin- 
 ion that he who fled from them was owner both of the, mule and the 
 portmanteau. 
 
 While they stood looking at the mule, a goatherd descended, and, 
 coming to the place where Don Quixote stood, he said, " I suppose, 
 gentlemen, you are looking at the dead mule } in truth, it has now 
 lain there these six months. Pray tell me, have you met with bis 
 master heieabouts .? " " 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 sub- 
 tle, and lays stumbling-blocks in our way, over which we fall without 
 knowing how." "Tell me, honest man," said Don Quixote, " do 
 you know who is the owner of these goods .' " " What 1 know," 
 said the goatherd, " is,. that six months ago there came to a shepherd's 
 hut three leagues from this place, a genteel and comely, youth, mount- 
 ed On the very mule which lies dead there. He inquired which of 
 these mountains was the most unfrequented. We told him it was 
 where we now are ; and so it is truly, for if you were to go on about 
 half a league farther, perhaps you would never^ find the way out ; 
 and I wonder how you could^ get even hither, since there is no road 
 nor path to lead you to it. The youth, hearing our answer, turned 
 about, and made towards. the part we pointed out, leaving us all pleas- 
 ed with his goodly appearance, and wondering at his question and at 
 the haste he made to reach the mountain. From that time we saw 
 him not again until sorie days after, he issued out upon one of our 
 shepherds, and, without saying a word, struck: him, and immediately 
 tell upon our sumpter-ass^ which he plundered of our bread, and 
 cheese, and then fled again to the rocks with wonderful swiftnessi 
 
*" Xin.] DOh 4TJIX0TE. 71 
 
 Some of us sought for him nearly two days, and at last found him 
 lying in the hollow of a large cork tree- He came out to . us with 
 much gentleness, his garment torn, end his face so disfigured and 
 scorched by the sun that we should scarcely have known him, but 
 that his clothes,. ragged as they were, convinced us he was the person 
 we were in search after. He saluted us, and in few but civil words 
 bid us not be surprised to see him in that condition, which was neces- 
 sary in order to perform a certain penance enjoined him for his sins. 
 We entreated him to tell us who he was, but could get no more from 
 him. We also desired him to inform us where he might be found ; 
 because when he stood in need of food, we would willingly bring 
 some to him. He thanked us, and begged pardon for his past vio- 
 lence, and promised to ask it for God's sake, without molesting any 
 body. As to the place of his abode, he said he had only that which 
 chance presented him wherever the night overtook him ; and he end- 
 ed his discourse with so many tears, that we must have been very 
 stones not to have wept with him, considering what he was when we 
 first saw him ; for, as I before said, he was a very comely and grace- 
 ful youth, and by his courteous behaviour shewed himself to be well- 
 bom. We judged that his mad fit Was coming on, and 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 call- 
 ed out, ' Ah, traitor Fernando I 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 ! ' We disengaged him 
 from our companion at last, with no small difficulty; upon 
 which he suddenly left us, and plunged into a thicket so entangled 
 with bushes and briers 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 oiTer 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," pursued the goatherd, " that 
 yesterday I and four young men, two of them my servants anjJ two 
 my friends, resolved to go in search 'of him, and having found him, 
 either by persuasion or force carry him to the town of Almodovar 
 which is eight leagues off, there to get him cured, if his distemper be 
 Eurable, or at least to learn who he is, and whether he has iiny rela 
 
72 DON QUIXCTE. 
 
 tions to whom we may give notice of his misfortune. This, gentle 
 Tien, is all I can tell you, in answer to your inquiry ; by which yot 
 may understand that the owner of the goods you found is the sam{ 
 wretched person who passed you so quick : " — for Don Quixote had 
 told him that he had seen a man leaping about the rocks. 
 
 Don Quixote was surprised at what he heard ; and being now still 
 more desirous of knowing who the unfortunate madman was, he re- 
 newed his determination to search every part of the mountain until 
 he should find him. But fortune managed better for him than he ex- 
 pected ; for at that very instant the youth appeared, descending, 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 he came up, he salut- 
 ed them in a harsh and untuned voice, but with a civil air. Don 
 Quixote politely returned the salute with graceful demeanour, and 
 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 Woful, as Don Quix- 
 ote was of the Sorrowful, Figure, having suffered himself to be embrac- 
 ed, drew back a little, and laying his hands on Don Quixote's should- 
 ers, 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 Tattered 
 Knight ; and what he said shall be told in the next chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A continuation of the adventure in the Sierra Morena. 
 
 Don Quixote listened to the Tattered Knight of the mountain, who 
 thus addressed himself to him : " Assuredly, signer, whoever you are, 
 I am obliged to you for the courtesy you have manifested towards 
 me ; and I wish it were in my power to serve you with more than my 
 good-will, which is all that my fate allows me to offer in return for 
 your civility." " So great is my desire to do you service," answered 
 Don Quixote, " that I had determined to learn from yourself wheth- 
 er your affliction, which is evident by the strange life you lead, may 
 admit of any remedy, and, if so, make every possible exe'rtion to 
 procure it ; I conjure you also by whatever in this life you love most, 
 to tell me who you are, and what has brought you hither, to live and 
 
«^. XIV.l DON QUIXOTE. T3 
 
 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, to remedy your misfortune, or assist you to 
 bewail it, as I have already promised." The Knight of the Mountain, 
 hearmg him 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 God's sake let me 
 have it ; and when I have eaten, I will do all you desire, in return for 
 the good wishes you have expressed towards me." 
 
 Sancho immediately took from his wallet some provisions, where- 
 with the wretched wanderer satisfied his hunger, eating what they gave 
 him like a distracted person, so ravenously that he made no interval 
 between one mouthful and another. When he had finished, he made 
 signs to them to follow' him ; and having conducted them 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 that I should tell you the immensity of my misfortunes, you 
 must promise not to interrupt the thread of my doleful history ; for 
 in the instant you do so, my narrative will break off." These words 
 brought to Don Quixote's memory the tale related by his squire, 
 which, because he had not reckoned the number of goats that had 
 passed the river, remained unfinished. Don Quixote, in the name 
 of all the rest, promised not to interrupt him, and upon this assurance 
 he began in the following manner : 
 
 I' 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 parents, 
 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 intentions deserved. This Lucinda I loved and 
 adored from my childhood ; and she, on her part, loved me with that 
 innocent affection proper to her age. Our parents were not unac- 
 quainted with our attachment, nor was it displeasing to them. Our 
 love increased with our years, insomuch that 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 cele- 
 brated by the poets. This restraint served only to increase the ardour 
 of our affection ; for though it was in their power to impose silejce 
 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 
 
74 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Acuities that the tongue cannot perform its office. O heavens, how 
 many billet-doux did I write to her ! What charming, what modest 
 answers did I receive ! How many sonnets did I pen! At length, 
 my patience being exhausted, I resolved at once to demand her for my 
 lawful wife ; which I immediately did. In reply, her father 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 demand ; for without his entire coiicurrence the 
 act would appear secret and unworthy of his Lucinda. I went there- 
 fore directly to him, and found him with a letter open in his hand, 
 which he gave me, saying, ' By this letter you will see, Cardenio, the 
 inSlination Duke Eicardo has to do you service.' I read the letter, 
 which was so extremely kind that I thought 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 as a com- 
 panion to his eldest son. 
 
 "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 Eicardo'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 at the residence of the duke, who treat" 
 ed me with so much kindness that envy soon became active, by pos- 
 sessing his servants with an opinion that every favour the duke con- 
 ferred upon me was prejudicial 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 loving dispo- 
 sition, who contracted so intimate a friendship with me that it became 
 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 Fernando. 
 
 " Now as unbounded confidence is always the effect of such inti- 
 macy, he revealed to me all his thoughts, and particularly a love mat- 
 ter, which gave him some disquiet. He loved a country girl, the 
 daughter of one of his father's vassals. Her parents were rich, and 
 she herself was so beautiful, discreet, and modest, that no one could 
 determine in which of these qualities she most excelled. Don Fer- 
 nando's passion for this lovely maiden was so excessive that he re- 
 solved to promise her marriage. Prompted by friendship, I eniplqy^i 
 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, sus- 
 pected and feared no less, knowing that I could not, as a faithful ser- 
 vant conceal from my lord and master so important a matter ; and 
 therefore, to amuse and dRceive me. he said that he knew no Ketter 
 
CH XlV.l DON 5,UIX0TE. 7£ 
 
 remedy for effacing the remembrance of the beauty that had so ^cap- 
 tivated him than to absent himself for some months ; which he said 
 might be effected by our going together to my father's house, under 
 pretence, as he would tell the duke, of purchasing horses in our town, 
 which is remarkable for producing the best in the world. No sooner 
 had he madeythis proposal than, prompted by my own love, I expressed 
 my approbation of it, as the best that possibly could be devised, and 
 ehould have done so, even had it been less plausible, since it afforded 
 me so good an opportunity of returning to sete my dear Lucinda. At 
 the very time he made this proposal to me he had already, as appeared 
 afterwards, been married to the maiden, and only waited for a con- 
 venient season to divulge it with safety to himself, being afraid of 
 what the duke his father might do when he should hear of his folly. 
 Now love in young men too often expires with the attainment of its 
 object ; and what seems to be love vanishes, because it has nothing 
 of the durable nature of true affection. In short, Don Fernando, 
 having obtained possession of. the country girl, his love grew faint, and 
 his fondness abated ; so that, in reality, that absence which he pro- 
 posed as a remedy for his passion, he only chose in order to avoid 
 what was now no longer agreeable to him. 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 unfortu- 
 nately for me, I revealed it to Don Fernando ; thinking that, by the 
 laws of friendship, nothing should be concealed from him. I expa- 
 tiated 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 
 shewed 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 into oblivion. From 
 th^t time I began to fear and suspect him ; for he was every moment 
 talking of Lucinda, and would begin the subject himself, however ab- 
 ruptly, which awakened in me I know not what jealousy ; and though 
 I feared no change in the goodness and fidelity of Lucinda, yet 1 
 could not but dread the very thing against which they seemed to se- 
 cure me. He also constantly importuned me to shew him the letters 
 I wrote to Lucinda, as well as her answers, which I did, and he pre- 
 tended to be extremely delighted with both. 
 
 " Now it happened that Lucinda, having desired me to lend her a 
 X)ok of chivalry, of which she was very fond, entitled Amadis de 
 Gaul " , 
 
 Scarcely had Don Quixote heard him mention a book of chivalry, 
 when he sa d, " Had you told me, sir, at the beginning of your story. 
 
"6 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Si** the Lady Lucinda was fond of reading books of chivalry-, no 
 mere would have been necessary to convince me of the sublimity of 
 her understanding. I pronounce her to be the most beautiful and 
 the most ingenious woman in the world. Pardon me, sir, for having 
 broken my promise by this interruption ; but when I hear of matters 
 appertaining to knights-errant and chivalry I can as well forbear talk- 
 ing 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 uttering some disloyalty against Queen Madasima, one of the he- 
 roines of the Don's books of chivalry, " It is false, I swear," answer- 
 ed Don Quixote in great wrath ; " it is extreme malice, or rather vil- 
 lany, to say so ; and whoever asserts it 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, being now mad, and hearing himself called liar and vil- 
 lain, with other such opprobrious names, did not like the jest ; and 
 catching up a stone that lay close by him, he threw it with such 
 violence at Don Quixote's breast that it threw him on his back. San- 
 cho Panza, seeing his master treated in this manner, attacked the mad- 
 man with his clenched fist ; and the Tattered Knight received him in 
 such sort that, with one blow, he laid him at his feet, and then trampled 
 upon him to his heart's content. The goatherd, who endeavoured 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 was proceeding to take reveii^e on 
 the goatherd, telling him the fault was his, for not having given them 
 warning that this man was subject to these mad fits ; for had they 
 known it, they might have been upon their guard. The goatherd 
 answered that he had given them notice of it, and that 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 toming 
 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, for this fellow being a 
 bumpkin like myself, and not a knight, I may very safely revenge my- 
 self by fighting with him hand to hand, like a man of honour." 
 " True," said Don Quixote ; " but I know that he is not to blame for 
 what has happened." Hereupon Sancho was pacified ; "and Don 
 Quixote again inquireu uu «» i4«»>'^'e'^'- >»''^-''— ■ •'■- ■■ -'- "'''' to 
 
•^.H. XIV., DON QUIXOTE. T 
 
 Snd out Cardeiiio , for he had a vehement desire to learn the end of 
 his story. The goatherd told him, as before, that he did not exactly 
 know his haunts, but that, if he waited some time about that part, 
 he would not fail to meet him, either in or out of his senses. 
 
 Don Quixote took his leave of the goatherd, and, mounting Rozi- 
 nante, commanded Sancho to follow him ; which he did very unwil- 
 lingly. They proceeded slowly on, making their way into the most dif- 
 ficult recesses of the mountain ; in the mean time 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, un- 
 able to hold out any longer, he said to him,, " Signor Don Quixote, 
 be pleased to give me your worship's blessing, and my dismission ; 
 for I will get home to ray wife and children, with whom I shall at 
 least have the privilege of talking and speaking my mind ; for it ia 
 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, tossingg 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, San- 
 cho," answered Don Quixote ; " thou art impatient until I take off 
 the embargo I have laid on thy tongue. Suppose it, then, removed, 
 and thou art permitted to say what thou wilt, upon condition that this 
 revocation is to last no longer than whilst we are wandering among 
 these rocks." " Be it so," said Sancho ; " let me talk now, for we 
 know not what will be hereafter. And now, taking the benefit of 
 this license, I ask what had your worship to do with standing up so 
 warmly for that same Queen Magimasa, or what's her name ? for 
 V.ad 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." 
 
 " In faith, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, " if thou didst but 
 know, as I do, how honourable and how excellent a lady Queen Mad- 
 asima was, I am certain thou wouldst acknowledge that I had a great 
 deal of patience in forbearing to dash to pieces that mouth out of 
 which such blasphemies issued ; and to prove that Cardenio knew 
 not what he spoke, thou mayest remember that when he said it he 
 was not m his senses." " That is what I 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 con 
 dition 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 woman, particularly that of a queen, 
 of m/.Vi o-ra^toA M/nr-tii o= n..Qov. iV[^_^-';;--_- ^ for wl'om 1 have a par- 
 
'S PON QUIXOTE. 
 
 tfcular affection, on account of her excellent qualities ; for, beside* 
 being extremely beautiful, she was very prudent, and very patient \ a 
 her afflictions, which were numerous. But prythee, Sancho, peace ;. 
 and henceforward attend to our matters, and forbear any interference 
 with what doth not concern thee. Be convinced, that whatever 1 
 have done, do, or shall do, is highly reasonable, and exactly conform- 
 able to the rules of chivalry, which I am better acquainted with than 
 all the knights who ever professed it in the world." " Sir," replied 
 Sancho, " is it a good rule of chivalry for us to go wandering through 
 these mountains, without either path or road, in quest of a madman 
 who, perhaps, when he is found, will be inclined to finish what he 
 began, — not his story, but the breaking of your worship's head and 
 my ribs .' " 
 
 " Peace, Sancho, I repeat," said Don Quixote ; " for know that it 
 is not only the desire of finding the madman that hfings 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 accom- 
 plished knight-errant." " And is this exploit a very dangerous one ? " 
 quoth Sancho. "No," answered the knight; "-although the die 
 may chance to run unfortunately for us, yet the whole will depend 
 upon thy diligence." " Upon my diligence ! " exclaimed Sancho. 
 " Yes," said Don Quixote ; " for if thy return be speedy from the 
 place whither I intend to send thee, my pain will soon be over, and 
 my glory forthwith commence ; and that thou mayest no longer be in 
 suspense with regard to the tendency of my words, I inform thee, San- 
 cho, 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 princi- 
 pal, 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 any thing ; for I swear they are mistaken. I say, moreover, that 
 if a painter would be famous in his art he must endeavour to copy 
 after the originals of the most excellent masters. The same rule is also 
 applicable to all the other arts and sciences which adorn the common- 
 wealth ; thus, whoever aspires to a reputation for prudence and pa- 
 tience must imitate Ulysses, in whose person and toils Homer draws 
 a lively picture of those qualities ; so also Virgil, in the character of 
 ^neas, delineates filial piety, courage, and martial skill, being repre- 
 sentations not of what they really were, but of what they ought to 
 be, in order to serve as models of virtue to succeeding generations. 
 Thus was Amadis the polar, the morning-star, and the sun of all 
 valiant and enamoured knights, and whom all we, who militate inder 
 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 certain of e.rtiving at pre-eminence in chivalry. And an oc- 
 
eH. IIV.J DON QUIXOTE. "79 
 
 mision upon which this knight particularly displayed his prudence, 
 worth, courage, patience, constancy, and love, was his retiring, when 
 disdained by the Lady Oriana, to do penance on the poor rock, chang- 
 ing his name to that of Beltenebros ; a name most certainly significant 
 and proper for the life he had voluntarily chosen. Now it is easier 
 for me to imitate him in this than in cleaving giants, beheading ser- 
 pents, 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 
 ofiered to me." 
 
 " What is it your worship really intends to do in so remote a place 
 as this ? " demanded Sancho. " Have I not told thee," answered Don 
 Quixote, "that I design to imitate Amadis, acting here the desperate, 
 raving, and furious lover ; at the same time following the example of the 
 valiant Don Orlando with respect to Angelica the fair ; he ran mad, tore 
 up trees by the roots, disturbed the waters of the crystal springs, slew 
 shepherds, destroyed flocks, fired cottages, and an hundred thousand 
 other extravagances worthy of eternal record. And although it is' not 
 my design to imitate Orlando 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 onlj 
 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 a. 
 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 have you discovered to convince 
 you that the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso has done you any wrong } " 
 " There lies the point," answered Don Quixote, " and in this consists 
 the refinement of my plan. A knight-errant who runs mad with just 
 cause deserves no thanks ; but to do so without this is the point ; giving 
 my lady to understand how much more I should perform were there 
 a good reason on her part. But I have cause enough given me by so 
 long an absence from my ever-honoured Lady Dulcinea del Toboso. 
 Therefore, friend Sancho, counsel me not to refrain from so rare, so 
 happy, and so unparalleled an imitation. Mad I am, and mad I must 
 be, until thy return with an answer to a letter I intend to send by thee 
 to my Lady Dulcinea ; for if good, I shall enjoy it in my right senses ; 
 if otherwise, I shall be mad, and consequently insensible of my mis- 
 fortune." 
 
 While they were thus discoursing, they arrived at the foot of a 
 high mountain, which stood separated from several others that sur- 
 rounded it, as if it had been hewn out from them. Near its base ran 
 a gentle stream, that watered a verdant and luxurious vale, adorned 
 with many wide-spreading trees, plants, and wild flowers of various 
 
PO DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 kues. This was the spot in which the Knight of the Sorrowful Fig 
 nre chose to perform his penance ; and while contemplating Ihe scene 
 ne 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 I am 
 so cruelly involved. 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 foliage 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 unhappy lover, whom long absence and 
 some pangs of jealousy have driven to bewail himself among these 
 rugged heights, and to complain of the cruelty of that ungrateful fair, 
 the utmost extent and ultimate perfe«tionof human beauty! And, 
 
 thou my squire, agreeable companion in my prosperous and adverse 
 fortune, carefully imprint on thy memory what thou shalt see me here 
 perform, that thou mayest recount and recite it to her who is the sole 
 cause of all ! " Thus saying, he alighted from Kozinante, and in an 
 instant took off his bridle and saddle, and clapping him on the back, 
 said to him, " O steed, as excellent for my performances as unfortu- 
 nate 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, iior the famous Frontino, which cost 
 Bradamante so dear, could match thee in speed." 
 
 Sancho, observing all this, said, " Blessings be with him who saved 
 us the trouble of unharnessing Dapple ; for truly 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 my departure and 
 your madness take place in earnest, it will be well to saddle Eozi- 
 nante again, that he may supply the loss of my Dapple, and save mo 
 time in going and coming ; for if I walk, I know not how I shall be 
 able either to go or return, being, in truth, but a sorry traveller 
 on foot." " Be that as thou wilt," answered Don Quixote ; " for I do 
 not disapprove thy proposal ; and I say thou shalt depart within three 
 days, during which time I intend thee to bear witness of what 'I do 
 and say for her, that thou mayest report it accordingly." " What 
 have I more to see," quoth Sancho, " than what I have already seen ? " 
 " So far thou art well prepared," answered Don Quixote ; " 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 admiration." " Good master," said Sancho, " con- 
 tent yourself, I pray you, with running your head against some soft 
 thing, such as cotton ; er: ' 'err i* tn -r!-; *- *=-ii ^.r }^/i,. *u„t „„.. 
 
CC XIV.] DON QUIXOTE. 8; 
 
 hashed your head against the point of a rock harder than a diamond.' 
 "I thanlc 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." " As for 
 the three days allowed me for seeing your mad pranks," interrupted 
 Sancho, " 1 beseech you to reckon them as already passed ; for I 
 take all for granted, and will tell wonders to my lady : do you write 
 tlie letter, and despatch me quickly, for I long to come back and re- 
 Iftase your worship from this purgatory, in which I leave you." 
 
 " But how," said Don Quixote, " 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 in- 
 deed 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 school-master." " But what must we do about the 
 signing it with your own hand f " said Sancho. " Th^ letters of Ama- 
 dis were never subscribed," answered Don Quixote. " Very well," 
 replied Sancho ; " but the order for the colts must needs be signed by 
 yourself; for if that be copied, they will say it is a false signature, and 
 1 shall be forced to go without the colts." " The order shall be sign- 
 ed 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 sub- 
 scribed 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 has never seen a letter or writing of mine 
 in her whole life ; for our loves have always been of the platonic kind, 
 extending no farther than to modest glances at each other ; such is the 
 reserve and seclusion in which she is brought up by her father Lo- 
 renzo Corchuelo, and -r.er mother Aldonza Nogales ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " quoth Sancho, " the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo ! Is 
 she the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, otherwise called Aldonza Loren- 
 zo ! " " 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 tho 
 parish ; straight and vigorous, and I warrant can make her part good 
 with any knight-errant that shall have her for his lady. Oh, what a 
 pair of lungs and a voice she has ! I remember she got out one day 
 upon the bell-tower of the church, to call some young ploughmen, 
 who were in a field of her father's ; and though they were half a 
 league off, they heard her as plainly as if they had stood at the foot of 
 the tower ; and the best of her is, that she is not at all coy, but as bold 
 as a court lady, and makes a jest and a may-game of every body. I 
 
 6 
 
82 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 fay, then, Sir Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, that you not olIj 
 may and ought to run mad for her, but also you may justly despair 
 and hang yourself, and no body that hears it but will say you did ex- 
 tremely well. However, I am anxious to see her ; for I have not met 
 with her this many a day, and by this time she must needs be altered ; 
 for it mightily spoils women's faces to be abroad in the field, exposed 
 to the sun and weather. But, all things considered, what good can 
 it do to the Lady Aldonza Lorenzo — I mean the Lady Dulcinea de. 
 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 thrashing 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 ; but, to convince thee at once of thy folly 
 and my discretion, I will, tell thee a short tale. 
 
 " Know, then, that a certain widow, handsome, young, gay, and rich, 
 and withal no prude, fell in love with a young man, handsome, well- 
 made, and active. A relative heard of it, and one day took occasion 
 to speak to the good widow in the way of brotherly reprehension. 
 ' I wonder, madam,' said he, ' that a woman of your quality, so beau- 
 tiful and so rich, should fall in love with such a despicable, mean, sil- 
 ly fellow ; when there are, in this house, so many graduates, scholars, 
 and dignitaries, among whom you might pick and choose, and say, 
 this I like and this I leave, as you would among pears.' But she an- 
 swered him with great frankness and gaiety, ' You are mistaken, worthy 
 sir, and your sentiments are very antiquated, if you imagine that I 
 have made an ill choice in that fellow, silly as he may appear, since, 
 for aught that I desire of him, he knows as much of philosophy as 
 Aristotle himself, if not more.' In like manner, Sancho, 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 Amar- 
 yllises, the Phyllises, the Silvias, the Dianas, the Galateas, the Alidas, 
 and the like, famous in books, ballads, barbers' shops, and stage-plays, 
 were really ladies of flesh and blood, and beloved by those who have 
 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 Aldon- 
 za Lorenzo is beautiful and modest ; and as to her lineage, it matters 
 not, for no inquiry concerning it is requisite ; and to me it is unneces- 
 sary, as I regard her as the greatest princess in the world. For thou 
 must know that two things, above all others, incite to love ; name- 
 ly,' 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, 
 
CH Xivj DON QUIXOTE. 8d 
 
 sad for purity of reputatUin few can equal her. In fine, I conceive 
 she is exactly what I have described, and every thing that I can de- 
 sire, both as to beauty and quality, unequalled by Helen, or by Lu- 
 cretia, or any other of the famous women of antiquity, whether Gre- 
 cian, Roman, or Goth ; and I care not what be said, since, if upon 
 this account I am blamed by the ignorant, I shall be acquitted by the 
 wise." " Your worship," replied Saneho, " is always in the right, 
 and I am an ass — why do I mention an ass? — one should not talk 
 of halters in the house of the hanged. But I am off-— give me the 
 letter, sir, and peace be with you." 
 
 Don Quixote took out the pocket-book to Write tl.e letter ; and 
 having finished, he called Saneho, aJid said he would read it to him, 
 that he might have it by heart, lest he might perchance lose it by 
 the way ; for every thing was to be feared from his evil destiny. To 
 which Saneho 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 ray memory is a folly ; for mine is so bad that 
 1 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 Quiioote's Letter to Duleinea del Tohoso. 
 
 " High and sovereign lady, — He Who is stabbed by the point of 
 absence, and pierced by the arrows of love, O sweetest Duleinea 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 still pursue me, although inured to suffering, I shall ill 
 support an affliction which is riot only severe but lasting. My good 
 squire Saneho will tell thee, O ungrateful fair and most beloved foe, 
 to what a state I am reduced on thy account. If it be thy pleasure 
 to relieve me, I am thine ; ;f not, do what seemeth good to thee : for 
 by my death I shall at once appease thy cruelty and my own passion. 
 
 Until death thine, 
 
 The Knight of the Sorkowfxtl Figure." 
 
 " By the life of my father," quoth Sancho, after hearing the letter, 
 ' it is the finest thing I ever heard. How choicely your worship ex- 
 pi esses whatever you please ! and how well you close all with ' the 
 Knight of the Sorrowful Figure I ' Verily, there is nothing but what 
 you know." " The profession, w-hich I have embraced," answered 
 Don Quixote, " requites a knowledge of every thing." " Well, 
 
84 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Jien," said Sancho, " pray put on the other side the order for Iha 
 three ass-colts, and sign it very plain, that people may know yo'ir 
 hand- at first sight." " With all my heart," said the knight ; and 
 having written it, he read as follows : — 
 
 " Dear 'Niece, — at sight of this, my first bill of ass-colts, give 7^- 
 der that three out of the five I left at home in your custody, be delir* 
 ered to Sancho Panza, rny squire ; which three colts I order to bo 
 delivered and paid for the like number received of him here in tale ; 
 and this, with his acquittance, shall be your discharge. Done in 
 the heart of the Sierra Morena, the twenty-second of August, this 
 present year " 
 
 " It is mighty well," said Sancho ; " now you have only to sign it." 
 " It wants no signing," said Don Quixote ; " I need only put my 
 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 frolics you are about to commit; and I will tell 
 quite enough to satisfy her. But in the mean time, setting that aside, 
 what has your worship to eat until my return ! Are you to go upon 
 the highway, to rob the shepherds, like Cardenio } " " Trouble not 
 yourself about that," answered Don Quixote ; " for were I otherwise 
 provided, I should eat nothing but the herbs and fruits which here 
 grow wild : for abstinence and other austerities are essential in this 
 affair." " Now I think of it, sir," said Sancho, " how shall I be able 
 to find my way back again to this bye-place } " " Observe and mark 
 well the spot, and I will endeavour to remain near it," said Don 
 Quixote ; " and will, moreover, ascend some of the highest ridges tc 
 discover thee upon thy return. But the surest way not to miss me, 
 or lose thyself, willS)e to cut down some of the broom that abounds 
 here, and scatter il; here and there, on thy way to the plain, to serve 
 as marks and tokens to guide thee on thy return, in imitation of The- 
 seus's clue to the labyrinth." 
 
 Sancho Panza followed this 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 an especial charge from Don Quixote to regard him 
 as he would his own proper person, he rode towards the plain strev* 
 ing the boughs at inte "vals, as his master had directed him. 
 
«H. XV,] DON QUIXOTK. 85 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Of what happened to Don Quixote's Squire, with the famous d&me of 
 the Curate and the Barber. 
 
 The history recounting what the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure did 
 when he found himself alone, informs us that, having performed 
 many strange antics after Sancho's departure, he mounted the top of 
 a high rock, and began to deliberate on a subject that he had often 
 considered before, without coming to any resolution ; that was, which 
 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 himself: "If Orlando was as valiant a knight as he is 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 ; therefore he always wore shoes of iron. But setting aside 
 his valour, let us consider his madness ; and if he was convinced of 
 his lady's cruelty, it was no wonder he ran mad. But how can I imi- 
 tate him in his frenzy without a similar cause ? I should do my Dul- 
 cinea manifest wrong if I should be seized with the same species of 
 frenzy as that of Orlando Furioso. On the other side, 1 see that 
 Amadis de Gaul, finding himself disdained by his Lady Oriana, only 
 retired to the poor rock, accompanied by a hermit, and there wept 
 abundantly until Heaven succoured him in his great tribulation. 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, 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 sufRcient 
 that I am absent from her. Now to the work ; come to my memory, 
 ye deeds of Amadis, and instruct me in the task of imitation ! " He 
 thus pussed the time, and in writing and graving. on the barks of trees 
 many worses of a plaintive kind, or in praise of his Dulcinea. Among 
 those -afterwards discovered, only the following were entire and 
 legible* 
 
 I. 
 
 Ye lofty trees, with spreading arms, 
 
 Tlie pride and shelter of the plain i 
 Ye humbler shrubs and flowery charms, 
 
 Which here in springing glory reign ! 
 If my complaints may pity move. 
 Hear the sad story of my love ! 
 
 While with me here you pass your honrg. 
 Should you grow faded with my cares, 
 
 I '11 bribe you with refreshing showers; 
 You shall be watered with my tears. 
 
 Distant, tliongh present in idea, 
 
 I mourn my absent Dulcioea 
 
 Del ToboM. 
 
80 SON QUIXOTE 
 
 II. 
 While I through honoor'a thorny wajrf 
 
 Id search of distant glory rove. 
 Malignant fate my toil repays 
 
 With endless woes and hopeless love 
 Thus 1 on barren rocks despair, 
 And curse my stars, yet bless my fair. 
 
 Lore, armed with snakes, has left his d^rti 
 And now does like a fuiy rave. 
 
 And scourge and sting on every part. 
 And into madness lash his slave, 
 
 Distant though present in idea, 
 
 I mourn my absent Dolcinea 
 
 Del Toboso. 
 
 Itie 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 " Dulci- 
 nea " he added " Del Toboso," the object of his praise would not be 
 known — and they were right, as he afterwards confessed. Here, 
 however, it will be proper to leave him, wrapped up in poetry and 
 grief, to relate what happened to the squire duritig his embassy. 
 
 As soon as Sancho had gainedthe high road, he directed his course 
 to Toboso, and the next day he came within sight of the inn where 
 the misfortune of the blanket had befallen hirp ; and fancying him- 
 self again flying in the air, he felt no disposition to enter it, although 
 it was then the hour of dinner, and he longed for something warm. 
 And as he stood doubtful whether or not to enter, two persons came 
 out who recognized him. " Pray, signor," said one to the other, " is 
 not that Sancho Panza yonder on horseback, who, as our friend's? 
 housekeeper 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 the barber of his village, and the very persons who had passed 
 sentence on the mischievous books. Being now certain it was San- 
 tho Panza and Rozinante, and hoping to hear some tidings of Don 
 Quixote, the priest went up to him, and calling him by his name, 
 '' Friend," said he, " where have you left your master .? " Sancho 
 immediately knew them, and resolved to conceal the place of Don 
 Quixote's retreat ; he therefore told them that his master was very 
 busy about a certain affair of the greatest importance to himself, 
 which he durst not discover for the eyes in his head. " No, no," 
 quoth the barber, " that story will not pass. If you do not tell us 
 where he is, we shall conclude that you ha,ve murdered and robbed 
 him, since you come thus upon his horse. See, then, that you pro- 
 duce the owner of tha,t horse, or woe be to you ! " He then freely 
 related to them in what state he had left him, and how he was then 
 carrying a letter to the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, with whom his 
 master was up to ths ears in love. 
 
«IH. XV.] DON QTTIXOTB. 87 
 
 They were astonished at Sancho'g report ; and though they knew 
 ihe nature of their friend's derangement, yet every fresh instance was 
 a new source of wonder. They begged Sancho to shew them the 
 letter he was carrying to the lady. He said it was written in a pocket- 
 book, and that his master had ordered him to get it copied in the first 
 town he should arrive at. The priest said, if ^e would shew it to 
 him, he would transcribe it in" a fair character. Sancho put his, hand 
 into his bosom to take out the book, but found it not ; for it remained 
 with its owner, who had forgotten to give it him. When Sancho 
 found he had no book, he turned as pale as death ; he laid hold of his 
 beard with both hands, and tore away half of it, bestowing at the 
 same time sundry blows on his nose and mouth. Thei priest and bar- 
 ber asked him wherefore he treated himself so roughly. " Where- 
 fore ? " answered Sancho, " but that I have let slip through my fingers 
 three ass-colts, each of them a castle ! " " How so ? " replied the 
 barber. " I have lost the pocket-book," answered Sancho, " that 
 contained the letter to Dulcinea, and a bill signed by my master, in 
 which he ordered his niece to deliver to me three colts out of four or 
 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 in a regular way 
 for one written in a pocket-book would not be accepted. Sancho was 
 comforted by this, and said that he did not care for the loss of th« 
 letter, as he could almost say it by heart ; so they might write it 
 down, where and when they pleased. " Repeat it, then, Sancho," 
 quoth the barber, " and we will write it afterwards." Sancho then 
 began to scratch his head, in order to fetch the letter to his remem- 
 brance ; now he stood upon one foot, and then upon the other ; some- 
 times he looked down upon the ground, sometimes up to the sky ; 
 then, biting ofi" half a nail, and keeping his hearers long in expecta- 
 tion, he said, " At the beginning I believe it said, ' High and subterrana 
 lady.' " " No," said the barber, " not subterrane, but superhumaa 
 lady." " Ay, so it was," said Sancho. " Then, if I do not mistake, 
 it went on, ' the stabbed, the waking, find 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 seat ; ' and so he went 
 on, until at lEist he ended with ' thine till death, the Knight of the 
 Sorrowful Figure.' " 
 
 They were bolji greatly diverted at Sancho's excellent memory, 
 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, find added to it fifty 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, was to set about 
 
^8 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 endeavouring to become an eiwperor, or at least a king (for so it was 
 concerted between them) — a thing that would be very easily done, 
 aonsidering the valour and strength of his arm ; and when this was 
 accomplished, his master was to marry him (as by that time he should, 
 probably, 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. " 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." 
 
 So having deliberated together on the best means of accomplishing 
 their purpose, a device occurred to the priest, exactly fitted to Don 
 Quixote's humour, and likely to effect what they desired ; which was, 
 that he should perform himself the part of a damsel-errant, and the 
 barlier 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 farther mquiries concerning her, until he had done her 
 justice on that wicked knight. He made no doubt but that Don Quix- 
 ote would consent to any such terms ; and they might thus get him 
 ^way from that place, and carry him home, where they would en- 
 deavour to find some remedy for his extraordinary malady. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 How the Priest and the Barber proceeded in their project ; with other 
 
 things worthy of being related. 
 The barber liked well the priest s contrivance, and they immediately 
 began to carry it into execution. They borrowed a petticoat and 
 head-dress of the landlady ; and the barber made himself a huge 
 beard of the tail of a pied ox, m which the inn-keeper used to hang' 
 his comb. The hostess having asked them for what purpose they 
 wanted those things, the priest gave her a brief account of Don Quix 
 ote's insanity, and the necessity of that disguise to draw him from his 
 oresent retreat. The host and hostess immediately conjectured that 
 his was the same person who haa' once been their guest, and the 
 master of the blanketed squire ; and they related to the priest what 
 had passed between them, without omitting what Sancho had been so 
 careful to conceal. In the mean time the landlady equipped the priest 
 to admiration : she put him on a cloth petticoat all pinked and slashed, 
 and a corset of green velvet with a border of white satin. The piiest 
 
tH. 
 
 ^Vl.] DON QUIXOTE. 89 
 
 would not consent to wear a woman's head-dress, but put on a little 
 white quilted cap, which he used as a night-cap, and bound one of 
 his garters of black taifeta about his forehead, 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 like a woman. The barber mounted also, with a 
 beard that reached to his girdle, of a colour between sorrel and white, 
 being, as before said, made of the tail of a pied ox. 
 
 But scarcely had they got out of the inn when the curate began to 
 think 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. 
 
 They now set forward on their journey ; but first they told Sanchc 
 that their disguise was of the utmost importance towards disensiaging 
 his master from the miserable life he had chosen : and that he must 
 by no means tell hiw". who they were ; and if he should inquire, as 
 no doubt he would, whether he had delivered the letter to Dulcinea, 
 he should say he had ; and 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 them- 
 selves, 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 in his memory ; and gave 
 them many thanks for promising to advise his lord to be an emperor, 
 and not an archbishop ; for he was persuaded that, in rewarding their 
 squires, emperors could do more than archbishops-errant. He told 
 them also it would be proper he should go before, to find him, and 
 deliver him his lady's answer ; for, perhaps, that alone would be 
 sufficient to bring him out of that place, without farther trouble. 
 They agreed with Sancho, and determined to wait for his return with 
 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. 
 
 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 Jt 3S 
 common to tell of shepherds with melodious voices warbling over hills 
 and dories, yet this is rather poetical fancy than plain truth. Resides, 
 
90 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the verses they heard were not those of a rustic muse, but of a ra 
 fined and courtly invention, as will appear by the following stanzas : 
 
 I. 
 
 What makes me languish and complain 1 
 What yet more fiercely tortures me 1 
 How have I my patience lost t 
 
 O 't is disdain ! 
 'T is jealousy. 
 
 By absence crossed. 
 Then, hope, farewell, there's no relief ; 
 I sink beneath oppressing grief; 
 Nor can a wretch, without despair. 
 Scorn, jealousy, and absence bear. 
 
 Where shall I find a speedy cure 1 
 
 No milder means to set me free 1 
 
 Can nothing else my pains assuage t 
 
 What, die orthangel Lucinda lose 1 
 O rather let me madness choose I 
 But judge what we endure. 
 When death or madness are a cure ! 
 
 Death is sure. 
 Inconstancy. 
 Distracting rage, 
 
 The hour, the season, the solitude, the voice, and the skill of the 
 singer, all conspired to impress the auditors with wonder and delight, 
 and they remained for some time motionless, in expectation of hear- 
 ing more ; but finding the silence contiiiue, they resolved to see who 
 it was who had sung so agreeably ; and were again detainfed by the 
 same voice regaling their ears with this other song : 
 
 A SONNET. _ 
 
 O sacred Friendship, Heaven's delight. 
 
 Which, tired with man's unequal mind. 
 Took to thy native skies thy flight. 
 
 While scarce tliy shadow 's left behind ! 
 
 Bless'd genius, now resume thy seat ! 
 Destroy imposture and deceit; 
 Harmonious peace an'd truth-renew, 
 Shew the false friendship from the true. 
 
 The song ended with a deep sigh ; and 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 appearance that Sancho 
 had described Cardenio to them. The man expressed no surprise, 
 but stood still in a pensive posture, without again raising his eyes from 
 tho ground. The priest, who was a well-spoken man, went up to him 
 
CH. XVI.J DON QUIXOTE. 9i 
 
 and, in few but very impressive words, entreated him to forsake that 
 miserable kind of life, and not hazard so great a misfortune as to lose 
 U in that inhospitable place. Cardenio was at this time perfectly tran- 
 quil, and he appeared surprised to hear them speak of his concerns^ 
 and replied, " It is very evident to me, gentlemen, whoever you are, 
 that Heaven, which succours the good, and often even the wicked, un- 
 worthy as I am, sends to me in this solitude persons who, being sensi- 
 ble how irrational is my mode of life, would divert me from it ; but 
 by flying from this misery I shall be plunged into worse ; for so over- 
 whelming is the sense of my misery, I sometimes become like a stone, 
 void of all knowledge and sensation. But, gentlemen, if you come 
 with the same intention that others have done, I beseech you to hear 
 my sad story, and 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 him- 
 self, 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 
 thus, almost in the same words in which he had related it to Don Quix- 
 ote and the goatherd some few days before, when, on account of 
 Queen Madasima, 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-letters, he repeated one which Don Fer- 
 nando found between the leaves of -Amadis de Gaul, which had been 
 first lent to Luciuda, and afterwards to him. It was as follows : 
 
 " ' Each day I discover in you qualities which raise you in my es- 
 teem ; and therefore, if you would put it in my power to discharge 
 my obligations to you, without ' prejudice to my honour, you may 
 easily do it. I have a father who knows you, and has an affection for 
 me ; who will never force my inclinations, and will comply with what- 
 ever you can justly desire, if you really have that value fol me which 
 you profess, and which I trust vou have.' 
 
 " This letter had made me resolve to demand Lucinda in marriage ; 
 but it was this letter, alSo, which made him determine upon my ruin 
 before my design could be effected. I told Don Fernando that Lucin- 
 da's father expected that the proposal should come from mine, but 
 that I durst not mention it to him, lest he should refuse his consent ; 
 not that he was ignorant of Lucinda's exalted merits, which might 
 ennoble any family of Spain ; but because I had understood from him 
 that he was desirous I should not marry until it should be seen what 
 Duke Ricardo would do for me. In short, I told him that I had not 
 courage to speak to my father about it, being full, of vague apprehen* 
 
92 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 sions and sad forebodings. In reply to all this, Don Fernandc en< 
 gaged to induce my father to propose me to the father of Lucjnda 
 
 O ambitious Marius ! cruel Catiline ! wicked Sylla ! crafty 
 
 Galalon ! perfidious Vellido ! vindictive Julian ! O covetous Judas ! 
 cruel, wicked, and crafty traitor ! what injury had been done thee by 
 a poor wretch who so frankly disclosed to thee the secrets of his 
 heart ? Wherein had I offended thee } Have I not ever sought the 
 advancement of thy interest and honour .? But why do I compjain — 
 miserable wretch that I am ! For when the stars are adverse, wha< 
 is human power.? Who could have thought that Don Fernando, 
 obliged by my services, and secure of success wherever his inclina- 
 tions led him, should take such cruel pains to deprive nje of my 
 jewel ! — But no more of these unavailing reflections ; I will now 
 resume the broken thread of my sad story. 
 
 " Don F^ynando, thinking my presence an obstacle to the execu- 
 tion of his treacherous design, resolved to send me to pay for six 
 horses which he had bought, merely as a pretext to get me out of the 
 way, that he might the more conveniently execute his diabolical pur- 
 pose. Could I foresee such treachery ? Could I even suspect it ? 
 Surely not : and 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 Fer- 
 nando, desired me to return speedily, since she believed the com 
 pletion of our wishes was only deferred until proposals should bo 
 made to her father by mine. I know not whence it was, but as she 
 spoke her eyes filled with tears, and some sudden obstruction in her 
 throat prevented her articulating another word. 
 
 " I executed my commission to Don Fernando's brother, by whom I 
 was well received, but not soon dismissed. All this was a contrivance 
 of the false Fernando ; and I felt disposed to resist the injunction,' as 
 it seemed to me impossible to support life so many days absent from 
 Lucinda, especially having left her in such a state of dejection. 
 Judge of my horror on receiving from her the following letter, which 
 she contrived to send to me a distance of eighteen leagues by a 
 special messenger: 
 
 '" The promise Don Fernando gave you to intercede with your' 
 father he has fulfilled, more for his own gratification than your into 
 est. 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 
 solemnized two days hence ! Conceive my situation ! Heaven grant 
 this may come to your hand before mine be compelled to join hia 
 who breaks his promised faith ! ' 
 
 " J i?et out innmediately ; my rage against Don Fernando, and the 
 
CH. XVI.] DON QUIXOTE. 93 
 
 . 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 mo- 
 ment 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 I found Lucinda at the grate. 
 We saw each other — but how ? Who is there in the world that can 
 boast of ha,ving fathomed and thoroughly penetrated the intricate and 
 ever-changing nature of woman ? Certainly none. As soon as Lu- 
 cinda feaw 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 otheirs, who shall sooner be witnesses 
 of my death than of my nuptials. Be not afflicted, 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 answei- 
 ed, with confusion arid precipitation, ' Let your actions, madam, prove 
 the truth of your words. If you carry a dagger to secure your hon- 
 our, I carry a sword to defend you, or kill myself if fortune proves 
 adverse.' I do not believe she heard all I said, being hastily called 
 away ; for the bridegroom waited for her. Here the night of my 
 sorrow closed in upon me ; here set the sun of my happiness ! ■ My 
 •eyes were clouded in darkness, and my brain was disordered 1 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, I escaped observa- 
 tion, and concealed myself in the hall behind the hangings, whence I 
 could see all that passed. Who can describe the flutterings 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 Lu- 
 cinda ; and no other person was present, except the servants of the 
 house. Soon after, from a dreissing-room, came forth Lucinda, ac- 
 companied by her nJother 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 particulars of her dress ; I remarked 
 only the colours, which were carnation 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 surround- 
 ing lights seemed to be lost. O memory, thou mortal enemy of my 
 repose ! Were it not better, thou cruel faculty, to represent to my 
 imagination her conduct at that period, that, moved by so lligrant 
 an inj'jrj-, I may strive, if not to avenge it, at least to end this lii'.i of 
 pain? 
 
94 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 " I say, then," continued Cardenio, " that, being all assembleil .*> 
 the hall, the priest entered, and having taken them both by the hatAT, 
 in order to perform what is necessary on such occasions, when he 
 came to these words, ' Will you, Signora Lucinda, talie Signer 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 distracted soul 
 awaited Lucinda's reply, as the sentence of my death, or the con- 
 firmation of my life. Ohj that I had then dared to venture forth, and 
 to have cried aloud — ' Ah, Lucinda, Lucinda ! Kemember that you 
 are mine, and cannot belong to another.' Ah, fool that I am ! Now 
 I am absent, I can say what I ought to have said, but did not ! Now 
 that I have 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 I am now to complain ! I was thea a 
 coward and a fool ; no wonder therefore if I now die ashamed, re- 
 pentant, and mad. 
 
 " The priest stood expecting Lucinda's answer, who paused f«r a 
 long time ; and when I thought she would draw forth the dagger iiv de- 
 fence of her honour, or make some declaration which might redound 
 to my advantage, I heard her say in a low and faint voice, ' I itfill.' 
 Don Fernando said the same, and the ring being put on, they ro.nain- 
 ed tied in an indissoluble band. The bridegroom approached o em- . 
 brace his bride ; and she, laying her hand on her heart, fainted in the 
 arms of her mother. Imagine my condition after that fatal li es, by 
 which my hopes were frustrated, Lucinda's vows and promises Lroken, 
 and I for ever deprived of all chance of happiness. On Lucinda'a 
 fainting, all were in confusion ; and her mother, unlacing hei bosom, 
 
 00 give her air, discovered in it a folded paper, which Don Ft rnando 
 instantly seized, and read it by the light of 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 whether 
 
 1 was seen or not. I quitted the house, and returning to the place 
 where I had left the mule, I mounted and rode out of the town, not 
 daring to stop, or even to look behind me ; and when I found myself 
 alone on the plain, concealed by the darkness of the night, the silence 
 inviting my lamentations, I gave vent to a thousand execrations on 
 Lucinda and Don Fernando, as if that, alas, could afford me satisfac- 
 tion for the wrongs I had sustained. I called her cruel, false, and un- 
 grateful ; and above all, mercenary, since the wealth of my enemy 
 had seduced her affections from me._ But amidst all these reproaches 
 1 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 powerful attractions. Then again I consider 
 
OH. XVII.J DON QUIXOTE. 96 
 
 ed 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 connexion ; and I thought how 
 easily she could have declared herself mine, when on the point of 
 giving her hemd to my rival. In fine, I concluded that her love had 
 been less than her ambition, and she had thus forgotten those promises 
 by which she had beguiled my hopes and cherished my passion. 
 
 " In the utmost perturbation of mind, I journeyed on the rest of the 
 night, and at daybreak reached these mountains, over which I wan- 
 dered three days more, without road or path, until I came to a valley 
 not far hence ; and inquiring of some shepherds for the most rude 
 and solitary part, they directed me to this place ; where I instantly 
 came, determined to pass here the remainder of my life. Among 
 these crags, my mule fell down dead through weariness and hunger ; 
 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 re- 
 lieved 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 intellects ; and I am conscious 
 that since then I have committed a thousand extravagances, tearing 
 my garments, cursing my fortune, and repeating in vain the beloved 
 name of my enemy. When my senses return, I find myself so wea- 
 ry 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. 
 Thus I pass my miserable life, waiting until it shall please Heaven tc 
 bring it to a period, or erase from my memory the beauty ana 
 treachery of Lucinda and the perfidy of Don Fernando; otherwise. 
 Heaven have mercy on me, for I feel no power to change my mode 
 of life." 
 
 Here Cardenio concluded his long tale of love and sorrow ; and 
 just as the priest was preparing to say something consolatory, he was 
 prevented by the sound of a human voice, which, in a mournful tone, 
 was heard to say what will be related in the following chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER XVn. 
 
 Of the new and!' agreeable adventure that hefell the Priest and the 
 Barber, and of the beautiful Dorothea. 
 
 " Alas, is it possible that I have at last found out a place which will 
 afibrd a private grave to this miserable body, whose load I so repine 
 to bear ? Yes, if the silence and solitude of these deserts do not de- 
 
96 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ceive me, here I may die concealed from human eyes. Ah me ! ah 
 wretched creature ! to what extremity has affliction driven me, reduced 
 to think these hideous woods and rocks a kind retreat ! It is true, in- 
 deed, I may here freely complain to Heaven, and beg for that relief 
 which I might ask in vain of false mankind ; for it is vain, I find, 
 to seek below either counsel, ease, or remedy." 
 
 The curate and his company, hearipg all this distinctly, and con- 
 ceiving they must be near the person who thus expressed his grief, 
 rose to find him out. They had not gone above twenty paces before 
 they spied a youth in a country habit, sitting at the foot of a rock 
 behind an ash-tree ; but they could not well see his face, being bow- 
 ed almost upon his knees, as he sat washing his feet in a rivulet that 
 glided by. They approached him so softly that he did not perceive 
 them ; and as he was gently paddling in the clear water, they had 
 time to discern thdt his legs were as white as alabaster, and so taper, 
 so curiously proportioned, and so fine, that nothing of the kind could 
 appear more beautiful. Our observers were amazed at this discov 
 ery, rightly imagining that such tender feet were not used to trudgt, 
 in rugged ways, or measure the steps of oxen at the plough, the com- 
 mon employments of people in such apparel ; and therefore the curate, 
 who went before the rest, whose curiosity was heightened by this 
 sight, beckoned to them to step aside, and hide themselves behind 
 some of the little rocks that were by ; which they did, and from 
 thence making a stricter observation, they found he had on a grey 
 double-skirted jerkin, girt tight about his body with a linen tow'el. He 
 wore also a pair of breeches', and gamashes of grey cloth, and a grey 
 huntsman's cap on his head. His gamashes were now pulled up to 
 the middle of his leg, which really seemed to be of snowy alabaster. 
 Having made an end of washing his beauteous feet, he immediately 
 wiped them with a handkerchief, which he pulled out from under his 
 cap ; and with that looking up, he discovered so charming a face, so 
 accomplished a beauty, that Cardenio could not forbear saying to the 
 curate, that since this was not Lucinda, it was certainly no human 
 form, but an angel. And then the youth taking off his cap, and 
 shaking his head, an incredible quantity of lovely hair flowed down 
 his shoulders, and not only covered them, but almost all his body ; 
 by which they were now convinced that what they at first took to be 
 a country lad was a young woman, and one of the most beautiful 
 creatures in the world. Cardenio was not less surprised than the oth- 
 er two, and once more declared that no face could vie with Iiers but 
 liucinda's. To part her dishevelled tresses she only used her slender 
 fingers, and at the same ti me discovered so fine a pair of arms, and hands 
 so white and lovely, that our three admiring gazers grew more im- 
 patient to know who she was, and moved forward to accost her. At 
 \\e noise they made, the pretty creature started ; and peeping through 
 
3H. XVII.] DON QUIXOTE. 97 
 
 her hair, which she hastily removed from before her eyes with both 
 her hands, she no sooner saw three men coming towards her, but in 
 a mighty fright she snatched up a little bundle that lay by her, and 
 fled as fast as she could, without so much as staying to put on her 
 shoes, or do up her hair. But, alas, scarce had she gone six steps, 
 when, her tender feet not being able to endure the rough encounter 
 of the stones, the poor affrighted fair fell on the hard ground ; so that 
 those from whom she fled hastened to help her. "Stay, madam," 
 cried the curate, " whoever you be, you have no reason to fly ; we 
 have no other design but to do you service." With that, approaching 
 ' her, he took her by the hand; and perceiving she was so disordered 
 with fear and confusion that she could not answer a word, he strove 
 to compose her mind with kind expressions. " Be not afraid, madam," 
 continued he ; " though your hair has betrayed what your disguise 
 concealed from us, we are but the more disposed to assist you, and 
 do you all manner of service. Then pray tell us how we may best 
 do it. 1 imagine it was no slight occasion that made you obscure 
 your singular beauty under so unworthy a disguise, and venture into 
 this desert, where it was the greatest chance in the world that ever 
 you met with us. However, we hope it is not impossible to find a 
 remedy for your misfortunes, since there are none which reason and 
 time will not at last surmount ; and therefore, madam, if you hai ~ 
 not absolutely renounced all human comfort, I beseech you to tell us 
 the cause of your affliction, and assure yourself we do not ask this 
 out of mere curiosity, but from a real desire to serve you, and assuage 
 your grief." 
 
 While the curate endeavoured thus to remove the trembling fair 
 one's apprehension, she stood amazed, without speaking a word, look- 
 ing sometimes at one, sometimes at another, like one scarce well 
 awake, or like an ignorant clown who happens to see some strange 
 sight. But at last, the curate having given her time to recollect her- 
 self, and persisting in his earnest and civil entreaties, she sighed 
 deeply, and then unclosing her lips, broke silence in the following 
 manner : " Since this desert has not been able to conceal me, it would 
 be needless now for me to dissemble with you ; and since you desire 
 to hear the story of my misfortunes, I cannot in civility deny you, 
 after all the obliging offers you have been pleased to make me ; but 
 yet, gentlemen, I am much afraid what I have to say will but majce 
 you sad, and afford you little satisfaction ; for you will find my disasters 
 are not to be remedied. There is one thing that troubles me yet 
 mow! ; it shocks my nature to think I must be forced to reveal to you 
 some secrets which I had a design to have buried in my grave ; but 
 yet, considering the garb and the place you have found me in, I fanc> 
 it will be better for me to tell you all than to give occasion to doubt 
 of my past conduct and my present designs by an affected reserved 
 9 7 
 
98 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ness." The disguised lady having made this answer with a moaesi 
 blush and extraordinary discretion, the curate and his company, who 
 now admired her the more for her sense, renewed their kind oiTersand 
 pressing solicitations ; and then they courteously let her retire a mo- 
 ment to some distance to put herself in decent order. Which done 
 she returned, and, being all seated on the grass, after she had used no 
 small effort to restrain her tears, she thus began her story. 
 
 "I was horn in a certain town of Andalusia, from which a duke 
 takes his title that makes him a grandee of Spain. This duke had 
 two sons, the eldest heir to his estate, and, as it may be presumed, 
 of his virtues ; the youngest, heir to nothing I know of but treachery 
 and deceitfulness. My father, who is one of his vassals, is but of 
 low degree ; but so very rich, that had fortune equalled his birth to 
 his estate, he could have wanted nothing more, and I, perhaps, had 
 never been so miserable ; for I verily believe my not being of noble 
 blood is the chief occasion of my distress. True it is, my parents 
 are not so meanly born as to have any cause to be ashamed, nor so 
 high as to alter the opinion I have that my misfortune proceeds from their 
 lowness It is true, they have been farmers from father to son, yet 
 without any scandal or stain. They are honest old-fashioned Chris- 
 tiem Spaniards, and the antiquity of their family, together with theii 
 large possessions, raises them much above their profession, and has 
 by little and little almost universally gained them the name of gen- 
 tlemen, setting them,in a manner, equal to many such in the world's 
 esteem. As I am their only child, they loved me with the utmost 
 tenderness ; and their, great affection made them esteem themselves 
 happier in their daughter than in the peaceable enjoymerit of their 
 large estate. Now, as it was my good fortune to be possessed of 
 their love, they were pleased to trust me with their substance. The 
 whole house and estate was left to my management, and I took such 
 care not to abuse the trust reposed in me that I never forfeited their 
 good opinion of my discretion. The time I had to spare from the 
 care of the family I employed in the usual exercises of young wo- 
 men, sometimes making bone-lace, or at my needle, and now and 
 then reading some good book, or playing on the harp, — having ex- 
 perienced that music was very proper to recreate the wearied mind. 
 While I thus lived the life of a recluse, unseen, as I thought, by any- 
 body but our own .family, and never leaving the house but to go to 
 church, which was commonly betimes in the morning, and always 
 with my mother, and so close hid in a veil that I could scarce find 
 my way ; notwithstanding all the care that was taken to keep me from 
 being seen, it was unhappily rumoured abroad that I was handsome, 
 and to my eternal disquiet, love intruded into my peaceful retirement. 
 Don Fernando, second son to the duke I have mentioned, had a sight 
 of me " Sc^ce had Cardenio heard Don Fernando named but 
 
on. XVII.] DON QUIXOTE. 99 
 
 he changed colour, and betrayed such a disorder of body and mind 
 that the curate and the barber were afraid he would have fallen into 
 one of those frantic fits that often used to take him ; but, by good 
 fortune, it did not come to that, and he only set himself to look sted- 
 fastly on the country maid, presently guessing who she was ; while 
 she continued her story, without tfiking any notice of the alteration 
 of his countenance. 
 
 " No sooner had he seen me," said she, " but, as he since told me, 
 he felt in his breast that violent passion of which he afterwards gave 
 me so many proofs. He purchased the good will of all our servants 
 with private gifts ; made my father a thousand kind oflFers of service ; 
 every day seemed a day of rejoicing in our neighbourhood, every 
 evening ushered in some serenade, and the continual music waS even 
 a distufbance in the night. He got an infinite number of love-letters 
 transmitted to me, I do not know by what means, every one full of 
 tender expressions, promises, and vows. But all this assiduous court- 
 ship was so far from inclining my heart to a kind return, that it rath- 
 er moved my indignation, insomuch that I looked upon Don Fernan- 
 do as my greatest enemy ; not but that I was well enough pleased 
 with his gSlantry, and took a secret delight in seeing myself courted 
 by a person of his quality. Such demonstrations of love are never 
 altogether displeasing to women, and the most disdainful, in spite of 
 all tiiieir coyness, reserve a little complaisance in their hearts for their 
 admirers. But the inequality between us was too great to sufier me 
 to entertain any reasonable hopes, and his gallantry too singular not to 
 ofiend me. My father, who soon put the right construction upon 
 Don Fernando's pretensions, like a kind parent, perceiving I was 
 somewhat uneasy, and imagining the flattering prospect of. so advanta- 
 geous a match might still amuse me, told me that if I would marry, 
 to rid me at once of his imjust pursuit, I should have liberty to make 
 my choice of a suitable match, either in our own town or the neigh- 
 bourhood ; and that he would do for me whatever could be expected 
 from a loving father. I humbly thanked him for his kindness, and 
 told him that as I had never yet had any thoughts of marriage, I 
 would try to rid myself of Don Fernando some other way. Accord- 
 ingly, I resolved to shun him with so much precaution that he should 
 never have the opportunity to speak to me ; but all my reserve, far 
 from tiring out his passion, strengthened it the more. In short, Don 
 Fernando, either hearing or suspecting! was to be married, thought 
 of a contrivance to cross a design that was likely to cut off all his 
 hopes. One night, therefore, when I was in my chamber, nobody 
 with me but my maid, and the door double locked and bolted, that 1 
 might be secured against the attempts of Don Fernando, whom I took 
 to be a man who would scruple at nothing to accomplish his ends, 
 unexpectedly I saw him just before me ; which amazing sight so sur- 
 
100 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 prised me, that I was struck dumb, and fainted away with fear. 1 
 had not power to call for help, nor do I believe he would have given 
 me time to have done it, bar" I attempted it ; for he presently ran to 
 me, and talcing me in his arras, while I was sinking with the fright, 
 he spoke to me in such endearing terms, and with so much address 
 and pretended tenderness and sincerity, that I did not dare to cry out 
 when I came to myself. His sighs, and yet more his tears, seemed 
 to me undeniable proofs of his vowed integrity ; and I being but 
 young, bred up in perpetual retirement from all society but my vir- 
 tuous parents, and inexperienced in those affairs, in which even the 
 most knowing are apt to be mistaken, my reluctancy abated by de- 
 'grees,and I began to have some sense of compassion. However, 
 when I was pretty well recovered from my first fright, my former 
 resolution returned ; and then, with more courage than I thought I 
 should have had, ' My lord,' said I, ' if at the same time that you 
 offer me your love, and give me such strange demonstration of it, 
 you would also offer me poison and leave me to take my choice, I 
 would soon resolve which to accept, and convince you b}' my death 
 that my honour is dearer to me than my life. To be plain, I can 
 have no good opinion of a presumption that endangers my reputa- 
 tion ; and unless you leave me this moment, I will so effectually 
 make you know how much you are mistaken in me, that if you have 
 but the least sense of honour left, you will regret driving me to that 
 extremity as long as you live. I was born your vassal, but not your 
 slave ; nor does the greatness of your birth privilege you to injure 
 your inferiors, or exact from me more than the duties which all vas- 
 sals pay ; that excepted, I do not esteem myself less in my low de- 
 gree than you have reason to value yourself in your high rank. Do 
 not, then, think to awe or dazzle me with your grandeur, or fright or 
 force me into a base compliance ; I am not to be tempted with titles, 
 pomp, and equipage ; nor weak enough to be moved with vain sighs 
 and false tears. In short, my will is wholly at my father's disposal, 
 and I will not entertain any man as a lover but by his appointment.' 
 ' What do you mean, charming Dorothea ? ' cried the perfidious lord, 
 ' Cannot I be yours by the sacred title of husband .' Who can bin' 
 der me, if you will but consent to bless me on those terms } I ara 
 yours this moment, beautiful Dorothea ; I give you here my hand to 
 be yours, and yours alone, for ever ; and let all-seeing Heaven, and 
 this holy image here on your oratory, witnesa the solemn truth.' 
 
 " In short, urged by his solicitations, I became his wife ; but not 
 long afterwards he left me, I knew not whither. 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 ! I long strove to hide my tears 
 and so to guard my looks that my parents might not see and inquire 
 
CH. XVII.] flON QUIXOTE. 101 
 
 into the cause of iny wretchedness ; but suddenly my forbearance 
 was at an end, with all regard to delicacy and fame, upon the intelli- 
 gence reaching me that Don Fernando was married in a neighbouring 
 town to a beautiful young lady, of some rank and fortune, named 
 Lucinda — — ." Cardenio heard the name of Lucinda at first only 
 with signs of indignation, but soon after a flood of tears burst from 
 his eyes; Dorothea, however, pursued her story, saying, " When 
 this sad news reached my ears, my heart became so inflamed with 
 rage that I could scarcely forbear rushing into the streets and pro- 
 claiming the baseness and treachery I had experienced ; but I became 
 more tranquil, after forming a project which I executed the same 
 night. I borrowed this apparel of a shepherd swain in my father's 
 service, whom I entrusted with my secret, and begged him to attend 
 me in my pursuit of Don Fernando. He assured me it was a rash 
 undertaking ; but finding me resolute, he said he would go with me 
 to the end. of the world. 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. 
 
 " I 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 told me also that on the night that Don Fernando was married to 
 Lucinda, after she had pronounced the fatal Yes, she fell into a swoon ; 
 and the bridegroom, in unclasping her bosom to give her air, found a 
 paper written by herself, in which she afiirmed 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 mere- 
 ly in obedience to her parents. The paper also revealed her inten- 
 tion to kill herself as soon as the ceremony was over, which weis 
 confirmed by a poniard they found concealed upon her. Don Fer- 
 nando 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 im- 
 mediately 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 sufiered, and declaring his resolution to fly from man- 
 kind for ever. 
 
 " All this was publicly known, an.d the general subject of conversa 
 tion ; especially when it appeared that Lucinda also was missing from 
 her father's house — a circumstance that overwhelmed her family 
 9* 
 
102 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 with gnef, but revived my hopes : for, I flattered myself that Heaven 
 had thus interposed to prevent the completion of Don Fernando's 
 second marriage, in order to touch his conscience and restore him to 
 a sense of duty and honour. 
 
 '^ In this situation, undecided what course to take, I instantly left the 
 city, and at night took refuge among these mountains. 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 purpose', for my master 
 at length discovered my secret. Lest I might not always find means 
 at hand to free myself from insult, I sought for security in flight, and 
 have endeavoured to hide myself among these rocks. Here, with in- 
 cessant 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 XVIII. 
 
 Which treats of the beautiful Barathea's discretion ; with other 
 , ■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 incapa^ 
 ble 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 overwhelmed am I 
 with shame, that I choose rather to banish myself for ever from their 
 sight than appear before them the object of such hateful suspicions." 
 Here she was silent, while her blushes and confusion sufficiently man- 
 ifested the shame and agony of her soul. Her auditors were much 
 afiected by her tale, and the curate was just going to address her 
 when Cardenio iiiterrupted him,, saying, " You, madam, then, are 
 the beautiful Dorothea, only daughter cf the rich Clenardo." Doro- 
 thea stared at hearing her father named by such a miserable-looking 
 object, and she asked him who he was, since he knew her father. 
 " I am that hapless Cardenio," he replied, " who suffer from the base 
 author of your misfortunes, reduced, as you now behold, to naked- 
 ness and misery — deprived even of reason ! Yes, Dorothea, I heard 
 that fatal Yes uttered by, Lucinda, and, unable to bear my anguish, 
 fled precipitately from her house. Amidst these mountains 1 thought 
 
CH. XVIII.] DON QUIXOTE. 103 
 
 to have terminated mv wretched existence ; but the account you have 
 just given has inspired me with hope that Heaven may still have 
 happiness in store for us. Lucinda has avowed herself to be mine, 
 and therefore cannot wed another ; Don Fernando, being yours, can- 
 not 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 that, although I leave it to Heaven to avenge my own 
 injuries, yout claims I will assert ; nor will I leave you until I have 
 obliged Don Fernando, either by argument or by my sword, to do 
 you justice." 
 
 Dorothea would have thrown herself at the feet of Cardenio to ex- 
 press her gratitude to him, had he not prevented her. The licentiate, 
 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 bar- 
 ber, 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 extraordinaiy 
 insanity of Don Quixote, Cardenio had an indistinct recollection o:' 
 having had some altercation with the knight, though he could not re- 
 member 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 half dead with 
 hunger, sighing for his Lady Dulcinea ; and that he positively would 
 not appear before her beauty, until he had performed exploits that 
 might render him worthy of her favour ; so they must consider what 
 was to be done to get him away. The licentiate begged him not to 
 give himself any uneasiness on that account, for they should certainly 
 contrive to get him out of his present retreat. 
 
 The priest then informed Cardenio and Dorothea of their plan for 
 Don Quixote's cure, or at least for decoying him to his own house. 
 Upon which Dorothea said she would undertake to act the distressed 
 damsel better than the barber, especially as she had apparel with 
 which she could perform it to the life ; and they might have reUance 
 upon her, as she had read many books of chivalry, and was well 
 acquainted with the style in which distressed damsels were wont to 
 beg their boons of knights-errant. " Let us, then, hasten to put our 
 design into execution," exclaimed the curate ; " since fortune seems 
 to favour all our views." Dorothea immediately took from her bundle 
 a petticoat of very rich stuff, and a mantle of fine green silk ; and, 
 out of a casket, a necklace and other jewels, with which she quickly 
 adorned herself in such a manner that she had all the appearance of 
 
104 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 a rich and noble lady. They were charmed with her- beauty, grtce 
 and elegance ; and agreed that Don Fernando must be a man of little 
 taste, since he could slight so much excellence. But her greatest 
 admirer was Sancho Panza, who thought that in all his life he had 
 never seen so beautiful a creature ; and he earnestly desired the 
 priest to tell him who that handsome lady was, and what she was 
 looking for in those parts.? "This beautiful lady, friend Sancho," 
 answered the priest, " is, to say the least of her, heiress in the direct 
 male line of the great kingdom of Mico.micon ; and she comes in 
 quest of your master, to beg a boon of him, which is to redress a 
 wrong or injury done her by a wicked giant ; for it is the fame of 
 your master's prowess, which is spread over all Guinea, that has 
 brought this princess to seek him." " Now, a happy seeking and a 
 happy finding," quoth Sancho Panza ; " especially if my master is so 
 fortunate . as to redress that injury, and right that wrong, by killing 
 the giant you mention ; and kill him he certainly will if he encoun- 
 ters him, unless he be a goblin, for my master has no power at all 
 over goblins." 
 
 Dorothea now having mounted the priest's mule, and the barbei 
 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 oi 
 the barber, since on that depended all his fortune. The priest would 
 have instructed Dorothea in her part ; but she would not trouble him, 
 assuring him that she would perform it precisely according to the 
 rules and precepts of chivalry. 
 
 Having proceeded about three quarters of a league, they discover 
 ed Don Quixote in a wild, rocky recess, at that time not armed 
 Dorothea now whipped on her palfrey, attended by the well-bearded 
 squire ; and having approached the knight, her squire leaped from 
 his mule to assist his lady, who, lightly dismounting, went and threw 
 herself at Don Quixote's feet, where, in spite of his efibrts to raise 
 her, she remained kneeling, as she thus addressed him : 
 
 " I 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 un- 
 happy wight, who, attracted by the odour of your renown, is come 
 from distant regions to seek at your hands a remedy for her misfor- 
 tunes." 
 
 " It is impossible for me to answer you, fair lady," said Don Quix- 
 ote, " while you remain in that posture." " I will not arise, signer," 
 answered the afflicted damsel, " until your courtesy shall vouchsafe 
 the boon I ask." " I do vouchsafe and grant it you," answered Poa 
 
CH. XVIII,] DON QUIXOTE. 105 
 
 Quixote, " provided my compliance be of no detriment to my king, 
 my country, or to her who keeps the key of my heart and liberty." 
 ' It will not be to the prejudice of any of these, dear sir," replied the . 
 afflicted damsel. Sancho, now approaching his master, whispered 
 softly in his ear, " Your worship may very safely grant the boon 
 she asks ; for it is a mere trifle, only to kill a great lubberly giant." 
 " Whosoever the lady may be," answered Don Quixote, " I shall act 
 as my duty and my conscience dictatfe, in conformity to the rules of 
 my profession;" then addressing himself to the damsel, he said, 
 " Fairest lady, arise ; for I vouchsafe you whatever boon you ask." 
 " My request, then, is," said the damsel, " that your magnanimity 
 will go whither I shall conduct you ; and that you will promise not 
 to engage in any other adventure until you have avenged me on a 
 traitor who, against all right, human and divine, has usurped my 
 kingdom." " I grant your request," answered Don Quixote ; " and/ 
 therefore, lady, dispel that melancholy which oppresses you, and let 
 your fainting hopes recover fresh life and strength; for you shall soon 
 be restored to your kingdom, and seated on the throne of your ancient 
 and high estate, in despite of all the miscreants who would oppose 
 it ; and therefore we will instantly proceed to action, for there is al- 
 ways danger in delay." The distressed damsel would fain have kiss- 
 ed his hands ; but Don Quixote, making her arise, embraced her with 
 much politeness and respect, and ordered Sancho to look after Rozi- 
 nante's girths, and to assist him to arm. Sancho toot down the ar- 
 mour from a tree, where it hung, and having got Rozinante ready, 
 quickly armed his master, who then cried, " In God's name, let us 
 hasten to succour this fair lady." The barber was still upon his 
 knees, and under much difficulty to forbear laughing, and keep his 
 beard from falling ; but seeing that the boon was already granted, 
 and Don Quixote prepared to fulfil his engagement, he got up and 
 took his lady by the other hand ; when they both assisted to place 
 her upon the mule, and then mounted themselves. 
 
 Cardenio and the priest, concealed among the bushes, had observed 
 all that passed, and being now desirous to join them, the priest, who 
 had a ready invention, soon hit upon an expedient ; for with a pair 
 of scissors which he carried in a case, he quickly cut off Cardenio's 
 beard ; then put him on a grey capouch, and gave him his own black 
 cloak, which so changed his appearance that had he looked in a mirror 
 he would not have known himself. 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 I the 
 flawer and cream of gentility, the protector of suffering mankind, 
 
106 DON QUIXOTE. - 
 
 the quintessf nee of knight-errantry ! " Having thus spoken, he em* 
 braced Don Quixote by the knee of his left leg. 
 
 The kniglit was surprised at this address, but after attentively sur- 
 veying 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," said Don Quixote ; " for 
 it would be very improper that I should remain on horseback, while so 
 reverend a person as you are travelling on foot." " I will by no 
 means tonsent to your dismounting," replied the priest, " since on 
 horseback, you have achieved the greatest exploits this age hath wit- 
 nessed. 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 Ptfgasus, or on a Zebra, 
 or the sprightly courser bestrode by the famous Moor Muzarque, who 
 lies to, this day enchanted in the great mountain Zulema, not far dis- 
 tant from the grand Compluto." " I did not think of that, dear signor 
 licentiate," said Don Quixote ; " and I know her highness the prin- 
 cess 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 barber ; 
 and alighting in an instant^he complimented the priest with the sad- 
 dle, which he accepted without much entreaty. But it unluckily hap- 
 pened that as the barber was getting upon the mule, which was a vi- 
 cious jade,she threw her hind-legs twice or thrice into the air ; and had 
 they met with Master Nicholas's breast or head he would have wished 
 his rambling after Don Quixote far enough. 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 such a mass of beard without jaws and without blood 
 lying at a distance from 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 of discove-iiit 
 ry, instantly seized the beard, and ran to Master Nicholas, who was 
 ?till 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 sawy and 
 bogged the priest to teach him that charm ; for he was of opinion ' 
 that its virtue could not be confined to the refixing of beards, and 
 since it wrought a perfect cure, it must be valuable upon other occa' 
 
CH. XVIIJ ■ DON QUIXOTE. 107 
 
 Bions. The priest said that his surmise was just, and promised to 
 take the first opportunity of teaching him the art. 
 
 Don Quixote, the princess,- and the priest, being thus mounted, at- 
 tended by Cardenio, the barber, and Sancho Panza on foot, Don 
 Quixote said to the damsel, " Your highness will now be pleased to 
 lead on, in whatever direction you please." Before she could reply, 
 the licentiate interposing said, " Whither would your ladyship go ? To 
 the kingdom of Micomicon, I presume, or I am much mistaKen." 
 She, being aware that she was to answer in the affirmative, said, '■ Yes, 
 signer, 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 within view of the great lake Meona, I 
 mean Meotis, which is not more than a hundred days' journey from 
 your highness's territories." " You are mistaken, good sir,'' said 
 she ; " for it is: not two years since I left it ; and although I had very 
 bad weather during the whole passage, here I am, and I have beheld 
 what so ardently I desired to see — Signer Don Quixote de la Mancha ; 
 the 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 Quix- 
 ote^ " for 1 am an enemy to every species of flattery ; and even if 
 this be not such, still are my chaste ears offended at this kind of dis- 
 course. AH I can say, dear madam, is, that my powers, such as 
 they are, shall be employed in your service, even at the forfeit of my 
 life ; but waving these matters for the present, I beg the signor licen- 
 tiate to tell me what has brought him into these parts alone, unattended 
 and so lightly apparelled." " I can soon satisfy your worship," an- 
 swered 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 incon-- 
 siderable sum, being sixty thousand crowns ; and on our road, yester- 
 day, we were attacked by four highway robbers, who stripped us of 
 all we had, to our very beards, and in such a manner that the barber 
 thought it expedient to put on a false one ; as 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 must 
 certainly 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 the honey ; for he has defrauded justice 
 of her due, and has set himself up against his king aiid natural lord 
 by acting against his lawful authority. He has, I spy, disabled ths 
 
108 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 galleys of their hands, and disturbed the many 5 ears' repose of the 
 holy brotherhood ; in a word, he has done a deed by which his body 
 may suffer, and his soul be for ever lost." 
 
 Sancho had communicated the adventure of the galley-slaves, so 
 gloriously achieved by his master ; and the priest laid it on thus heav- 
 ily to see what effect it would have upon Don Quixote ; whose colour 
 changed at every word, and he dared not confess that he had been 
 the deliverer of those worthy gentlemen. ' 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Of the ingenious metJiod pursued to withdraw our enamoured Knight 
 from the rigorous penance which he had imposed on himself. 
 
 As soon as the priest had done speaking, Sancho said, " By my troth, 
 signor, it was my master who did that feat ; not but that I gave him 
 fair walrning, and advised him to mind what he was about, telling him 
 that it was a sin to set them at liberty ; for 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 fetter- 
 ed and oppressed 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 pro- 
 fession 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' this I will maintain with the edge of my sword ! " 
 
 Dorothea was possessed of too much humour and sprigl;itly wit not 
 to join with the rest in their diversion at Don Quixote's expense ; and 
 perceiving his wrath, she said, " Sir knight, be pleased to remember 
 (he boon you have promised me, and that you are thereby bound not 
 to engage in any other adventure, however urgent ; therefore assuage 
 your wrath ; for had signer' 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 disparagemen. 
 of your worship." " Ay, verily 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 in- 
 dignation raised within my breast, and quietly proceed, until I have 
 accomplished the pBbmised boon. But, in requital, I beseech you to 
 inform me of the particulars of your grievance, as well as the num- 
 
CH. XIX.] DON QtriXCTE. 109 
 
 ber and quality of the persons on whom I must take due, satisfactory, 
 and complete revenge." " That I will do most willingly," answered 
 Dorothea ; " but yet I fear a story like mine, consisting wholly of 
 afflictions and disasters, will prove but a tedious entertainment." 
 ' Never fear that, madam," cried Don Quixote*. " Since, then, it 
 must be so," said Dorothea, " be pleased to lend me your attention." 
 With that Cardenio and the barber gathered up to her, to hear what 
 kind of story she had provided so soon ; Sancho did the same, being 
 no less deceived in her than his master ; and the lady having seated 
 herself well on her mule, after coughing once or twice, and other 
 preparations, very gracefully began her story. 
 
 " First, gentlemen," said she, "you must know my name is" — 
 here she stopped short, and could not call to mind the name the cu- 
 rate had given her ; whereupon finding her at a nonplus, he made 
 haste to help her out. " It is not at all strange," said he, " madam, 
 that you should be so discomposed by your disasters as to stumble at 
 the very beginning of the account you are going to give of them; 
 extreme affliction often distracts the mind to that degree, and so de- 
 prives us of memory, that sometimes we for a while can scarce think 
 on our very name : no wonder, then, that the Princess Micomicona, 
 lawful heiress to the vast kingdom of Micomicon, disordered with so 
 many misfortunes, and perplexed with so many various thoughts for 
 the recovery of her crown, should have her imagination and memory 
 so encumbered ; but I 'hope you will now recollect yourself, and be 
 able to proceed." " I hope so too," said the lady, " and I will en- 
 deavour to relate my story without furlher hesitation. Know, then, 
 gentlemen, that the king my father, who was called Tinacrio the 
 Sage, having great skill in the magic art, understood by his profound 
 knowledge in that science, that Queen Xaramilla, my mother, should 
 die before him, that he himself should not survive her long, and I 
 should be left an orphan. But he often said that this did not so much 
 trouble him as the foresight he had, by his speculations, of my being 
 threatened with great misfortunes, which would be occasioned by a 
 certain giant, lord of a great island near the confines of my kingdom ; 
 his name Pandafilemdo, surnamed of the Gloomy Sight ; because, 
 though his eye-balls are seated in their due place, yet he affects to 
 squint and look askew on purpose to fright those on whom he stares , 
 My father, I say, knew that this giant, hearing of his death, woula 
 one day invade my kingdom with a powerful army, and drive me out 
 of my territories, without leaving me so much as a village for a re- 
 treat ; thpugh he knew withal that I might avoid that extremity if I 
 would but consent to marry him ; but as he found out by his art, he 
 had reason to think I never would incline to such a match. And In- 
 deed I never had any thought of marrying that giant, nor any othei 
 10 
 
110 DON QTJIXOTE. 
 
 gianf m the world, how unmeasurably grea and mighty soever. My 
 father therefore charged me patiently to bear my misfortunes, and aban- 
 don my kmgdom to Pandafilando for a time, without offering to keep 
 him out by force of arms, since this would be the best means to pre- 
 vent my own death and the Tuin of my subjects, considering the im 
 possibility of withstanding the teirible force of the giant. But withal 
 he ordered me to direct my course towards Spain, where I should be 
 sure to meet with a powerful champion in the person of a knight-er- 
 rant, whose fame should at that time be spread over all the kingdom ; 
 and his name, my father said, should be, if I forget not, Don Azote, 
 or Don (jigote " — "And it please you, forsooth," quoth Sancho, 
 " you would say Don Quixote^ otherwise called the Knight of the 
 Sorrowful Figure." " You are right," answered Dorothea ; " and 
 doubtless I dp right in recommending myself to Don Quixote, who so 
 well agrees with my father's description, and whose renown is so far 
 spread, not only in Spain, but over all La Mancha, that I had no soon- 
 er landed at Ossuna but the fame of his prowess reached my ears ; so 
 that I was satisfied he was the very person in quest of whom I came." 
 " But pray, madam," cried Don Quixote, " how did you do to 
 land at Ossuna, since it is no seaport town ? " " Doubtless, sir," 
 said the curate, before Dorothea could answer for herself, " the prin- 
 cess would say, that after she landed at Malaga, the first place where 
 she heard of your feats of arms was Ossuna." " That is what I 
 would have said," replied Dorothea ; " and now I have nothing more 
 to add, but that fortune has so far favoured me as to make me find 
 the noble knight by whose valour I- look upon myself as already re- 
 stored to the throne of my ancestors, since he has so courteously and 
 magnanimously vouchsafed to grant me the boon I begged. For all 
 I have to do is to shew him this P&ndafilando of the Gloomy Sight, 
 that he may slay him, and restore that to me of which he has so un- 
 justly deprived me. For all this will certainly be done with the 
 greatest ease in the world, since it was foretold by Tinacrio the Sage, 
 my good and royal father, who has also left the prediction written 
 either in Chaldean or Greek characters (for I cannot read them) which 
 denotes that after the knight of the prophecy has cut off the giant's 
 head and restored me to the possession of my kingdom, if he should 
 ask me to marry him, I should by no means refuse him, but instantly 
 put him in possession of my person and kingdom." " Well, friend 
 Sancho," said Don Quixote, hearing this, and turning to the squire, 
 "what thinkest thou now.? Dost thou not hear how matters go.'' 
 Did not I tell thee as much before ? See now whether we have not a 
 kingdom which we may command, and a queen whom we may es- 
 pouse ! " " Ah, marry have you," replied Sancho ; and with tflat, to 
 she"? his joy, he cut a couple of capers in the air ; and turning to Do 
 
CH. XIX.] DON QUIXOTE. Ill 
 
 rothea, laid hold on her mule by the bridle, and flanging himself down 
 on his knees, begged she would be graciously pleased to let him kiss 
 her hand, in token of his owning her for his sovereign lady. 
 
 There was none of the beholders but was ready to burst for laugh- 
 ter, having a sight of the master's madness, and the servant's sim- 
 plicity. In short, Dorothea was obliged to comply with his entreaties, 
 and promised to make him a grandee, when fortune should favour hei 
 with the recovery of her lost kingdom. Whereupon Sancho gave her 
 his thanks in such a manner as obliged the company to a fresh laugh- 
 ter. Then going on with her relation, " Gentlemen," said she, " this 
 is my history ; and among all my misfortunes, this only has escaped 
 a recital, that not one of the numerous attendants I brought from my 
 kingdom has survived the ruins of my fortune but this good squire 
 with the long beard : the rest ended their days in a great storm, which 
 dashed our ship lo pieces in the very sight of the harbour ; and he 
 and I had been sharers in their destiny had we not laid hold of two 
 planks, by which assistance we were driven to land, in a manner alto- 
 gether miraculous, and agreeable to the whole series of my life, which 
 seems indeed but one continued miracle. And if in any part of my 
 relation I have been tedious, and not so exact as I should have been, 
 you must impute it to what Master Curate observed to you in the be- 
 ginning of my story, that continual troubles oppress the senses, and 
 weaken the memory." 
 
 " Those pains and afflictions, be they ever so intense and difficult," 
 said Don Quixote, " shall never deter me, most virtuous and high- 
 born lady, from adventuring for your service, and enduring whatever 
 I shall suffer in it : and therefore I again ratify the assurances I have 
 given you, and swear that I will bear you Company, though to the end 
 of the world, in search of this implacable enemy of yours, till I shall 
 lind him ; whose insulting head, by the help of Heaven and my own 
 invincible arm, I am resolved to cut off with the edge of this (I will 
 not say good) sword ; — (a plague on Gines de Passamonte, who took 
 away my own !)" This he spoke murmuring to himself ; and then 
 prosecuted his discourse in this manner : " And after I have divided it 
 from the body, and left you quietly possessed of your throne, it shall 
 be left at your own choice to dispose of your person as you shall think 
 convenient ; for as long as I shall have my memory full of her image, 
 my will captivated, and my understanding wholly subjected to her 
 whom I now forbear to name, it is impossible I should in the least 
 deviate from the affection I bear to her, or be induced to think of 
 marrying, though it were a Phcenix." 
 
 The close of Don Quixote's speech, which related to his not mar- 
 rying, touched Sancho so to the quick, that he could not forbear bawl- 
 ing out his lesentments : " Sir Don Quixote," cried he, " you are cer- 
 tainly out of your wits ; or how is it possible you should stick at 
 
112 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Striking a bargain with so great a lady as this ? Do you think fortuna 
 will put such dainty bits in your way at every corner ? Is my Lady 
 Dulcinea handsomer, do you think ? No, marry, she is not half so 
 handsome : I could almost say she is not worthy to tie this lady's 
 shoe-latchets. I am likely, indeed, to get the earldom I have fed my- 
 self with the hopes of, if you spend your time in fishing for mush- 
 rooms at the bottom of the sea! Marry out of hand, I say, and lay 
 hold of the kingdom which- is ready to leap into your hands ; and as 
 soon as you are a king, make me a marquis, or a peer of the land, 
 and afterwards, let things go at sixes and sevens, it will be all one to 
 Sancho." Don Quixote, quite divested of all patience at the blasphe- 
 mies which were spoken against his Lady Dulcinea, could bear with 
 him no longer ; and therefore, without so much as a word to give him 
 notice of his displeasure, gave him two such blows with his lance, that 
 poor Sancho measured his length on the ground, and had certainly 
 there breathed his last, had not the knight desisted through the per- 
 suasions of Dorothea. " Thinkest thou," said he, after a considerable 
 pause, " most infamous peasant, that I shall always have leisure and 
 disposition to put up with thy affronts, and that thy whole business 
 shall be to study new offences, and mine to give thee new pardons .' 
 Dost thou not know, excommunicated traitor, (for certainly excom- 
 munication is the least punishment can fall upon thee after such prof- 
 anations of the peerless Dulcinea's name,) and art thou not assured, 
 vile slave and ignominious vagabond, that I should not have strength 
 sufficient to kill a flea, did not she give strength to my nerves and in- 
 fuse vigour into my sinews ? . Speak, thou villain vvith the viper's 
 tongue ; who dost thou imagine has restored the queen to her king- 
 dom, cut off the head of a giant, and made thee a marquis, (for I 
 count all this as done already,) but the power of Dulcinea, who makes 
 use of my arm as the instrument of her act in me ? She fights and 
 overcomes in me, and 1 live and breathe in- her, holding life and being 
 from her. Thou base-born wretch ! art thou not possessed of the ut- 
 most ingratitude, thou who seest thyself exalted from the very dregs 
 of the earth to nobility and honour, and yet dost repay so great a 
 benefit with obloquies against the person of thy benefactress ? But I 
 pardon thee for this time," added the Don, " and thou must excuse me 
 for what I have done to thee ; for the first movements are not in our 
 power." " I perceive that well enough," said Sancho, " and that is 
 the reason my first thoughts are always on my tongue ; and I cannot 
 for my life help speaking what comes uppermost." "However, 
 friend Sancho," said Don Quixote, " thou hadst best think before thou 
 speakest ; for the pitcher never goes so oft to the well." " No more 
 of this, Sancho," said Dorothea ; " but run and kiss your lord's hands, 
 and beg his pardon ; and, for the time to come, be more advised'and 
 cautious how you run into the praise or dispraise of any person ; but 
 
3H. XIX.] DON QTJIXOTE. il3 
 
 especially take care you do not speak ill of that lady of Toboso, 
 ■whom I do not know, though I am ready to do her any service ; and 
 trust me you shall have a lordship which shall enable you to live like 
 a prince." Sancho shrugged up his shoulders, and in a humble pos- 
 ture went and asked his master for his hand, which he held out to him 
 with a grave countenance ; and after the squire had kissed the back of 
 it, the knight gave him his blessing, and told him he had a word or 
 two with him, bidding him come nearer, that he might have the bet- 
 ter convenience of speaking to him. Sancho did as his master com- 
 manded, and going a little from the company with him, they convers- 
 ed a while together. At the conclusion Sancho said : " Good master, 
 you shall not want satisfaction ; but, your worship, for the time to 
 come, I beseech you do not be too hasty." " What occasion hast thou, 
 Sancho, to make this request ? " replied Don Quixote. " Eeason 
 good enough, truly," said Sancho ; " for the blows you gave me even 
 now were rather given me on account of that quarrel which was 
 stirred up between your worship and me the other night, than for 
 your dislike of anything which was spoken against my Lady Dulci- 
 nea." " Pr'ythee, Sancho," cried Don Quixote, " be careful of fall- 
 ing again into such irreverent expressions ; for they provoke jne to 
 anger, and are highly offensive. I pardoned thee then for being a 
 delinquent ; but thou art sensible that a new offence must be attended 
 with a new punishment." 
 
 As they were going on in such discourse as this, they saw at a dis- 
 tance a person riding up to them on an ass, who, as he came near 
 enough to be distinguished, seemed to be a gipsy by his habit. But 
 Sancho Panza, who, whenever he got sight of any asses, followed 
 them with his eyes and his heart, as one whose thoughts were ever 
 fixed on his own, had scarce given him half an eye but he knew him 
 to be Gines de Passamonte, and by the looks of the gipsy found out 
 the visage of his ass ; for' indeed it was the very same which Gines 
 had got under him, who, to conceal himself from the knowledge of 
 the public, and have the better opportunity of making a good market 
 of his beast, had clothed himgelf like a gipsy ; the cant of thatsort 
 of people, as well as the languE^ges of other countries, being as nat 
 ural and familiar to thqm as their own. Sancho saw him and knew 
 him ; and scarce had he seen and taken notice of him, when he cried 
 out as loud as his tpngue would permit him, " Ah, thou thief Genesillo ! 
 leave my goods and chattels behind thee ; get off from the back of 
 my own dear life ; thou hast nothing to do with my poor beast, with- 
 out whom I cannot enjoy a moment's ease ; away from my Dapple, 
 away from my comfort ! take to thy heel^, thou villain ! hence, thou 
 hedge-bird, leave what is none of thine ! " He had no occasion to 
 use so many words, for Qines disnioHnted as soon as he heard, him 
 speak) apd taking to his hpels, got frorn them, and was out of sight ip 
 
114 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 nn instant. Sancho ran immediately to his ass, and ei nbraced liim : 
 " How hast thou done," cried he, " since I saw thee, my darling and 
 treasure, my dear Dapple, the delight of my eyes, and my dearesi 
 companion ! " And then he stroked and slabbered him with kisses, 
 as if the beast had been a rational creature. The ass, for his part, 
 was as silent as could be, and gave Sancho the liberty of as many 
 kisses as he pleased, without the return of so much as one word to 
 the many questions he had put to him. At sight of this the rest of 
 the company came up with him, and paid their compliments of con- 
 gratulation to Sancho for the recovery of his ass, especially Don 
 Quixote, who told him that though he had found his ass again, yet 
 would not he revoke the warrant he had given him for three asses, for 
 which favour Sancho returned him a multitude of thanks. 
 
 While they were travelling togethei:, and discoursing after this 
 manner, the curate addressed himself to Dorothea, and gave her to 
 understand that she had excellently discharged herself of what she 
 had undertaken, as well in the management of the history itself as 
 in her brevity, and adapting her style to the particular terms made 
 use of in books of knight-errantry. She returned for answer that she 
 had frequently conversed with such romances, but that she was ig- 
 norant of the situation of the provinces and the sea-ports, which 
 occasioned the blunder she had made by saying that she landed at 
 Ossuna. " I perceived it," replied the curate, " and therefore I put 
 in what you heard, which brought matters to rights again. But is it 
 not an amazing thing to see how ready this unfortunate gentleman is 
 to give credit to these fictitious reports, only because they have the 
 air of the extravagant stories in books of knight-errantry .' " Car- 
 denio said that he thought this so strange a madness that he did no', 
 believe the wit of man, with all the liberty of invention and fiction 
 capable of hitting so extraordinary a character. " The gentleman,' 
 replied the curate, " has some qualities in him, even as surprising in 
 a madman as Lis unparalleled frenzy ; for take him but off his ro- 
 mantic humour, discourse with him of any other subject, you will find 
 him to handle it with a great deal of reason, and shew himself, by 
 his conversation, to have very clear and entertaining conceptions ■ 
 insomuch that if knight-errantry bears no relation to his discourse, 
 '■^ere is no man but will esteem him for his vivacity of wit and 
 strength of judgment." While they were thus discoursing, Don 
 Quixote, prosecuting his converse with his squire, " Sancho," said he, 
 " let us lay aside all manner of animosity ; let us forget and forgive 
 injuries ; and answer me as speedily as thou canst, without any remains 
 of thy last displeasure, how, when, and where didst thou find my Lady 
 Dulcinea .' What was she doing when thou first paidst thy respects 
 to her .^ How didst thou express thyself to her .? What answer was 
 she pleased to make thee ? What countenance did she put on wt iho 
 
CH.XX.] DON QUIXOTE. 115 
 
 oerusal of my letter ? Who transcribed it fairly for thee? And 
 every thing else which has any relation to t lis affair, without addition, 
 lies, or flattery. On the other side, take care thou losest, not a tittle 
 of the whole matter, by abbreviating it, lest thou rob me of part of 
 that delight which I propose to myself trom it." " Sir," answered 
 Sancho, " if I must speak the truth, and nothing but the truth, no- 
 body copied out that letter for me ; for I carried none at all." 
 " That's right," cried Don Quixote ; " for I found the pocket-book 
 in which it was written two days afterthy departure, which occasioned 
 exceeding grief in me, because I knew not what thou couldst do when 
 thou foundst thyself without the letter ; and I could not but be induced 
 to believe that thou wouldst have returned, in order to take it with 
 thee." " I had certainly done so," replied Sancho, " were it not for 
 this head of mine, which kept it in remembrance ever since your 
 worship read J to me, and helped me to say it over to a parish-c'erk, 
 who wrote it out to me word for word so purely, that he vowed, 
 though he had written out many a letter of excommunication in his 
 time, he never in all the days of his life had read or seen any thing 
 so well spoken as it was." " And dost thou still retain the memory 
 of it, my dear Sancho .? " cried Don Quixote. " Not I," quoth San- 
 cho ; " for as soon as I had given it her, and your turn ^tfas served, I 
 was very willing to forget it. But if I remember any thing, it is 
 what was on the top ; and it was thus, ' High and subterrene' — 1 
 would say sovereign, lady ; and at the bottom, ' yours until death, the 
 Knight of the Sorrow'ful Figure ; ' and I put between these two things 
 three hundred souls and lives." 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 The pleasant dialogue "between Don Quixote and his Squire con- 
 tinued ; with other adventures- 
 
 " All this is mighty well," said Don Quixote ; " proceed therefore ' 
 you arrived, and, how was that queen of beauty then employed i On 
 my conscience thou foundst her stringing of Orient pearls, or embroi- 
 dering some curious device in gold for me her captive knight ; was it 
 not so, my Sancho ? " " No," answered the squire ; " I found her 
 winnowing a parcel of wheat very seriously in the back-yard." 
 " Then," said the Don, " you may rest assured that every corn of 
 that wheat was a grain of pearl, since she did it the honour of touch- 
 ing it with her divine hand. Didst thou observe the quality of the 
 wheat, was it not of the finest sort } " " Very indifferent, I thought," 
 said the squire. " Well, this at least you must allow ; it must make 
 the finjst whitest bread, if sifted by her white hands. But go on 
 
xl6 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 when you delivered my letter, did she kiss it? Did she treasure it in 
 her bosom ? or what ceremony did she use worthy such a letter f 
 How did she behave herself? " " Why truly, sir," answered Sancho, 
 " when I offered her the letter she was very busy handling her sieve ; 
 ' and, pr'ythee, honest friend,' said she, ' do so much as lay that letter 
 down upon that sack there ; I cannot read it till I have winnowed out 
 what is in my hands.' " " O unparalleled discretion ! " cried Don Quix- 
 ote ; " she knew that a perusal re(^uired leisure, and therefore defer ■ 
 red it for her more pleasing and private hours. But oh, my squire 
 while she was thus employed what; conference passed ? What did 
 she ask about her knight, and what did you reply ? Say all, say all, 
 my dearest Sancho, let not the smallest circumstance escape thy 
 tongue ; speak all that thought can frame or pen describe." " Hei 
 questions were easily answered, sirj" said Sancho ; " for she asked 
 me none at all. I told her, indeed, in what a sad pickle I had left 
 you, and how disconsolate you were ; that you eat and slept like the 
 brute beasts ; and you would let a razor as soon touch your throat as 
 your beard ; that you were still blubbering and crying, or lamenting 
 and cursing your fortune." " There you mistook," replied Don 
 Quixote ; " I rather bless my fortune, and always shall, while life af- 
 fords me breath, since I am thought to merit the esteem of so high a 
 lady as Dulcinea del Toboso. But now," continued the knight, " sup- 
 posing the corn winnowed and despatched to the mill, what did she 
 after she had read my letter ? " " Your letter, sir," answered Sancho, 
 " your letter was not read at all, sir ; as, for her part, she said she 
 could neither read nor write, and she would trust nobody else, lest 
 they should tell tales, and so she cunningly tore your letter. She 
 said that what I told her by word of mouth of your love and suffer- 
 ings was enough : to make short now, she gave her service to you, 
 and said she had rather see you than hear from you ; and she prayed 
 you if ever you loved her, upon sight of me forthwith to leave your 
 madness among the^bushes here, and come straight to Toboso (if you 
 be at leisure), for she has something to say to you, Eind has a huge 
 mijid to see you ; she had like to burst with laughing, when I called 
 you the Knight of the Sorrowful' Figure." 
 
 " Thus far all goes well," said Don Quixote ; " but tell me, pray, 
 what jewel did she present you at your departure, as a reward for the 
 news you brought ? for it is a custom of ancient standing among ■ 
 knights and ladies errant, to bestow on squires, dwarfs, or damsels, 
 who bring them good news of their ladies or servants, some precious 
 jewel as a grateful reward of their welcome tidings." " Ah, sir," 
 said Sancho, " that was the fashion in the days of yore, and a very 
 gcod fashion, I take it ; but all the jewels Sancho got was a luncheon 
 of bread and a piece of cheese, which she handed to me ever the 
 wafl, when I' was taking my leave : by the same token (I hope there 
 
CH. tX.} DON QUIXOTE. 117 
 
 is no ill luck in it), the cheese was made of sht-ep's milk." » It is 
 strange," said Don Quixote, " for she is libera! even to profuseness ; 
 and if she presented thee not a jewel, she had certainly none about 
 her at that time ; but what is deferred is not lost. I shall see her, 
 and matters shall be accommodated. But, Sancho, one thing raises 
 my astonishment, which is thy sudden return ; for proportioning thy 
 short absence to the length of thy journey, Toboso being at least thir- 
 ty leagues distant, thou must have ridden on the wind. Certainly the 
 sagacious enchanter, who is my guardian and friend, — for doubtless 
 such a one there is and ought to be, or I should not be a true knight- 
 errant, — certainly, I say, that wise magician has furthered thee on 
 thy journey unawares ; for there are sages of such incredible power 
 as to take up a knight-errant sleeping in his bed, and waken him next 
 morning a thousand leagues from the place where he fell asleep. Bj 
 this power kn^hts-errant succour one another in their most dangerous 
 exigents when and where they please. For instance, suppose me 
 fighting in the mountains of Armenia with some horrid monster, 
 some dreadful sprite, or fierce gigEintic knight, where perhaps I am 
 like to be worsted (such a thing may happen), when just in the 
 very crisis of my fate, when I least expect it, I behold on the top of 
 a flying cloud, or riding in a flaming chariot, another knight, my 
 friend, who but a minute before was in England perhaps — he sus- 
 tains me, delivers me from death, and returns that night to his 
 own lodging, where he sups with a very good appetite after his jour- 
 ney, having rid you two or three thousand leagues that day ; and all 
 this performed by the industry and wisdom of tliese knowing magi- 
 cians, whose only business and charge is glorious knight-errantry. 
 Some such expeditious power, 1 believe, Sancho, though hidden from 
 you, has promoted so great a despatch in your late journey." " I 
 believe, indeed," answered Sancho, " that there was witchcraft in the 
 case ; for Rozinante went without spur all the way, and was as met- 
 tlesome as though he had been a gipsy's ass with quicksilver in his 
 ears." "And what is thy advice as to my lady's commands to visit 
 her ? I know her power should regulate my will. But then my 
 honour, Sancho ; my solemn promise has engaged me to the prin- 
 cess's service that comes with us ; and the law of arms confines me 
 to my word. Love draws me one, and glory the other way ; on this 
 side Dulcinea's strict commands, on the other my promised faith ; 
 but — it is resolved. I will travel night and day, cut ofl" this giant's 
 head, and, having settled the princess in her dominions, will present- 
 ly return to see that sun which enlightens my senses. She will easily 
 condescend to excuse my absence when I convince her it was for 
 her fame and glory ; since the past, present, and future success of my 
 victorious arms depends wholly on the gracious influences of her favour, 
 and the honour of being her knight." " Oh sad ! sad ! " said Sancho ; 
 
118 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 " I doubt your worship's head is much the worse for wearing. Art 
 you mad, sir, to take so long a voyage for nothing? why don't you 
 catch at this preferment that now offers, where a fine kingdom is the 
 poition, twenty thousand leagues round, they say ; nay, bigger than 
 Portugal and Castile both together. Good your worship, hold your 
 tongue, I wonder you are not ashamed. Take a fool's counsel for 
 once, marry her by the first priest you meet ; here is our own curate 
 can do the job most curiously. Come, master, I have hair enough in 
 my beard to make a counsellor, and my advice is as fit for yoii, as 
 your shoe for your foot — a bird in hand is worth two in the bush, 
 and 
 
 He tliat will not when he may, 
 When he would he shall have nay." 
 
 " Thou advisest me thus," answered Don Quixote, " that I may be 
 able to promote thee according to my promise ; but that I can do 
 without marrying this lady ; for I shall make this the condition of 
 entering into battle, that after my victory, without marrying the prin- 
 cess, she shall leave part of her kingdom at my disposal, to gratify 
 whom I please ; and who can claim any such gratuity but thyself.' " 
 " That's plain," answered Sancho ; " but pray, sir, take care that 
 you reserve some part near the sea-side for me ; that if the 
 air does not agree with me, I may transport my black slaves, 
 make my profit of them, and go live somewhere else ; so that I 
 would have you resolve upon it presently : leave the Lady Dulcinea 
 for the present, and go kill this same giant, and make an end of that 
 business first ; for I assure you it will yield you a good market." 
 " I am fixed in thy opinion," said Don Quixote ; " but I admonish 
 thee not to whisper to any person the least hint of our conference , 
 for since Dulcinea is so cautious and secret, it is proper that I and 
 mine should follow her example." " Why then," said Sancho, 
 " should you send every body you overcome packing to Madam Dul- 
 cinea, to fall down before her and tell her they came from you to pay 
 their obedience, when this tells all the world that she is your mistress, 
 as much as if they had it under your own hand .'' " " How dull of 
 apprehension and stupid thou art ! " said the knight ; " hast thou not 
 sense to find that all this redounds to her greater glory .' Know, that 
 in proceedings of chivalry, a lady's honour is calculated from the 
 number of her servants, whose services must not tend to any reward 
 but the favour of her acceptance, and the pure honour of performing 
 them for her sake, and being called her servants." 
 
 Master Nicliolas, seeing them so deep in discourse, called to them 
 o stop and drink at a little fountain by- the road. Don Quixote 
 halted ; and Sancho was very glad of the interruption, Ijis stock 
 of iction being almost spent, and he stood in danger besides of being 
 
CH. XX.] DON QUIXO'fE. - 19 
 
 trapped in his words ; for he had never seen Dulcinea, though he 
 knew she lived at Toboso. Cardenio by this time had changed his 
 clothes for those Dorothea wore when they found her in the moun- 
 tains ; and though they made but an ordinary figure, they looked much 
 better than those he had put off.* They all stopped at the fountain, 
 and fell upon the curate's provision, which was but a snap among so 
 many, for they were all very hungry. While they sat refreshing 
 themselves, a young lad, travelling that way, observed them, and 
 looking earnestly on the whole company, ran suddenly and fell down 
 before Don Quixote, addressing him in a very doleful manner. " Alas, 
 good sir," said he, " don't you know me } don't you remember poor 
 Andres, whom you caused to be untied from the tree ? " With thEii 
 the knight knew him ; and raising him up, turned to the company ; 
 " That you may all know," said he, " of how great importance to 
 the redressing of injuries, punishing vice, and the universal benefit 
 of mankind, the business of knight-errantry may be, you must under; 
 stand, that riding through a desert some days ago, I heard certain 
 lamentable shrieks and outcries. Prompted by the misery of the 
 afflicted, and borne away by the zeal of my profession, I followed the 
 voice, and found this boy, whom you all see, bound to a great oak ; 1 
 am glad he is present, because he can attest the truth of my relation. 
 I found him, as I told you, bound to an oak ; naked from the waist 
 upwards, and a bloody-minded peasant scourgihg his back unmerci- 
 fully with the reins of a bridle. I presently demanded the cause of 
 his severe chastisement. The rude fellow answered, that he had 
 liberty to punish his own servant, whom he thus used for some faults 
 that argued him more knave than fool. ' Good sir,' said the boy, ' he 
 can lay nothing to my charge but demanding my wages.' His mas- 
 ter made some reply, which I would not allow as a just excuse, and 
 ordered him immediately to unbind the youth, and .took his oath that 
 he would take him home and pay him all his wages upon the nail, in 
 good and lawful coin. Is not this literally true, Andres ? Did you 
 not mark, besides, with what face of authority I commanded, and with 
 how much humility he promised to obey all I imposed, commanded, 
 and desired .? Answer me, boy ; and tell boldly all that passed to 
 this worthy company, that it taay appear how necessary the vocation 
 of kmghts-errant is up and down the high roads." 
 
 "AH you have said is true enough," answered Andres ; " but the 
 business did not end after that manner you and I hoped it would." 
 " How ! " said the knight ; "has not the peasant paid you ? " " Ay, 
 he has paid me with a vengeance," said the boy ; " for no sooner was 
 your back turned but he tied me again to the same tree, and lashed 
 me so horribly that I looked like St. Bartholomew flayed alive ; and 
 
 * These must be the ragged apparel Cardenio wore before he was dreatied in the priest's ihoi* 
 cassock and cloalc 
 
120 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 at eveiy blow he had some joke or another lo lau^h at you ; and had 
 he not laid on me as he did, I fancy I could not help laughing myself. 
 At last he left me, in so pitiful a case that I was forced to crawl to a 
 hospital, where I have lain ever since to get cured, so wofuUy the ty- 
 rant had lashed me. And now I may thank you for this ; for had 
 you rode on your journey, and neither meddled nor made, seeing no- 
 body sent for you, and it was none of your business, my master, per- 
 haps, had been satisfied with giving me ten or twenty lashes, and after 
 that would have paid me what he owed me ; but you was so huffy, 
 and called him so many names, that it made him mad, and so he 
 vented all his spite against you upon my poor back, as soon as yours 
 was turned, inasmuch that I fear I shall never be mine own man again." 
 " The miscarriage," answered the knight, " is only chargeable on ipiy 
 departure before I saw my orders executed ; for I might by expeii- 
 ence have remembered that the word of a peasant is regulated, no* 
 by honour, but by profit. But you remember, Andres, how I said, 
 that if he disobeyed I would return and seek him through the universe, 
 and find him though hid in a whale's belly." " Ah, sir," answered 
 Andres, " but that is no cure for my sore shoulders." " You shall be re- 
 dressed," answered the knight, starting fiercely up, and commanding 
 Sancho immediately to bridle Rozinante, who was baiting as fast as 
 the rest of the company. Dorothea asked what he intended to do : 
 he answered, that he intended to find out the villain, and punish him 
 severely for his crimes, then force him to pay Andres his wages to 
 the last maravedi,* in spite of all the peasants in the universe. She 
 then desired him to remember his engagements to her, which with- 
 held him from any new achievement till that was finished ; that he 
 must therefore suspend his resentments till his return from her king- 
 dom. " It is but just and reasonable," said the knight ; " and there- 
 fore Andres must wait with patience my return ; but when I do re- 
 turn, 1 do hereby ratify my former oath and promise, never to rest 
 till he be fully satisfied and paid." " I dare not trust to that," an- 
 swered Andres ; " but if you will bestow on me as much money as 
 will bear my charges to Seville, I shall thank your worship more than 
 for all the revenge you tell me of. Give me a snap to eat, and a bit 
 in my pocket ; and so Heaven be with you and all other knights-errant, 
 and may they prove as arrant fools in their own business as they have 
 been in mine;" 
 
 Sancho took a crust of bread and a slice of cheese, and reaching 
 it to Andres, " There, friend," said he, " there is something for thee ; 
 on my word, we have all of us a share of thy mischance." " What 
 share ? " said Andres. " Why, the cursed mischance of parting with 
 this bread and cheese to thee ; for my head to a half-penny., I may 
 live to want it ; for thoa must know, friend of mine, that we, the 
 
 * Near the value of a farthing. 
 
CH. XXI.J DON QUIXOTS. 121 
 
 squires of knights-errant, often pick our teeAi without a dinner, and 
 are subject to many other things which are better felt than told." 
 Andres snatched at the provender, and seeing, no likelihood of any- 
 more, he made his leg and marched off. But looking over his shoul- 
 der at Don Quixote, " Hark ye, you Sir Knight-errant," cried he, 
 " if ever you meet me again in your travels, which I hope you never 
 shall, though I were torn in pieces, do not trouble me with your fool- 
 ish helpj but mind your own business ; and so fare you well, with a 
 plague upon you and all the knights-errant that ever were born ! " 
 The knight thought to chastise him, but the lad was too nimble for 
 any there, and his heels carried him off, leaving Don Quixote highly 
 incensed at his story, which moved the company to hold their laugh- 
 ter, lest they should raise his anger to a dangerous height. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 What befell Don Quixote and his company at the Inn. 
 
 When they had eaten plentifully they left that place, and travelled all 
 that day and the next without meeting any thing worth notice, till they 
 came to the inn, which was so frightful a sight to poor Sancho, that 
 he would willingly not have gone in, but could by no means avoid it. 
 The innkeeper, the hostess, her daughter, and Maritornes, met Don 
 Quixote and his squire with a very hearty welcome. The knight re- 
 ceived them with a face of gravity and approbation, bidding them 
 prepare him a better bed than their last entertainment afforded him. 
 " Sir," said the hostess, " pay us better than you did then, and you 
 shall have a bed for a prince." And upon the knight's promise that 
 he would, fehe promised him a tolerable bed in the large room where he 
 lay before. He presently undressed, and being heartily crazed in 
 body as Well as in mind, he went to bed. He was scarcely got to 
 his chamber, when the hostess flew suddenly at the barber, and catch- 
 ing him by the beard, " On my life," said she, " you shall use this 
 tail no longer for a beard ; pray, sir, give me the tail ; my husband 
 wants it to stick his comb into ; and the tail I will have, sir." The 
 barber surrendered the hostess her tail, with the other trinkets which 
 he had borrowed to decoy Don Quixote out of the desert. Dorothea's 
 beauty and ©ardenio's handsome shape surprised every body. The 
 curate bespoke supper; and the host, being pretty secure of his 
 reckoning, soon got them a tolerable" entertainment. They would not 
 disturb the knight, who slept very soundly, for his distemper Wanted 
 rest more than meat ; but they diverted themselves with the hostess's 
 account of his encounter with the carriers, and of Sarxho's being 
 
22 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 tossed in a blanket. Don Quixote's unaccountable madness was the 
 principal subject of their discourse ; upon which the curate insisting 
 and arguing that it proceeded from his reading romances, the inn- 
 keeper took him up. 
 
 " Sir," said he, " you cannot jmake me of your opinion ; for, in my 
 mind, it is the pleasantest reading that ever was. I have now in the 
 house two or three books of that kind, and some other pieces that really 
 have kept me and many others alive. In harvest-lime, a great many 
 of the reapers come to drink here in the heat of the day, and he thai 
 can read best among us takes up one of these books, and all the rest 
 of us, sometimes thirty or more, sit round about him and listen with 
 such pleasure that we think neither of sorrow nor care. As for my 
 own part, when I hear the mighty blows and dreadful battles of those 
 knights-errant, I have half a mind to be one myself, and am raised to 
 such a life and briskness that I could frighten away old age. I could 
 sit and hear them from morning till night." "I wish you would, hus- 
 band," said the hostess ; " for then we should have some rest ; for at 
 all other times you are so out of humour and so snappish that we lead 
 a sad life with you." " And what think you of this' matter, young 
 miss ? " said the curate to the innkeeper's daughter. " Alack-a-day, 
 sir," said she, " I do not understand those things, and yet I love to 
 hear them ; but I do not like that frightful ugly fighting that so pleases 
 my father. Indeed, the sad lamentations of the poor knights for the 
 loss of their nlistresses sometimes makes me cry like any thing." " I 
 suppose, then, young gentlewoman," said Dorothea, "you will be 
 tender-heartedj and will never let a lover die for you." " I do not 
 know what may happen as to that," said the girl ; " but this I know, 
 that I will never give any body reason to call me tigress and lioness, 
 and I do not know how many other ugly names, as those ladies arf 
 often called ; and I think they deserve yet worse, so they do ; for they 
 can never have soul nor conscience to let siich fine gentletoen die or 
 run mad for a sight of them. What signifies all their fiddling and 
 coyness .' If they are civil women, why do not they marry them ; 
 for that is all their knights would be at .? " " Hold your prating, 
 mistress," said the hostess, " how came you to know all this .' It is 
 not for such as you to talk of these matters." " The gentleman only 
 asked me a question," said she, " and it would be uncivil not to an- 
 swer him." " Well," said the curate, " do me the favour, good land- 
 lord, to bring out these books that I may have a sight of them." 
 , " With all my heart," said the innkeeper ; and with that, stepping to 
 |his chamber, he opened a little portmanteau that shut with a chain, 
 and took out three large volumes, with a parcel of manuscripts in a fair 
 legible letter. The title of the first was Don Cirongilio of Thrace ; 
 the second Felixmarte of Hircania ; and the third was the History of 
 the great Captain Goncalo Hernandes de Corduba, and the Life of 
 
CH. XXI 1 DON QUIXOTE. 123 
 
 Diego Garcia de Paredes, bound together.* The curate, reading the 
 title, turned to the barber, and told him they wanted now Don Quix- 
 ote's housekeeper and his niece. " I shall do as well with the books,' 
 said the barber ; " for I can find the way to the backyard, or to the 
 chimney ; there is a good fire that will do their business." " Busi- 
 ness ! " said the innkeeper, " I hope you would not burn my books ? " 
 " Only two of them," said the curate ; " this same Don Cirongilio 
 • and his friend Felixmarte." " I hope, sir," said the host, " they are 
 neither heretics nor flegmatics." " Schismatics, you mean," said the 
 barber. " I mean so," said the innkeeper ; '"and if you must burn 
 any, let it be this of Goncalo Hernandes and Diego Garcia ; for you 
 should sooner burn one of my children than the others.'' " These 
 bqoks, honest friend," said the curate, " that you appear so concerned 
 for, are senseless rhapsodies of falsehood and folly ; and this which 
 you so despise is a true history, and contains a true account of two 
 celebrated men. The first by his bravery and courage purchased im- 
 mortal fame, and the name of the Great General, by the universal 
 consent of mankind ; and the other, Diego Garcia de Paredes, was 
 of noble extraction, and born in Truxillo, a town of Estremadura, 
 and was a man of singular courage, and of such mighty strength, 
 that with one of his hands he could stop a mill-wheel in its most 
 rapid motion, and with his single force defend the passage of a bridge 
 against an immense army. Several other great actions are related in 
 the memoirs of his life, but all with so much modesty and unbiassed 
 truth, that they easily pronounce him his own historiographer ; and 
 had they been written by any one else, with freedom and impartiality, 
 they might ha,ve eclipsed your Hectors, Achilles's, and Orlandos, with 
 all their heroic exploits." " That's a fine jest, truly," said the inn- 
 keeper ; " my father could have told you another tale, sir. Holding 
 a mill- wheel ! why, is that such a mighty matter } Only do but turn 
 over a leaf of Felixmarte there ; you will find how with one single 
 back-stroke he cut five swinging giants off by the middle, as if they 
 had been so many bean-pods,' of which the children make little pup- 
 pel-friars ; and read how at another time he charged a most mighty 
 and powerful army of above a million and six hundred thousand fight- 
 ing men, all armed cap-a-pie, and routed them all like so many sheep. 
 And what can you say of the worthy Cirongilio of Thrace ? who, as 
 you may read therCj going by water one ^day, was assaulted by a 
 fiery serpent in the middle of the river ; he presently leaped nimbly 
 upon her back, and, Kanging by her scaly neck, grasped her throat 
 fast with both his arms, so that the serpent, finding herself almost 
 strangled, was forced to dive into the water to save herself, and car- 
 ried the knight, who would not quit his hold, to the very bot'^ora, 
 
 * These were not fabulous heroes, though romantic authors havo^dded luuch of fablo to tbejt 
 true history. * 
 
124 DON qXJIXOTE. 
 
 where he found a stately palace and such pleasant gardens that it 
 was a wonder ; and straight the serpent turned into a very old man, 
 and told him such things as were never heard nor spoken. Now, a 
 fig for your Great Captain and your Diego Garcia." Dorothea, hear- 
 ing this, said softly to Cardenio, that the host was capable of making 
 a second part to Don Quixote. " I think so too," cried Cardenio, 
 " for it is plain he believes every tittle contained in those books ; nor 
 can all the Carthusian friars in the world persuade him otherwise." 
 " I tell thee, friend," said the curate, " there were neVer any such per- 
 sons as your books of chivalry mention upon the face of the earth ; 
 your Felixmarte of Hircania and your Cirongilio of Thrace are all 
 but chimeras and fictions of idle and luxuriant wits, who wrote them 
 for the same reason that you read them, because they had nothing 
 else to do." " Sir," said the innkeeper, " you must angle with an- 
 other bait, or you will catch no fish ; I know what's what as well as 
 another ; I can tell where my own shoe pinches me ; and you must 
 not think, sir, to catch old birds with chaff. A pleasant jest indeed, 
 that you should pretend to persuade me now that these notable books 
 are lies and stories ! why, sir, are they not in print .' Are they not 
 published according to order .' licensed by authority from the privy 
 council .' And do you think that they would permit so many untruths 
 to be printed, and such a number of battles and enchantments, to set 
 us all a-madding } " " I have told you already, friend," replied the 
 curate, " that this is licensed for our amusement in our idle hours : 
 for the same reason that tennis, billiards, chess, and other recreations 
 are tolerated, that men may find a pastime for those hours they can- 
 not find employment for. Neither could the government foresee this 
 inconvenience from such books that you urge, because they could not 
 reasonably suppose any rational person would believe their absurdi- 
 ties. And were this a proper time, I could say a great deal in favout 
 of such writings ; and how, with some regulations, they might be 
 made both instructive and diverting. But I design upon the first op- 
 portunity to communicate my thoughts on this head to some that may 
 redress it. In the mean time, honest landlord, you may put up youi 
 books, a«d believe them true if you please, and much good may they 
 do you. And I wish you may never halt on the same" foot as your 
 guest, Don Quixote." " There's no fear of that," said the innkeeper ; 
 " for I never design to turn knight-errant, because I find the custonu 
 that supported the noble order are quite out of doors." 
 
CH. XXII.] DON QUIXOTE. 126 
 
 CHAPTEE XXII. 
 
 Of the dreadful battle hetwixt Don Quixote' and certain Wine-skins, 
 
 The conversation was hardly concluded when Sancho Panza ca:iie 
 running out of Don Quixote's chamber in a terrible fright, crying 
 out, " Help, help, good people, help ! help my master ! He is just 
 now at it tooth and nail with that same giant, the Princess Micomico- 
 na's foe ; I never saw a more dreadful battle in my born days. He 
 has lent him such a blow, that whip off went the giant's head, as 
 round as a turnip." " You are mad, Sancho," said the curate, start- 
 ing up astonished ; " is thy master such a wonderful hero as to fight 
 a giant at two thousand leagues distance .' " Upon this they present- 
 ly heard a noise and bustle in the chamber, and Don Quixote bawling 
 out, " Stay, villain ! robber, stay ! since 1 have thee here, thy scimi- 
 tar shall but little avail thee ! " and with this they heard him strike 
 with his sword with all his force against the walls. " Good folks," 
 said Sancho, " my master does not want your hearkening ; why do 
 not you run in and help him i though I believe it is after-meat must- 
 ard ; for sure the giant is dead by this time, and givmg an account of 
 his ill life ; for I saw his blood run all about the house, and his head 
 sailing in the middle on it ; but such a head ! it is bigger than any 
 wine-skin in Spain." * " Mercy on me ! " cried the innkeeper, " I 
 will be cut like a cucumber, if this Don Quixote, or Don Devil, has 
 not been hacking my wine-skins that stood filled at his bed's head, 
 and this coxcomb has taken the spilt liquor for blood." Then running 
 with the whole company into the room, they found the poor knight in 
 the most comical posture- imaginable. 
 
 He wore on his head a little red greasy nightcap of the innkeeper's ; 
 he had wrapped one of the best blankets about his left arm for a 
 shield ; and wielded his drawn-sword in the right, laying about him 
 pell-mell ; with now and then a start of some military expression, as 
 if he had been really engaged with some giant. But the best jest of 
 all, he was ail this time fast asleep ; for the thought of the adventure 
 he had undertaken so wrought on his imagination that his depraved 
 fancy in his sleep had represented to him the kingdom of Micomicon 
 and the giant ; and dreaming that he was then fighting him, he assaulted 
 the wine-skins so desperately that he set the whole chamber afloat 
 tvith good wine. The innkeeper, enraged to see the havoc, flew at 
 Don Quixote with his fists ; and had not Cardenio and the curate 
 taken him off, he had proved a giant indeed against the knight. All 
 
 * In Spain they keep their winei in the sliin of a ^at, sheep, or other beast, pitched wltbtia 
 and sewed close without. ' 
 
126 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 this could not wake the poor Don, till the harber, throwing a bucK«i 
 of cold water on him, wakened him from his sleep, though not from 
 his dream. 
 
 Sancho ran up and down the room searching for the giant's head 
 till, finding his labour fruitless, " Well, well," said he, " now I see 
 plainly that this house is haunted ; for when I was here before, in this 
 very room was I beaten like any stock-fish, but knew no more than 
 the man in the moon who struck me ; and now the giant's head that 
 I saw cut off with these eyes is vanished ; and I am sure I saw the 
 body spout blood like a pump." " What prating and nonsense ! " 
 said the innkeeper ; " I tell you, rascal, it is my wine-skins that are 
 slashed, and my wine that runs about the floor here." " Well, well," 
 said Sancho, " do not trouble me ; I only tell you that I cannot find 
 ihe giant's head, and my earldom is gone after it ; and so I am un- 
 done, like salt in water." And truly Sancho's waking dream was as 
 pleasant as his master's when asleep. The innkeeper was almost mad 
 to see the foolish squire harp so on the same string with his frantic 
 master, and swore they should not come off now as before ; that their 
 chivalry should be no satisfaction for his wine, but that they should pay 
 him sauce for the damage, and for the very leathern patches which 
 the wounded wine-skins would want. 
 
 Don Quixote in the mean while, believing he had finished his ad- 
 venture, and mistaking the curate, that held him by the arms, for the 
 Princess Micomicona, fell on his knees before him, and with a respect 
 due to a royal presence, " Now may your highness," said he, " great 
 and illustrious princess, live secure, free from any further apprehen- 
 sions from your conquered enemy ; and now I am acquitted of nfiy 
 engagement, since, by the assistance of Heaven, and the influence of 
 her favour by whom 1 live and conquer, your adventure is so happily 
 achieved." " Did not I tell you so, gentlefolks .' " said Sancho ; 
 " who is drunk or mad now } See if my master has not already put 
 the giant in pickle ? I am an earl as sure as possible." The whole 
 company (except the unfortunate innkeeper) were highly diverted at 
 the extravagances of both. At last, the barber, Cardenio, and the 
 curate, having yvith much ado got Don Quixote to bed, he presently 
 fell asleep, being heartily tired ; and then they left him to comfort 
 Sancho Panza for the loss of the giant's head ; but it was no eeisy 
 matter to appease the innkeeper, who was at his wit's end for the un- 
 expected and sudden fate of his wine-skins. 
 
 The hostess in the mean time ran up and down the house crying 
 and roaring : " In an ill hour," said she, " did this unlucky knight- 
 errant come into my house ; I wish, for my part, I had never seen 
 him, for he has been a dear guest to me. He and his main, his horse 
 and his ass went away last time without paying me a cross for their 
 •upper their bed their litter and provender ; and all, forsooth, be^ 
 
CH. XXIII.] DON QUIXOTE. 12" 
 
 cause he was seeking adventures. What^ in the wide world, have 
 we to do with his statutes of chivalry ? If they oblige him not to pay, 
 they should obligs him not to eat neither. It was upon this score 
 that the other fel.ow took away the good tail ; it is clean spoiled, the 
 hair is all torn off, and my husband can never use it again. And 
 now to come upon me again with destroying my wine-skins, and 
 spilling my liquor. But I will be paid, so I will, to the last marave- 
 dis, or 1 will disown my name, and forswear my mother." Her hon- 
 est maid Maritomes seconded her fury ; but Master Curate stopped 
 their mouths by promising that he would see them satisfied for their 
 wine and their skins, but especially for the tail which they made 
 such a clatter about. Dorothea comforted Sancho, assuring him that 
 whenever it appeared that his master had killed the giant, and restor- 
 ed her to her dominions, he should be sure of the best earldom in 
 her disposal. With this he buckled up again, and vowed " that he 
 himself had seen the giant's head, by the same token that it had a 
 beard that reached down to his middle ; and if it could not be found, 
 it must be hid by witchcraft, for every thing went by enchantment 
 in that house, as he had found to his cost when he was there before." 
 Dorothea answered that she believed him ; and desired him to pluck 
 up his spirits, for all things would be well. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 Containing an account of many surprising accidents in the inn. 
 
 At the same time the innkeeper, who stood at, the door, seeing com- 
 pany coming, ♦' More guests," cried he ; " a brave jolly troop, on my 
 word. If they stop . here, we may rejoice." " What are they } " 
 said Cardenio. " Four men," said the host, " on horse-back, with 
 black masks on their faces, and armed with lances and targets ; a 
 lady too all in white, that rides single and masked ; and two running 
 footmen." " Are they near > " said the curate. " Just at the door," 
 replied the innkeeper. Hearing this, Dorothea veiled herself, and 
 Cardenio had just time enough to step into the next room, where Don 
 Quixote lay, when the strangers came into the yard. The four horse- 
 men, who made a very genteel appearance, dismounted and went to 
 help down the lady, whom one of them taking in his arms, carried 
 into the house, where he seated her in a chair by the chamber-door, 
 into which Cardenio had withdrawn. All this w,as done without dis- 
 covering their faces, or speaking a word; only the lady, as she sat 
 down in the chair, breathed out a deep sigh, and let her arms sink 
 
128 DON QUIXOTB. 
 
 , down in a weak and fainting posture. The curate marking their odd 
 behaviour, which raised in him a curiosity to know who they were, 
 went to their servants in the stable, and asked what their masters 
 were ? " Indeed, sir," said one of them, " that is more than we can 
 tell you ; they seem of no mean quality, especially that gentleman 
 who carried the lady into the house ; for the rest pay him great re- 
 spect, and his word is a law to them." " Who is the lady ? " said the 
 curate. " We know no more of her than the rest," answered the 
 fellow ; " for we could never see her face all the time, and it is im- 
 possible we should know her or them otherwise. They picked us up 
 on the road, and . prevailed with us to wait on them to Andalusia, 
 promising to pay us well for our trouble ; so that, except the two 
 days' travelling in their company, they are utter strangers to us." 
 " Could you hot hear them name one another all this time ? " asked 
 the curate. " No, truly, sir," answered the footman ; " for we heard 
 them not speak a syllable all the way ; the poor lady indeed used to 
 sigh and grieve, so piteously, that we are persuaded she has no 
 stomach to this journey." i " Very likely," said the curate ; and with 
 that leaving them, he returned to the place where he left Dorothea, 
 who, hearing the masked lady sigh so frequently, moved- by the natu- 
 ral pity of the soft sex, could not forbear inquiring the cause of her 
 sorrow. " Pardon me, madam," said she, " if I beg to know your 
 grief; and assure yourself that my request does not proceed from 
 mere curiosity, but an earnest inclination to assist you, if your mis- 
 fortune be such as our sex is naturally subject to, and in the power of 
 a woman to cure." The lady made no return to her compliment, and 
 Dorothea pressed her in vain with new reasons ; when the gentleman, 
 whom the footboy signified to be the chief of the company, inter- • 
 posed : " Madam," said he, " do not trouble yourself to throw away 
 any generous offer on that ungratefiir woman, whpse nature cannot 
 return an obligation ; neither expect any answer to your demands, 
 for her tongue is a stranger to truth." " Sir," said the ' disconsolate 
 lady, " my truth and honour have made me thus miserable, and my 
 sufferings are sufficient to prove you the falsest and most base of 
 men." Cardenio, being only parted from the company by Don Quix- 
 ote's chamber-door, overheard these last words very distinctly, and 
 immediately cried out, " Good heaven, what do I hear .? what voice 
 struck my ear just now .' " The lady, startled at his exclamation, 
 sprung from the chair, and would have rushed into the chamber 
 whence the voice came ; but the gentleman perceiving it,'laid hold of 
 her to prevent her, which so disordered the lady that her mask fell 
 off", and discovered an incomparable face, beautiful as an angel's, 
 though very pale, and strangely discomposed. Dorothea and the rest 
 beheld her with grief and wonder. She struggled so hard, and the 
 gentleman was so disordered by beholding her, that his mask dropped 
 
CH. XXIi:.] DON QUIXOTE. 129 
 
 off too, and discovered to Dorothea, who was assisting to hold the la- 
 dy, the face of her husband Don Fernando. Scarce had slie known him 
 when, with a long and dismal " oh ! " she fell in a swoon, and would 
 have fallen to the ground, had not the barber, by good fortune, stood 
 behind and supported her. The curate ran presently ^o help her, and 
 pulling orf her veil to throw water in her face, Don Fernando pres- 
 ently knew her, and was struck almost as dead as she at the sight ; 
 nevertheless he did not quit Lucinda, who was the lady that struggled 
 ^o hard to get out of his hands. Cardenio hearing Dorothea's excla- 
 mation, and imagining it to be Lucinda's voice, flew into the cham-J 
 ber in great disorder, and the first object he met .was Don Fernando 
 holding Lucinda, who presently knew him. They were all struck 
 dumb with amazement : Dorothea gazed on Don Fernando ; Don 
 Fernando on Cardenio ; and Cardenio and Lucinda on one another. 
 
 At last Lucinda broke silence, and addressing Don Fernando, 
 " Let me go," said she ; " unlose your hold, my lord : by the gener- 
 osity you should have, or by your inhumanity, since it must be so 
 I conjure you leave me^ that I may cling like ivy to my old support • 
 and from whom neither your threats, nor prayers, nor gifts, nor 
 promises, could ever alienate my love. Contend not against Heaven, 
 whose power alone could bring me to my dear husband's sight by 
 such strange and unexpected means ; you have a thousand instances 
 to convince you that nothing but death can make me ever forget him ; 
 let this, at least, turn yovir love into rage, which may prompt you to 
 end my miseries with my life here before my dear husband, where I 
 shall be proud to lose it, since my death may convince him of my 
 unshaken love and honour till the last minute of my life." Dorothea 
 by this time had recovered, and finding by Lucinda's discourse who 
 she was, and that Don Fernando would not unhand her, she made a 
 virtue of necessity, and falling at his feet, " My lord," cried she, all 
 bathed in tears, " if that beauty which you hold in your arms has not 
 altogether dazzled your eyes, you may behold at your feet the once 
 happy, but now miserable Dorothea. I am the poor and humble 
 villager, whom your generous bounty, I dare not say your love, did 
 condescend to raise to the honour of calling you her own : I am she 
 who, once confined to peaceful innocence, led a contented life, till 
 your importunity, your shew of honour and deluding words, charmed 
 me from my retreat, and made me resign my freedom to your power. 
 How I am recompensed may be guessed by my grief, and my being 
 found here in this strange place, whither I was ledj not through any 
 dishonourable ends, but purely by despair and grief to be forsaken of 
 you. It was at your desire I was bound to you by the strictest tie ; 
 and whatever you do, you can never cease to be mine. Consider, my 
 dear lord, that my matchless love may balance the beauty and nobility 
 of the person for whom you would forsake ne she cannot share 
 
 «7 
 
130 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 your lov'o, for it is only mine ; and Cardenio's interest in htr will not 
 admit a partner. It is easier far, my lord, to recall your wandering 
 desires, and fix them upon her that adores you, than to draw her to 
 love who hates you. Have some regard to your honour I remember 
 you are a Christian ! Why should you then make her life end so 
 miserably, whose beginning your favour made so happy .'' If I must 
 not expect the usage and respect of a wife, let me but serve you as a 
 slave ; so I belong to you, though in the meanest rank, I shall never 
 complain ; let me not be exposed to the slandering reflections of the 
 censorious world by so cruel a separation from my lord ; afflict not 
 the declining years of my poor parents, whose faithful services to you 
 and yours have merited a more suitable return." 
 
 These, with many such arguments, did the mournful Dorothea urge, 
 appearing so lovely in her sorrow, that Don Fernando's friends, as 
 well as all the rest, sympathised with her ; Lucinda particularly, as 
 much admiring her wit and beauty as moved by the tears, the pierc- 
 ing sighs and moans, that followed her entreaties ; and she would have 
 gone nearer to have comforted her had not Fernando's arms, that still 
 held her, prevented it. He stood full of confusion, with his eyes fixed 
 attentively on Dorothea a great while ; at last, opening his arms, he 
 quitted Lucinda : '* Thou hast conquered," cried he ; " charming 
 Dorothea, thou hast conquered ; it is impossible to resist so many 
 united truths and charms." Lucinda was still so disordered and weak 
 that she would have fallen when Fernando quitted her, had not Car- 
 denio, without regard to his safety, leaped forward and caught her in 
 his arms, and embracing her with eagerness and joy, " Thanks, gra- 
 cious Heaven ! " cried he aloud, " my dear, my faithful wife, thy sor- 
 rows are now ended ; for where canst thou rest more safe that in my 
 arms, which now support thee as once they did when my blessed 
 fortune first made thee mine ! " Lucinda then opening her eyes and 
 finding herself in the arms of her Cardenio, without regard to cere- 
 mony, threw her arms about his neck, " Yes," said she, " thou art he, 
 thou art my lord indeed ! Now, fortune, act thy worst ; nor fear nor 
 threats shall ever part me from the sole support and comfort of my 
 life." This sight was very surprising to Don Fernando and the other 
 spectators. Dorothea perceiving, by Don Fernando's change of 
 countenance, and laying his hand to his sj/vord, that he prepared to 
 assault Cardenio, fell suddenly on her knees, and with an endearing 
 embrace held him so fast that he could not stir. " What meanss." 
 cried she, all in tears, " the only refuge of my hope > See here thy 
 own and dearest wife at thy feet, and her you would have in her true 
 husband's arms. Think then, my lord, how unjust is your attempt to 
 dissolve that knot which Heaven has tied so fast. Can you ever think 
 or hope success in your design when you see her contemning all dan- 
 gers, and confirmee? in-strictest constancy and honour, leaning in teara 
 
3H. XXIII.] DON QUIXOTE. 13] 
 
 of joy on her tn.e lover's bosom ? For Heaven's sake I eitreat you, 
 by your own words I conjure you, to mitigate your anger, and permit 
 that faithful pair to spend their remaining days in peace. Thus may 
 you make it appear that you are generous and truly noble, giving tho 
 world so strong a proof that you have your reason at command, and 
 your passion in subjection." 
 
 All this while Cardenio, though he still held Lucinda in his arms 
 had a watchful eye on Don Fernando ; resolving, if he had made the 
 least offer to his prejudice, to make him repent it and all his party, 
 if possible, though at the expense of his life. But Don Fernando'a 
 friends, the curaie, the barber, and all the company (not forgetting 
 honest Sancho Panza), got together about Don Fernando, and entreat- 
 ed him to pity the beautiful Dorothea's tears ; that, considering what 
 she had said, the truth of which was apparent, it would be 1;Jie highest 
 injustice to frustrate her lawful hopes ; that their strange and wonder- 
 ful meeting could not be attributed to chance, but the peculiar and 
 directing providence of Heaven ; that nothing but death (as the curate 
 very well urged) could part Cardenio from Lucinda; and that though 
 the edge of his sword might separate them, he would make them hap- 
 pier by death than he could hope to be by surviving ; that, in irre- 
 coverable accidents, a submission to Providence, and a resignation of 
 our wills, shewed not only the greatest prudence, but also the highest 
 courage and generosity ; that he should not envy those happy lovers 
 what the bounty of Heaven had conferred on them, but that he should 
 turn his eyes on Dorothea's grief, view her incomparable beauty, 
 which, with her true and unfeigned love, made large amends for the 
 meanness of her parentage'; but principally it lay upon him, if he 
 gloried in the titles of nobility and Christianity^ to keep his promise 
 unviolated ; that the more reasonable part of mankind could not other- 
 wise be satisfied, or have any esteem for him. Also, that it was the 
 special prerogative of beauty, if heightened by virtue and adorned 
 with modesty, to lay claim to any dignity without disparagement 
 or scandal to the person that raises it. In short, to these reasons they 
 added so many enforcing arguments that Don Fernando, who was 
 truly a gentleman, could no longer resist reason, but stooped down, 
 and embracing Dorothea, " Rise, madam," said he ; " it is not proper 
 'that she should lie prostrate at my feet who triumphs over my soul. 
 If I have not hitherto paid you all the respect I ought, it was perhaps 
 so ordered by Heaven, that having by this a stronger conviction of 
 your constancy and goodness, I may henceforth set the greater value 
 on your merit. Let the future respects and services I shall pay you 
 plead a pardon for my past transgressions ; and let the violent pas- 
 sions of my love that first made me yours plead my excuse for that 
 which caused me to forsake you. View the now happy Lucinda's 
 syes, and there read a thousand farther excuses but I promise hence> 
 
132 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 forth never to disturb her quiet ; and may she live long and content- 
 ed with her dear Cardenio, as I hope to do with my dearest Dorothea.'' 
 Cardenio, Lucinda, and the greatest part of the company, could not 
 command their passions, but all wept for joy : even Sancho Panza 
 himself shed tears, though, as he afterwards confessed, it was not for 
 downright grief, but because he found not Dorothea to be the Queen 
 of Micomicona, as he supposed, and of whom he expected so many 
 favours and preferments. Cardenio and Lucinda- fell at Don Fernan- 
 do's feet, giving him thanks with the strongest expressions which 
 g'alitude could suggest ; he raised them up and received their ac- 
 knowledgments with much nrtodesty, then begged to be informed by 
 Dorothea how she came to that place. She related to him all she had 
 told Cardenio, but with such a grace that what were misfortunes to 
 her proved an inexpressible pleasure to those that heard her relation. 
 When she had done, Don Fernando told all that had befallen him in 
 the city after he had found the paper in Lucinda's bosom which de- 
 clared Cardenio to be her husband ; how he would have killed her, 
 had not her parents prevented him ; how afterwards, mad with shame 
 and anger, he left the city to wait a more convenient opportunity of 
 revenge ; how, in a short time, he learned that Lucinda was fled to a 
 nunnery, resolving to end her days there if she could not spend them 
 with Cardenio ; that, having desired those three gentlemen to go with 
 him, they went to the nunnery, and, waiting till they found the- gate 
 open, he left two of the gentlemen to secure the door, while he with 
 the other entered the house, where they found Lucinda talking with a 
 nun in the cloister. They carried he* thence to a village, where they 
 disguised themselves for their more convenient flight, which they 
 more easily brought about, the nunnery being situate in the fields, dis- 
 tant a good way from any town. He likewise added how Lucinda. 
 finding herself in his power, fell into a swoon ; and that after she 
 came to herself, she continually wept and siahed, but would not speak 
 a syllable ; and that, accompanied with silence only: and tears, they 
 had travelled till they came to that inn, which proved to him as his 
 arrival at heai en, having put a happy conclusaon to all his earthly 
 misfortunes. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 The history of the famous Princess Micomiconi ponfifmed ; with 
 other pleasant adventures. 
 
 Thk joy of the whole company was unspeakable by the haopv con 
 elusion of this perplexed business. Dorothea, Cardenio, and Lvu-.inda 
 thought the sudden change of their affairs too surprising to be wwi ; 
 
CH. XXIV.J DON QUIXOTE. 133 
 
 and could hardly be induced to believe their happiness. Fernando 
 thanked Heaven a thousand times for having let him out of tlie 
 labyrinth, in which his honour and virtue were like to have been lost. 
 The curate, as he was very instrumental in the general reconciliation, 
 had likewise no small share in the general joy ; and that no discon- 
 tent might sour their universal satisfaction, Cardenio and the curate 
 engaged to see the hostess satisfied for all the damages committed by 
 Doa Quixote ; only poor Sancho drooped sadly. He found his lord- 
 ship and his hopes vanished into smoke ; the Princess Micomicona 
 was changed to Dorothea, and the giant to Don Fernando. Thus 
 very musty and melancholy, he slipt into his master's chamber, who 
 had slept on, and was just wakened, little thinking of what had hap- 
 pened. 
 
 "~I hope your early rising will do you no hurt," said he, " Sir 
 Knigjit of the Sorrowful Figure ; but you may now sleep on till 
 doom's-day if you will ; nor need you trouble your head any longer 
 about killing any giant, or restoring the princess ; for all that is done 
 to your hand." " That is more than probable," answered the knight ; 
 " for I have had the most extraordinary, the most prodigious and 
 bloody battle with the giant that I ever had, or shall have, during the 
 whole course of my life. Yet with one cross stroke I laid his head 
 on the ground, whence the great effusion of blood seemed like a vio- 
 lent stream of water." " Of wine, you mean," said Sancho ; " for 
 you must know (if you know it not already), that your worship's 
 dead giant is a broached wine-skin ; and the blood some thirty galloiis 
 of tent which it held in its body." " What sayest thou, madman ? " 
 said the Don ; " thou art frantic, sure." " Rise, rise, sir," said Sancho, 
 "and see what fine work you have cut out for yourself; here is your 
 great queen changed into a private gentlewoman, called Dorothea, 
 with some other such odd matters, that you will wonder with a ven- 
 geance." " I can wonder at nothing here," said Don Quixote, " where 
 you may remember I told you all things were ruled by enchantment." 
 '-• I believe it," quoth Sancho, " had my adventure with the blanket 
 been of that kind ; but sure it was likest the real tossing in a blanket 
 of anything I ever knew in my life. And this same innkeeper, I re- 
 member .very well, was one of those that tossed me into the air, and 
 as cleverly and heartily he did it as a man could wish, I will say that 
 for him ; so that, after all, I begin to smell a rat, and do greatly sus- 
 pect that all our enchantment will end in nothing but bruises and 
 broken bones." " Heaven will retrieve all," said the knight-; " I will 
 therefore dress, and march to the discovery of these wonderful 
 transformations." 
 
 Meanwhile the curate gave Don Fernando and the rest an account 
 of Don Quixote's madness, and of the device he used to draw him 
 from the desert, to which the supposed disdain of his mistress haai 
 12 
 
134 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 banished him in imagination. Sancho's adventures made also a part 
 in the story, which proved very diverting to the strangers. He added, 
 that since Dorothea's change of fortune had baulked their design that 
 way, some other scheme should be devised to decoy him home. Car- 
 denio offered his service in the affair, and that Lucinda should person- 
 ate Dorothea. " No, no," answered Don Fernando ; " Dorothea shall 
 humour the jest still, if this honest gentleman's habitation be not very 
 far off." " Only two days' journey," said the curate. " I would ride 
 twice as far," said Don Fernando, " for the pleasure of so good and 
 charitable an action." By this time Don Quixote had sallied out 
 armed cap-a-pie, Mambrino's helmet, (with a great hole in it,) on his 
 head ; his shield on his left arm, and with his right he leaned on his 
 lanpe. His meagre, yellow, weather-beaten face of half a league in 
 length ; the unaccountable medley of his armour, together with his 
 grave and solemn port, struck Don Fernando and his companions 
 dumb with astonishment ; while the champion, casting his eyes on 
 Dorothea, with great gravity broke silence with these words : 
 
 " I am informed by this my squire, beautiful lady, that your great- 
 ness is annihilated, and your majesty reduced to nothing ; for of a 
 queen and mighty princess, as you used to be, you are become a 
 private damsel. If any express order from the necromantic king 
 your father, doubting the ability and success of my arm in the rein- 
 stating you, has occasioned this change, I must tell him that he is no 
 conjuror in these matters, and does not know one half of his trade ; 
 nor is he skilled in the revolutions of chivalry ; for had he been con- 
 versant in the study of knight-errantry as I have been, he might have 
 found that in eveiy age champions of less fame than Don Quixote de 
 la Mancha have finished more desperate adventures ; since the kill- 
 ing of a pitiful giant, how arrogant soever he may be, is no such 
 great achievement ; for not many hours past I encountered* one 
 myself ; the success I will not rnention, lest the incredulity of some 
 people might distrust the reality ; but time, the discoverer of all 
 things, will disclose it when least expected. To conclude, most high 
 and disinherited lady, if your father, for the reasons already mention- 
 ed, has caused this metamorphosis in your person, believe him not ; fo;* 
 there is no peril on earth through which my sword shall not open a 
 way ; and assure yourself that in a few days, by the overthrow of 
 your enemy's head, it shall fix on yours that crown which is your law- 
 ful inheritance." Here Don Quixote stopped, waiting the princess's' 
 answer ; she, assured of Don Fernando's consent to carry on the jest 
 till Don Quixote was got home, and assuming a face of gravity, an- 
 swered, " Whosoever has informed you, valorous Knight of the Soriow- 
 ful Figure, that I have altered or changed my condition, Iim imposed 
 upon you ; for I am just the same to-dav as vesterdav. It is truo 
 
CH. XXIV.] DON QUIXOTE. 135 
 
 Stances of my fortune, much to my advantage, and far beyond my 
 hopes ; but I am neither changed in my person, nor altered in my 
 resolution of employing the force of your redoubtable and invincible 
 arm in my favour. I therefore apply myself to your usual generosity, 
 to have these words spoken to my father's dishonour recalled, and be- 
 lieve these easy and infallible means to redress my wrongs the pure 
 effects of his wisdom and policy, as the good fortune I now enjoy has 
 been the consequence of your surprising deeds, as this noble presence 
 can testify. What should hinder us, then, from setting forward to- 
 morrow morning, depending for a happy and successful conclusion 
 on the will of Heaven, aijd the power of your unparalleled cour- 
 age?" 
 
 The ingenious Dorothea having concluded, Don Quixote turning to 
 Sancho with all the signs of fury imaginable, " Tell me, rogue, scoun- 
 drel, did not you just now inform me that this princess was changed 
 into a little private dalmsel, called Dorothea, with a thousand other 
 absurdities ? I vow I have a mind so to use thee, as to make- thee appear 
 a miserable example to all succeeding squires that shall dare to tell a 
 knight-errant a lie." " Good your worship," cried Sancho, " have 
 patience, I beseech you ; mayhap 1 am mistaken or so, about my lady 
 Princess Micomicona's concern there ; but that the giant's head came 
 oflf the wine-skin's shoulders, and that the blood was as good tent as ever 
 was tipt over tongue, I will take my oath on it ; for are not the skins all 
 hacked and slashed within there at your bed's head, and the wine all 
 in a puddle in your chamber .' But you will guess at the meat pres- 
 ently by the sauce ; the proof of the pudding is in the eating, master ; 
 and if my landlord here do not let you know it to your cost, he is a 
 very honest and civil fellow, that is all." " Sancho," said the Don, 
 " I pronounce thee non compos ; I therefore pardon thee, and have 
 done." " It is enough," said Don Fernando ; " we therefore, in pur- 
 suance of the princess's orders, will this night refresh ourselves, and 
 to-morrow we will all of us set out to attend the lord Don Quixote in 
 prosecution of this important enterprise he has undertaken, being all 
 impatient to be eye-witnesses of his celebrated and matchless cour- 
 age." " I shall be proud of the honour of serving' and waiting upon 
 you, my good lord," replied Don Quixote, " and reckon myself in- 
 finitely obliged by the favour and good opinion of so honourable a 
 company ; which I shall endeavour to improve and confirm, though at 
 the expense of the last drop of my blood." 
 
 The night coming on, and the innkeeper, by order of Don Fernan- 
 do's friends, having made haste to proviue them the best supper he 
 could, the cloth was laid on a long table, there being neither round nor 
 square in the house. Don Quixote, after much ceremony, was pre- 
 vailed upon to sit at the head he desired the Lady Micomicona to sit 
 next him • and the rest of .he company having placed themselvrs 
 
136 DON QTIlZOTE. 
 
 according to their rank and conveiience, they eat their supper very 
 heartily. Don Quixote to raise the diversion, never minded his meat 
 but inspired with the same spirit that moved him to preach so much 
 to the goatherds, began to hold forth in this manner :" Certainly, 
 gentlemen, if we rightly consider it, those who make knight-errantry 
 their profession often meet with surprising and most stupendous adven- 
 tures. For what mortal in the world, at this time entering within this 
 castle, and seeing us sit together as we do, will imagine and believe 
 us to be the same persons which in reality we are ? Who is there that 
 can judge -that this lady by my side is the great queen we all know 
 her to be, and that I am that Knight of the Sorrowful Figure so uni- 
 versally made known by fame .■* It is, then, no longer to be doubted 
 but that this exercise and profession surpasses all others that have been 
 invented by man, and is so much the more honourable as it is more 
 exposed to dangers. Let none presume to tell me that the pen is 
 preferable to the sword. This may be ascertained by regarding the 
 end and object each of them aims at ; for that intention is to be most 
 valued which makes the noblest end its object. The scope and end 
 of learning, I mean human learning (in this place I speak not of divin- 
 ity, whose aim is to guide souls to heaven, for no other can equal a de- 
 sign so infinite as that,) is to give a perfection to distributive justice, 
 bestowing upon every one his- due, and to procure and cause good 
 laws to be observed ; an end really generous, great, and worthy of . 
 high commendation, but yet not equal to that which knight-errantry 
 tends to, whose object and end is peace, which is the greatest blessing 
 man can wish for in this life. And, therefore, the first good news that 
 the world received was that which the angels brought in the night — ^ 
 the beginning of our day — when they sang in the air, 'Glory to God 
 on high, peace on earth, and to men good-will.' And the only man- 
 ner of salutation taught by our great Master to his friends and favour- 
 ites was, that entering any house they should say, ' Peace be to this 
 house.' And at other times he said to them,' My peace I give to you,' 
 ' My peace I leave to you,' ' Peace be among you.' A jewel and a 
 legacy worthy of such a donor, a jewel so precious that without it there 
 can be no happiness either in earth or heaven. This peace is the true 
 end of war ; for arms and war are one and the same thing. Allowing, 
 then, this truth, that the end of war is peace, and that in this it excels 
 the end of learning, let us now weigh the bodily labours the scholar 
 undergoes against those the warrior suffers, and then see which are 
 greatest." 
 
 The method and language Don Quixote used in delivering himself 
 ffeie such, that none of his hearers at that time looked upon him as a 
 madman : but on the contrary, most of thera being gentlemen to whom 
 the use of arms properly appertains, they gave him a willing atten- 
 
CH. XXV.] DON QUIXOTE. 131 
 
 sufferings and hardships a scholar endures. First, poverty, (not that 
 tli'jy all are poor, but to urge the worst that may be in this case) ; and 
 having said he endures poverty, methinks nothing more need be uiged 
 to express his misery ; for he that is poor enjoys no happiness, but 
 labours under this poverty in all its parts, at one time in hunger, at 
 another in cold, another in nakedness, and sometimes in all of them 
 together ; yet his poverty is not so great, bjit still he eats, though it be 
 later than the .usual hour, and of the scraps of the rich ; neither can 
 the scholar miss of somebody's stove or fireside to sit by-; where, 
 though he be not thoroughly heated, yet he may gather warmth, and at 
 last sleep away the night under a roof. I will not touch upon other 
 less material circumstances, as the want of linen, and scarcity of 
 shoes, thinness and baldness of their clothes, and their surfeiting 
 when good fortune throws a feast in their way ; this is the difficult 
 and uncouth pathi they tread, of\en stumbling and ialling, yet rising 
 again and pushing on, till they attain the preferment they aim at; 
 whither being arrived, we have seen many of them, who having been 
 carried by a fortunate gale through all these quick-sands, from a chair 
 govern the world ; their hunger being changed into satiety, their cold 
 into comfortable warmth ; their nakedness into magnificence of ap- 
 parel, and the mats they used to lie upon, into stately beds of costly 
 silks and softest linen, a reward due to their virtue. But yet their 
 Bufferings being compared to those the soldier endures, appear much 
 inferior, as I shall in the next place make out." 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A continuation of Don Quixote's curious and excellent discourse 
 upon arms and learning. 
 
 " Since, speaking of the scholar, we began with his poverty, and its 
 several parts," continued Don Quixote, " let us now observe whether 
 the soldier be any richer than he ; and we shall find that poverty 
 itself is not poorer ; for he depends on his miserable pay, which he 
 receives but seldom, or perhaps never ; or else on that he makes by 
 marauding, with the hazard of his life, and trouble of his conscience. 
 Such is sometimes his want of apparel, that a slashed buff-coat is all 
 his holiday raiment and shirt ; and in the depth of winter being in 
 the open field, he has nothing to cherish him against the sharpness of 
 the season but the breath of his mouth, which issuing from an empty 
 place, I ani persuaded is itself cold, though contrary to the rules of 
 Jiature. But now see how he expects night to make amends for all 
 these hardships in the bed prepared for him, which, unless it be hia ' 
 ewn fa ilt? never proves tpo aanovf ; for he may freely lay out as 
 13* 
 
138 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 much of the ground as he pleases, and tumble to his content whhoirl 
 danger of losing the sheets. But above all, when the day shall como, 
 wherein he is to put in practice the exercise of his profession, and 
 strive to gain some new degree, when the day of battle shall come ; 
 then, as a mark qf honour, shall his head be dignified with a cap 
 made of lint, to stop a hole made by a bullet, or be perhaps carried 
 off maimed, at the expense of a leg or arm. And if this do not hap- 
 pen, but that merciful Heaven preserve his life and limbs, it may fall 
 out that he shall remain as poor as before, and must run through ma- 
 ny encounters and battles, nay always come oif victorious, to obtain 
 some little preferment ; and these miracles, too, are rare ; but, I pray 
 tell me, gentlemen, if ever you made it your observation, how few are 
 those who obtain due rewards in war, in comparison of those numbers 
 that perish ? Doubtless you will answer that there is no parity be- 
 tween them, that the dead cannot be reckoned up ; whereas those who 
 live and are rewarded, may be numbered with three figures.* It is 
 quite otherwise v.'ith" scholars, not only those who follow the law, but 
 others also, who all either by hook or by crook get a livelihood ; so that 
 though the soldier's sufferings be much greater, yet his reward ia 
 much less. ' To this it may be answered, that it is easier to reward 
 two thousand scholars, than thirty thousand soldiers, because the for- 
 mer are recompensed at the expense of the public, by giving them 
 employments, but the latter cannot be gratified but at the cost of the 
 master that employs them ; yet this very difficulty makes good my 
 argument. Now for a man to attain to an eminent degree of learn- 
 ing costs him time, watching, hunger, nakedness, dizziness in the 
 head, weakness in the stomach, and other inconveniences, which are 
 the consequences of these, of which I have already in part made 
 mention. But the rising gradually to be a good soldier is purchased 
 at the whole expense of all that is required for learning, and that in 
 so surpassing a degree that there is no comparison betwixt them, be- 
 cause he is every moment in danger of his life. To what danger or 
 distress can a scholar be reduced equal to that of a soldier, who, be- 
 ing besieged in some strong place, and at his post in some ravelin or 
 bastion, perceives the enemy carrying on a mine under him, and yet 
 must upon no account remove from thence, or shun the danger which 
 threatens him ? All he can do is to give notice to his commander, 
 that he may determine, but must himself stand still, fearing and ex- 
 pecting, when on a sudden he shall soar to the clouds without wings, 
 and be again cast down headlong against his will. If this dangoj 
 seem inconsiderable, let us see whether that be not greater when two 
 galleys shock one another with their prows in the midst of the spa- 
 cious sea. When they have thus grappled, and are clinging together, 
 the soldier is confined to the narrow beak, being a board not abov« 
 
 * L e. do not exceed bundredg. 
 
CH. XXVIi] DON QUIXOTE. 139 
 
 two feet wiile , and yet though he sees before uha s'^ many ministers 
 of death threatening, as there are pieces of cannon on the other side 
 pointing against him, and not half a pike's length fjom his body ; an4 
 being sensible that the first slip of his feet sends him to the bottom 
 of Neptune's dominions, — still, for all this, mspired by honour, with 
 an undaunted heart, he stands a mark to so much fire, and endeavours 
 to make his way by that narrow passage into the enemy's vessel. 
 But what is most to be admired is, that no sooner one falls, where he 
 shall never rise till the end of the world, tiian another steps into .the 
 same place ; and if he also drops into the sea, which lies in wait for 
 him like an enemy, another, and after him andther, still fills up the 
 ,.Iace, without suffering any interval of time to separ^ate their deaths ; 
 a resolution and boldness scarce to be paralleled in any other trials of 
 war. Blessed be those happy ages that were strangers to the dread- 
 ful fury of these devilish instruments of artillery which is the cause 
 that very often a cowardly base hand takes away the lite of the 
 bravest gentleman, and that in the midst of that vigour and resolution 
 which animates and inflames the bold, a chance bullet . (shot perhaps 
 by one that fled, and was frightened at the very flash the mischievous 
 piece gave when it went off") coming nobody knows how or from 
 whence, in a moment puts a period to the brave designs, and the life, 
 of one that deserved to have survived many years. ThiscoDsidered, 
 [ could almost say I am sorry at my heart for having taken upon me 
 this profession of a knight-errant in so detestable an a,ge ; for though , 
 no danger daunts me, yet it affects me to think that powder and lead 
 may deprive me of the opportunity of becoming famous, and making 
 myself known throughout the world by the strength of my arm and 
 dint of my sword. But let Heaven order matters as it pleases ; for 
 if I compass my designs, I shall be so much the nfore honoured by 
 how much the dangers I have exposed myself to are greater than 
 those the knights-errant of former ages underwent." 
 
 All this long preamble Don Quixote made whilst the company sup- 
 ped, never minding to eat a mouthful, though Sancho.Panza had 
 several times advised him to mind his meat, telling him there would 
 be time enough afterwards to talk as he thought fit. Those who 
 heard him were afresh moved with compassion, to see a man who 
 seemed, in all other respects, to have a sound judgment, so distracted 
 when any mention was made of knight-errantry. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Of occurrences at the Inn ; and of many other things worthy to be 
 
 known. 
 
 Night was now advanced, and a coach arrived at the inn with some 
 horsemen. The .ravellers wanted lodging for the night, but the hos- 
 
i40 DON QtriXOTE. 
 
 less told them that there was not an inch of room disengaged in th« 
 whole inn. " Notwithstanding that," said one of the men on horse- 
 back, " there must be room made for my lord judge here in the 
 coach." On hearing this the hostess was disturbed and said, " Sir, 
 the truth is, I have no bed ; but if his worship, my lord judge, brings 
 one with him, let him enter in God's name ; for I and my husband 
 will quit our own chamber to accommodate his honour." 
 
 " Be it so," quoth the squire ; and by this time a person had alight 
 3d from the coach whose garb immediately shewed the nature ana 
 Jignity of his station ; for his long gown and tucked-up sleeves de- 
 doted him to be a judge, as his servant had said. He led by the hand 
 i young lady apparently about sixteen years of age, in a riding-dress, 
 tfso lovely and elegant in her person that all were struck with so much 
 ^ Admiration that, had they not seen Dorothea and Lucinda, they would 
 iiever 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 4 for, however confined and inconvenient it may be, place will 
 always be found for arms and letters ; especially when, like you ■ 
 worship, they appear under the patronage of beauty ; for to this fai 
 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 considering what to say in reply, when the other ladies made 
 their appearance, attracted by the account the hostess had given of 
 the beauty of the young lady. Don Fernando, Cardenio, and tho 
 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 behavior of Don 
 Quixote confounded him. After mutual courtesies and inquiries as 
 to what accommodation the inn afibrded, the arrangements previously 
 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 consented : thus, 
 with the innkeeper's narrow bed, together with that which the judge 
 had brought with him, they passed the night better than they had ex- 
 pected. 
 
 The night being now far advanced, they proposed retiring to repose 
 during the remainder Don Quixote offering his service to guard tha 
 
CH. XXVII.] DON (ItTIXOTE. 141 
 
 castle, lest some giant or other miscreant errant, tempted by the 
 treasure of beauty there inclosed, should presume to make an attack 
 upon it. His friends thanked him, and took occasion to amuse the 
 judge with an account of his strange frenzy. Sancho Panza alone 
 \yas out of all patience at sitting up so late. However, 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 his promise, sallied out 
 of the inn to take his post at the castle gate. 
 
 A short time 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 enchant- 
 ingly." Dorothea told him that they had heard him, upon which Car- 
 denio retired. Then listening with much attention, Dorothea plainly 
 distinguished the following words. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 The agreeable history of the young muleteer ; with other strange 
 accidents. 
 
 Toss'd in doubts and feara I rove 
 On the stormy seas of love ; 
 Far from comfort, far from port. 
 Beauty's prize, and fortune's sport; 
 Yet my lieart disdains despair 
 Wliile I trace my leading-star. 
 
 II. 
 
 But reservedness, lil^e a cloud. 
 Does too oft her glories shroud. 
 Pierce to the gloom, reviving light ! 
 Be auspicious as you 're bright. 
 As you hide or dart your beams. 
 Your adorer sinks or swims ! 
 
 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, 
 
142 DON QUIXOTF 
 
 ' since it is only that you may have the pleasure of hearing the sweet- 
 est voice which perhaps you ever keard 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 attention, 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 singing ? " " Oh 
 no," replied Clara ; " he is a young gentleman of large possessions, 
 and so much master of my heart that, if he reject it not, it shall be 
 his eternally." Dorothea was surprised at the passionate expressions 
 of the girl, which she would not have expected from one of her ten- 
 der years. She therefore said to her, " Your words surprise me, 
 Signora Clara ; explain yourself farther ; what is this you say of 
 heart and possessions — and who is this musician whose voice affects 
 you so much .' But stay, do not speak just yet ; he seems to be pre- 
 paring to sing again, and I must not lose the pleasure of hearing him." 
 Clara, however, stopped her own ears with both hands, to Dorothea's 
 great surprise, who listened very attentively to the music. 
 
 When the singing had ceased. Donna Clara again began to sigh 
 and all this so excited Dorothea's curiosity, that she pressed her to 
 explain what she had just before said. Clara embraced her, and put- 
 ting her face close to her ear, she whispered, lest she should be over- 
 heard 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 sum: 
 mer, 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 his house, by so many signs and so many tears that I was forced 
 to believe him, and even to love him too. ' Among other signs he 
 often joined one hand with the other, signifying his desire to marry 
 me ; and though I should have been very glad if it might have been 
 so, yet being alone, and having no mother, I knew not who to speak 
 to on the subject, and therefore let it rest, without granting him any 
 other favour than, when his father and mine were both abroad, to lift 
 up the lattice-window, just to shew myseif, 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 n"ot from me, 
 for I never had an op iortunity to speak to him ; and soon after he 
 fell sick, as I was told, for grief; so that, on the day we came away, 
 
CH. IXVII.J DON QUIXOTE. 143 
 
 I could not see him to say farewell, though it were only with my 
 eyes. But after we had travelled two days, on entering a village 
 about a day's journey hence, I saw him at the door of an inn, in the 
 habit of a muleteer, so disguised tljat, 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 unob- 
 served 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. 1 cannot 
 imagine what his intentions are, nor 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. I 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. Although I never 
 spoke a word to him in my life, yet I love him so well that I asver 
 can live without him. This, dear niadam, is all I can tell you about 
 him whose voice has pleased you so much ; by that alone you may 
 easily perceive he is no muleteer, but master of hearts and towns 
 as I have already told you." 
 
 " Enough, my dear Clara," said Dorothea, kissing her a thousand 
 times ; " you need not say more ; compose yourself till morning, for 
 I hope to be able to manage your affair so that the conclusion may be 
 as happy as the beginning is innocent." " Ah, signora ! " said Don- 
 na Clara, " what conclusion can be expected, since his father is of 
 such high rank and fortune that I am not worthy to be even his ser- 
 vant, much less his wife ? As to marrying without my father's knowl- 
 edge, I would not do it for all the woTld. I'only wish this young man 
 would go back and leave me ; absence, perhaps, may lessen the pain 
 I now feel ; though I feel it will not have much effect. What a 
 strange sorcery this love is ! I know not how it came to possess me 
 so young as I am — in truth, I believe we are both of the same age, 
 and I am not yet sixteen, nor shall I be, as my father says, until next 
 Michaelmas." Dorothea could not forbear smiling at Donna Clara's 
 childish simplicity ; however, she entreated her again to sleep the re- 
 mainder 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 Quixotb's weak points, determined to amuse themselves 
 by observing him while he was keeping guard without doors. There 
 was no window on that side of the house which overlooked the field, 
 except a small opening to the straw-loft, where the straw was thrown 
 out. At this hole the pair of damsels planted themselves, whence 
 
144 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 they commanded a view of the knight on horseback, leaning on hia 
 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, 
 peradventure, thinking of thy captive knight, who voluntarily exposes 
 himself to so many perils and toils for thy sake > O thou 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 oifence to her virtue and dignity, assuage the torment 
 which thiajjpoor 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 ! " While the knight 
 thus- employed himself, four men on horseback came up to 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 cried out from the place where 
 he stood sentinel, in a loud and imperious tone, " 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 therefore until day- 
 light shall inform us whether it be proper to admit you or not." 
 " What kind of a fortress or castle is this," quoth one of them, " that 
 we are obliged to observe all this ceremony.? If you are the inn- 
 keeper, 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 innkeeper .? " said Don Quixote. " I 
 know not what you look like," answered the other ; " but I apn 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 crown in the hand ; but perhaps some company of strolling players 
 are here, who frequently wear such things ; this is not a place for 
 any other sort of crowned heads." " Your ignorance must be great," 
 replied Don Quixote, " if you know not that such events are very 
 common in chivalry." The other horseman, impatient at the dia- 
 logue, repealed his knocks with so much violence that he roused not 
 only the host, but all the company in the house. 
 
CH. XXVIII. J DON QUIXOTE. 145 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. ' 
 
 A continuation of the extraordinary adventures that happened in the 
 
 Inn. 
 
 The door being opened, they inquired of the host whether there waa 
 not in the house a youth about fifteen years old, habited like a mule- 
 teer — 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 follow. Let one of us remain here, and the 
 rest go in to search for him ; and it would not be amiss for one of us 
 to ride round the house, in case he should attempt to escape over the 
 pales of the yard." All this they immediately did, much to the inn- 
 keeper'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. In the mean 
 time 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, look- 
 ing 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 returnr 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 project, 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 return home } " 
 rejoined 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 company 
 with what was passing, telling them that the man had called the young 
 lad Don, and wanted him to return to his father's house, but that he 
 refused to go. They all recollected his fine voice, and being eager 
 13 10 
 
146 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 to knew who he was, and to assist him if any violence were offeree 
 him, they repaired to the place where he was contending with his ser* 
 rant. Dorothea now came out of her chamber with Donna Clara ; 
 an(^, calling Cardenio aside, she related to him in a few words the 
 hu tory of the musician and Donna Clara. He then told her of the 
 S"- arch that had been made after the young man by the servants ; and 
 ' Ithough he whispered, he was overheard by Donna Clara, who was 
 hrown into such an agony by the intelligence, that she would have 
 "■alien to the ground if Dorothea had not supported her. Cardenio 
 idvised 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. He answered that he could not possibly do so 
 until he had accomplished that on which his life, his honour, and his 
 soul depended. The servants still urged him, saying they would cer- 
 tainly not go back without him, and that they must compel him to re- 
 turn if he refused. " That you shall not do," replied Don Louis , 
 " at least you shall not take me living." This contest had now drawn 
 together 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 ; " I am free, and will 
 go back if I please ; otherwise none of you shall force me." " But 
 reason will prevail with you," answered the servant ; " and if not, 
 we must do our duty." " Hold," said the judge ; " let us know the 
 whole of this affair." The man (who recollected him) answered, 
 " Does not your worship know this gentleman.' He is your neigh- 
 bour'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 attention, recognized him, and ac- 
 costed him in a friendly manner : " What childish frolic is this. Sig- 
 ner 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 me servants to be quiet, promising that all should 
 be well ; alnd taking Don Louis by the hand, he led him aside and 
 questioned him. 
 
 The youth, clasping his hands, as if some great affliction wrung 
 his heart, and shedding tears in abundance, said, in answer, " I can 
 only say, dear sir, that, from the moment Heaven was pleased, by 
 means of our vicinity, to give me a sight of Donna Clara, youi 
 daughter, she became sovereign mistress of my affections; and if 
 
OH. XXVIII.] DON QUIXOTE. 147 
 
 you, my true lord and father, do not oppose it, this very day she 
 shall be my wife. For her I left my father's house, and for her I 
 assumed this garb, to follow her wheresoever she might go. She 
 knows herself no more of my passion than what she may have per- 
 ceived, by occasionally seeing at a distance my eyes full of tender- 
 ness and tears. You know, my lord, the wealth and rank ,of my 
 family, of whom I am the sole heir ; if these circumstances can plead 
 in my favour, receive me immediately for your son : for though my 
 father, influenced by other views of his own, should not approve my 
 choice, time may reconcile him to it." Here the enamoured youth 
 was silent ; and the judge remained in suspense, no less surprised by 
 *he 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 servants 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 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 possi- 
 ble, that it should take place with the consent of Don Louis's father, 
 who he knew had pretensions to a title for his son. 
 
 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 trappings 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 repairing something about the self-same pannel. Fie 
 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 fur- 
 niture 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 moutn was bathed in 
 blood. Nevertheless, thfe barber would not let go his hold ; but rais- 
 ed his voice so high that he drew every body round 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 Quix- 
 ote was now present, and not a little pleased^o 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 certainly mine ; and moreover, the 
 very day they took this from me, they robbed me likewise of a new 
 
14S DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 brass basin, never hanselled, that cost me a crown." Here Don 
 Quixole could not forbear interposing. " The error of this honest 
 squire," said he, " is manifest, in calling that a basin which is 
 Mambrino's helmet : — that helijiet which 1 won in fair war, and am 
 therefore its right and lawful possessor. In confirmation of what I 
 say, go, Sancho, and bring hither the helmet which this honest man 
 terms a basin." "In faith, sir," quoth Sancho,' " if we have no 
 better proof than that of what your worship says, Mambrino's helmet 
 will prove as arrant a basin as the honest man's trappings are a pack- 
 saddle." " Do what I command," replied Don Quixote ; " for sur^y 
 all things in this castle cannot be governed by enchantment." San- 
 cho 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 addition or diminution." " There is no doubt of that," 
 quoth Sancho, " for from the time my master won it until now, he 
 lias fought but one battle in it, which was when he freed those un- 
 lucky 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." 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIX. 
 
 In which the dispute concerning Mamlrino's helmet 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! " " Ay," said 
 Don Quixote ; " and whoever shall affirm the contrary, I will con- 
 vince him, if he be a knight, that he lies, and if a squire, that he lies 
 and lies again a thousand times." Our barber, master Nicholas, who 
 was present, wishing to carry on the jest for the amiisement of the 
 company, addressed himself to the other barber, and said, " Signor 
 barber, know that I am of your profession, and am well acquainted 
 with* all the instruments of barber-surgery, without exception. I have 
 likewise been a soldier in my youth, and therefore know what a hel- 
 met is, and I say, with submission, that the piece before us not only 
 is not a barber's basin, but is as far from being so, as white is from 
 black and truth from falsehood." " Whether it be or not," 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 
 
CH. XXIX>3 '^°^ QUIXOTE. 149 
 
 judgment." " Gentlemen," said Don Quixote, " such extraor.. inary 
 things have hefallen 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." 
 
 To those acquainted with Don Quixote, all this was choice enter- 
 tainment ; while to others it seemed the height of folly, among which 
 were Don Louis, his servants, and three other guests, troopers of the 
 holy brotherhood, who just then arrived at the inn. One of the offi 
 cers of the holy brotherhood, who had overheard the dispute, cried 
 out, full of indignation, " It is as surely a basin as my father is my 
 father ; and whosoever says, or shall say, to the contrary, must be 
 mad or drunk." " You lie like a pitiful scoundrel," answered Don 
 Quixote ; and, lifting up his lance, which vi^as still in his hand, he 
 aimed such a blow at the head of the trooper, that, had be not slip- 
 ped aside, he would have been levelled to the ground. The lance 
 came down with such fury that it was shivered to pieces. ".Help, 
 help the holy brotherhood ! " cried out the other officers. The inn- ■ 
 keeper, being himself one of that body, ran instantly for his wand and 
 his sword, to support his comrades. Don Louis's servants surrounded 
 their master, lest he should escape during the confusion. The bar- 
 ber, perceiving the house turned topsy-turvy, laid hold again of his 
 basin, 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 all took part with the knight. The priest cried out, 
 the hostess shrieked, her daughter wept, Maritornes roared, Dorothea 
 was alarmed, Lucinda stood amazed, and Donna Clara fainted away. 
 The barber cuffed Sancho, and .Sancho pommelled the barber. 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, wailings, 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 Agramante's camp is 
 transferred hither amongst us ! there they fight for the sword, here 
 for the horse, yonder for the eagle, here again for the helmet : we all 
 fight, and no one understands another. Let, then, my lord judge and 
 his reverence the priest come forward, the one as Kirg Agraraante, 
 13* 
 
150 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the other as King Sobrino, and restore us to peace ; for, truly, it were 
 most disgraceful and iniquitous that so many gentlemen of our rank 
 should slay each other for such trivial matters." 
 
 Amity and peace having been restored by the interposition of the 
 judge and the priest, the servants of Don Louis renewed their solici- 
 tations for his return. The judge having, in the mean time, 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 ail events, not to return, 
 just at that jime, into his father's presence. The servants being ap- 
 prised of Don Fernando'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 others should stay 
 to attend Don Louis, and not leave him until he knew his lord's pleas- 
 ure. Thus was this complicated tumult appeased by the authority of 
 Agramante, and the prudence of Sobrino. 
 
 But the enemy of peace and concord, finding himself foiled and 
 disappointed in the scanty produce of so promising a field, resolved 
 to try his fortune once more, by contriving new frays and disturban- 
 ces. The officers of the holy brotherhood, on hearing the quality of 
 their opponents, retreated from the fray, thinking that whatever might 
 be the issue, they were likely to be losers. But one of this body, 
 who had been severely handled by Don Fernando, happening to re- 
 collect that, among other warrants in his possession, he had one 
 against Don Quixote, whom his superiors had ordered to be taken in- 
 to custody for releasing galley-slaves, determined to examine whether 
 the person of Don Quixote answered the description ; thus confirm- 
 ing Sancho's just apprehensions. He drew forth a parchment scroll 
 from his doublet, and began to read it slowly (for he was not mucH 
 of a scholar), ever and anon, as he proceeded, fixing his eyes on Don 
 Quixote, comparing the marks in his warrant with the lines of his 
 physiognomy. Finding them exactly to correspond, and being con- 
 vinced that he was the very person therein described, he held out the 
 warrant in his left hand, while with his right, he seized Don Quixote 
 by the collar with so powerful a grasp as almost to strangle him, at 
 the same time crying aloud, — " Help the holy brotherhood ! and, 
 that you may see I require it in earnest, read this warrant, wherein it 
 is expressly ordered that this highway robber should be apprehended." 
 The priest took the warrant, and found what the trooper said was 
 true ; the description exactly corresponding with the person of Don 
 Quixote. The knight, finding himself so rudely handled by thii 
 
CH. XXX.] ' DON QUIXOTE. 151 
 
 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. " What my master says is true," exclaimed 
 Sancho, " about the enchantments of this castle ; for it is impossible 
 to live an hour quietly in it." Don Fernando at length parted ihe 
 officer and Don Quixote, and, to the satisfaction of both, unlocked 
 their hands from the doublet collar of the one, and from the wind- 
 pipe of the other. Nevertheless the troopers persisted in claiming 
 their prisoner ; declaring that the king's service, and that of the holy 
 brotherhood, required it ; in whose name they again demanded help 
 and assistance in apprehendicg 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 rob- 
 bing on the highway to loosen the chains of the captive, to set the 
 prisoner free, to succour the oppressed, to raise the fallen, to relieve 
 the needy and wretched } Tell me, ye rogues in a troop ! — not troop- 
 ers, but highway marauders, under license of the holy brotherhood 
 — who was the blockhead that signed the warrant for apprehending 
 such a knight as I am } What knight-errant ever paid custom, poll- 
 tax, subsidy, quit-rent, porterage, or ferry-boat .' What tailor ever 
 brought in a bill for making his clothes ? What governor that lodged 
 him in his castle ever made him pay for his entertainment ? What 
 king did not seat him at his , table .? 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 ? " 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 The notable adventure of the Holy Brotherhood , with an accdunt of 
 the ferocity of our good knight, Don Quixote. 
 
 While Don Quixote was thus haranguing the officers, /the priest was 
 endeavouring to persuade them 'that, since Don Quixote, as they 
 might easily perceive, was deranged in 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 often as 
 they pleased. " Indeed," said the priest, " you must forbear . this 
 once ; nor do I think that he will suffer himself to be taken." In 
 
152 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 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 endeavour to make peace between the bar- 
 ber and Sancho Panza, who still continued their scuffle with great 
 rancour. As officers of justice, therefore, they compounded the mat- 
 ter, and pronounced such a decision that, if both parties were not 
 perfectly contented, at least they were in some degree pacified. As 
 for Mambrino's helmet, the priest, unknown to Don Quixote, paid the 
 barber eight reals, for which he received a discharge in full, acquit- 
 ting him of all fraud thenceforth and forevermore. 
 
 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. The innkeeper, observing the 
 recompense which the priest had made the barber, claimed also the 
 payment of his demands upon Don Quixote, with ample satisfaction 
 for the damage done to his skins, and the loss of his wine. The 
 priest, however, endeavoured to soothe him, and what was more, Don 
 Fernando settled the knight's account, although the judge would fain 
 have taken the debt upon himself. Peace was therefore entirely re- 
 stored, and the inn no longer displayed the confusion of Agramante's 
 camp, as Don Quixote had called it, but rather the tranquillity of the 
 days of Octavius Csesar : — 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 to which 
 he had been elected. Accordingly, he approached the princess, and 
 threw himself upon his knees beforeher ; but she would not listen to 
 him in that posture ; and therefore, in obedience to her, he arose, and 
 thus axldressed 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 doubtful suit to a happy issue. But 
 this truth is never more obvious than in military operations, where ex- 
 pedition and despatch anticipate the designs of the enemy, and victory 
 is secured before he is prepared for defence. 1 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 intelli- 
 gence of my approach, and thus gain time to fortify himself in some 
 impregnable fortress, against which my vigilance, and the force of 
 my indefatigable 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 
 
OH. XXX.] DON qrixoTE. 153 
 
 was silent, and with dignified composure awaited the answer of the 
 beautiful infanta, who, with an air of majesty, and in a style corres- 
 ponding 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 ofRce and employment it is to succour the orphan and 
 distressed ; and Heaven grant that our desires may be soon accom- 
 plished ; that you may see that all women are not ungrateful. 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 restoration of her dominions, into 
 your hands, must not oppose what your wisdom shall direct." " I 
 ^ will not," exclaimed Don Quixote, " lose the opportunity of exalting 
 a lady who thus humbleth herself. I will replace her on the throne 
 of her ancestors. Let us depart immediately : for the ardour of my 
 zeal makes me impatient ; nor is there aught of danger that can 
 daunt or affright me. Sancho, let Eozinante 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 of these nobles, that we may 
 set forth instantly." 
 
 Sancho, who had been present all the time, shook his head, saying 
 " Ah, master of mine ! there are more tricks in the town than are 
 dreamt of; with all respect be it spoken." " What tricks can there 
 be to ray prejudice in any town or city in the world, thou bumpkin ? " 
 said Don Quixote. " If your worship puts yourself into a passion," 
 answered Sancho, " I will hold my tongue, and not say what I am 
 bound to say,, as a faithful squire and a dutiful servant." " Say what 
 thou wilt," replifed Don Quixote, " but think not to intimidate me ; foi 
 it is thy nature to be faint-hearted — mine, to be proof against all 
 fear." " I mean nothing of all this," answered Sancho ; " I mean 
 only that I am sure, and positively certain, that this lady who calls 
 herself queen of the great kingdom of Micomicon is no more a queen 
 than my mother ; for if she were so, she would not be nuzzling, at 
 every turn and in every corner, with a certain person in the com- 
 pany." Dorothea's colour rose at Sancho's remark ; for it was 
 indeed true that her spouse, Don Fernando, now and then, by stealth, 
 had snatched with his lips an earnest of that reward his affections 
 deserved ; and Sancho, having observed it, thought this freedom 
 unbecoming the queen of so vast a kingdom. 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 stam- 
 mering tongue, while living fire darted from his eyes, he cried, 
 "Scoundrel! unmannerly, ignorant, ill-spoken, foul-mouthed, impu- 
 dent, murmuring, and backbiting villain ! How darest thou utter 
 such words in my presence, and in the presence of these illustrious 
 ladies! Avoid my presence, monster of nature, treasury of lies, 
 
154 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 magazine of deceits, storehouse of rogueries, inventor* of mischiofs 
 publisher of absurdities, and foe to all the honour due to royalty! 
 Begone ! appear not before me, on pain of my severest indignation ! " 
 Poor Sancho was so terrified by this storm of passion, that he would 
 have been glad if the earth had opened that instant and swallowed 
 him up ; he knew not what to say or do, so he turned his back, and 
 hastened as fast as he could out of the presence of his enraged 
 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, he has not spoken without some foundation : nor can it be sus- 
 pected, considering his good sense and Christian conscience, that he 
 would bear false witness against any body ; it is possible that since, 
 as you affirm yourself, sir knight, the powers of enchantment prevail 
 in this castle, Sancho may, by the same diabolical illusion, have seen 
 what he has affirmed, so much to the prejudice of my honour." 
 *' Ah ! " quoth Don Quixote, " your highness has hit the mark ! — 
 some evil apparition must have appeared to this sinner, and repre- 
 sented to him what it was impossible for him to see any other way ; 
 for I am perfectly assured of the simplicity and innocence of the un- 
 happy wretch, and that he is incapable of slandering any person 
 living." " So it is, and so it shall be," said Don Fernando ; " there- 
 fore. Signer Don Quixote, you ought to pardon him, and restore him 
 to your favour, as at first, 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 given to him ; and after he had allowed 
 him to kiss it, he gave him his blessing, adding, " I'hou 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 I 
 am persuaded really fell out in the ordinary way." 
 
 This illustrious company had now passed two 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 purpose, having first 
 engaged a waggoner who happened to pass by with his team of oxen, 
 they proceeded in the following manner : They formed a kind of 
 cage, with poles grate-wise, large enough to contain Don Quixote at 
 his ease ; then, by the direction of the priest, Don Fernando and his 
 companions, with Don Louis's servants, the officers of the holy 
 brotherhood, and the inn-keeper, covered their faces and disguised 
 themselves so as not to be recognized by Don Quixote. This done, 
 they silently entered the room where the knight lay fast asleep 
 
CH. XXX.] DON QUIXOTE. 155 
 
 reposing after his late exertions, and secured him with ci ds ; so that 
 when he awoke, he stared about him in amazement at the strange 
 visages that surrounded him, but found himself totally unable to 
 move. His disordered imagination operating as usual, immediately 
 suggested to him that these were goblins of the enchanted castle, and 
 that he was entangled 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; and though he wanted but little of being infected with his 
 master's infirmity, yet he was not ignorant who all these counterfeit 
 goblins were. Having brought the cage into the chamber, they 
 placed him within it, and secured it so that it was impossible he 
 should 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, saying, " O Knight of the Sorrowful Figure ! 
 let not thy present confinement afflict thee, since it is essential to the 
 speedy accomplishment of the adventure in wbich thy great valour 
 hath engaged thee ; which shall be finished when the furious Man- 
 chegan lion shall be coupled with the white Tobosian dove, after 
 having submitted their stately necks to the soft matrimonial yoke ; 
 from which wonderful union shall spring into the light of the world 
 brave whelps, who shall emulate the ravaging claws of their valorous 
 sire. And thou, O the most noble and obedient squire that ever had 
 sword in belt ! be not dismayed to see the flower of knight-errantry 
 carried thus away before thine eyes ; for, ere long, 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, that thy wages shall be punctually paid thee : follow, there- 
 fore, the valorous and enchanted knight ; for it is expedient for thee 
 to go where ye both may find -repose. More I am r?t permitted to 
 say. Heaven protect thee ! I now go — I well know whither ! " 
 
 Don Quixote was much comforted by this prophecj-, quickly com- 
 prehending the whole signification thereof, for he saw that it prom- 
 ised him the felicity of being joined in holy wedlock with his loved 
 Dulcinea del Toboso. Upon the strength of this conviction, he ex- 
 claimed with a deep sigh, " O thou, whoever thou art, who hast prog- 
 nosticated me so much good, I beseech thee to intercede in my 
 behalf with the sage enchanter who hath the charge of my affairs, 
 ihat he suffer me not to perish in the prison wherein I am now 
 enclosed, before these promises of joyful and heavenly import are 
 fulfilled." The goblins then took the cage on their shoulders, and 
 placed it on the waggon. 
 
156 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Of the strange and wonderful manner in which Don Quixote de h 
 Mancha was enchanted ; with other remarkable occurrences. 
 
 ' Many very grave historians of knights-etrant have I read," said 
 Don Quixote, on finding himself thus cooped up and carted, " hut I 
 never read, saw, or heard of enchanted knights being transported in 
 this manner, and so slowly as these lazy, heavy animals seem to pro- 
 ceed ; for they were usually conveyed through the air with wonder- 
 ful speed, enveloped in some thick and dark cloud, or on some chariot 
 of fire, or mounted upon a hippogriff", or some such animal. But to be 
 carried upon a team drawn by oxen, it overwhelms me with confusion ! " 
 Don Fernando and Cardenio, fearing lest Sancho should see into 
 the whole of their plot, resolved to hasten their departure ; and call- 
 ing the innkeeper aside, they ordered him to saddle Eozinante and 
 pannel the ass, which he did with great expedition. In the mean 
 while the priest engaged to pay the troopers to accompany Don Quix- 
 ote home to his village. Cardenio 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 dis- 
 asters of this kind are incident to those of my profession. Pardon 
 me, fair ladies, if I have through inadvertence given you any offence ; 
 for intentionally I never offended any person ; and I beseech you to 
 pray Heaven for my deliverance from my present thraldom ; and if 
 ever I find myself at liberty, I shall not forget the favours you have 
 done me in this ceistle, but shall acknowledge and requite them as 
 they deserve." 
 
 While this passed, the priest and the barber took their leave of 
 Don Fernandol 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, and the return of Lucinda 
 to her parents, and also the issue of Don Louis's affair. The priest 
 engaged to perform all that was desired of him with the utmost 
 punctuality; after which they separated with many expressions of 
 mutual cordiality and good- will. 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 
 
iSH. XXS.I.J DON QUIXOTE. 15"* 
 
 leagues, when they came to a valley which the' waggoner t!|iought a 
 convenient place for resting and baiting his cattle ; but, on his pro- 
 posing it, the barber recommended that they should travel a little far- 
 ther, 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 be- 
 hind them six or seven horsemen, well mounted and accoutred, who 
 soon came up with them. One of the travellers, who was a canon of 
 Toledo, and master to those who accompanied him, observing the 
 orderly procession of the waggon, the troopers, Sancho, Bozinante, 
 the priest, smd the barber, and especially Don Quixote, caged up and 
 imprisoned, could not forbear making some inquiries ; though, on ob- 
 serving the badges of the holy brotherhood, he concluded that they 
 were conveying some notorious robber or other criminal, whose pun- 
 ishment belonged to that fraternity. " Why the gentleman is carried 
 in this manner," replied one of the troopers who was questioned, 
 " he must tell you himself, for we know nothing about the matter." 
 Upon which Don Quixote (having overheard what passed) said, " If 
 perchance, gentlemen, you are conversant 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 travel- 
 lers were speaking with Don Quixote, rode up to them, lest any thing 
 should pass that might frustrate their plot. The canon, in answer to 
 Don Quixote, said, " In truth, brother, I am more conversant in books 
 of chivalry than in Villalpando's Summaries ; you may, therefore, 
 freely communicate 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 good. A knight-errant I am ; not one of those 
 whose names fame has forgotten, 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 am 
 bitious of reaching the honourable summit and pinnacle of irue glo 
 ry." " Signor Don Quixote de la Mancha says the truth," said th > 
 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 
 14 
 
158 JiOH QUIXO."E. 
 
 Sancho now coming up, to men i the matter said, " Look ye, ge>ntle 
 men, let it be well or ill taken, I will out with it : the truth of the case 
 is, my master, Don Quixote, is just as much enchanted as my mother •, 
 he is in his perfect senses, he eats and drinks like other men, and as 
 he did yesterday before they cooped him up. This being so, will 
 you persuade me he is enchanted ? The enchanted, I have heard 
 say, neither eat, nor sleep, nor speak ; but my master here, if nobody 
 stops him, will talk ye more than thirty barristers." Then turning to 
 the priest, he went on saying, " Ah, master priest, master priest, do 
 I not know you ? And think you I cannot guess what these new en- 
 chantments drive at > .Let me tell you I know you, though you do 
 hide your face, and understand you too, sly as you be. But the good 
 cannot abide vsjhere envy rules, nor is generosity found in a beggarly 
 breast. Evil Befall the devil ! Had it not been for your reverence, 
 before this time his worship' had been married to the princess Micomi- 
 cona, and I had been an earl at least ; for I could expect no less from 
 my 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 bot- 
 tom. 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 pater- 
 nity feel some conscience in regard to what you are doing with my 
 master ; take heed that God does not call you to an account in the 
 next life for this imprisonment of my lord, and require at your hands 
 all the good he might have done during this time of his confinement." 
 " Snuff me these candles," quoth the barber, interrupting the squire ; 
 " what ! art thou, Sancho, of thy master's fraternity f I begin, in- 
 deed, 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 
 lured by his promises, and thy head filled with islands." " 1 am not 
 lured by any body," answered Sancho ; " and though I am a poor 
 man, I am an old Christian, and owe nobod-« any thing ; and if I covet 
 islands, there are others vi^ho covet worse things ; and every one iy 
 the son of his own works ; and being a man, I may come to be popf-, 
 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." 
 
 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 
 m the cage. The canon was surprised at what he heard. " Truly," 
 said he to the curate, " those tales of chivalry are very prejuc\icial to 
 the common weal ; and, though led away by an idle and false taste, 1 
 
CH. XXXI.] DON QUIXOTE. .19 
 
 have read in part almost all that are printed, I could never get thiough 
 the virhole of any one of them, they are all so much ■alike. In my 
 opinion, this kind of writing and composition falls under the head of 
 what are called Milesian fables, which are extravagant stories, calcu- 
 lated merely to amuse, and very unlike those moral 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 frctn 
 the beauty and consistency of what is presented to the imagination, 
 not from that which is incongruous and unnatural. Where is the 
 sense or consistency of a tale in which a youth of sixteen hews down 
 a giant as tall as a steeple, and splits him in two as if he were made 
 of paste ? Or how are we to be interested in the detail of a battle, 
 when we are told that a hero contends alone against a million of ad- 
 versaries, and obtains the victory by his single arm ? I have never 
 yet found a regular well-connected fable in any of our books of 
 chivalry ; they are all inconsistent and monstrous ; the style is gen- 
 erally bad ; and they abound with incredible exploits, absurd senti- 
 ments, 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 an enmity to those tales of chivalry, that he had destroyed 
 all that Don Quixote had possessed, which were not a few in number ; 
 and he amused the canon very much by his account of the formal trial 
 and condemnation through which they had passed. 
 
 The canon contemplated the Don with great surprise ; for he dis- 
 played in conversation a very good understanding, and seemed, as it 
 hath been before observed, only to lose his stirrups on the theme of 
 chivalry ; and he was induced, out of compassion to his infirmity, to 
 address him on the subject : 
 
 " Is it possible, worthy sir," said the canon, " that the idle study 
 of books of chivalry should so powerfully have affected your brain as 
 to make you believe you are now enchanted, with other fancies of 
 the same kind as far from truth as falsehood itself .-' For my own 
 part, I confess, whep I read them without reflecting on their falsehood 
 and folly, they give me some amusemeiit ; but when I consider what 
 they are, I dash them against the wall, and even commit them to the 
 flames when I am near a fire, as well deserving such a fate, for theii 
 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 hao 
 on your worship, who is reduced by them to such a state that you are 
 forced to be shut up in a cage, and carried on a team from place to 
 place, like some lion or tiger exhibited for money. Ah, Signor Don 
 
160 DON QUIXOTK. 
 
 Quixote ! have pity on yourself, shake off this folly, and employ th« 
 talents with which Heaven has blessed you in the cultivation of liter* 
 ature 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." 
 
 Don Quixote listened with great attention to the canon till he had 
 ceased speaking, and then, looking stedfastly in his face, he replied, . 
 " 1 conceive, sir, that you mean to insinuate that there never were 
 knights-errant in the world ; that all books of chivalry are false, mis- 
 chievous, and unprofitable to the commonwealth; and that I have 
 done ill in reading, worse in believing, and still worse in imitating 
 them ; 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," replied the canon. " You also 
 were pleased to add, I believe," continued Don Quixote, " that those 
 books had done me much prejudice, having injured my brain, and oc- 
 casioned my imprisonment in a cage ; and that it would be better for 
 me to change my course of study, and read 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 deigned to blas- 
 pheme an order so universally acknowledged in the world, and its ex- 
 istence so authenticated, 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 suste- 
 nance. What human ingenuity can make us doubt the truth of that 
 affair between the infanta Floripes and Guy of Burgundy .' 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 
 armory the very peg wherewith the valiant Peter steered the wooden 
 horse that bore him through the air ; which peg is somewhat larger 
 than the pole of a coach ; and near it lies the saddle of Babieca. In 
 Roncesvalles, too, there may be seen Orlando's horn, the size of a 
 great beam ; not to mention many other matters, all so authentic and 
 ■me, 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 
 hction, as well as at the extent of his knowledge on afiairs of chivalry ; 
 and he replied, " I cannot deny. Signer Don Quixote, but that there is 
 some truth in what you say. That there was a Cid no one will deny, 
 and likewise a Bernardo del Carpio ; but that they performed all the 
 
tn. XXXII.] DON QUIXOTE. 161 
 
 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 armory, I confess my sin in being so ignorant or short-sight- 
 ed that, though I have seen the saddle, I never could discover the peg 
 — large as it is, according to your description." " Yet unquestiona- 
 bly there it is," replied Don Quixote, " and they say, moreover, that 
 it is kept in a leathern case to prevent rust." " It may be so,"' an- 
 swered the canon ; " but, in truth, 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 understand- 
 ing and talents should give credit to such extravagance and absur- 
 dity," 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 Of the ingenious contest between Don Quixote and the C.anon ; with 
 other incidents. 
 
 " A GOOD jest, truly," said Don Quixpte, " that books printed with 
 the license of kings and the approbation of the examiners, read with 
 general pleasure, and applauded by great and small, poor and rich, 
 learned and ignorant, nobles and plebeians, — in short, by people of 
 every state and condition, should be all lies, and, at the same time, 
 a,ppear so much like truth !' Study well these books, signor ; for, be- 
 lieve me, you will find that they will exhilarate and improve your mind. 
 Of myself I can only say, that since I have been a knight-errant I am 
 become valiant, polite, liberal, well-bred, generous, courteous, daring, 
 affable, patient, a sufferer of toils, imprisonments, and enchantments ; 
 and although so lately enclosed within a cage like a maniac, yet do I 
 hope, by the valour of my arm, and the favour of Heaven, to see 
 myself in a short time king of some kingdom, when I may display 
 the gratitude and liberality enclosed in this breast of mine ; for, upon 
 my faith, sir, the poor man is unable to exercise the virtue of liberal- 
 ity ; and the gratitude which consists only in inclination is a dead 
 thing. I shall, therefore, rejoice when fortune presents me with au 
 opportunity of exalting myself, that I may shew my heart in confer- 
 ring benefits on my friends, especially on poor Sancho Panza here, 
 my squire, who is one of the best n^en ii; the world ; and I would 
 fain bestow on him an earldom, as I have long ^inc§ promised : al- 
 though I am somewhat in doubt pf his ability in the government of 
 
 his estate." 
 
 Sancho overhearing his mEtster's last words, said, " Take you the 
 trpiible Signor Don Quixote, to procure me that same earldom whicl) 
 14* 11 
 
16S DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 your worship has so often promised, and I have been so long waitiug 
 for, and you shall see that I shall not want for ability to govern it. 
 But even if I should, there are people, I have heard say, who farm 
 these lordships, and, paying the owners so much a-year, take upon 
 themselves the government of the whole ; whilst his lordship lolls at 
 his ease, enjoying his estate, without concerning himself any further 
 about it. Just so will I do, and give myself no more trouble than 
 needs must, but enjoy myself like any duke, and let the world rub." 
 " This, brother Sancho," said the canon, " may be done, as far as re 
 gards the management . of your revenue ; but the administration of 
 justice must be attended to by the lord himself; and requires capac 
 ity, judgment, and above all, an upright intention, without which noth- 
 ing prospers : for Heaven assists the good intent of the simple, and 
 disappoints the evil designs of the cunning." "I do not understand 
 these philosophies," answereti Sancho ; " all I know is, that I wish I 
 may as surely have an earldom as I should know how to govern it; 
 for I have as large a soul as another; and as large a body as the best 
 of them ; and I should be as much king of my own dominion as any 
 other king ; and, being so, I would do what I pleased ; and, doing 
 what I pleased, I should have my will ; and, having my will, 1 should 
 be contented ; and, being content, there is no more to be desired; 
 and, when there is no more to desire, there's an end of it, and let the 
 estate come ; so peace be with ye, and let us see it, as one blind man 
 said to another." " These are no bad philosophies, as you say, San- 
 cho," quoth the canon ; " nevertheless, there is a great deal more to 
 be said upon the subject of earldoms." " That may be," observed 
 Don Quixote ; " but I am guided by the numerous examples offered 
 on this subject by knights of my own profession, who, in compensa- 
 tion for the loyal and signal services they had received from their 
 squires, conferred upon them extraordinary favours, making them ab- 
 solute lords of cities and islands ; indeed, there was one whose ser- 
 vices were so great that he had the presumption to accept of a king- 
 dom." With all this methodical raving the canon was no less amused 
 than astonished. 
 
 As they were thus employed, they suddenly heard a noise, and the 
 sound of a bell from a thicket near to 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 creature, " Ah, wanton spotted 
 thing, how hast thou strayed of late ! What wolves have frighted 
 thee, child .' Wilt thou tell me, pretty one, what this means .' Bu! 
 what else can it mean, but that thou art a female, and therefore canst 
 
H. XIXII.] DON QUIXOTE 163 
 
 not be quiet ! A plague on thy humours, and on all vheirs whom 
 thou resemblest ! Turn back, my dear, turn back ; foi 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'a remonstran- 
 ces : 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, anii let the way- 
 ward creature rest herself." At the same time he o/fered him the 
 hinder quarter of a cold rabbit on the point of a fork. The goatherd 
 thanked him, and accepted his offer ; and being then in a better 
 temper, he said, " Do not think me a fool, gentlemen, for talking so 
 seriously to this animal : for, in truth, my words were not without a 
 meaning ; and though I am a rustic, I know the diflerence between 
 conversing with men and beasts." " I doubt it not," said the priest ; 
 " indeed, it is well known that the mountains breed learned men, and 
 the huts of shepherds contain philosophers." " At least, sir," replied 
 the goatherd, " they contain men who have some knowledge gained 
 from experience; and if I shall not be intruding, gentlemen, I. will 
 tell you a circumstance which confirms it." 
 
 " Since this affair," said Don Quixote, " bears somewhat the sem- 
 blance of an adventure, for my own part, friend, I shall listen to you 
 most willingly : I can answer also for these gentlemen, who are per- 
 sons of sense, and will relish the curious, the entertaining, and the 
 marvellous, which I doubt not but 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 may lose his way 
 for six days together in a wood : and then, if a man has not his stom- 
 ach well filled, or his wallet well provided, there he may stay, till he 
 is turned into a mummy." " Thou art in the right, Sancho," said 
 Don Quixote; '? go where thou wilt, and eat what thou canst; my 
 appetite is already satisfied, and my mind only needs refreshment, 
 which the tale of this good man will doubtless afford." The goatherd 
 being now requested by the .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. 
 
164 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXm. 
 
 The Goatherd's Narrative. 
 
 "Three leagues from th's valley there is a town, which, though fitnall 
 is one of the richest in these parts ; and among its inhabitants was a 
 farmer of such an excellent character, that, though riches generally 
 gain esteem, he was mtfre 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, — nay, even spread 
 itself to the remotest cities, and 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, insomuch that he whose rigl^t it was to dis- 
 pose 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, bom 
 in the same village, irreproachable in descent, in the bloom of youth, 
 rich, and of no mean understanding. Another of our village,, of 
 equal pretensions with myself, solicited her also ; and her father, be- 
 rag equally satisfied with both of us, was perplexed which to pre- 
 fer, and therefore determined to leave the choice to Leandra herself -r- 
 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' yoii ought to know the names 
 of the persons concerned in this tragedy, the catastrophe of which, 
 though still suspended, will surely be disastrous. 
 
 *' About that time there came to our 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, hav- 
 ing 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 tiou- 
 aand trinkets and glittering chains. To-day he put on one piece 
 
OH. XXXIII.J BON QUIXOTE. 165 
 
 of finery, to-morrow another : but all slight and counterfeit, of little 
 or no value. The country-folks (who are naturally envious, and, if 
 they chance to have leisure, malicious too) observed, and reckoned up, 
 all his trappings and gew-gaws, and found that he had three suits of 
 apparel, of diiferent colours, with hose and garters to them ; but 
 those he disguised in so many different ways, and with so much con- 
 ♦rivance, 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 w^ no country on the whole globe that he had not 
 seen, nor battle in w^hich ■ he had not been engaged. He had slain 
 more Moors than are in Morocco and Tunis ; and fought more single 
 combats, according 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 shew us marks of wounds, which, though they were 
 not to be discerned, he assured us were so many musket-shots, re- 
 ceived 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. In addition to this boast- 
 ing, he pretended to be somewhat of a musician, and scratched a 
 little upon the guitar, which some people admired. But his accom- 
 plishments 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 Eosa, 
 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 ; the exploits he related of himself reached 
 her ears — in short, as ill-luck would have it, she fell downright in 
 love with him before he had entertained the presumption of courting 
 her ; and, 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 of her 
 numerous suitors had the least suspicion of her design, she had already 
 accomplished it, and left the house of her affectionate father, and quit- 
 ted 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 general astonishment. Anselmo and 1 
 were utterly confounded, her father grieved, her kindred ashamed, 
 
166 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 'ustice alarmed, and the troopers of the holy brotherhood in full ac- 
 tivity. . They beset the highways, and searched the woods, leaving no 
 place unexplored ; and at the end of three days they found the poor 
 giddy Lcandra 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 ques- 
 tioned, she freely confessed that Vincent de la Rosa had deceived her,* 
 and upon promise of marriage had persuaded her to leave her father's 
 house, telling her he would carry her to Naples, the richest and most 
 . delicious city in the whole world. The imprudent and credulous girl 
 said that, having believed him, she had robbed her father, and given 
 the whole to him on the night of her elopement ; and that he had car- 
 ried her among the mountains, and left her shut up in that cave. 
 
 " The same day that Leandra returned, she disappeared again 
 from our eyes, as her father placed her in the monastery of a neigh- 
 bouring town, in hopes that time might efface the remembrance of 
 this untoward event. Her tender years were some excuse for hei 
 fault, especially with those who were indifferent as to whether she 
 vi'as good or bad ; but those who know how much sense and under- 
 standing she possessed, could only ascribe her fault to levity, and the 
 foibles natural to womankind. When Leandra was gone, Anselmo 
 and myself were blind to every thing — at least no object could give 
 us pleasure. We cursed the soldiar's finery, and reprobated 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 sol- 
 itary sighs and groans. Our example has been followed by many 
 other admirers of Leandra, who have joined us in the same employ- 
 ment ; indeed we are so numerous, that this place seems converted 
 into the pastoral Arcadia ; nor is there a part of it where the name 
 of our beautiful rnistress is not 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 dis- 
 position : in truth, all blame and all adore her — nay, such is the gen- 
 eral 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 inclinations were suspected. There 
 is no hollow of a rock, nor margin of a rivulet, nor shade of a tree, 
 that is not occupied by some shepherd, lamenting to the winds. He 
 who shews the least, though he has the most sense among us mad- 
 men, is my rival Anselmo, for he complains only of absence ; and 
 to the sound of a rebec, which he touches to admiration, pours forth 
 
CB. XXXIV.] DON QTIIXCTE. 167 
 
 his complaint in verses of wonderful ingenuity. I follow another 
 course ; which is, to inveigh against the levity of women, their in- 
 constancy and double-dealing, their vain promises and broken faith, 
 their absurd and misplaced affections. 
 
 " This, gentlemen, gave rise to the expressions I used to the goat ; 
 for, being a female, I despise her, though she is the best of all mjr 
 flock. I have now finished my story, which I fear you have thought 
 tedious ; but I shall be glad to make you amends by regaling you at 
 my cottage, which is near, and where you will find new milk, good 
 cheese, and abundance of fruit." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 Of the quarrel between Don Quixote and the Goatherd, with the rare 
 adventure of the Disciplinants. 
 
 The goatherd's tale amused all his auditors, especially the canon, 
 who was struck by his manner of telling it, which was more like that 
 of a scholar and a gentleman than an unpolished goatherd ; and he was 
 3onvinced that the priest was perfectly right when he afiirmed that 
 men of letters were often produced among mountains. They all of- 
 fered their service to Eugenio ; but the most liberal in his offers was 
 Don Quixote, who said to him, " In truth, brother goatherd, were I in 
 a situation to undertake any new adventure, I would irfimediately en- 
 gage 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, that the power of one malicious en- 
 chanter shall not be so prevalent over another but that a better dis- 
 posed one may triumph ; and then I promise you my aid and pro- 
 tection 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 odd appearance, he whispered to the bar 
 ber who sat next to him, " Pray,' sir, who is that man that looks and 
 talks so strangely ? " " Who should it be," answered the barber, 
 " but the famous Don Quixote de la Mancha, the redresser of inju- 
 ries, the righter of wrongs, the protector ,of maidens, the dread of 
 giants, and the conqueror of armies ? " " Why this is like what we 
 hear in the stories of knights-errant," said the goatherd ; " but I taki3 
 it either your worship is in jest, or the apartments in this gentleman's 
 skull are ixnfurnished." " You are a very great blockhead," exclaim- . 
 ed the knight ; " it is yourself who are empty-skulled and shallow- 
 brained ; " and as he spoke, he snatched up a loaf that was near him 
 
168 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and threw it at the goatherd's face with so much fury that he laid his 
 nose flat. The goatherd did not riluch 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 tablecloth, demolishing dishes and platters, and spilling and over- 
 turning all that was upon it. Don Quixote, finding himself free, 
 turned again upon the goatherd, who, being kicked and trampled up- 
 on by Sancho, was feeling about upon all fours for some knife or 
 weapon to take revenge withal ; but the canon and the priest prevented 
 him. The barber, however, maliciously contrived that the goatherd 
 should get Don Quixote under him, whom he buffeted so unmercifully 
 that he had ample retaliation for his own sufferings. This ludicrous 
 encounter overcame the gravity of both the churchmen ; while the 
 troopers of the holy brotherhood, enjoying the conflict, stood urging 
 on the combatants as if it had been a dog- fight. Sancho struggled in 
 vain to release himself from one of the canon's servants, who pre- 
 vented him from going to assist his master. In the midst of this spon 
 a trumpet was suddenly heard sounding so dismally that every face 
 was instantly turned in the direction whence the sound proceeded. 
 Don Quixote's attention was particularly excited, though he still lay 
 under the goatherd in a bruised and battered condition. " Thou de- 
 mon," he said to him, " for such thou must be to have this power 
 over me, I beg that thou wilt grant a truce for one hour, as the solemn 
 sound of that trumpet seems to call me to some new adventure." 
 The goatherd, whose revenge was by this time sated, immediately let 
 him go ; and Don Quixote, having got upon his legs again, presently 
 saw several people descending from a rising ground, arrayed in white, 
 after the manner of Disciplinants. 
 
 That year the heavens having failed to refresh the earth with sea- 
 sonable showers, throughout all the villages of that district, proces- 
 sions, disciplines, and public prayers were ordered, beseeching God 
 to shew his mercy by sending them rain. For this purpose the peo- 
 ple of a neighbouring village were coning in procession to a holy 
 hermitage built upon the side of a hill lot far from that spot. The 
 strange attire of the disciplinants strucn. Don Quixote, who, not recol- 
 lecting what he must often have seen before, imagined it to be some 
 adventure which, as a knight-errant, was reserved for him alone ; and 
 he was confirmed in his opinion on seeing an image clothed in black 
 that they carried with them, • and which he doubted not was somo 
 illustrious lady, forcibly borne away by rufiians and miscreants. With 
 all the expedition in his power, he therefore went up to Kozinante, 
 and, taking the bridle and buckler from the pommel of the saddle, ho 
 bridled him in a trice ; and calling to Sancho for his sword, he mount 
 
CH. XXXIV.] DON QUIXOTE. 16B 
 
 ed, braced his target, and in a leud voice, said to all that were 
 present, " Now, my worthy companions, ye shall see how important 
 lO 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 Eozinante 
 (for spurs he had none) ; and, on a hand-gallop (for we nowhere read, 
 in all this faithful history, that Eozinante ever went full speed), he 
 advanced to encounter the disciplinants. The priest, the canon, and 
 the barber, in vam endeavoured to stop him ; and in vain did Sancho 
 cry out, " Whither go you. Signer Don Quixote .' what possesses 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 I 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 alreadv 
 wanted to rest a little, and in a hoarse and agitated voice cried out, 
 " Stop there, ye who cover your faces, — for an evil purpose I doubt 
 not, — stop and listen to me ! " The bearers of the 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 any thing to say to us, say it quickly ; for these our breth- 
 ren are scourging their flesh, and we cannot stay to hear any thing 
 that may not be said in two words." " I 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 in- 
 jury. 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, slept for- 
 ward brandishing the pole on which the bier had been supported ; but 
 it was quickly broken in two by a powerful stroke aimed by the knight, 
 who, however, received instantly Such a blow on the shoulder of his 
 sword-arm, that, his buckler being of no avail against rustic strength, 
 he was felled to the ground. Sancho, who had followed him, now 
 called out to the man not to strike again, for he was a poor enchant- 
 ed knight, who had never done any body harm in all his life. The 
 peasant forbore, rt is true, though not on account of Sancho's appeal 
 15 
 
• 70 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 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 
 iircle round the image ; then lifting up their hoods, and grasping their 
 whips, and the ecclesiastics their tapers, they waited the assault, de- 
 termined to defend themselves, or, if possible, offend their aggressors ; 
 while Sancho threw himself on the body of his master, and believing 
 him to be really dead, poured forth the most dolorous lamentation. 
 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 pru- 
 dent 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 farther, 
 were discharged. The canon also separated from them, having first 
 obtained a premise 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 Rozi- 
 nante, who bore all accidents as patiently as his master. The wag- 
 goner yoked his oxen, and having accommodated Don Quixote with 
 a truss of hay, they jogged on in .the way the pnest 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 a holyday, all the people 
 were standing about the market-place through which the waggon 
 passed. Everybody ran to see who was m it, and were not a little 
 surprised when they recognised their townsman ; and a boy ran ofi" 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 lamenta 
 tions, and renewed their curses against books of chivalry ; especially 
 when they saw the poor knight entering at the gate. 
 
 Upon the news of Don Quixote's arrival, Sancho Panza's wife re- 
 paired thither ; and on meeting him, her first inquiry was whether the 
 ass had come home wel' Sancho told her that he was in a bettei 
 
riH. XXXIV.] DON QUIXOTE. 171 
 
 condition than his master. " Heaven be praised," replied she, " for 
 so great a mercy to me ! But tell me, husband, what good have )'ou 
 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 shew 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, " so be satisfied at present ; for if it please God 
 that we make another sally in quest of adventures, you will soon see 
 me an earl or governor of an island, and no common one neither, but 
 one of the best that is to be had." " Grant Heaven it may be so, 
 husband," quoth the wife ; " for we have need enough of it. But 
 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 yourself 
 styled ladyship by all your vassals." " What do you mean, Sancho, 
 by ladyship, islands, and vassals ? " answered Teresa Panza ; for that 
 was the name of Sancho's wife, though they were not of kin, but be- 
 cause it was the custom of La Mancha for the wife to take the hus- 
 band's name. " Do not be in so much 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 plea- 
 sant 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 a hundred fall out cross and unlucky ; especially when one hap- 
 pens 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 th^y 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 maledictions. 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. 
 
VII2 DON QUIXOTK. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 What passed between the Curate, the Barber, ani Bon Quixote, con 
 cerning his indisposition. 
 
 The curate and the barber were almost a whole month without pay- 
 ing Don Quixote a visit, lest calling to mind his former extravagances, 
 he might take occasion to renew them. However, they failed not 
 every day to see his niece and his housekeeper, whom they charged 
 to treat and cherish him with great ca!:e, and to give him such diet as 
 might be most proper to cheer his heart and comfort his brain, 
 whence, in all likelihood, his disorder wholly proceeded. They an- 
 swered, that they did sa,and would continue it to their utmost power ; 
 the rather because they observed that semetimes he seemed to be in 
 his right senses. This news was very welcome to the curate and the 
 barber, who looked on this amendment as an effect of their contri- 
 vance in bringing him home in the enchanted waggon, as alreadj' re- 
 corded. Thereupon they resolved to pay him a visit, and make trial 
 themselves of the progress of a cure, which they thought almost im- 
 possible. They also agreed not to speak a word of knight-errantry,' 
 lest they should endanger a wound so lately closed and so tender. 
 Don Quixote received them very civilly, and when they inquired of 
 his health, gave them an account of his condition, expressing himself 
 very handsomely, and with a great deal of judgment. After they had 
 discoursed a while of several matters, they fell at last on state affairs' 
 and forms of government, correcting this grievance, and condemning 
 that, reforming one custom, rejecting another, and establishing new 
 laws, as if they had been the Lycurguses or Solons of the age, till 
 they had refined and new modelled the commonwealth at such a rate, 
 that they seemed to have clapped it into a forge, and drawn it out 
 wholly different from what it was before. Don Quixote reasoned with 
 so much discretion on every' subject, that his two visitors now un- 
 doubtedly believed him Jn his right senses. 
 
 His niece and housekeeper were present at these discourses, and 
 hearing him give so many marks of sound understanding, thought 
 they could never return Heaven sufficient thanks for so extraord inary 
 a blessing. But the curate, who wondered at this strange amend- 
 ment, being resolved to try whether Don Quixote was perfectly re- 
 covered, thought fit to alter the resolution he had taken to avoid en- 
 tering into any discourse of knight-errantry ; and therefore began to 
 talk to him of news, and among the rest, that it was credibly reported 
 at court, that the Grand Seignior was advancing with a vast army, 
 and nobody knew where the tempest would fall ; that all Christendom 
 was alarmed, as it used to be almost every year ; and that the king 
 
CH XXXV.] DON QUIXOTE. 173 
 
 was providing for the security of the coasts of Sicily and Naples, and 
 the island of Malta. " His majesty," said Don Quixote, " acts the 
 part of a most priKflent warrior, in putting his dominions betimes in a 
 posture of defence ; but yet, if my counsel were to be taken in this 
 matter, I would advise another sort of preparation, which, I fancy, 
 his majesty little thinks of at present." Thereupon they both desired 
 Don Quixote to communicate to them this mighty project of his ; 
 " for," said they, " who knows but, after all, it may be one of those 
 that ought only to find a place in the list of impertinent admonitions 
 usually given to princes.?" "No, good Mr. Trimmer," answered 
 Don Quixote, " my projects are not impertinent, but highly advisa- 
 ble." " I meant no harm in what I said, sir," replied the barber ; 
 "only we generally find most of those projects that are offered to the 
 king are either impracticable or whimsical, or tend to the detriment 
 of the king or kingdom." " But mine," said Don Quixote, " is neither 
 impossible nor ridiculous ; far from that, it is the most easy, the 
 most thoroughly weighed, and the most concise, that ever can be de- 
 vised by man." " Methinks you are too long before you let us know 
 it, sir," said the curate. " To deal freely with you," replied Don 
 Quixote, " I should be loath to tell it you here now, and have it reach 
 the ear of some privy-counsellor to-morrow, and so afterwards see 
 the fruit of my invention reaped by sotnebody else." "As for me," 
 said the barber, " I give you my word here, and in the face of heav- 
 en, never to tell it, either to king, queen, or any earthly man." 
 " Well, then," cried Don Quixote, " what has the king to do more, 
 but to cause public proclamation to be made, enjoining all the knights- 
 errant that are dispersed in this kingdom to make their personal ap- 
 pearance at court, upon a certain day .' For though but half a dozen 
 should meet, there may be some one among them who, even alone, 
 might be able to destroy the whole united force of Turkey. For 
 pray observe well what I say, gentlemen. Do you look upon it as a 
 new thing for one knight-errant alotie to rout an army of two hundred 
 thousand men, with as much ease as if all of them joined together 
 had but one throat, or were made of sugar-paste .' You know how 
 many histories are full of these wonders." " Alas !" said the niece, 
 hearing this, " I will laymy life my uncle has still a hankering after 
 knight-errantry." " I will die a knight-errant," cried Don Quixote ; 
 " and so let the Turks land were they please, how they please, and 
 when they please, and with all the forces they can muster." " Gen- 
 tlemen," said the barber, " I beg leave to tell you a short story of 
 somewhat that happened, at Seville ; indeed it falls out as pat as if it 
 had been made for our present purpose, and so I have a great mind 
 to tell it." Don Quixote gave consent, the curate and the rest of 
 the company were willing to hear ; and thus the barber began : — 
 •'• A certain person being distracted, was put into the rjiadhouse al 
 15* 
 
l74 EON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Seville. He nad studied the civil law, and 'taken his degrees at Os^ 
 suna ; though, had he taken them at Salamanca, many are of opinion 
 that he would fiave been mad too. After some years spent in this 
 confinement, he was pleased to fancy himself in his right senses ; 
 and, upon this, wrote to the archbishop, beseeching him, with all the 
 colour of reason imaginable, to release him by his authority, smce, 
 by the mercy of Heaven, he was wholly freed from his disorder ; on- 
 ly his relations, he said, kept him in, in order to enjoy his estate, de- 
 signing, in spite of truth, to have him mad to his dying day. The 
 archbishop, persuaded by many letters which he wrote to him, all 
 penned with sense and judgment, ordered one of his chaplains to in- 
 quire into the truth of the matter, and also to discourse with the par- 
 ty, that he might set him at large, in case he found hirii of sound 
 mind. Thereupon the chaplain went, and having asked the governor 
 what condition the graduate was in, was answered that he was stil. 
 mad ; that sometimes, indeed, he would talk like a man of excellent 
 sense, but presently after he would relapse into his former extrava- 
 gances, which, at least, balanced all his rational talk, as he himself 
 might find if he pleased to discourse with him. The chaplain, resolv- 
 ed to make the experiment, went to the madman, and conversed with 
 him above an hour, and in all that time could not perceive the least 
 disorder in his brain ; far frem that, he delivered himself with so 
 much sedateness, and gave such pertinent answers to every question, 
 that .the chaplain was obliged to believe him sound in his understand- 
 ing;; nay, he went so far as to make a complaint against his keeper, 
 alleging, that, for the lucre of those presents which his relations sent 
 him, he represented him as one who was still distracted, and had only 
 now and then lucid intervals. In sljort, he pleaded in such a manner, 
 that the keeper was suspected, his relations censured as covetous and 
 unnatural, and he himself thought master of so much sense, that the 
 chaplain resolved to take him along with him, that the archbishop " 
 might be able to satisfy himself in person. The credulous chaplain 
 therefore desired the governor to give the graduate the habit which 
 he had brought with him at his first coming. The governor used 
 every argument to dissuade the chaplain from his design, assuring him 
 that the man was still disordered in his brain. But he could not pre- 
 vail with him to leave the madman any longer, and therefore was 
 forced to comply with the archbishop's order, and returned the man 
 his habit, which was neat and decent. 
 
 " Having put off his madman's clothes, and finding himself in 
 the garb of rational creatures, he begged of the chaplain, for char- 
 ity's sake, to permit him to take leave of his late companions in afflic- 
 tion. The chaplain told him he would bear him company, having a 
 mind to see the mad folks in the house. So they went up stairs, and 
 with them some other people that stood by. Presently the graduate 
 
en. XXXT.] DON QUIXOTE, 175 
 
 camft to a kind of a cage, where lay a man. that was outrageously 
 mad. though at that instant still and quiet ; and addressing himself 
 to him, ' Brother,' said he, ' have you any service to command me ? 
 I am just going to my own house, thanks be to Heaven, which, of its 
 infinite goodness £md mercy, has restored me to my senses. Be of 
 good comfort, and put your trust in God, who will, I hope, be equally 
 merciful to you. I will be sure to send you some choice victuals, 
 which I would have you eat by all means ; for I must needs tell you, 
 that I have reason to imagine from my own experience, that all our 
 madness proceeds from keeping o,ur stomachs empty of food, and our 
 brains full of wind.' Just over against that room lay another mad- 
 man, who, having listened with an envious attention to all this dis- 
 cburse, starts up from an old mat on which he lay : ' Who is that,' 
 cried he aloud, ' that is going away so well recovered and so wise ? ' 
 ' It is I, brother, that am going,' replied the graduate ; ' I have now no 
 need to stay here any longer ; for which blessing I can never cease to 
 return my humble and hearty thanks to the infinite goodness of Hea- 
 ven.' ' Doctor,' quoth the madman, ' have a care what you say, and 
 let not the devil delude you. Stir not a foot, but keep snug in your 
 old lodging, and save yourself the vexation of being brought back to 
 your kennel.' ' Nay,' answered the other, ' I will warrant you there 
 will be no occasion for my coming hither again, I know I am perfectly 
 well.' ' You well ! ' cried the madman ; ' we' shall soon see that. 
 Farewell ; but by the sovereign Jupiter, whose majesty 1 represent 
 on earth, for this very crime alone that Seville has committed in set- 
 ting thee at large, affirming that thou art sound in thy intellects, I will 
 take such a severe revenge on the whole city, that it shall be remem- 
 bered with terror from age to age. Dost thou not know, my poor 
 brainless thing in a gown, that this is in my power ? I, that am the 
 thundering Jove, that grasp in my hands the red-hot bolts of heaven, 
 with which I keep the threatened world in awe, and might reduce it 
 all to ashes > But stay, I will commute the fiery punishment which 
 this ignorant town deserves, into another : I will only shut up the flood- 
 gates of the skies, so that there shall not fall a drop of rain upon this 
 city, nor on all the neighbouring country round about it, for three years 
 together, to begin from the very moment that 'gives date to this my 
 inviolable execration. Thou free ! thou well and in thy senses !' and 
 There mad, distempered, and confined!' As every one there was 
 attentive to these loud and frantic threats, the graduate turned to the 
 chaplain, and taking him by the hand : ' Sir,' said he, 'let not that 
 madman's threats trouble, you. Never mind him ; for if he be Ju- 
 piter, and will not let it rain, I am Neptune, the parent and god of the . 
 waters, and it shall rain as often as I please, wherever necessity shall 
 require it.' ' However,' answered the chaplain, ' good Mr. Neptune, 
 it is not convenient to provoke Mr. Jupiter ; therefore be pleased to 
 
nS DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Stay here a little longer ; and some other time, at convenient leisure, I 
 may chance to find a better opportunity to wait on yoti, and bring you 
 away.' The keeper and the rest of the company could not forbear 
 laughing, which put the chaplain almost out of countenance. In 
 short, Mr. Neptune was disrobed again, and stayed where he was j 
 and there is an end of my story." 
 
 " Well, Master Barber," said Don Quixote, " and this is your tale 
 which you said came so pat to the present purpose, that you could noi 
 forbear telling it ? Ah, Mr. Cutbeard, how blind must he be that can- 
 not see through a sieve ! Is it possible your pragmatical worship 
 should not know that the comparisons made between wit and wit, 
 courage and courage, beauty and beauty, birth and birth, are always 
 odious and ill taken ? 1 am not Neptune, the god of the waters, good 
 Master Barber ; neither do I pretend to set up for a wise man when I 
 am not so. All I aim at is only to make the world sensible how much 
 they are to blame in not labouring to revive those most happy times, 
 in which the order of knight-errantry was in its full glory. But, in- 
 deed, this degenerate age of ours is unworthy the enjoyment of so 
 great a happiness, which former ages could boast, when knights- 
 errant took upon themselves the defence of kingdoms, the protection 
 of damsels, the relief of orphans, the punishment of pride and op- 
 pression, and the reward of humility. Most of your knights, now-a- 
 days, keep a greater rustling with their sumptuous garments of dam- 
 ask, gold brocade, and other costly stuffs, than with the coats of mail, 
 which they should glory to wear. No knight now will lie on the hard 
 ground in the open field exposed to the injurious air, from head to 
 foot enclosed in ponderous armour. Where are those now, who, 
 without taking their feet out of the stirrups, and only leaning on their 
 lances like the knights-errant of old, strive to disappoint invading sleep, 
 rather than indulge it ? Where is that knight who, having first 
 traversed a spacious forest, climbed up a steep mountain, and jour- 
 neyed over a dismal barren shore, washed by a turbulent tempestuous 
 sea, and finding on the brink a little skiff, destitute of sails, oars, mast, 
 or any kind of tackling, is yet so bold as to throw himself into the 
 boat with an undaunted resolution, and resign himself to the implaca- 
 ble billows of the main, that now mount him to the skies, and then 
 hurry him down to the most profound recesses of the waters ; till, with 
 his insuperable courage surmounting at last the hurricane, even in its 
 greatest fury, he finds himself above three thousand leagues from the 
 place where he first embarked, and leaping ashore in a remote and 
 unknown region, meets with adventures that deserve to be recorded, 
 not only on parchment, but on Corinthian brass ? But now, alas, sloth 
 and effeminacy triumph over vigilance and labour ; idleness over in- 
 dustry ; vice over virtue ; arrogance over valour ; and the theory of 
 arms over the practice, that true practice which only lived and fiouT- 
 
CH. JCXXV.] DON QUIXOTE. Ill 
 
 ished in those golden days, and among those professors of chiv&try. 
 For, where shall we hear of a knight more valiant and more honour- 
 able than the renowned Amadis de Gaul ? Who more discreet than 
 Palmerin of England ? Who more affable and complaisant than 
 Tirante the White ? Who more gallant than Lisuarle of Greece ? 
 Who more cut and hacked, or a greater cutter and hacker, than Don 
 Belianis ? Who more intrepid than Perion of Gaul ? Who more 
 daring than Felixmarte of Hyrcania ? Who more sincere than 
 Esplandian ? Who more courteous than Cirongilio of Thrace ? 
 Who more brave than Eodomont ? Who more prudent than King 
 Sobrino ? Who more desperate than Einaldo ? Who more invinci- 
 ble than Orlando ? And who more agreeable or more affable than 
 Rogero, from whom (according to Turpin in his cosmography) the 
 Dukes of Ferrara are descended ? All these champions, Master Cu- 
 rate, and a great many more that I could mention, were knights- 
 errant, and the very light and glory of chivalry. Now, such as these 
 are the men I. would advise the king to employ ; by which means his 
 majesty would be effectually served, and freed from a vast expense, 
 and the Turk would tear his very beard for madness. For my part, 
 I do not design to stay where I am because the chaplain will not fetch 
 me out ; though if Jupiter, as Master Barber said, will send no rain, 
 here stands one that will, and can rain when he pleases. This I say, 
 that Goodman Basin here may know I understand his meaning." 
 " Truly, good sir," said the barber, " I meant no ill ; Heaven is my 
 witness, my intent was good ; and therefore I hope your worship will 
 take nothing amiss." " Whether I ought to take it amiss or no," re- 
 plied Don Quixote, "is best known to myself." "Well," said the 
 curate, " I have hardly spoken a word yet ; and before I go, I would 
 gladly be eased of a scruple, which Don Quixote's words have started 
 within me, and which grates and gnaws my conscience." " Master 
 Curate may be free with me in greater matters," said Don Quixote, 
 " and so may well tell his scruple ; for it is no pleasure to have a bur- 
 den upon one's conscience." " With your leave then, sir-," said the 
 curate, " I must tell you, that I can by no means prevail with myself 
 to believe, that all this multitude of knights-errant, which your wor- 
 ship has mentioned, were ever real men of this world, and true sub- 
 stantial flesh and blood ; but rather, that most of what is said of 
 them is fable and fiction, lies and dreams, related by men rather 
 half asleep than awake." " This is indeed another rfistake," said 
 Don Quixote, " into which many have been led, who do not believe 
 there ever were any of those knights in the world. And in several 
 companies I have many times had occasion to vindicate that manifest 
 truth from the almost universal error that is entertained to its preju- 
 dice. Sometimes my success has not been answerable to the good- 
 ness of my cadse, though at others it has ; being supported on ths 
 
178 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Bhoulders of truth, which is so apparent, that I dare almost say 1 have 
 seen Amadis de Gaul with these very eyes. He was a tall comely 
 personage, of a good and lively complexion, his beard well ordered, 
 though black, his aspect at once awful and affable ; a man of few 
 words, slowly provoked, and quickly pacified. And as I have given 
 you the picture of Amadis, I fancy I could readily delineate all the 
 knights-errant that are to be met with in history." 
 
 " Pray, good sir," quoth the barber, " how tall then might the giant 
 Morgante be .'' " " Whether there ever were giants or no," answered 
 Don Quixote, " is a point much controverted among the learned. 
 However, Holy Writ, that cannot deviate an atom from truth, informs 
 us there were some, of which we have an instance in the account it 
 gives us of that huge Philistine, Goliath, who was seven cubits and a 
 half high ; which is a prodigious stature. Besides, in Sicily thigh- 
 bones and shoulder-bones have been found of so immense a size, that 
 from thence of necessity we must conclude, by the certain rules of 
 geometry, that the men to whom they belonged were giants as big 
 as huge steeples. But, for all this, I cannot positively tell you how 
 big Morgante was, though I am apt to believe he was not very tall ; 
 and that which makes me inclinable to believe so is, that in the history 
 which gives us a particular account of his exploits we read that he 
 often used to lie under a roof. Now if there were any house that 
 could hold him, it is evident he could not be of so immense a 
 stature." 
 
 But here they were interrupted by a noise below in the yard, where 
 the niece and the housekeeper, who had left them some time beforej 
 were very obstreperous ; which made them all hasten to know what 
 was the matter. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 Of the merjiordble quarrel beticeer^ SancJio Panza and Don Quixote's 
 Niece and Housekeeper ; with other pleasant passages. 
 
 The occasion of the noise which the niece and housekeeper made, 
 was Sancho Panza's endeavouring to force his way into the house, 
 while they at the same time held the door against him to keep him 
 out. " What have you to do in this house ? " cried one of them. 
 " Go, keep to your own home, friend. It is all of you, and nobody 
 else, that my poor master is distracted, and carried a rambling all the 
 country over." " Distracted ! " replied Sancho ; " it is I that am 
 distracted, and carried a rambling, and not your master. It was he 
 led me the jaunt ; so you are wide of the matter. It was he that in- 
 veigled me from my house and home with his colloguing, and saying 
 
CH. XXXVI.] DON QUrxOTE. 179 
 
 * 
 
 he would give me an island, which is not come yet, und I still wait 
 for." "May'st thou be choked with thy plaguy islands," cried the 
 niece ; " what are your islands ? any thing to eat, good-man greedy- 
 gut, ha ? " " Hold you there," answered Sancho ; " they are not to 
 eat, but to govern ; and better governments than any four cities, or as 
 many heads of the king's best corporations." " For all that," quoih 
 the housekeeper, " thou comest not within these doors, thou bundle of 
 wickedness and sackful of roguery ! Go, govern your own house ; 
 work, you lazy rogue. To the plough, and never trouble your jolter- 
 head about islands or oylets." 
 
 The curate and barber were highly diverted in hearing this dia- 
 logue. But Don Quixote, fearing lest Sancho should not keep within 
 bounds, but blunder out some discoveries prejudicial to his reputation, 
 while he ripped up a pack of little foolish slander, called him in, and 
 enjoined the women to be silent. Sancho entered ; and the curate 
 and the barber took leave of Don Quixote, despairing of his cure. 
 " Well," said .the curate to the barber, " now I expect nothing better 
 of our gentleman than to hear shortly that he is gone upon another 
 ramble." " Nor I," answered the barber ; " but I do not wonder so 
 much at the knight's madness as at the silliness of the squire, who 
 thinks himself so sure of the island, that I fancy all the art of man 
 can never beat it out of his skull." '• However," said the curate, 
 " let us observe them ; we shall find what will be the event "of thg 
 extravagance of the knight and the foolishness of the squire. One 
 would think they had been cast in one mould ; and indeed the master's 
 madness without the man's impertinence were not worth a rush." 
 ' Right," said the barber ; " arid now they are together, methinks I 
 long to know what passes between them. I do not doubt but the two 
 women will be able to give an account of that, for they are not of a 
 temper to withstand the temptation of listening." 
 
 Meanwhile Don Quixote having locked himself up with his squire, 
 they had the following colloquy : " I take it very ill," said he, " San- 
 cho, that you should report as you do, that I enticed you out of your 
 paltry hut, when you know that I myself left my own mansion-house. 
 We set out together, continued together, and travelled together. We 
 ran the same fortune and the same hazards together. If thou hast 
 been tossed in a blanket once, I have been battered and bruised a 
 hundred times ; and that is all the advantage I have had above thee." 
 " And reason good," answered Sancho ; " for you yourself used to 
 say, that ill-luck and cross-bitings are oftener to light on the knights 
 than on the squires." " Thou art mistaken, Sancho," replied Don 
 Quixote ; " for the proverb will tell thee, that Quando caput dolel, 
 &c." " Nay," quoth Sancho, " I understand no language but my 
 own." " I mean," said Don Quixote, " that when the head aches, all 
 the members partake of the pain. So, then, as I am thy master. I 
 
180 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 am also thy head ; and as thou art my servant, thou art one of my 
 members ; it follows, therefoi-e, that I cannot be sensible of pain, bu 
 thou too oughtest to be affected with it ; and likewise, that nothing of ill 
 can befall thee, but I must bear a share." " Eight," quoth Sancho ; 
 " but when I, as a limb of you, was tossed in a. blanket, my head was 
 pleased to stay at the other side of the wall, and saw me frisking in 
 the air, without going shares in my bodily trouble." " Thou art 
 greatly mistaken, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, " if thou think 
 est I was not sensible of thy sufferings. For I was then more tor- 
 tured in mind than thou wast tormented in body. But let us adjourn 
 this discourse till some other time, which doubtless will afford us an 
 opportunity to redress past grievances. I pray thee tell me now 
 what does the town say of me } What do the neighbours, what do 
 the people think of me .' How do the knights discourse of my high 
 feats of arms, and my courteous behaviour,'' What thoughts do they 
 entertain of my design to raise from the grave of oblivion the order 
 of knight-errantry } In short, tell me freely and sincerely what thou 
 hast heard ; neither enlarged with flattering commendations, nor les- 
 sened by any omission of my dispraise ; for it is the duty of faithful 
 servants to lay truth before their masters in its honest nakedness. 
 And I would have thee know, Sancho, that if it were to appear be- 
 fore princes in its native simplicity, and disrobed of the odious dis- 
 guise of flattery, we should see happier days ; this age would be 
 changed into an age of gold, and former times compared to this 
 would be called the iron age. Remember this, and be advised, that I 
 may hear thee impart a faithful account of these matters." 
 
 " Why then," quoth Sancho, " first you are to know that the com- 
 mon people take you for a madman, and me for one that is no less a 
 fool. The gentry say, that not being content to keep within the 
 bounds of gentility, you have taken upon you to be a Don, and set up 
 ■ for a knight, and a right worshipful, with a small vineyard and two 
 acres of land. The knights, forsooth, say they do not like to have 
 your small gentry think themselves as good as they, especially your 
 old-fashioned country squires that mend and lamp-black their own 
 shoes, and mend their old black stockings themselves with a needle- 
 ful of green silk." " All this does not affect me," said Don Quixote, 
 " for I always wear good clothes, and never have them patched. It 
 is true they may be a little torn sometimes, but that is more with my 
 armour that my long wearing." " As for what relates to your prow- 
 ess," said Sancho, " there are several opinions about it. Some say 
 he is m£^d, but a pleasant sort of a madman ; others say he is 
 valiant, but his luck is nought; others say he is courteous, but 
 very impertinent. And thus they pass so many verdicts upon 
 you, -and take us both so to pieces, that they leave neither you 
 nor me a sound bone in our skins." " Consider, Sancho," said Don 
 
CH. XXXTiI.] DON QUIXOTE. 181 
 
 Quixote, " that the more eminently virtue shines, the more it is ex- 
 posed to persecution. Few or none of the famous heroes of antiquity 
 could escape the venomous arrows of calumny. And therefore, 
 Sancho, well may I be content to bear my share of that calamity, if it 
 be no more than thou hast told me now." " Ah ! " quoth Sancho, 
 " there is the business ; you say well, if this were all ; bui they don't 
 stop here." " Why," said Don Quixote, " what can they say more ? " 
 " More 1 " cried Sancho. " Why you have had nothing yet but apple- 
 pies and sugar-plums. Sir Bartholomew Carrasco's son came home 
 last night from his studies at Salamanca, you must know ; and as I 
 went to bid him welcome home, he told me that your worship's histo- 
 ry is already in books, by the name of the most renowned Don Quix- 
 ote de la Mancha. He says I am in too, by my own name of Sancho 
 Panza, and also my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso ; nay, and many 
 tilings that passed betwixt nobody but us two, which I was amazed to 
 hear, and could not for my soul imagine how he that set them down 
 could come by the knowledge of them." " I dare assure thee, San- 
 cho," said Don Quixote, " that the author of our history must be 
 some sage enchanter, and one of those from whose universal know-- 
 ledge none of the things which they have a mind to record can be 
 concealed." " How should he be a sage and an enchanter } " quoth 
 Sancho. " The bachelor Samson Carrasco tells me, he that wrote 
 the history is called Cid Hamet Berengenas." " That is a Moorish 
 name," said Don Quixote. "Like enough," quoth Sancho; "your 
 Moors are great lovers of Berengenas." * " Certainly, Sancho," 
 said Don Quixote, " thou art mistaken in the sirname of that Cid, 
 that lord, 1 mean ; for Cid in Arabic signifies lord." " That may 
 very well be," answered Sancho: "but if you will have me fetch 
 you the young scholard, I will fly to bring him hither." " Truly, 
 friend," said Don Quixote, " thou wilt do me a particular kindness : 
 for what thou hast already told me has so filled me with doubts and 
 expectations, that I shall not eat a bit that will do me good till I am 
 informed of the whole matter." " I will go and fetch him," said 
 Sancho. With that, leaving his master, he went to look for the bach- 
 elor ; and having brought him along with him awhile after, thoy all 
 had a verj; pleasant dialogue. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVn. 
 
 The pleasant discourse hetween Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and the 
 bachelor Samson Carrasco. 
 
 Don Quixote could not be persuaded that there was a history of 
 himself extant, while yet the blood of those enemies he had cut oflf 
 
 * A sort of frait in Spain, brought over by the Moors. Sanehu meant Benengeli. 
 
 16 
 
182 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 had scarce done reeking on the blade of his sword ; so that they 
 could not have already finished and printed the history of his mighty 
 feats of arms. However, at last he concluded that some learned 
 sage had, by the way of enchantment, been able to commit them to 
 the press, either as a friend, to extol his heroic achievements above 
 the noblest performances of the most famous knights-errant ; or as 
 an enemy, to sully the lustre of his exploits, and debase them below 
 the moA inferior actions of any of the meanest squires. Though, 
 thought he to himself, the actions of squires were never yet record- 
 ed ; anJ after all, if there were such a book printed, since it was the 
 history of a knight-errant, it could not choose but be ponipous, lofty, 
 magnificent, and authentic. This thought yielded him a while some 
 small consolation ; but then he relapsed into melancholic doubts and 
 anxieties, when he considered that the author had given himself the 
 title of Cid, and consequently must be a Moor ; a nation from whom 
 no ti uth could be expected, they all being given to impose on others 
 with lies and fabulous stories, to falsify and counterfeit, and very fond 
 of thbir own chimeras. Sancho and Carrasco found him thus agitat- 
 ed and perplexed with a thousand melancholic fancies, which yet did 
 not hiuder him from receiving the stranger with a great deal of 
 civility. 
 
 The bachelor, though his name was Samson, was none of the big- 
 gest in body, but a very great' man at all manner of drollery ; he had 
 a pale ci>«nplexion, but good sense. He was about four-and-twenty 
 years of age, round-visaged, flat-nosed, and wide-mouthed, all signs oi 
 a disposition that would delight in nothing more than in making sport 
 for himseJf, by ridiculing- others ; as he plainly discovered when he 
 saw Don Quixote. For, falling on his knees before him, " Adtait me 
 to kiss your honour's hand," cried he, " most noble Don Quixote . 
 for by the habit of St. Peter, which I wear, though indeed I have as 
 yet taken but the four first of the holy orders, you are certainly one 
 of the most renowned knights-errant that ever was, or ever will be, 
 ttirough the whole extent of the habitable globe. Blest may the sage 
 Cid Hamet Benengeli be, for enriching the world with the history of 
 your mighty deeds ; and more than blest, that curious virtuoso, who 
 took care to have it translated out of Arabic into our vulgar tongue, 
 for the universal entertainment of mankind ! " 
 
 " Sir," said Don Quixote, making him rise, " is it then possible 
 that my history is extant, and that it was a Moor, and one of the sages, 
 that penned it .' " " It is so notorious a truth," said the bachelor, 
 " that I do not in the least doubt but at this day there have already 
 been published above twelve thousand copies of it. Portugal, Barce- 
 lona, and. Valencia, where they have been printed, can witness that, 
 if .here were occasion. It is said that it is also now in the press at 
 Antwerp. Anti I verily believe there is scarce a language into which 
 
CH. XXXV: .] DON QUIXOTE. 183 
 
 it is not to be translated." " Truly, sir," said Don Quixote, *' one of 
 the things that ought to yield the greatest satisfaction to a person of 
 eminent virtue, is to live to see himself in 'good reputation in the 
 world, and his actions published in print. I say, in good reputation ; 
 for otherwise there is no death but would be preferable to such a life." 
 " As for a goad name and reputation," replied Carrasco, " your wor- 
 ship has gained the palm from all the knights-errant that ever lived ; 
 for, both the Arabiaii in his history, and the Christian in his version, 
 have been very industrious to do justice to your character ; your pe- 
 culiar gallantry ; your intrepidity and greatness of spirit in confront- 
 ing danger ; your constancy in adversities ; your patience in suffering 
 wounds and afflictions ; and your modesty in that love so very pla- 
 tonio between your worship and my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso." 
 " But pray," added Don Quixote, " good Mr. Bachelor, on which of 
 all my adventures does the history seem to lay the greatest stress ? " 
 " As to that," answered Carrasco, " the opinions of men are divided: 
 some cry up the adventure of the windmill giants ; some are for that 
 of the fulling-mills ; others stand up for the description of the two 
 armies that afterwards proved two flocks of sheep. Some prize most 
 the adventure of the dead corpse that was carrying to Segovia ; while 
 others say that none of them can compare with that of the galley- 
 slaves. However, some who have read your history wish that the 
 author had spared himself the pains of registering some of that infi- 
 nite number of drubs which the noble Don Quixote received." " There 
 lies the truth of the history," quoth Sancho. " Those things, in hu- 
 man equity," said Don Quixote, " might very well have been omitted 5 
 for actions that neither impair nor alter the history, ougbt rather to be 
 buried in silence than relaied, if they redound to the discredit of the 
 hero of the history. Certainly jEneas was never so pious as Virgil 
 represents him, nor Ulysses so prudent as he is made by Homer." 
 "I am of your opinion," said Carrasco ; " but it is one thing to write 
 like a poet, and another thing to write like an historian. It is suffi- 
 cient for the first to deliver matters as tKey ought to have been ; 
 whereas the last must relate them as they were really transacted, with- 
 out adding or omitting any thing, upon any pretence whatever." 
 " Well," quoth Sancho, " if this same Moorish lord be once got into 
 the road of truth, a hundred to one but among my master's rib-roast- 
 ings he has not forgot mine ; for they never took measure of his 
 worship's shoulders but they were pleased to do as much for my 
 whole body : but it was no wonder ; for it is his own rule, that if 
 once the head aches, every limb must suffer too." 
 
 " Hold your tongue," said Don Quixote, " and let the learned 
 bachelor proceed, that I may know what ' the history says: of me." 
 " And of me too," quoth Sancho ; " for they tell me I am one of the 
 top parsons in it." " Persons, you should say, Sancho," said Car- 
 
184 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 rasco, " and not parsons." " Heyday ! " quoth Sancho, " have wa 
 got another corrector of hard words > If this be the trade, we shall 
 never have done." " Most certainly," said Carrasco, " you are the 
 second person in the history, honest Sancho ; nay, and some there 
 are who had rather hear you talk than the best there ; though some 
 there are again that will say you were horribly credulous to flattei 
 yourself with having the government of that island which your master 
 promised you." " While there is life there is hope," Said Don Quix- 
 ote ; " when Sancho is grown mature with time and experience, he 
 may be better qualified for a government than he is yet." " If I be 
 not fit to govern an island at these years," quoth Sancho, " I shall 
 never be a governor, though I live to the years of Methusalem ; but 
 there the mischipf lies, we have brains enough, but we want the island." 
 " Come, Sanoho," said Don Quixote, " hope for the best ; trust in 
 Providence ; all will be well, and perhaps better than you imagine ; but 
 know, there is not a leaf on any tree that can be moved without the 
 permission of Heaven." " That is very true," said Carrasco ; " and I 
 dare say Sancho shall not want a thousand islands to govern, much less 
 one ; that is, if it be Heaven's will." " Why not ? " quoth Sancho 
 " I have seen governors in my time who, to jny thinking, could 
 not come up-to me passing the sole of my shoes ; and yet, forsooth, 
 they were called ' your honour,' and they eat their victuals all in sil- 
 ver." " Ay," said Carrasco, " but these were none of your governors 
 of islands, but of other easy governments ; why, man, these ought at 
 least to know their grammar." " Gramercy, for that," quoth San- 
 cho ; " give me but a grey mare * once, and I shall know her well 
 enough, I'll warrant ye. But leaving the government ^n the hands of 
 him that will , best provide for rhe, I jnust tell you. Master Bachelor 
 Samson Carrasco, I am huge glad that, as your author has not forgot 
 me, so he has not given an ill character of me ; for by the faith of a 
 trusty squire, had he said any thing that did not become a Christian 
 as I am, I had rung him such a peal that the deaf should have heard 
 me." " That were a miracle," said Carrasco. " Miracle me no mir- 
 acles," cried Sancho ; " let every man take care 'how he talks, or 
 how he writes of other men, and not set down at random, higglede- 
 piggledy, whatever comes into bis noddle." 
 
 " The author," continued Carrasco, " has made every thing so plain, 
 that there is nothing in that book but what any one may understands 
 Children handle it, youngsters read it, grown men understand it, and 
 old people applaud it. In short, it is universally so thumbed, so 
 gleaned, so studied, and so known, that if the people do but see 
 a lean horse, they presently Cry, ' There goes Rozinante.' But 
 none apply themselves to the reading of it more than your pages , 
 
 * Tbta jingle of tho words £^ammart fframercy, and gref marCf is in imitation of the origioal| 
 wfcich wouid not admit of a literal translation. 
 
3H. XXXVm.] BON QUIXOTE. 185 
 
 there is never a nobleman's antechamber where you shall not find a 
 Don Quixote. No sooner has one laid it down, but another takes it 
 up. One asks for it here,, and there it is snatched up by another. In 
 a word, it is esteemed the most pleasant and least dangerous diver- 
 sbn that ever was seen." * 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 The discourse continued ; also the wise and pleasant dialogue between 
 Sancho Panza and Teresa Panza his wife; together with .other 
 passages worthy of happy memory. 
 
 Dtjkins this discourse Rozinante's neighing reached the ears of the 
 party. Don Quixote took this for a lucky omen, and resolved to set 
 out upon another sally within three or four days. He discovered his 
 resolutions to the bachelor, and consulted him to know which way to 
 steer his course. The bachelor advised him to take the road of Sara- 
 gossa, in the kingdom of Arragon, a solemn tournament being shortly 
 to be performed at that city on St. George's festival ; where, by 
 worsting all the Arragonian champions, he might win immortal hon- 
 our, since to out- tilt them would be to outrival all the knights in the 
 universe. He applauded his matchless courage, but withal admon 
 ished him not to be so desperate in exposing himself to dangers, since 
 nis life was not his own, but theirs who in distress stood in want of 
 nis assistance and protection. " That is it now," quoth Sancho, 
 " that makes me sometimes ready to run mad, Mr. Bachelor, for my 
 master makes no more to set upon an hundred armed men than a 
 young hungry tailor to guttle down half a dozen of cucumbers. 
 Surely, Mr. Bachelor, there is a time to retreat as well as a time to 
 advance ; for, I have heard somebody say, and, if I am not mistaken, 
 it was my master himself, that valour lies just between rashness and 
 cowheartedness ; and if it be so, I would not have him run aWay with- 
 out there is a reason for it, nor would I have him fall on when there 
 is no good to be got by it. But, above all things, I would have him 
 to know, if he has a mind I should go with him, that the bargain is, 
 he shall fight for us both, and that I am tied to nothing but to look 
 
 * Tho extraordinary popularity of this work in Spain is exemplified in a story told in the life 
 of Philip Hi. Tho king, stiinding one day on the balcony of his palace of Madrid, observed a 
 student at adistance witif a book in his hand, which he was reading — every now and then be 
 ■truck his forehead, nqcompanied with convulsions of laughter. " That student," said the king, 
 ft \f e\%:iet wt'ol hia ■^its/oi it reiiding tiie Hilton/ of Dm (ifuxote." ' ? 
 
 16' 
 
186 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 after him and his victuals and clothes. So far as this comes to, I wiiii 
 fetch and carry like any water-spaniel ; but to think I will lug out mv 
 sword, though it be but against poor rogues, and sorry shirks, anil 
 hedge-birds, in troth I must beg his diversion. For my part, Mr, 
 Bachelor, it is not the fame of being thought valiant that I am at, 
 but that of being deemed the very best and trustiest squire that ever 
 followed the heels of a knight-errant. And if, after all my services, 
 my master Don Quixote will be so kind as to give me one of those 
 many islands which his worship says he shall light on, I shall be much 
 beholden to him ; but if he does not, why then I am born, do you 
 see, and one man must not live to rely on another. Mayhaps the 
 bread I shall eat without government will go down more savourily 
 than if 1 were a governor ; and what .do I know but that the devil is 
 providing me one of these governments for a stumbling-block, that I 
 may .stumble and fall ? I was born Sancho, and Sancho I mean to 
 die ; and yet for all that, if fairly and squarely, with little trouble and 
 less danger, Heaven would bestow on me an island, or some such 
 like matter, I am no such fool neither, do you see, as to refuse a good 
 thing when it is offered me. No, I remember the old saying : ' when 
 the ass is given thee, run and take him by the halter ; ' and ' when 
 good luck knocks at the door, let him in, and keep him there.' " 
 
 " My friend Sancho," said Carrasco, " you have spoken like any 
 university professor. However, trust in Heaven's bounty, and the 
 noble Don Quixote, and he may not only give thee an island, but 
 even a kingdom." " One as likely as the other," quoth Sancho ; 
 " and yet let me tell you, Mr. Bachelor, the kingdom which my mas- 
 ter is to give me you shall not find it thrown into an old sack ; for I 
 have felt my own pulse, and find myself sound enough to rule king- 
 doms and govern islands ; I have told my master as much before 
 now." And so saying Sancho went to get everything ready for his 
 journey. 
 
 Sancho came home so cheerful and so merry, that his wife was im- 
 patient to know the cause. " My dear," cried she, " what makes you 
 sc merry ? " " I should be more merry, my chuck," quoth Sancho, 
 " would but Heaven so order it that I were not so well pleased as I 
 seem to be." " You speak riddles, husband," quoth she ; " I don't 
 know what you mean by saying you should be more merry if you 
 were not so well pleased ; for, though I am silly enough, I cannot 
 think a man can take pleasure in not being pleased." " Look ye, 
 Teresa," quoth Sancho, " I am merry because I am once more going 
 to serve my master Don Quixote, who is resolved to have another 
 frolic, and go a hunting after adventures, and I must go with him, 
 What should I lie starving at home for.? The hopes of finding 
 another parcel of gold like that we spent rejoices my heart ; but then it 
 grieves vae to le&ve thee aijd those sweet babes of ours j ^od would 
 
CH. XIXVIII.] DON QUIXOTE. 187 
 
 Heaven but be pleased to let me live at home dry-shod in peace and 
 qmetness, without gaddmg over hill and dale, through brambles and 
 briers, why then it is clear that my mirth would be more firm and 
 sound, since my present gladness is mingled with a sorrow to part 
 with thee. And so I have made out what I said, that I should be mer- 
 rier if 1 did not seem so well pleased." 
 
 " Look you, Sancho," quoth the wife ; " ever since you have been 
 a member of a knight-errant you talk so round about the bush that 
 nobody can understand you." " Never mind," quoth. Sancho ; " only 
 be sure you look carefully after Dapple for these three days, that he 
 may be in good case and fit to bear arms ; double his pittance, look 
 out his pannel and all his harness, and let every thing be set to rights ; 
 for we are not going to a wedding, but to roam about the world, and to 
 make our party good with giants, and dragons, and hobgoblins, arid to 
 hear nothing but hissing, and yelling, and roaring, and howling, and 
 bellowing ; all which would be but sugar-plums, if we were not to 
 meet with Yanguesian carriers, and enchanted Moors." " Nay, as 
 for that, husband," quoth Teresa, "lam apt enough to think you 
 squires-errant don't eat their masters' bread for nothing ; and therefore 
 it shall be my daily prayer that you may quickly be freed from that 
 plaguy trouble." " Troth, wife," quoth Sancho, " were not I in hopes 
 to see myself ere long governor of an island, on my conscience 
 should not stir one inch from my own home." " Look ye, my dear,' 
 continued Teresa ; " if it should be thy good luck to get a govern- 
 ment, prithee do not forget thy wife and children. Take notice that 
 little Sancho is already full fifteen, and it is high time he went to 
 school, if his uncle the abbot mean to leave him something in the 
 church. Then there is Mary Sancho, your daughter ; I dare say the 
 burden of wedlock will never be the death of her, for I ' shrewdly 
 guess she wishes as much for a husband as you for a government." 
 " If it be Heaven's will," quoth Sancho, " that I get anything by 
 government, I will see and match Mary Sancho so well that she shall 
 at least be called ' my lady.' " " By no means, husband," cried the 
 wife ; " let her match with her match ; if from clouted shoes you set 
 her upon high heels, and from her coarse russet coat you put her into 
 a fardingale, and- from plain Moll and ' thee ' and ' thou,' go to call 
 her ' madam,' and ' your ladyship,' the poor girl won't know how to 
 behave herself, but will make a thousand blunders, and shew her 
 homespun country breeding." " Tush ! " answered Sancho, " it 
 will be but two or three years' prenticeship ; and then you will see 
 how strangely she will alter; 'your ladyship' and keeping of state 
 will become her as if they had been made for her ; — and suppose 
 they should not, what is it to any body .? Let her be out a lady, and 
 let what will happen." 
 
 " Good Sancho, ' quoth the wife " don't look above yourself; I 
 
188 OON QUIXOTE. 
 
 say, keep to the proverb that says, ' birds of a feather flock together.' 
 It would be a fine thing, 1 trow, for us to go and throw away our 
 child on one of your lordlings, or right worshipfuls, who, when the 
 toy should take him in the head, would find new names for her, and 
 call heV ' country Joan,' ' plough-jobber's brat,' and ' spinner's web.' 
 ■ No, no, husband, I have not bred the girl up as I have done to throw her 
 away at that rate, I will assure ye. Do thee but bring home money, 
 and leave me to get her a husband. Why, there is Lope Tocho, old 
 Joan Tocho's son, a hale jolly young fellow, and one whom we all 
 know ; I have observed he casts a sheep's eye at the wench ; he is 
 one of our inches, and will be a good match for her : then we shall 
 always have her under our wings, and be all as one, father and mo- 
 ther, children and grandchildren, and Heaven's peace and blessing 
 will always be with us. But never talk to me of marrying her at 
 your courts and great men's houses, where she will understand no- 
 body, and nobody will understand her." " Why, foolish woman," 
 cried Sanch'o, " have you not heard that ' he who will not when he 
 may, when he will he shall have nay ? ' when good luck is knocking 
 at our door, is it fit to shut him out ? No, no, let us make hay while 
 the sun shines, and spread our sails before this prosperous gale. 
 Canst thou not percfeive, thou senseless animal," said Sancho, going 
 on, " that I ought to venture over head and ears to light on some 
 good gainful "government, that may free our ankles from the clogs of 
 necessity, and marry Mary Sancho to whom we please ? Then thou 
 wilt see how folks will call thee ' my Lady Teresa Panza ; ' and thou 
 wilt sit in the church with thy carpets and cushions, and lean and loll 
 in state, though the best gentlewoman in the town burst with spite and 
 envy. Go to, let us have no more of this ; Mary Sancho shall be a 
 countess in spite of thy teeth, I say." 
 
 " Well, then, to let this alone, all I have to say is this, if you hold 
 still in the mind of being a governor, pray even take your son Sancho 
 along with you, and henceforth train him up to your trade of govern- 
 ing ; for it is but fitting that the son should be brought up to ' the 
 father's calling." " When once I am governor," quoth Sancho, " I 
 will send for him by the post, and I will send the money withal ; for 
 I dare say. I shall want none ; there never wants those that will lend 
 governors money when they have none. But then be sure you 
 clothe the boy so, that he may look not like what he is, but like what 
 he is to be." " Send you but money," quoth Teresa, " and I will 
 make him as fine as a May-day garland." " So then, wife," quoth 
 Sancho, " I suppose we are agreed that our Moll shall be a countess." 
 " The day I see her a countess," quoth Teresa, " I reckon I lay her 
 in her grave. However, I tell you again, even follow your own in- 
 ventions ; you men will be masters, and we poor women are bom to 
 bear the clog of obedience though our husbands have no more sense 
 
CH. XXXIX.] DON QUIXOTE. 89 
 
 than a cuckoo." Here she fell a weeping as heartily as if she had 
 seen her daughter already dead and buried. Sancho comforted her 
 and promised her, that though he was to make her a countess, yet he 
 would see and put it off as long as he could. Thus ended their dia- 
 logue, and he went back to Don Quixote to dispose every thing for a 
 march. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 WJiat passed letween Don Quixote, his Niece, and the Housekeeper ; 
 being one of tJie most important chapters in the whole history. 
 
 While Sancho Panza and his wife Teresa Cascajo had the foregoing 
 dialogue, Don Quixote's niece and housekeeper were not idle, guess- 
 ing by a thousand signs that the knight intended a third sally. 
 Therefore they endeavoured by all possible means to divert him from 
 his design ; but all in vain ; for it was but preaching to a rock, and 
 hammering stubborn steel. " In short, sir," quoth the housekeeper, 
 " if you will not be ruled, but will needs run wandering over hill and 
 dale, seeking for mischief — for so I may well call the hopeful ad- 
 ventures which you go about — I will never leave complaining to 
 Heaven and the king, till there is a stop put to it some way or other." 
 " What answer Heaven will vouchsafe to give thee, I know not," 
 answered Don Quixote ; " Neither can I tell what jpturn his majesty 
 will make to thy petition. This I know, that were I king, I would 
 excuse myself from answering the infinite number of impertinent 
 memorials that disturb the repose of princes. I tell thee, woman, 
 among the many other fatigues which royalty sustains, it is one of 
 the greatest to be obliged to hear every one, and to give answer to all 
 people. Therefore, pray trouble not his majesty with anything con- 
 cerning me." " But pray, sir, tell me," replied she, " are there not 
 amany knights in the king's court.? " "I must confess," said Don 
 Quixote, " that, for the ornament, the grandeur, and the pomp of roy- 
 alty, many knights are and ought to be maintained there." " Why, 
 then," said the woman, "would it not be better for your worship to 
 be one of those brave knights who serve the king their master on 
 foot in his court ? " " Hear me, sweetheart," answered Don Quix-' 
 ote ; " all knights cannot be courtiers, nor can all courtiers be 
 knights-errant. There must be of all sorts in the world ; and though 
 we were all to agree in the common appellation of knights, yet there 
 would be a great difference between the one and the other. For 
 your courtiers, without so much as stirring out of the shade and shel- 
 ter of the court, can journey over all the universe in a map, without 
 the expense and faitigue of travelling, without suffering the incon 
 
190 DON QTTIXOTK. 
 
 ver.iencies of heat, col J, hunger, and thirst ; while sve who are tha 
 true knights;errant, exposed to all the inclemencies of heaven, by 
 night and day, on foot as welt as on horseback, measure the whole- 
 surface of the earth with our own feet. And further, the true knight- 
 errant, though he met ten giants, whose lall aspiring heads not only 
 touch but overtop the clouds, each of them stalking with prodigious 
 legs like huge towers, their sweeping arms like maSts of mighty ships, 
 each eye as large as a mill-wheel, and more fiery than a glass fur- 
 nace ; yet he is so far from being afraid to meet them, that he must 
 encounter them with a gentle countenance and an undaunted courage, 
 — assail them, close with them, and if possible vanquish and destroy 
 them all in an instant." " Ah, dear uncle," said the niece, " have a 
 care what you say ; all the stories of knights-errant are nothing but 
 a pack of lies and fables, and deserve to be burnt, that the world may 
 know them to be wicked, and perverters of good manners." " Wert 
 thou not my own sister's daughter," cried the Don, " I would take 
 such revenge for the blasphemy thou hast uttered, as would resound 
 through the whole universe. Who ever heard of the like impudence .' 
 That a young baggage, who scarce knows her bobbins from a bodkin, 
 should presume to put in her oar, and censure the histories of the 
 knights-errant ! What would Sir Amadis have said, had he heard 
 \his .' He undoubtedly , would have forgiven thee, for he was the 
 most courteous and complaisant knight of his time, especially to the 
 fair sex, being a great protector of damsels ; but thy words might 
 have reached the ears of some that woiald have sacrificed thee to 
 their indignation ; for all knights are not equally possessed of civility 
 or good nature; neither are all those that assume the name of a dis- 
 position suitable to the function. Some indeed are of the right stamp, 
 but others are either counterfeit, or of such an alloy as cannot bear 
 th§. touchstone, though they jleceive the sight. Inferior mortals there 
 are who aim at knighthood, and strain to reach the height of honour ; 
 and high-born knights there are, who seem fond of grovelling in the 
 dust, and being lost in the crowd of inferior mortals : the first raise 
 themselves by ambition or by virtue ; the last debase themselves by 
 negligence or by vice ; so that there is need of a distinguishing under- 
 standing to judge between these two sorts of knights, so nearly allied 
 in name, and so different in actions." — " Bless me, dear uncle," cried 
 the niece, " that you should know so much as to be able, if there was 
 occasion, to get up int<) a pulpit, or preach in the streets, and yet be 
 so strangely mistaken as to fancy a man of your years can be strong 
 and valiant, — that you can set every thing right, and force stubbore 
 malice to bend, when you yourself stoop beneath the burden of age . 
 and what is yet more odd, that you are a knight, when it is well 
 known you are none ! For. though some gentlemen may be knighta 
 a poor gentleman can hardly be so, because he cannot buy it.' 
 
CH. XXXIX.] DON QUIXOTE. 191 
 
 " You say well, niece," answered Don Quixote ; " and as to this 
 last observation, I could tell you things that you would admire at, 
 concerning families ; but because I would riot mix sacred things with 
 profane, I waive the discourse. However,- listen both of you ; and 
 for your farther instruction know,. that all the lineages and descents of 
 mankind are reducible to these four heads : first, of those who,_ from 
 a very small and obscure beginning, have raised themselves to a 
 spreading and prodigious magnitude ; secondly, of those who, deriv- 
 ing their greatness from a noble spring, still preserve the dignity 
 and character of their original splendour ; a third are those who 
 though they had large foundations, have ended in a point, like a pyr- 
 amid, which by little and little dwindles as it were into nothing, or 
 next to nothing, in comparison of its basis. Others there are (and 
 those are the bulk of mankind) who have neither a good beginning, . 
 nor rational continuance, and whose ending shall therefore be obscure : 
 such are the common people — fhe plebeian race. The Ottoman fam- 
 ily is an instance of the first sort, having derived their present greatness 
 from the poor beginning of a base-born shepherd. Of the second 
 sort -^ — " 
 
 But here somebody knocked at the door ; and being asked who it 
 was, Sancho answered it was he. Whereupon the housekeeper slip- 
 ped out of the way, not willing to see him, and the niece let him in. 
 Don Quixote received him with open arms ; and locking themselves 
 both in the closet, they had another dialogue as pleasant as the form- 
 er, the result of which was, that they resolved at once to proceed in 
 their enterprise. 
 
 With the approbation of Signer Carrasco, who was now the knight's 
 oracle, it was decreed that they should set out at the expiration of three 
 days ; in which time all necessaries should be provided, especially a 
 whole helmet, which Don Quixote said he was resolved by all means to 
 purchase. Samson offered him one which he knew he could" easily 
 get of a friend, and which looked more dull with the mould and rust, 
 than bright with the lustre of the steel. The niece and the house- 
 keeper made a woful outcry, tore their hair, scratched their faces, 
 and howled like common mourners at funerals, lamenting the knight's 
 departure as it had been his real death, and abusing Carrasco most 
 unmercifully. In short, Don Quixote and his squire having got all 
 things in readiness — the one having pacified his wife, and the other 
 his niece and housekeeper — towards the evening, without being seen 
 by any body but the bachelor, who would needs accompany them 
 about half a league from the village, they set forward for Toboso. 
 The knight mounted his Eozinante, and Sancho his trusty Dapple, his 
 wallet well stuffed with provisions, and his purse with money, which 
 Don Quixote gave him to defray expenses,. At last Samson took his 
 'eave, desiring ;he champion to give him, from time to time, an ac- 
 
192 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 count of his success, that, according to the laws of friendship, he 
 might sympathise in his good or evil fortune. Don Quixote made 
 liim a promise, and then they parted ; Samson went home, and the 
 knight and squire continued their journey for the great city of To- 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 Don Quixote's success in Ms journey to visit the Lady Dulcinea del 
 
 Toboso. 
 
 Don Quixote and his squire were no sooner parted from the bache- 
 lor, but Eozinante began to neigh, and Dapple to bray ; which both 
 the knight and the squire interpreted as good omens, and most fortu- 
 nate presages of their success ; though the truth of the story is, that 
 as Dapple's braying exceeded Rozinante's neighing, Sancho concluded 
 that his fortune should out-rival and eclipse his master's ; which in- 
 ference I will not say he drew from some principles in judicial astrolo- 
 gy, in which he was undoubtedly well grounded, though the history 
 is silent in that particular ; however, it is recorded of him that often- 
 times upon the falling or stumbling of hi% ass, he wished he had not 
 gone abroad that day, and from such accidents prognosticated nothing 
 but dislocation of joints and breaking of ribs ; and notwithstanding 
 his foolish character, this was no bad observation. " Friend Sancho," 
 said Don Quixote to him, " I find the approaching night will overtake 
 us ere we can reach Toboso, where, before I enter upon any expedi- 
 tion, I am resolved to pay my vows, receive my benediction, and take 
 my leave of the peerless Dulcinea ; being assured after that of a 
 happy issue in the most dangerous adventures ; for nothing in this 
 world inspires a fcnight-errant with so much valour as the smiles and 
 favourable aspect of his mistress." " I am of your mind," quoth 
 Sancho ; " but I am afraid, sir, you will hardly come at her to speak 
 with her, at least not to meet her in a place where she may give you 
 her blessing, unless she throw it over the mud-wall of the yard, 
 where I first saw her when I carried her the news of your pranks in 
 the midst of Sierra Morena." " Mud-wall, dost thou say } '" cried 
 Don Quixote : " mistaken fool, that wall could have no existence but 
 m thy muddy understanding ; it is a mere creature of thy dirty fan- 
 cy ; for that never-duly-celebrated paragon of beauty and gentility 
 was then undoubtedly in some court, in some stately gallery or walk ; 
 or, as it is properly called, in some sumptuous and royal palace." 
 " It may be so," said Sancho, " though, so far as I can remember, it 
 seemed to me neither better nor worse than a mud-wall." " It is no 
 
CH. XL.] DON QUIXOTE. 193 
 
 matter," replied the knight, " let us go thither ; I will visit my dear 
 Dulcinea ; let me but see her, though it be over a. mud-wall, through 
 a chink of a cottage, or the pales of a garden, at a lattice, or any- 
 where ; which way soever the least beam from her bright eyes reaches 
 mine, it will so enlighten my mind, so fortify my heart, and invig- 
 orate every faculty of ray being, that no mortal will be able to rival 
 me in prudence and valour." " Troth ! sir," quoth Sancho, " when 
 I beheld that same sun of a lady, methought it did not shine so bright 
 as to cast forth any beams at all; but mayhaps the reason was, 
 that the dust of the grain she was winnowing raised a cloud about tier 
 face, and made her look somewhat dull." " I tell thee again, fool," 
 said Don Quixote, " thy imagination is dusty and foul ; will it never 
 be beaten out of thy stupid brain, that my lady Dulcinea was winnow- 
 ing ? Are such exercises used by persons of her quality, whose 
 recreations are always noble, and such as display an air of greatness 
 suitable to their birth and dignity .? Canst thou not remember the 
 verses of our poet, when he recounts the employments of the four 
 nymphs at their crystal mansions, when they advanced their heads 
 above the streams of the lovely Tagus, arid sat upon the grass work- 
 ing those rich embroideries, where silk and gold, and pearl embossed, 
 were so curiously interwoven, and which that ingenious bard so art- 
 fully describes .' So was my princess employed when she blessed 
 thee with her sight ; but the envious malice of some base necroman- 
 cer fascinated thy sight, as it represents whatever is most grateful to 
 me in different and displeasing shapes. And this makes me fear that 
 if the history of my achievements, which they tell me is in print, has 
 been written by some magician who is no well»wisher to my glory, he 
 has undoubtedly delivered many things with partiality, misrepresent- 
 ed my life, inserting a hundred falsehoods for one truth, and divert- 
 ing himself with the relation of idle stories, foreign to the purpose, 
 and unsuitable to the character of a true history. O envy ! . envy ! 
 thou gnawing worm of virtue, and spring of infinite mischiefs ! there 
 is no other vice, my Sancho, but pleads some pleasure in its excuse ; 
 but envy is always attended by disgust, rancour, and distracting rage." 
 " I am much of your mind," said Sancho ; " and I think, in the same 
 book which neighbour Carrasco told us he had read of our lives, the 
 story makes bold with my credit, and has handled it at a strange rate, 
 and has dragged it about the kennels, as a body may- say. Well, 
 now, as I am an honest man, I never spoke an ill word of a magi- 
 cian in my bom days ; and I think they need not envy my condition 
 so much. The truth is, I am somewhat malicious ; I have my roguish 
 tricks now and then ; but I was ever counted more fool than knave 
 for all that, and so indeed I was bred and born ; and if there were 
 noUiing else in me but my religion — for I firmly believe whatever 
 our holy Church believes, and I hate the infidels mortaUy — these 
 17 13 
 
194 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 same historians should take pity on me, and spare me a little in the^i 
 books. But let them say on to the end of the chapter ; naked 1 came 
 into the world, and naked must go out. It is all a case to Sancho, I 
 can neither win nor lose by the bargain : and so my name be in print, 
 and handed about, I care not a fig for the worst they can say of me." 
 *' What thou sayest, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, " puts me in 
 mind of a story. A celebrated poet of our times wrote a very scur- 
 rilous and abusive lampoon upon all the intriguing ladies of the court, 
 forbearing to name one, as not being sure whether she deserved to be 
 put into the catalogue or not ; but the lady not finding herself there, 
 was not a little afironted at the omission, and made a great complaint 
 to the poet, asking him what he had seen in her, that he should leave 
 her out of his list ; desiring him at the same time to enlarge his satire 
 and put her in, or expect to hear farther from her. The author obey- 
 ed her commands, and gave her a character with a vengeance ; and 
 to her great satisfaction made her as famous for infamy as any woman 
 about the town. Such another- story is that of Diana's temple, one 
 of the seven wonders of the world, burnt by an obscure fellow 
 merely to eternize his name ; which, in spite of an edict that enjoined 
 all people never to mention it, either by word of mouth or in writing, 
 yet is still known to have been Erostratus. The story of the great 
 Emperor Charles the Fifth and a Roman knight, upon a certain occa- 
 sion, is much the same. The emperor had a great desire to see the 
 famous temple once called the Pantheon, but now more happily the 
 church of All Saints. It is the only entire edifice remaining of 
 heathen Rome, and that which best gives an idea of the glory and 
 magnificence of its great founders. It is built in the shape of a half 
 orange, of a vast extent, and very lightsome ; though it admits no 
 light but at one window, or, to speak more properly, at a round aper- 
 ture on the top of the roof. The emperor being got up thi!ier, and 
 looking down from the brink upon the fabric, with a Roman knight by 
 him, who shewed all the beauties of that vast edifice : after they were 
 gone from the place, says the knight, addressing the emperor, ' It 
 came into my head a thousand' times, sacred sir, to embrace your 
 majesty, and cast myself with you from, the top of the church to the 
 bottom, that I might thus purchase an immortal name.' ' I thank you,' 
 said the emperor, ' for not doing it ; and for the future I will give you 
 no opportunity to put your loyalty to such a test. Therefore I banish 
 you my presence for ever.' Which done, he bestowed some con- 
 siderable favour on him. I tell thee, Sancho, this desire of honour is 
 a strange bewitching thing. What dost thou think made Horatius, 
 armed at all points, plunge headlong from the bridge into the rapid 
 Tiber ? What prompted Curtius to leap into the profound flaming 
 gulf ? What made Mutius burn his hand .' What forced Caesar over 
 5ie Rubicon, spite of all the omens that dissuaded his passage ? And 
 
CH. XL.] DON QUIXOTE. 195 
 
 to instance a more modern example, what made the undaunted Span- 
 iards sink their ships whe2 under the most eourteous Cortez, but that' 
 scorning the stale honour of this so often conquered world, they 
 sought a maiden glory in a new scene of victory ? These, and a 
 multiplicity of other great actions are owing to the immediate thirst 
 and desire of fame, which mortals expect as the proper price and im- 
 mortal recompense of their great actions. But we that are Christian 
 catholic knights-errant must fix our hopes upon a higher reward, 
 placed in the eternal and celestial regions, where we may expect a 
 permanent honour and complete happiness ; not like the vanity of 
 fame, which at best is but the shadow of great actions, and must 
 necessarily vanish, when destructive time has eat away the substance 
 which it followed. So, my Sancho, since we expect a Christian re- 
 ward, we must suit our actions to the rules of Christianity. In giants 
 we must kill pride and arrogance ; but our greatest foes, and whom 
 we must chiefly combat, are within. Envy we must overcome by 
 generosity and nobleness of soul ; anger, by a reposed and easy 
 mind ; riot and drowsiness, by vigilance and temperance ; and sloth, 
 by our indefatigable peregrinations through the universe, to seek oc- 
 casions of military as well as Christian honours. This, Sancho, is 
 the road to lasting fame, and a good and honourable renown." 
 
 In such discourses as these the knight and squire passed the night 
 and the whole succeeding day, without encountering any occasion to 
 signalize themselves ; at which Don Quixote was very much concern- 
 ed. At last, towards evening the next day, they discovend the good- 
 ly city of Toboso, which revived the knight's spirits wonderfully, but 
 had a quite contrary effect on his squire, because he did not know the 
 house where Dulcinea lived any more than his master. So that the 
 one was mad till he saw her, and the other very melancholic and dis- 
 turbed in mind because he had never seen her ; nor did he know what 
 to do, should his master send him to Toboso. However, as Don 
 Quixote would not make his entry in the daytime, they spent the 
 evening among some oaks not far distant from the place, till the pre- 
 fixed moment came ; then they entered the city, where they met with 
 adventures indeed. 
 
196 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 That gives an account of things which you will know when you have 
 
 read it. 
 
 The sable night had spun out half her course, when Don Quixote 
 and Sancho entered Toboso. A profound silence reigned over all the 
 town, and the inhabitants were fast asleep, and stretched out at their 
 ease. Nothing disturbed the general tranquillity but now and then 
 the barking of dogs, that wounded Don Quixote's ears, but more poor 
 Sancho's heart. Sometimes an ass brayed, hogs grunted, cats mewed ; 
 which jarring mixture of sounds was not a little augmented by the 
 stillness and serenity of the night, and filled the enamoured cham- 
 pion's head with a thousand inauspicious chimeras. Nevertheless he 
 said, " Sancho, lead on to Dulcinea's palace ; it is possible, we may 
 find her awake." *' To what palace .' " answered Sancho ; " that in 
 which I saw her highness was but a little mean house." " It was, I 
 suppose, some small apartment of her castle which she had retired 
 to," said the knight, " to amuse herself with her damsels, as is usual 
 with great ladies and princesses." "Since your worship," quoth 
 Sancho, " will needs have my Lady Dulcinea's house to be a castle, 
 is this an hour to find the gates open i " " First, however, let ua 
 find this castle,'' replied Don Quixote, " and then I will tell thee how 
 to act ; — but look, my eyes deceive me, or that huge dark pile yon- 
 der riiust be Dulcinea's palace." " Then lead on, sir," said Sancho ; 
 " it may be so ; though, if I were to see it with my eyes, I will be- 
 lieve it just as much as that it is now day." 
 
 The Don 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 God we be not come to our graves ; for it is no good sign to be 
 rambling about churchyards at such hours, and especially since I 
 have already told your worship that this same lady's house stands in a 
 blind alley." " Blockhead ! " said the knight ; " where ha^t thou 
 ever found castles and royal palaces built in blind alleys } " " Sir," 
 said Sancho, " each country has its customs ; so perhaps it is the 
 fashion here to build your palaces in alleys ; and so I beseech your 
 worship to let me look among these la;nes and alleys just before me ; 
 and perhaps I may pop upon this same palace, which I wish I may 
 Bee devoured by dogs for 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 
 
CH. XLI.| DON QUIXOTE. 197 
 
 bucket." "I will curb myself," answered Sancho;'"but I tannot 
 think that, though I have seen the house but once, your worship will 
 needs have me find it at midnight, when you cannot find it yourself, 
 though you must have seen it thousands of times." " Thou wilt 
 make me desperate, Sancho," quoth Don Quixote ; " come hither, 
 heretic ; have I not told thee a thousand times that I never saw the 
 peerless Dulcinea in my life, nor ever stepped over the threshold of 
 her palace, and that I am enamoured by report alone, and the great 
 fame of her wit and beauty ? " " I hear it now," said Sancho ; " and 
 to tell 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," re- 
 plied 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 Dul- 
 cinea is than I can buffet the moon." " Sancho, Sancho," answered 
 Don Quixote, " there is a time to jest, and a time when jests are un- 
 seasonable. What ! because I say that I never saw nor spoke to the 
 mistress of my soul, must thou say so likewise, when thou knowest it 
 to be untrue .' " 
 
 'They were here interrupted by the approach of a man with two 
 mules ; and by the sound of a ploughshare, our travellers rightly 
 guessed that he was a husbandman. 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," answered 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 across the 
 road, can give your worship an account of that same lady princess ; 
 for they keep a register of all the inhabitants of Tobo.so ; not that 
 I think there is any princess living here, though thtr'^ aru several 
 great ladies that may every one be a princess in her own ibouse." 
 " Among those, friend," said the Don, " may be -her for whom I am 
 inquiring." " Not unlikely," said the ploughman, " and so God speed 
 you ; for it will soon be daybreak." Then pricking on his mules, he 
 waited for no more questions. 
 
 Sancho seeing his master perplexed, said to him, " Sir, the day 
 comes on apace, a/id we shall soon have the sun upon us ; so I think 
 'we had better get out of this place, and, while your worship takes 
 shelter in some wood, I will leave not a corner 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 L will speak to her ladyship, 
 and tell her where your worship is waiting 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 sen- 
 tences in a few words. Thy counsel I relish much, and shall most 
 17* 
 
198 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 willingly folbw it. Come on, and let us seek for some shelter : then 
 ahalt thou return and seek out my lady, from whose discretion and 
 courtesy I expect more than miraculous favours." Sancho was im- 
 patient till he got his master out of the town, lest his tricks should be 
 detected ; he therefore hastened on, and when they had gone about 
 two miles, the knight retired to a shady grove, while the squire returned 
 in quest of the Lady Dulcinea ; on which embassy things occurred 
 well worthy of credit and renewed attention. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIl. 
 
 Wherein is related the stratagem practised by Sancho, of enchanting 
 the Lady Dulcinea ; mth other events no less ludicrous than true. 
 
 The knight's frenzy appears now to be carried to an excess beyond 
 all conception. Having retired into a grove near the city of Toboso, 
 he 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 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 ^tandest 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 : in 
 short, observe alU 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, San- 
 cho, that with lovers the external actions and gestures are couriers, 
 which bear authentic tidings of what is passing in the interior of the 
 soul. Go, friend, and be thou more successful than my anxious heart 
 will bode during the painful period of thy absence." " I will go, 
 and return quickly," quoth Sancho. " In the mean time, good sir, 
 cheer up, and remember the saying, that ' A good heart breaks bad 
 luck ; ' and ' If there is no hook, there is no bacon ; ' and .' Where we 
 least expect i* <he hare starts : ' this I say, because, though we could 
 
2H. XLII.] DON QUIXOTE. 199 
 
 not find the castle or palace of my Lady Dulcinea vn 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 at- 
 tend Sancho Panza, who departed no less perplexed and thoughtful ; 
 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 him- 
 self. " Tell me now, 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." "AH this is mighty well; and do you 
 know her house, Sancho ? " " My master says it must be some roy- 
 al palace or stately CEistle." " And have you ever seen her .? ' 
 " Neither I nor my master have ever seen her ! — 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, ' Shew 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 be- 
 ing 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 that a country girl (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 miSe 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 haa 
 changed his lady's form, out of pure spite." 
 
 This project set Sancho's spirit at rest, and he reckoned his busi- 
 ness ?s good as half done ; so he stayed where he was till towards 
 
800 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 evening, that Don Quixote might suppose him travelling on his mis 
 sion. Fortunately for him, just as he was going to mount his Dapple 
 he espied three country girls coming from Toboso, each mounted or. 
 a young ass. Sancho no sooner got sight of them than he rode back, 
 at a good' pace to seek his master Don Quixote, whom he found 
 breathing a thousand sighs and amorous lamentations. When Don 
 Quixote saw him, he said, " Well, friend Sancho, am I to mark this' 
 day with a white or a black stone ? " " Your worship," answered 
 Sancho, " had better mark it with red ochre ! " " Thou bringest me 
 ■ good news, then ? " cried Don Quixote. " So good," answered San- 
 cho, " that your worship has only to clap spurs to Eozinante, and gel 
 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 
 worship, only to be found out the next moment > Come, sir, put on, 
 and you will see the princess, our mistress, all ari'ayed and adorned 
 — in short, like herself. She and her damsels are one blaze of flam- 
 ing gold ; all strings of pearls, all diainonds, 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 pyed 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 mis- 
 tress 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 ray 
 next adventure." 
 
 They were now got out of the woods, and saw the three girls very 
 near. Don Quixote Jooked eagerly along the road towards Toboso, 
 and, seeing nobody but the three girls, he asked Sancho, in much agi- 
 tation, 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 hot see them now before you, shining 
 like the sun at noon-day .' " " I see only three country girls," an- 
 swered Don Quixote, " on three asses." " Now, keep me from mis- 
 chief!" answered Sancho; "is it possible that three belfnsys, or 
 how do you call them, white as the driven snowj should look to you 
 like asses ? As I am alive, 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 ihou 
 Sancho Panza ; at least so they seem to me." " Sir," quoth Sanoho 
 
JH. XLU.] DON QUIXOTE. 20i 
 
 ' 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 
 your grace and good-liking your captive knight, who stands there 
 turned into stone, all disorder and without any pulse, to find himself 
 before your magnificent presence. I am Sancho Panza, his squire, 
 and he is that 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 girls were also surprised to find themselves stop- 
 ped 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 San 
 cho, " 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. 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 5 if he has not converted mine also into that of 
 some goblin, to render it horrible to thy view, bestow on me one 
 kind look, and let this submissive posture, these bended knees, before 
 thy disguised beauty, declare the humility with which my soul adores 
 thee ! " " Marry come up," quoth the girl, " 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 ijo sooner at liberty than, 
 pricking her beast with a sharp-pointed stick which she held in her 
 hand, she scoured along the field ; but the ass, smarting more than 
 usual under the goad, began' to kick and wince in such a manner that 
 down came the Lady Dulcinea to the ground. Don Quixote was pro 
 
202 DON QDIXOTE. 
 
 ceeding to raise his enchanted mistress, but the lady saved him thai 
 trouble ; for immediately upon getting up from the ground she retired 
 three or four steps back, took a little run, then clapping both handa 
 upon the ass's crupper, jumped into ihe saddle lighter than a falcon, 
 and seated herself astride like a man. " By Saint'Eoque ! " cried 
 Sancho, " our lady mistress is lighter than a bird, and could teadh the 
 nimblest Cordovan or Mexican how to mount : she springs into the 
 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 at 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 en- 
 chanters I Mark how far their malice extends, even to depriving 
 me of the pleasure of seeing my mistress in her own proper form ! 
 Surely I was born to be an example of wretchedness, and the butt 
 and mark at which all the arrows of ill -fortune are aimed 1 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. But tell me, Sancho, that which to me appeared tc 
 be a pannel, was it a side-saddle or a pillion ? " " It was a side, 
 saddle," answered Sancho,, " with a field covering, worth half a king- 
 dom for the richness of it." " And that I should not see all this I " 
 exclaimed Don Quixote. " Again I say, and a thousand times wilFl 
 repeat it, I am the most unfortunate of men ! " The sly rogue 
 Sancho had much difficulty to forbear laughing to think how finely 
 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 import- 
 ance, variety, and novelty, well deserve to be recorded and read. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 Of the strange adventure which befell the valorous Don Quixote with 
 the cart, or DeaiVs caravan. 
 
 Don Quixote proceeded on his way at a slow pace, exceedingly pen 
 sive, 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 
 tote. In these meditations his mind was so absorbed, that, without 
 
CH. XLIII.] DON QUIXOTE. 203 
 
 perceiving it, tie bridle dropped on Eozinai. (e'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 shew that y«u have 
 courage befitting a knight-errant ! Why are you so cast down ? 
 Are we here or in France ?. The welfare of a single knight-errant 
 is of more consequence than all the enchantments and transforma- 
 tions on earth." " Peace, Sancho," cried Don Quixote, in no very 
 faint voice ; " peace, I say, and utter no blasphemies against that en- 
 chanted ladyj of whose disgrace and misfortune I am the sole cause, 
 since they proceed entirely from the envy that the wicked bear to me." 
 " So say I," quoth Sancho ; " for who saw her then and sees her now. 
 his heart must melt with grief, I vow." 
 
 Don Quixote would have answered Sancho, but was prevented by 
 the passing of a cart across the road, full of the strangest looking peo- 
 ple imaginable ; it was without any awning above, or covering to the 
 sides, and the carter who drove the rhules had the appearance of a 
 frightful demon. The first figure that caught Don Quixote's atten- 
 tion 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, on 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 complete armour; only instead 
 of a morion or casque, he wore a hat with a large plume of feathers 
 of divers colours ; and there were several other persons of equal di- 
 versity 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 some new and perilous adventure ; and under 
 this impression, with a resolution prepared for any danger, he planted 
 himself just before the cart, and cried out in a loud menacing voice, 
 " Carter, coachman, or devil, or whatever be thy denomination, tell 
 me instantly what thou art, whither going, and whc fre the persons 
 thou conveyest in that vehicle, which by its freight boks like' Cha- 
 ron's ferry-boat } " To which the man calmly replied, " Sir, we are 
 travelling players, belonging to Angulo el Malo's company. To-day 
 being the Octave of Corpus Christi, we have been performing a piece 
 representing the ' Cortes of Death ; ' this evening we are to play i 
 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 repre- 
 sents Death; he an 'angel ; that woman, who is our author's wife, 
 olays a queen ; the other a soldier ; this one an emperor ; and I am 
 
204 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the devil, one of the principal personages of the diama ; for in this 
 company I have all the chief parts. If your worship desires any fur 
 ther information, I am ready to answer you." " On the faith of a 
 knight," answered Don Quixote, " when I first espied this cart I 
 imagined some great adventure offered itself ; but appearances are 
 not always to be trusted. God be with you, good people ; go and 
 perform your play ; and if there be any thing in which I may be of 
 service to you, command me, for I will do it most readily, having been 
 from my youth a great admirer of masques and theatrical representa- 
 tions." 
 
 While they were speaking, one of the motley crew came up ca- 
 pering towards them, in an antic dressj 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 thera against the ground close under the nose of Kozinante, 
 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 scam- 
 pered 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 
 Eozinante, who fell with his master, — the usual termination of Kozi- 
 nante's frolics. Sancho had no sooner dismounted to assist Don 
 Quixote than the bladder-dancing fellow 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 mo- 
 ment Dapple's flight and his master'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 
 aifection for his ass ; though as often as he saw the bladders hoisted 
 in the air and fall on 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 distress he came up to Don Quixote, who was in a much 
 worse plight than he could have wished ; and as he helped him to 
 get upon Eozinante, 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," replied Don 
 Quixote, " though he should hide himself in the deepest and darkest 
 dungeon of his dominions. Follow me, Sancho ; for the cart move* 
 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 scoundrel has left Dapple and gone his way." And so 
 'a was ; for Dapple and the devil havinj> tumbled, as well as £ozi- 
 
CH. XLIII.J DON QUIXOTE. 205 
 
 nante and his master, the merry imp left him and made off on foot 
 to the village while Dapple turned back to his rightful owner. 
 " Nevertheless," said Don Quixote, " 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. I have seen a play- 
 er taken up for two murders, and get off scot-free. As they are 
 merry folks and give pleasure, every body favours them, and is ready 
 to stand 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 fa- 
 voured 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 designs 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 ; apd, all 
 armed with stones, waited in battle-array, ready to receive Don Quix- 
 ote at the points of their pebbles. Don Quixote, seeing the gallant 
 squadron, with arms uplifted, ready to discharge such a fearful vol- 
 ley, 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. " It is mere madness, sir," said he, " to at- 
 tempt such an enterprise. Pray consider there is no armour proof 
 against stones and bricks, unless you could thrust yourself into a bell 
 of brass. Besides, it is not courage, but rashness, for one man sin- 
 gly to encounter an army, where Death is present, and where empe- 
 rors 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 thetti." 
 " 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 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 
 ray 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, discreet Sancho, Christian Sancho, and 
 18 
 
206 Don C{UixoT£. 
 
 honest Sancho," replied Don Quixote, " let us leave these uhantoms, 
 and seek better and more substantial adventures ; for this country, 1 
 see, is likely to afford us many and very extraordinary ones." He 
 then wheeled Rozinante about ; Sancho took his Dapple ; and Death, 
 with his flying squadron, having returned to their cart, each pursued 
 their way. Thus happily terminated the awful adventure of Death's 
 caravan — thanks to the wholesome advice that Sancho Panza gave his 
 master, who the next day encountering an enamoured knight-errant, met 
 with an adventure not a whit less important than the one just related. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 - Of the strange adventure which befell the valorous Don Quixote with 
 the brave Knight of the Mirrors. 
 
 Don Quixote and his squire passed the night following their encoun- 
 ter with Death under some tall, umbrageous trees ; and as they were 
 refreshing themselves, by Sancho's advice, from the store of pro- 
 visions 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 per 
 ibrce, and delivered them into thy han(Js." " 'l?he crowns and scep- 
 tres 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 decorations of a play should be 
 otherwise than counterfeit, like the drama itself, which I would have 
 thee hold in due, estimation, as well as the actors and authors; for 
 they are all instruments of much benefit to the commonwealth, con- 
 tinually presenting a mirror before our eyes, in which we see lively 
 representations of the actions of human life ; nothing, indeed, more 
 truly portrays to us what we are, and what we should be, than the 
 drama. Tell me, hast thou never seen a play in which kings, em- 
 perors, popes, lords, and ladies are introduced, with divers other per- 
 sonages ; one acting the ruffian, another the knave ; one the merchant, 
 another the soldier ; one a designing fool, another a foolish lover , 
 and observed that, when the play is done, and the actors undressed, 
 they are all again upon a level .' " " Yes, marry have I," quoth 
 Sancho. " The very same thing, then," said Don Quixote, " happens 
 OH the stage of this world, on which some play the part of emperors 
 
3H. XLIV.] DON QUIXOTE. 207 
 
 Others of popes — in short, every part that can be introdjced in a 
 comedy ; but at the conclusion of this drama of life, death strips us 
 of the robes which made the difference between man and man, and 
 leaves us all on one level in the grave." " A brave comparison ! " 
 quoth Sancho; "though not so new but that I have heard it many 
 times, as well as that of the game of 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 to- 
 gether 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 conver- 
 sation has been the dung laid upon the barren soil of my poor wit, 
 and the tillage has been the time I have been in your service and 
 company ; by which I hope to produce fruit like any 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 pommel of the saddle, but by no 
 means to remove the saddle. 
 
 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, " Alight, 
 friend-, and unbridle the horses ; for this place will afford them pas- 
 ture, and offers to me that silence and solitude which my pensive 
 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 dif- 
 
208 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ficulty roused him, he said in a low voice, " Friend Sancho, we have 
 got an adventure here." " God send it be a good one ! " answered 
 Sancho , " and pray, sir, where may this same adventure be ? " 
 " Where, sayest thou, Sancho ? " 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 nimself upon the ground, as if much oppressed 
 with grief, and his armour rattled as he fell." " But bow do you 
 ■ know," quoth Sancho, " that this is an adventure ? " "Though I cannot 
 yet positively call it an adventure, it has the usual signs of one : but lis- 
 ten, 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." Sancho would have replied ; but the Knight of the Wood, 
 whose voice was only moderatelj' good, began to sing, and they both 
 attentively listened to the following : 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Bright queen, how shall your laving slave 
 
 Be sure not to displease ; 
 Some rule of duty let him crave; 
 
 He begs no other ease. 
 
 Say, must I die, or hopeless live f 
 
 I'll act as you ordain ; 
 Despair a silent death shall give. 
 
 Or Love himself complain. 
 
 My heart, though soft as wax, will prove 
 
 Like diamonds firm and true: 
 For what th* impression can remove, , 
 
 That's stamp'd by love and }cu 1 
 
 With a deep sigh, that seemed to be drawn from the very bottom of 
 his heart, the Knight of the Wood ended his song ; and after some 
 pause, in a plaintive and dolorous voice, he exclaimed, " O thou most 
 beautiful and most ungrateful of woman-kind ! O 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 acknowledgment, noi' 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 farther declaration." "Ah, marry will he," replied 
 Sancho, " for he seems to be in a humourlo complain for a month to 
 
CH. XLIV.J DON QUIXOTE. 209 
 
 come.' But they were mistaken ; for the . knight, hearing voices 
 near them, proceeded no farther in his lamentation, 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, fol- 
 lowed 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 
 vou •profess the order of chivalry, it is sufficient that I find you here, 
 encompassed by solitude and the cold dews of night, the proper sta- 
 tion for knights-errant." " A knight I am," replied Don Quixote, 
 " and of the order you name ; and although my heart is the mEinsion 
 of misery and woe, yet can 1 sympathise in the sorrows of others , 
 from the strain I just now heard from you, I conclude that you 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 mortal fury. " Perchance you too are in love, sir knight," 
 said he of the Wood to Don Quixote. " Such is my cruel destiny," 
 answered Don Quixote ; " though the sorrows that may arise from 
 well-placed affections ought rather to be accounted blessings than ca- 
 lamities." " That is true," replied the Knight of the Wood, ," pro- 
 vided 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 where 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 where I was speaking." " Truly," quoth Sancho, " I have talked, 
 
 and can talk before one as good as r- and perhaps, but let 
 
 that rest: perhaps the less said the better." The Knight of the 
 Wood's squire now took Sancho by the arm, and said, " Let us two 
 go where we may chat squire-like together, and leave these masters 
 of ours to talk over their loves to each other ; for I warrant they will 
 not have done before to-morrow morning." " With all my heart," 
 quoth Sancho, " and 1 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 diajpgue passed between them as liw^iy 
 9S that of their masters was grave, 
 
 IS* 14 
 
210 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 WTiurein^is continued the adventure of the Knight of the Wood. 
 with the wise and witty dialogue between the two Squirts. 
 
 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 God laid upon our first parents." " You may say too, 
 that we eat it by the frost of our bodies," added Sancho ; " for who 
 has to bear more cold, as well as heat, than your miserable squires 
 to knight-errantry .'' It would not be quite so bad if we could always 
 get something to eat, for good fare lessens care ; but how often we 
 must pass whole days without breaking our fast — unless it be upon 
 air! " "All this may be endured," quoth he of the Wood, " with 
 the hopes of reward ; for that knight-errant must be unlucky indeed 
 who does not 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 island ; and he is so noble, and so generous, that he has pro- 
 mised 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 
 BO can bestow rewards of that kind on his squires ; mine is only a 
 layman. Some of his wise friends advised him once to be an arch- 
 bishop, but he would be nothing but an emperor, and I tremble all 
 the while lest he should take a liking to the church ; because, you 
 must know, I am not gifted that way ; to say the truth, sir, though I 
 look like a man, I am a very beast in such 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 horne, 
 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 
 angling-rod to enjoy himse/f with at home." " I am not without these 
 things," answered Sancho ; " it is true I have no horse, but then 1 
 have an ass which is worth twice as much as my master's steed. 1 
 would not swap with him, though he should offer me four bushels of 
 barley to boot ; no, that would not I, though you may take for a 
 joke the price J set upon my Dapple, — for dapple, sir, is tne co- 
 
^H. XLV.] DON QUIXOTE. 211 
 
 lour 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 I have two," quoth 
 Sancho, " fit to be presented to the Pope himself in person ; especial- 
 ly my girl that I am breeding up for a countess, if it please God, in 
 spite of her mother. But I beseech God to deliver me 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, my fancy is contin- 
 ually setfing before my eyes, here, there, and everywhere, a bag full 
 of gold pistoles, so that methinks at every step I am laying my hand 
 upon it, hugging it, and carrying it home, buying lands, settling rents, 
 and living like a prince ; and while this runs in my bead, I can bear 
 all the toil which must be suffered with this foolish master of mine, 
 vho, 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, ' that covetousness bursts the bag.' Truly, 
 fnend, 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 is searching after that which, 
 when found, may chance to hit him in the teeth." " By the way, 
 he is in love, it seems ? " said Sancho. " Yes," quoth he of the 
 Wood, " with one Casildea de Vandalia, one of the most whimsical 
 dames in the world ; but that is not the foot he halts on at present j 
 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 placep,'* 
 replied Sancho ; " in other folks' houses they boil beans, but in mine 
 whole kettles full. Madness will have more followers than discretion j 
 but if the common saying is true, that there is some comfort in hav- 
 ing partners in grief, I may comfort myself with you, who serve asi 
 crack-brained a master as my own." " Crack-brained, but valiant," 
 answered he of the Wood, " and more knavish than either." " Mine," 
 answered Sancho, " has nothing of the knave in him ; so far from it, 
 he has a soul as pure as a pitcher, and would not harm a fly ; he 
 bears no malice, and a child may persuade him it is night at noon- 
 day ; for which I love him as my life, and cannot find it in my 
 heart to leave . him, in spite of all his pranks." " For all that, 
 brother," quoth he of the Wood, " if the blind lead the blind, both 
 may fall into the ditch We had better turn us fairly about, and go 
 back to our homes ; for they who seek adventures find them some* 
 times tp their cost. 
 
812 DOlt QUIXOTE. 
 
 "But methinks," said he, ",we have talked till our throats ara 
 dry ; but I have got, hanging at my saddle-bow, that which will re- 
 fresh them ; " when, rising up, he quickly produced a large bottle of 
 wine, and a pastry half-a-yard long, without any exaggeration ; for 
 it was made of so large a rabbit that Sancho ((bought verily it must 
 contain a whole goat, or at least a kid; and, after due examination, 
 ' How," said he, " do you carry such things about with you ? " 
 " Why, what do you think ? " answered the other ; " did you take nie 
 for some starveling squire ? — No, no, I have a better cupboard be- 
 hind 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 banquet 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 dozen of carobes to bear it company, with 
 as many filberts — thanks to my master's stinginess, and to the fancy 
 he has taken that knights-errant ought to be fed, like cattle, upOn 
 roots arid wild herbs." " Troth, brother," replied he of the Wood, 
 " I have no stomach for your wild pears, nor sweet thistles, nor your 
 mountam 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 gaz- 
 ing 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 rogue ! How excellent it is ! But tell me,. by all you 
 love best, is not this wine of Ciudad Real .' " " Thou art a rare 
 taster," answered he of the Wood ; " it is indeed of . no other growth, 
 and has,'besides, some years over its head." " Trust me for that," 
 quoth Sancho ; " depend upon it, I always hit right, and can guess to 
 a hair. 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 knpw I have had in my family, by the 
 father's side, two of the rarest tasters that were ever known in Jm 
 Mancha ; and I will give you proof of their skill. A certain hogs» 
 head was given to each of them to taste, and their opinion asked as 
 to the condition, quality, goodness, or badness, of the wine. One 
 tried it with the tip of his tongue ; the other only put it to 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 oi 
 
CH. XLVI.] DON QUIXOTE. 213 
 
 leather. Notwithstanding this, the two famous tasters stood positively 
 to what they had said. Time went on ; the wine was sold off, and, 
 on cleanhig 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 be- 
 ing the case," quoth he of 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." " I 
 will serve my master till he reaches Saragosa," quoth Sancho, " then, 
 mayhkp, we shall turn over a new leaf." 
 
 Thus the good squires went on talking and eating and drinking, ' 
 until it was full time that sleep should give their tongues a respite and 
 allay their thirst, for to quench it seemed to be impossible ; and both 
 of them, still keeping hold, of the almost empty bottle, fell asleep ; in 
 which situation we will leave them at present, to relate what passed 
 between the two knights. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 Continuation again of the Adventure of the Knight of the Wood. 
 
 Much conversation passed between the two knights. Among othei 
 things, he of the Wood said to Don Quixote, " In fact, sir knight, 1 
 must confess that, by destiny, or rather by choice, I became enamour- 
 ed of the peerless Casildea de Vandalia : — ■ peerless I call her, be- 
 cause she is without her peer, either in rank, beauty, or form. Casil- 
 dea repaid my honourable and virtuous passion by employing me as 
 Hercules was employed by his stepmother, in many and various 
 perils ; promising me, at the end of each of them, that the next 
 should crown my hopes ; but, alas ! she still goes on, adding link after 
 link to the chain of my labours, insomuch that they are now count- 
 less ; nor can I tell when they, are to cease, and my tender wishes be 
 gratified. One time she commanded me to go and challenge Giralda, 
 the famous giantess of Seville, who is as stout and strong as if she 
 were made of brass, and, though never stirring from one spot, is the 
 most changeable and unsteady woman in the world. I came, I saw, 
 I conquered ; I made her stand still, and fixed her to a point ; for, 
 during a whole week, no wind blew but from the north. Another 
 time she commanded me to weigh those ancient statues, the fierce 
 bulls of Guisando, an enterprise better suited to a porter than a knight 
 Another time she commanded me to plunge headlong into Cabra's 
 cave (direful mandate !) and bring her a particular detail of all that 
 lies enclosed within its dark abyss. I stopped the motion of the 
 Giralda, I weighed the bulls of Guisando, I plunged headlong into the 
 
214 DON «t7IX0TE. 
 
 caiern of Cabra and brought to light its hidden secrets ; yet still my 
 hopes are dead ! In short, she has now commanded me to travel 
 over all the provinces of Spain, and compel every knight whom 1 
 meet to confess that in beauty she excels all others now in existence ; 
 and that 1 am the most valiant and the most enamoured knight in the 
 universe. In obedience to this command I have already traversed the 
 greatest part of Spain, and have vanquished divers knights who have 
 had the presumption to contradict me. But what I value myself' most 
 upon is having vanquished, in single combat, that renowned knight 
 Don Quixote de la Mancha, and made him confess that my Casildea 
 is more beautiful than his Dulcinea ; and I reckon that, in this con- 
 quest alone, I have vanquished all the knights in the world ; for this 
 Don Quixote has conquered them all, and I,' having overcome him, 
 his glory, his fame, and his honour, are, consequently, transferred to 
 me. All the innumerable exploits of the said Don Quixote 1 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 at the point of giving him the 
 lie ; but he restrained himself, that he might convict him of falsehood 
 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 mariy like him." " How say you .'' " 
 cried he of the Wood ; " as "sure as I am here alone, I fought with 
 Don Quixote, vanquished him, and made him surrender to me ! He 
 is a man of an erect figure, withered face, long and meagre limbs, 
 grizzle-haired, hawk-nosed, with large, black mustachios, and styles 
 himself the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure. The name of his squire 
 is Sancho Panza ; he oppresses 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 Aldonza Lo- 
 renzo, 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 incre- 
 dulity 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, anotlier 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 possi- 
 ble that, as he is continually persecuted by enchanters, some one of 
 these may have assumed his shape, and suffered himse'f to be van- 
 quished, in order to defraud him of the fame which his exalted feat* 
 
CH. XLV£.] DON QUIXOTE. 315 
 
 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 under trans- 
 formation may well hope to make him yield in his proper person. 
 But as knights-errant should by no means perform their feats in the 
 dark, like robbers and ruffians, let us wait for daylight, that the sun 
 may witness our exploits ; and let the condition of our combat be, 
 , that the conquered shall remain entirely at the mercy and disposal 
 of the conqueror ; provided that he require nothing of him but what 
 a knight may with honour submit to." Don Quixote having express- 
 ed himself entirely satisfied with these conditions, they went to seek 
 after their squires, whom they found snoring in the very same posture 
 as that in which sleep had first surprised them. They were soor/ 
 awakened by their masters, and ordered to prepare the steeds, so that 
 they might be ready at sunrise for a single combat. At this intelli- 
 gence 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 squ^es, however, without saying 
 a word, went to seek their cattle ; and the three horses and Dapple 
 were found all very sociable 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 principals 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 ruf- 
 fians ; 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 squires, which, I dare say, cannot be 
 above a couple of pounds of wax ; and that will cost me less money 
 than plasters to cure a broken head. Besides, how can I fight when 
 I have got no sword, and never had one in my life } " " I know a 
 remedy for that," said he of the Wood ; " here are a couple of linen 
 bags of the same size ; you shall take one, and I the other, and so, 
 with equal weapons, we will have a bout at bag-blows." " With al! 
 my heart," answered Sancho; "for such a battle will only dust our 
 
216 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ackets." " It must not be quite so, either," replied the other ; " for 
 iist the wind should blow them aside, we must put in them half-a-doz- 
 en clean and smooth pebbles 'of equal weight; and thus we may 
 brush one another without much harm or damage." " But I tell you 
 what, master," said Sancho, " though they should be filled with balld 
 of raw silk, I shall not fight. Let our masters fight, but let us drink 
 and live ; for time takes care to rid us of our lives without our seek- 
 ing ways to go before our appointed term and season." " Nay," 
 replied he of the Wood, " do let us fight, if it be but for half-an- 
 hour." " No, no," answered Sancho, " I shall not be so rude nor 
 ngrateful as to have any quarrel with a gentleman after eating and 
 drinking with him. Besides, who can set about dry fighting without 
 being provoked to it .' " " If that be all," quoth he of the Wood, 
 " I can easily manage it ; for, before we begin our fight, I will come 
 up and just give you three or four handsome cuffs, which ,will lay , 
 vou 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 come near enough to awaken my choler, I will bastinado 
 yours into so sound a sleep that it shall never awake but in another 
 world. Let me tell you, I am not a man to sufier my 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. In all times God blessed the peade-makers, and cursed 
 the peace-breakers. If a baited cat turns into a lion, there is no 
 knowing what I, that am a man, may turn into ; and therefore I warn 
 you, master squire, that all the damage and mischief that may follow 
 from our quarrel must be placed to your account." " Agreed," re- 
 plied he of the Wood ; " when daylight arrives, 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, sprinkling that 
 reviving treasure over all vegetation. The willows distilled their deli- 
 cious 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, wheii 
 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 extraordi- 
 nary ; it was moreover a hawk-nose, full of warts and carbuncles, 
 of the colour of a mulberry, and hanging two fingers' breadth beiow 
 
OH. XI VI.] DON QUIXOTE. 217 
 
 his mouth. The size, the colour, the carbuncles, and the crooked 
 ness, produ<:ed such a countenance of horror, that Sancho, at 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, however, 
 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 plume of 
 feathers, green, yellow, and white, waved above his helmet. His 
 lance, which was leaning against a tree, was very large and thick, and 
 headed with pointed steel above a span long. All these circumstances 
 Don Quixote attentively marked, and 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, T 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 is because I 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 enchantfcrs, I dare not 
 affirm that you are actually the same person." " I am satisfied that 
 you acknowledge you may be deceived," said Don Quixote ; " how- 
 ever, to remove all doubt,, let us to horse, and in less time than you 
 would have spent in. raising your beaver, if God, my mistress, and 
 my arm avail me, I will see your face, and you shall be convinced I 
 am not the vanquished Don Quixote." 
 
 They now mounted without more words ; and Don Quixote wheel- 
 ed Kozinante 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 shall remain at the discretion of the conqueror." 
 " I know it," answered Don Quixote, " provided that which is im- 
 posed shall not transgress the laws of (?hivalry." " Certainly," an- 
 swered he of the Mirrors. At this juncture the squire's strange noso 
 .19 
 
818 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 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 fillip from that dreadful snout, which would level hira 
 to the ground, either by force or fright. So he ran after his master, 
 holding by the stirrupUeather, and when he thought it was nearly 
 time for him to face about, " I beseech your worship," he cried, " be- 
 fore 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 you the truth, sir," answered Sancho, " that squire's mon- 
 strous nose fills me with dread, and I dare not stand near him." " It 
 is indeed a fearful sight," said Don Quixote, " to any other but my- 
 self ; come, therefore, and I will help thee up." 
 
 While Don Quixote was engaged in helping Sancho up into the 
 cork-tree, the Knight of the Mirrors took as large a compass as he 
 thought necessary, and believing that Don Quixote had done the 
 same, without waiting for sound of trumpet or any other signal, he 
 turned about his horse, who was not a whit more active nor more 
 sightly than 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 reined-in his steed and stopped in the 
 midst of his career ; for which his horse was most thankful, being un- 
 able to stir any farther. Don Quixote, thinking his enemy was com- 
 ing full speed against him, clapped spurs to Rozinante's flanks, and 
 made him so bestir himself, that this was the only time in his life that 
 he approached to something like a gallop ; and with this unprecedented 
 fury he soon came up to where his adversary stood, striking his spurs 
 rowel-deep into the sides of his charger, without being able to make 
 him stir a finger's length from the place where he had been checked 
 in his career. At this fortunate juncture Don Quixote met his adver- 
 sary 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 witli such force that he soon brought hirii 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 
 Kozinante, and went up to the vanquished knight, when, unlacing his 
 helmet to see whether he was dead^ or if yet alive, to give him air, 
 
 he beheld but who can relate what he beheld, without causing 
 
 amazement, wonder, and terrpr, in all that shall hear it.? He saw. 
 Bays the history, the very face, the very figure, the very aspect, the 
 
OH. XLVI.j DON QUIXOTE. 219 
 
 very physiognomy, the very effigies and semhlance of the hachelor 
 Samson Carrasco ! " Come hither, Sancho," cried he aloud, " and 
 see, but believe not ; make haste, son, and mark what wizards and 
 enchanters can do ! " Sancho approached, and seeing the face of the 
 bachelor Samson Carrasco, he began to cross and bless himselt a 
 thousand times over. All this time the overthrown cavalier shewed 
 no signs of life. " My advice is," said Sancho, " that, at all events, 
 your worship should thrust your sword down the throat of this man 
 who is so like the bachelor Samson Carrasco ; for in dispatching him 
 you may destroy one of those enchanters, your enemies." " Thou 
 sayest not amiss," quoth Don Quixote, " for the fewer enemies the 
 better." . He then drew his sword to put Sancho's advice into execu- 
 tion, when the squire of the Mirrors came running up, but without 
 the frightful nose, and cried aloud, " Have a care. Signer Don Quix- 
 ote, what you do ; for it is the bachelor Samson Carrasco, your friend, 
 and I am his squire." Sancho seeing his face now shorn of its de- 
 formity, 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 neigh- 
 bour > " " 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 mean time, your 
 master not to hurt the Knight of the Mirrors at his feet : for he is truly 
 no other than the rash and ill-advised bachelor Samson Carrasco, our 
 townsman." 
 
 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 beau- 
 ty 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 con- 
 formable to the terms agreed on before our encounter, and also to 
 the rules of knight-errantry." " I confess," said the fallen knight, 
 " that the ladyDulcinea del Toboso'storn 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, 
 " tl-at the II night you vanquished was not Don Quixote de la Mancha, 
 
220 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 but some one resembling him ; as I do confess and believe tnat 
 though resembling the bachelor Samson Carrasco, you are not he, 
 but some other whom my enemies have purposely transformed into 
 his likeness, to restrain the impetuosity of my rage, and make me 
 use with moderation the glory of my conquest." " I confess, judge, 
 and believe every thing precisely as you do yourself," answered the 
 disjointed knight ; " and now suffer me to rise, I beseech you, if my 
 bruises do not prevent me." Don Quixote raised him with the assis- 
 tance of his squire, on whom Sancho still kept his eyes fixed ; and 
 though from some conversation that passed between them, he had 
 much reason to believe it was really his old friend Tom Cecial, he 
 was so prepossessed by all that his master had said about enchanters, 
 that he would not trust his own eyes. In short, both master and man 
 persisted in their error ; and the Knight of the Mirrors, with his squire, 
 much out of humour and in ill plight, went in search of some con- 
 venient place where he might searcloth himself and splinter his ribs. 
 Don Quixote and Sancho continued their journey to Saragosa, where 
 the history leaves them ; to give some account of the Knight of the 
 Mirrors and his well-snouted squire. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 Giving an account of the Knight of the Mirrors and his Squire. 
 
 Exceedingly happy, elated, and self-satisfied was Don Quixote 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 on- 
 ly 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 
 Samson Carrasco advised Don Quixote to resume his functions of 
 knight-errantry, he had previously consulted with the priest and the 
 barber upon the best means of inducing Don Quixote to stay peacea- 
 bly and quietly at home ; and it was agreed by general vote, as well 
 as by the particular advice of Carrasco, that they should let Don 
 Quixote make another sally (since it seemed impossible to detain 
 him), and that the bachelor should then also sally forth like a knight- 
 errant, and take an opportunity of engaging him to fight, and after 
 vanquishing him, which they held to be an easy matter, he should re- 
 main, according to a previous agreement, at the disposal of the con- 
 queror, 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 
 
CH. XLVII.] DON QUIXOTE. 221 
 
 than infrmge the laws of chivalry ; and they hoped that, during this 
 interval, he might forget his follies, or that some means might be dis- 
 covered of curing his malady. Carrasco engaged in the enterprise ; 
 and Tom Cecial, Sancho Panza's neighbour, a merry shallow-brained 
 fellow, proffered his service as squire. Samson 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 
 She 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 in- 
 capacitated 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 senses ; he 
 gets off sound and laughing, and your worship remains sore and sor- 
 rowful : now, pray, which is the greater madman, he who is so be- 
 cause he cannot help it, or he who is so on purpose > " " The differ- 
 ence between these two sorts of madmen is," replied Samson, " 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 desired to be your worship's 
 squire ; and now I desire to be so no longer, but shall hasten home 
 again." " That youraay do," answered Samson ; " but, for myself. 
 I cannot think of returning to mine till I have soundly banged this 
 same Don Quixote. It is not now with the hope of curing him of 
 his madness that I shall seek him, but a desire to punish him ; — the 
 pain of my ribs will not allow me to entertain a more charitable pur- 
 pose." In this humour they went talking on till they came to a vil- 
 lage, where they luckily met with a bone-setter, who undertook to 
 cure the unfortunate Samson. Torii Cecial now returned home, leav- 
 ing his master meditating schemes of revenge ; and though the history 
 will have occasion to mention him again hereafter, it must now attend 
 the motions of our triumphant knight. 
 
 Don Quixote pursued his journey with the pleasure, satisfaction, 
 and self-complacency already described ; imagining, because of his 
 late victory, that he was the most valiant knight the world could then 
 boast ofi 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 progress of his 
 chivalries : the stoning that demolished half his teeth, the ingratituda 
 19* 
 
822 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 of the galley-slaves, nor the audacity of the Yanguesian carriers and 
 iheir shower of pack staves, — in short, he inwardly exclaimed that, 
 could he but devise any means of disenchanting his Lady Dulcinea, 
 he should not envy the highest fortune that ever was or could ba 
 attained by the most prosperous knight-errant of past ages ! 
 
 He was wholly absorbed in these reflections, when Sancho said to 
 him, "Is it not strange, sir, that I still have before my eyes the mon- 
 strous nose of my neighbour Tom Cecial ? " " And dost thou really be- 
 lieve, Sancho," said Don Quixote, " that the Knight of the Mirrors was 
 the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and his squire thy friend Tom Cecial ? " 
 " I know not what to say about it," answered Sancho ; " I only know 
 that the marks he gave me of my house, wife, and children, could be 
 given by nobody else ; aild his face, when the nose was off, was Tom 
 Cecial's — for he lives in the next house to my own ; the tone of his 
 voice, too, was the very same." " Come, come, Sancho," replied 
 Don Quixote, " let us reason upon this matter. How can it be ima- 
 gined that the bachelor Samson Carrasco should comp 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 I his rival .' 
 Or has he embraced the profession of arms, envying the fame I have 
 acquired by them ? " " But, then, what are we to say, sir," answered 
 Sancho, " to the likeness of that knight, whoever he may be, to the 
 bachelor Samson Carrasco, and his squire to my neighbour Tom 
 Cecial ? If it be enchantment, as your worship says, why were they 
 10 be made like those two above all other 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 interpose between the 
 edge of my sword and the rigour of my arm, and, by checking my 
 just indignation, the wretch might escape with life, who, by fraud and 
 violence, sought mine. Indeed, already thou knowest by expe- 
 rience, Sancho, how easy a thing it is for enchanters to change one 
 face into another, making the fair foul, and the foul fair ; since, 
 not two days agoj thou sawest with thine own eyes the grace and 
 beauty of the peerless Dulcinea m tneir ^iignest perfection, while to 
 ne she appeared under the mean and disgusting exterior of a rude 
 country wench. 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 
 Vriumph over him was complete." Sancho, well knowing the trans» 
 formation of Dulcinea to have been a device of his own, would make 
 no reply, lest he should betray himself. 
 
CH. XLVIII.] DON QUIXOTE. 223 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII, 
 
 Of what befell Don Quixote with a worthy gentleman of La Manzha. 
 
 While thus discoursing, they were overtaken by a gentleman, moun- 
 ted on a fine mare, and dressed in a green cloth riding-coat faced 
 with murry-coloured velvet, and a hunter's cap of the same ; the 
 mare's furniture corresponded in colour with his dress, and was adap 
 ted to field-sports ; a Moorish scymitar hung at his shoulder-belt, 
 which was green and gold ; his buskins were wrought ■ like the belt ; 
 and bis spurs were green, — not gilt, but green, — and polished so 
 neatly that as they suited his clothes^ they looked better than if they 
 had been of pure gold. He saluted them courteously, and, spurring 
 his mare, was passed on, when Don Quixote said to him, " If you are 
 travelling our road, signer, 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 in 
 the company of mine." " Sir," answered Sancho, " if that be all, 
 you may set your mind at rest on that score, for ours is the soberest 
 and best-behaved horse in the world j and was never guilty of a ro- 
 guish trick in his life, but once, and then my master and I paid for it 
 sevenfold." The traveller upon this checked his mare, his curiosity 
 being excited by the appearance of Don Quixote, who rode without 
 his helmet, which Sancho carried at the pommel of his ass's pannel ; 
 but if he stared at Don Quixote, he was himself 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 aquiline form, of a countenance 
 neither too gay nor too grave, and by his whole exterior it was evi- 
 dent that he was no ordinary person^ It was not less manifest that 
 the traveller, as he contemplated Don Quixote, thought he had never 
 seen any thing like him before. With wonder he gazed upon his 
 tall person, his meagre sallow visage^ his lank horse, his armour 
 and stately deportment — altogether 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 courtesjr, and always desirous of 
 pleasing, he anticipated his question by saying, " You are probably 
 surprised, signor, at my appearance, which is certainly uncommon 
 in the present age ; but this will be explained when I tell you I am a 
 knight in search of adventures. I left my country, mortgaged my 
 estate, quitted ease and pleasures, and threw myself into the arms ot 
 fortune. I vidshed to revive chivalry, so long deceased ; and for 
 some time past, exposed to many vicissitudes, stumbling in one place 
 
224 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and rising again in another, I have prosecuted my design ; succour- 
 ing widows, protecting damsels, aiding wives and orphans — all the 
 natural and p'roper 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 Sor- 
 rowful Figure. Though self-praise depreciates, I am compelled some- 
 times to pronounce my own commendations ; but it is only when no 
 friend is present to perform that office for me. And now, my worthy 
 sir, that you know my profession, and who I am, you will cease to 
 wonder at my appearance." 
 
 After an interval of silence, the traveller in green said, in reply, 
 " You are indeed right, signer, in conceiving me to be struck by your 
 appearance ; but you have rather increased than lessened my wonder 
 by the accounts you give of yourself. How ! Is it possible that there 
 are knights-errant now in the world, and that there are histories print- 
 ed of real chivalries ? 1 had no idea that there was any body now 
 upon earth who relieved widows, succoured damsels, aided wives, or 
 protected orphans ; nor should yet have believed it, had I not been 
 convinced with my own eyes. Thank Heaven, the history you men- 
 tion must surely cast into oblivion all the fables of imaginary knights- 
 errantj which abound, much to the detriment of good morals, and the 
 prejudice and neglect of genuine history." " There is much to be 
 said," answered Don Quixote, " upon the question of the truth or fic- 
 tion of the histories of knights-errant." " Why, is there any one," 
 answered he in green, " who doubts the falsehood of those histo- 
 ries > " " I doubt it," replied Don Quixote ; " but no more of that 
 at present ; for if we travel together much farther, 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 intellects, 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, " I, sir knight, am a 
 gentleman, and native of a village where, if it please God, we shall 
 dine to-day. My fortune is afiluent, and my name is Don Diego de 
 Miranda. I spend my time with my wife, my children, and my 
 friends : my diversions are hunting and fishing ; but I keep neither 
 hawks nor 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 
 
CU. XLVIU.] DON QUIXOTE. 225 
 
 threshold. Sometimes I eat with my neighbours and ftiends, and 
 frequently I invite them; my.tableisneat arid clean, and not parsimo- 
 niously furnished. I slander no cue, nor do I listen to slander from 
 others. I pry not into other men's lives, nor scrutinise their actions. 
 I hear mass every day; I share my substance with the poor, making 
 no parade of my good works, lest hypocrisy and vain-glory, those 
 insidious enemies of the human breast, should find access to mine. 
 It is always my endeavour to make peace between those who are at 
 variance. I am devoted to our blessed Lady, and ever trust in the 
 infinite mercy of God our Lord." 
 
 Sancho weis very attentive to the account of the gentleman's life, 
 which appeared to him to be good and holy ; and thin)ting that one of 
 such a character must needs work miracles, he flung himself off his 
 Dapple, and running up to him, he laid hold of .his right stirrup ; then, 
 devoutly and almost with tears, he kissed his feet more than once. 
 " What mean you by this, brother ! " said the gentleman ; " why 
 these embraces ? " " Your worship," said Sancbo, " is the first saint 
 on horseback I ever saw in all my life." " I am no saint," answered 
 the gentleman, " but a great sinner ; you, my friend, must indeed be 
 good, as your simplicity proves." Sancho retired, and mounted his 
 ass again ; having forced a smile from the profound gravity of his 
 master, and caused fresh 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 
 knowledge of the true God, held supreme happiness to subsist in the 
 gifts of nature and fortune, in having many friends and many good 
 children. " I have one son," answered the gentleman ; " and if I 
 had him not, perhaps I should think myself happier ; not that he is 
 bad, but because he is not all that I would have him. He is eighteen 
 years old ; six of which he has spent at Salamanca, learning the 
 Latin and Greek languages ; and when I wished him to proceed to 
 other studies, I found him infatuated with poetry, and could not 
 prevail upon him to look into the law, which it was my desire 
 he should study ; nor into theology, the queen of all sciences. I was 
 desirous 'that he should be an honour to his family, since we live in 
 an age in which 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 those and other ancient poets ; for the mod- 
 ern 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 very time entirely engrossed by a paraphrase oa 
 
 15 
 
22B DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 four verses sent him from Salamanca, and which, I believe, is inlend- 
 ed for a scholastic prize." 
 
 " Children, my goo^ 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 forcing them to 
 this or that pursuit, I do not hold it to be right, though I think there is 
 a propriety in advising them ; and when the student is so fortunate as 
 to have an inheritance, and therefore not compelled to study for his 
 subsistence, I should be for indulging him in the pursuit of that sci- 
 ence to which his genius is most inclined ; and although that of poetry 
 he less useful than delightful, it does not usually reflect disgrace 
 on its votaries. With regard to your soa's contempt for Spanish poetry, 
 I think he is therein to blame. The great Homer, being a Greek, 
 did not write in Latin ; nor did Virgil, who was a Roman, write in 
 Greek. In fact, all the ancient poets wrote in the language of their 
 native country, and did not hunt after foreign tongues to express their 
 own sublime conceptions. If your son write personal satires, chide 
 him, and tear his performances ; but if he writes like Horace, repre- 
 hending 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 indi- 
 viduals ; 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 voice will partake of the same puri- 
 ty ; the pen is the tongue of the mind, and what his conceptions 
 are, such will be his productions." 
 
 The gentleman hearing Don Quixote express himself in this man- 
 ner, was struck with so much admiration, that he began to lose the 
 bad opinion he had conceived of his understanding. As for Sancho, 
 who did not much relish this fine talk, he took an opportunity to slink 
 aside in the middle of it, and went to get a little milk of some shep- 
 herds that were hard by keeping their sheep. Now when the gentle- 
 man was going to renew his discourse, mightily pleased with these 
 judicious observations, Don Quixote, lifting up his eyes', perceived a 
 waggon on the road, set round with little flags that appeared to be the 
 king's colours ; and believing it to be some new adventure, he called 
 out to Sancho to bring him his helmet. Sancho, hearing him call 
 aloud, left the shepherds, and clapping his heels vigorously to Dapplc'a 
 sides, soon came trotting up to his master 
 
CH. XLIX.1 BON dUIXOTE. 227 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 Where you willjind set forth the highest proof that Don Quixot 
 
 ever gave, or could give, of his courage; with the successful 
 
 issue of the adventure of the lAons. 
 
 They were now overtaken by the waggon, which was attended only 
 by the driver, mounted on one of the mules, and another man sat ok 
 the fore part of it. Don Quixote making up to them, " Whither g< 
 ye, friends ? " said he. " What waggon is this .? What do you con- 
 vey in it .? And what is the meaning of these colours ? " " The 
 waggon is mine," answered the waggoner: " I have there two brave 
 lions, which the general of Oran is sending to the king, and these col- 
 ours are to let the people qnderstand that what goes here belongs to 
 him." " Are the lions large ? " " Very large," answered the man 
 in the fore part of the waggon ; " bigger never came from Africa, 
 I am their keeper, and have had charge of several others, but I never 
 saw the like of these before. In the foremost cage is a lion, and in 
 the other a lioness. By this time they are cruelly hungry, for they 
 have not eaten to-day ; therefore, pray, good sir, ride out of the way, 
 for we must make haste to get to the place where we are to feed 
 them." " What ! " said Don Quixote, with a scornful smile ; " lion- 
 whelps against me ! And at this time of day .' Well, I will make 
 those gentlemen that sent their lions this way, know whether I am a 
 man to be scared with lions. Get off, honest fellow ; and since you 
 are the keeper, open their cages and let them both out ; for in despite 
 of those enchanters that have sent them to try me, I will make the 
 creatures know, in the midst of this very field, who Don Quixote de 
 la Mancha is." 
 
 While he was making this speech, Sancho came up to Don Diego, 
 and begged him to dissuade his master from his rash attempt. " Oh, 
 good dear sir ! " cried he, " for pity's sake hinder my master from 
 falling upon these lions by all means, or we shall be torn in pieces." 
 " Why," said the gentleman, "■ is your master so arrant a madman, 
 then, that you should fear he would set upon such furious beasts ?" 
 " Ah, sir ! " said Sancho, " he is not mad, but terribly venturesome." 
 " Well," replied the gentleman, " I will take care there shall be no 
 harm done ;" and with that, coming up to the Don, who was urging 
 the lion-keeper to open the cage, " Sir," said he, "knights-errant ought 
 to engage in adventures from which there may be some hope of com 
 ing off with safety, but not in such as are altogether desperate ; fo 
 courage which borders on temerity is more like madness than true 
 fortitude. Besides, these liqns are not come against you, but sent 
 as a present to the king ; and therefore it is not your duty to detain 
 them, or stop the waggon." " Pray, sweet sir," replied Don Quixote, 
 
228 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 " go and avnuse yourself with your tame partridges and your ferrets 
 and leave every one to his own business. This is mine, and I know 
 best whether these worthy lions are sent against me or no." Then 
 turning about to the keeper, " Sirrah ! " said he, " open your cages 
 immediately, or I will certainly pin thee to the waggon with this lance." 
 "• Good sir," cried the waggoner, seeing this strange apparition in 
 armour so resolute, " for mercy's sake, do but let me take out my 
 mules first, and get out of harm's way with them as fast as I can be- 
 fore the lions get out ; for if they should once set upon the poor 
 beasts, 1 stiould be undone for ever ; for, alas, that cart and they are 
 all I have in the world to get a living with." " Thou man of small 
 faith," said Don Quixote, " take them out quickly then, and go 
 with them where thou wilt ; though thou shalt presently see that 
 thy precaution was needless, and thou mightest have spared thy 
 pains." 
 
 The waggoner on this made all the haste he could to take out his 
 mules, while the keeper cried out, " Bear witness, all ye that are 
 here present, that it is against my will that I open the cages and let 
 loose the lions ; and that I protest to this gentleman here, that he shall 
 be answerable for all the mischief they may do ; together with the 
 loss of my salary and fees. And now, sirs, shift for yourselves as 
 fast as you can, before I open the cages ; for, as for myself, I know 
 the lions will do me no harm." Once more the gentleman tried to 
 dissuade Don Quixote from doing so mad a thing ; telling him that 
 he tempted Heaven in exposing himself without reason to so great a 
 danger. To this Don Quixote made no other answer but that he knew 
 what he had to do. " Consider, however, what you do," replied the 
 gentleman ; " for it is most, certain that you are mistaken." " Well, 
 sir," said Don Quixote, " if you care not to be spectator of an action 
 which you think is likely to be a tragedy, put spurs to your mare and 
 provide for your safety." Sancho, hearing this, came up to his mas- 
 ter with tears in his eyes, and begged him not to go about this fearful 
 undertaking, to which the adventure of the windmills and the fulling- 
 mills, and all the brunts he had ever borne in his life, were but chil- 
 dren's play. " Good your worship," cried he, " do but mind ; here 
 is no enchantment in the case, nor anything like it. Alack-a-day, 
 sir, I peeped even now through the grates of the cage, and J am sure 
 I saw the claw of a true lion, and such a claw as makes me think 
 the lion that owns it must be as big as a mountain." "Alas, poor 
 fellow ! " said Don Quixote, " thy fear will make him as big as half 
 .he world. Retire, Sancho, and leave me ; and if I chance to fall 
 nere, thou knowest our old agreement ; repair to Dulcinea — I say 
 no more." To this he added some expressions which cut off all 
 ^opes of his giving over his mad design. 
 
 The gentleman in green would have opposed him, but considering 
 
Cfl. XHX.] DON QUIXOTE. 220 
 
 the other much better armed, and that it was not prudence to encounter 
 a madman, he even took the opportunity, while Don Quixote was 
 stormmg at the keeper, to march off with his .mare, as Sancho did 
 with Dapple, and the carter with his mules, every one making the 
 best of his way to get as far as he could from the waggon, before the 
 hons were let loose. Poor Sancho at the same time made sad lament- 
 ations for his master's death ; for he gave him up for lost, not doubt- 
 ing that the hons had already got him in their clutches. He cursed 
 his ill fortune, and the hour he came again to his service ; but for all 
 nis wailing and lamenting, he urged on poor Dapple, to get as far as 
 he could from the lions. The keeper, perceiving the persons who fled 
 to be at a good distance, fell to arguing and entreating Don Quixote 
 as he had done before. But the knight told him again that all his 
 entreaties were but in vain, and bid him say no more, but immediate- 
 ly despatch. 
 
 Now while the keeper took time to open the foremost cage, Don 
 Quixote stood debating with himself whether he had best make his 
 attack on foot or on horseback ; and upon mature deliberation he 
 resolved to do it on foot, lest Eozinante, not used to lions, should be 
 put into disorder. Accordingly, he quitted his horse, threw aside his 
 lance, grasped his shield, and drew his sword ; then advancing with a 
 deliberate motion, and an undaunted heart, he posted himself just be 
 fore the door of the cage, commending himself to Heaven, and after- 
 wards to his lady. 
 
 The keeper observing that it was not possible for him to prevent 
 letting out the lions without incurring the resentment of the desperate 
 knight, set the door of the foremost cage wide open, where, as I have 
 said, the lion lay, who appeared of a monstrous size and of a fright- 
 ful aspect. The first thing he did was to turn himself round in his 
 cage ; in the next place he stretched out one of his paws, put forth 
 his claws, and roused himself. After that he gaped and yawned for 
 a good while, and shewed his dreadful fangs, and then thrust out half 
 a yard of tongue, and with it licked the dust from his face. Having 
 done this, he thrust his head quite out of the cage, and stared about 
 with his eyes that looked like two live coals of fire ; a sight and mo- 
 tion enough to have struck terror into temerity itself. But Don Quix- 
 ote only regarded it with attention, wishing his grim adversary would 
 leap out of his hold, and come within his reach, that he might exei^ 
 cise his valour, and cut the monster piecemeal. To this height of ex- 
 travagance had his folly transported him ; but the generous lion, 
 more gentle than arrogant, taking no notice of his vapouring and 
 bravados, after he had looked about him awhile, turned his back upon 
 the knight, and very contentedly lay down again in his apartment. 
 
 Don Quixote, seeing this, commanded the keeper to rouse him with 
 his pole, and force him out, whether he would or no. " Not I, indeed, 
 20 
 
230 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 sir," answered the keeper ; " I dare not do it for my life ; for if 1 
 provoke him, I am sure to be the first he will tear to pjeces. Let me 
 advise you, sir, to be satisfied with your day's work. 'Tis as much 
 as the bravest that wears a head can pretend to do. Then pray go 
 no farther, I beseech ybu'; the' door stands open, the lion is at his 
 choice whether he will come out or no. You have waited for him ; 
 you see he does not care to look you in the face ; and since he did not 
 come out at first, I dare engage he will not stir out this day. You 
 have shewn enough the greatness of your courage ; the scandal is 
 his, the honour the challenger's." 
 
 " 'Tis true," replied Don Quixote. " Come, shut the cage door, 
 honest friend, and give me a certificate under thy hand, in the amplest 
 form thou canst dgvise, of what thou hast seen me perform ; while I 
 make signs to those that ran away from us, and get them to come 
 back, that they may have an account of this exploit from thy own 
 mouth." The keeper obeyed ; and Don Quixote, clapping a hand, 
 kerchief on the point of his lance, waved it in the air, and called as 
 loud as he was able to the fugitives, who fled nevertheless, looking 
 behind, them all the v/ay, and trooped on in a body with the gentlenoaui 
 m green at the .head of them. 
 
 At last Sancho observed the signal, and called out, " Hold ! my 
 master calls ; I will be hanged, if he has not got the better of the 
 lions ! " At this they all faced about, and perceived Don Quixote 
 flourishing his ensign ; whereupon recovering a little from their 
 fright, they leisurely rode back till they could plainly distinguish his 
 voice. As soon as they were got near the waggon, " Come on, 
 friend," said he to the carter ; " put-to thy mules again, and pursue 
 thy journey ; and, Sancho, do thou give him two ducats for the lion- 
 keeper and himself, to make them amends for the time I have detain- 
 ed them." " Ay, that I will with all my heart," quoth Sancho ; " but 
 what is become of the lions .' Are they dead or alive ? " Then the 
 keeper very formally related the whole action, not failing to exagger- 
 ate, to the best o£ his skill, Don Quixote's courage : how, at his sight' 
 alone, the lion was so terrified, that he neither would nor durst qui 
 his stronghold, though for that end his cage-door was kept open f»i 
 a considerable time ; and how at length, upon his remonstrating to the 
 knight, who would have had the lion forced out, that it was presuming 
 too much upon Heaven, he had permitted, though with great reluclancy, 
 that the lion should be shut up again. " Well, Sancho," said Don 
 Quixote to his squire, " what dost thou think of this ? Can enchant- 
 ment prevail over true fortitude .' No ; these magicians may rob me 
 of success, but never of my invincible greatness of mind." 
 
 Sancho gave the waggoner and the keeper the two pieces. The 
 first harnessed his mules, and the last thanked Don Quixote for his 
 bounty, and promised to acquaint the king himself with his heroic 
 
CH. XLIX.] DON QUIXOTE. 23 i 
 
 acuon when he went to court. . " Well," said Don Quixote, " if his 
 majesty should chance to inquire who the person was that did this 
 thing, tell hira it was the Knight of the Lions ; a name I intend 
 henceforth to take up, in place of that which I have hitherto home 
 in which proceeding I do but conform to the ancient custom of 
 knights-errant, who changed their names as often as they pleased, or 
 as it suited with their advantage." 
 
 Don Quixote now addressed Don Diego. " Without doubt^ sir," 
 said he, " you take me for a downright madman, and, indeed, my 
 actions may seem to speak me no less. But for all that, give me 
 leave to tell you, I am not so mad, nor is my understanding so defec- 
 tive, as you may fancy. Let me remind you that every knight has 
 his particular employment. Let the courtier wait on the ladies ; let 
 him with splendid equipage adorn his prince's court, and with a mag- 
 nificent table support poor gentlemen. Let him give birth to feasts 
 and tournaments, and shew his grandeur, and liberality, and munifi- 
 cence, and especially his piety : in all these things he fulfils the du- 
 ties of his station. But as for the knight-errant, let hini search , into 
 all the corners of the world, enter into the most intricate labyrinths, 
 and every hour be ready to attempt impossibility itself; let him in 
 desolate wilds baffle the rigour of the weather, the scorching heat of 
 the sun's fiercest beams, and the inclemency of winds and snow ; let 
 lions never fright him, dragons daunt him, nor evil spirits deter him : 
 — to go in quest of these, — to meet, to dare, to conflict, and to over- 
 come them all, — is his principal and ^proper' office. Well I know, 
 that valour is a virtue situate between the two vicious extremes of 
 cowardice and temerity. But certainly it is not so ill for a valiant 
 man to EJse to a degree of rashness as it is to fall short, and border 
 upon cowardice. For as it is easier for a prodigal to become liberal 
 than a miser, so it is easier for the hardy and rash person to be reduc 
 ed to true bravery, than the coward ever to rise to that virtue. And 
 therefore, in thus attempting adventures, believe me, Signer Don Die- 
 go, it is better to exceed the bounds a little, and overdo, rather than, 
 underdo the thing ; because it sounds better in people's ears to hear it 
 said, how that such a knight is rash and hardy, than such a knight is 
 dastardly and timorous." 
 
 " All you have said and done," answered Don" Diego, " is agreea- 
 ble to the exactest rules of reason ; and I believe if the laws and or- 
 dinances of knight-errantry were lost, they might be all recovered 
 from you, your breast seeming to be the safe repository and. archive 
 where they are lodged. But it grows late ; let us make a little more 
 haste to get to our village and to my habitation, where you may rest 
 yourself after the fatigues which doubtless you have sustained, if 
 not in body, at least in mind, whose pains often afflict the body too." 
 ' Sir," answered Don Qiiixote, " I esteem your jfier as a singular 
 
832 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 favour." And so, proceeding a little fester than they had done before 
 about two in the afternoon they reached the village, and got to tlw 
 house of Don Diego, whom now Don Quixote called the Knight or 
 the Green Coat. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 How Don Quixote was entertained at the castle or house of the Knight 
 of the Green Coat, with other extraordinary matters. 
 
 Don Quixote found that Don Diego de Miranda's house was spacious, 
 after the couiilry manner ; the arms of the family were over the gate 
 in rough stone, — the buttery in the foreyard, the cellar under the 
 porch, and all around several great jars of the sort commonly made 
 at Toboso ; the sight of which bringing to his remembrance his en- 
 chanted and transformed Dulcinea, he heaved a deep sigh ; and neith- 
 er minding what he said nor who was by, broke out into the follow- 
 ing exclamation : 
 
 " O ye Tobosian urns, that awaken in my mind the thoughts of the 
 sweet pledge of my most bitter sorrows! " Don Diego's son, who, as 
 it has been said, was a student, and poetically inclined, heard these 
 words as he came with his mother to welcome him home, and, as 
 well as she, was not a little surprised to see what a strange being his 
 father had brought with him. ■ Don Quixote alighted from Eozinante, 
 and very courteously desiring to kiss her ladyship's hands, " Madam," 
 said Don Diego, " this gentleman is the noble Don Quixote de la 
 Mancha,' the wisest and most valiant knight-errant in the world ; pray 
 let him find a welcome suitable to his merit and your usual civility." 
 Thereupon Donna Christina (for that was the lady's name) received 
 him very kindly, and with great marks of respect ; to which Don 
 Quixote made a proper and handsome return ; and then almost the same 
 compliments passed between him and the young gentleman, whom 
 Don Quixote judged by his words to be a man of wit and sense. 
 
 While the knight was unarming, Don Lorenzo had leisure to talk 
 with his father about him. " Pray, sir," said he, " who is this gentle- 
 man you have brought with you } Considering his name, his aspect, 
 and the title of knight-errant which you give him, neither my mother 
 nor I know what to think of him." " Truly," answered Don Diego, 
 " I do not know what to say to you ; all that I can inform you of is, 
 that I have seen hiraplay the maddest pranks in the world, and yet 
 say a thousand sensible things that contradict his actions. But dis- 
 course with him yourself, and feel the pulse pf his understanding j 
 make use of your sense to judge of his ; though, to tell yrm the truth 
 I believ; his folly exceeds his discretion." 
 
JH. L.] I DON QUIXOTE. 230 
 
 Don Lorenzo then went to entertain Don Quixote ; and after some 
 discourse had passed between them, " Sir," said the knight,"! am 
 not wholly a stranger to your merit ; Don Diego de Miranda, youi 
 father, has given me to understand you are a person of excellent parts, 
 and especially a great poet." " Sir," answered the young gentleman, 
 " I may perhaps pretend to poetry, but never to be a great poet. It- 
 is true, I am somewhat given to rhyming, and love to read good au- 
 thors ; but I am very far from deservmg to be thought one of their num- 
 ber." " I do not mislike your modesty," replied Don Quixote ; " it 
 is a virtue not often found among poets ; for almost every one of 
 them thinks himself the greatest in the world." " There is no rule 
 without an exception," said Don Lorenzo ; " and it is not impossible 
 but there may be one who may deserve the name, though he does 
 not think so himself." "That is very unlikely," replied Don Quix- 
 ote. " But pray, sir, tell me what verses are those that your father 
 says you are so puzzled about } If it should be what we call a gloss 
 or a paraphrase, I understand something of that way of writing, and 
 shouid be glad to see it. If the composition be designed for a poet- 
 ical prize, I would advise you only to put in for the second ; for the 
 first always goes by favour, and is rather granted to the great quality 
 of the author than to his merit ; but as to the next, it is adjudged to 
 the most deserving ; so that the third may in a manner be esteemed 
 the second, and the first no more than the third, according to the 
 methods used in our universities of giving degr es. And yet, 
 after all, it is no small matter to gain the honour of being called the 
 first." 
 
 Hitherto all is well, thought Don Lorenzo to himself, — I cannot 
 think thee mad yet ; let us go on. With that, addressing himself to 
 Don Quixote, " Sir," said he, " you seem to me to have frequented 
 the schools ; pray what science has been your particular study .? " 
 ' That of knight-errantry," answered Don Quixote ; " which is as 
 good as that of poetry, and somewhat better, too." " I do not know 
 what sort of a science that is," said Don Lorenzo ; " nor indeed did I 
 ever hear of it before." " It is a science," answered Don Quixote, 
 " that includes in itself all the other sciences ip the world, or at least / 
 the greatest part of them. Whoever profp^sps it ought to be learned 
 in the laws, and understand distrihutive and commutative justice 
 in order to right all mankind, fje ought tp be a divine, to give a 
 reason of his faith, and vindipatp his religion by dint of argument 
 He ought to be skilled in phygip, espepi^ly in the botanic part of it, 
 that he may know the nature of simple^, and have recourse to those 
 herbs that can cure wounds ; for a knight-errant must not expect to 
 find surgeons in the woods and desprts. He must be an astronomer 
 io understand the motions of the celestial orbs, and find out by the 
 stars thp hour of the night, and the longitude and atitude of the oii- 
 
 SO* - » ■■ ■■■ 
 
234 BON QUIXOTE. 
 
 mate on which fortune throws him ; and he ought to be ve. 'nstruct- 
 ed in all the other parts of the mathematics — that science being of 
 constant use to a professor of arms, on many accounts too numerous 
 to be related. I need not tell you that all the divine and moral vir- 
 tues must centre in his mind. To descend to less material qualifica- 
 "tions, he must be able to swim like a fish, know how to shoe a horse, 
 mend a saddle or bridle ; and returning to higher matters, he ought 
 to be inviolably devoted to Heaven and his lady, chaste in his thoughts, 
 modest in words, and liberal and valiant in deeds ; patient in afflic- 
 tions, charitable to the poor; and finally, a maintainer of truth, 
 though it cost him his life to defend it. These are the endowments 
 to constitute a good knight-errant ; and now, sir, be you a judge, 
 whether the professors of chivalry have an easy task to perform, and 
 whether such a science may not stand in competition with the most 
 celebrated and best of those that are taught in colleges } " " If it be 
 so," answered Don Lorenzo, " I say it deserves the pre-eminence 
 over all other sciences." " What do you mean, sir, by that. If it be 
 so ? " cried Don Quixote. " I mean, sir," cried Don Lorenzo, " that 
 I doubt wheljier there are now, or ever were, any knights-errant, es- 
 pecially with so many rare accomplishments." " This makes good 
 what I have often said," answered Don Quixote ; " most people will 
 not be persuaded there ever were any knights-errant in the world. 
 Now, sir, because I verily believe that unless Heaven will work some 
 miracle to convince them that there have been and still are knights- 
 errant, those incredulous persons are too much wedded to their opin- 
 ion to admit such a belief, I will not now lose time to endeavour to let 
 you see how much you and they are mistaken ; all I design to do is, 
 only to beseech Heaven to convince you of your being in an error, 
 that you may see how useful knights-errant were in former ages, and 
 the vast advantages that would result in ours from the assistance of 
 men of that profession. But now effeminacy, sloth, luxury, and ig- 
 noble pleasure triumph, for the punishment of our sins." Now, said 
 Lorenzo to himself, our gentleman has already betrayed his blind side , 
 but yet he gives a colour of reason to his extravagance, and I were a 
 fool to think otherwise. 
 
 Here they were called to dinner, which ended the discourse ; and 
 at that time Don Diego, taking his son aside, asked him what he 
 thought of the stranger. " I think, sir," said Don Lorenzo, " that it 
 is not in the power of all the physicians in the world to cure his dis- 
 temper. He is mad past recovery ; but yet he has lucid intervals." 
 In short, they dined ; and their entertainment proved such as the old 
 gentleman had told the knight he used to give his guesKi — neat, 
 plentiful, and well ordered. But that which Don Quixote most ad- 
 mired was, the extraordinary silence he observed through the whole 
 house, as if it had been a monastery of Carthusians, 
 
Cft. LI.] DON QUIXOTE. 235 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 The adventure of the Shepherd-Lover, and other truly comical 
 passages. 
 
 Don- Quixote stayed, four days at Don Diego's house, and during ajl, 
 that time met with a very generous entertainment. However, he 
 then desired his leave to go, and returned him a thousand thanks for 
 his kind reception ; letting him know that the duty of his profession 
 did not admit of his staying any longer out of action ; and thei'efore 
 he designed to go in quest of adventures, which he knew were plen- 
 tifully to be found in that part of Spain ; and that -he would employ 
 his time in that till the tilts and tournaments began at Saragosa, to 
 which place it was now his chief intent to go. However, he would 
 first go to Montesinos' cave, about which so many wonderful stories 
 were told in those parts ; and there he would endeavour to explore 
 and discover the source and original springs of the seven lakes, com- 
 monly called the lakes of Ruydera. Don Diego and his son highly 
 commended his noble resolution, and desired him to command 
 whatever" their house afforded, assuring him he was sincerely wel- 
 come to do it ; the respect they had for his honourable profession, 
 and his particular merit, obliging them to do him all manner of ser- 
 vice. 
 
 In short, the day of his departure came, a day of joy and gladness 
 to Don Quixote, but of grief and sadness. to poor Sancho, who had 
 no mind to change his quarters, and liked the good cheer and plenty 
 at Don Diego's house much better than his short hungry commons in 
 forests and deserts, or the sorry pittance of his ill-stored wallets, 
 which he however crammed and stuffed with what he thought could 
 best make the change of his condition tolerable. And now Don 
 Quixote taking his leave of Don Lorenzo, " Sir," said he, " I don't 
 know whether 1 have already said it to you, but if I have, give mo 
 leave to repeat it once more, that if you are ambitious of climbing 
 up to the difficult, and in a manner inaccessible, summit of the tem- 
 ple of Fame, your surest way is to leave on one hand the narrow 
 path of poetry, and follow the narrower track of knight-errantry, 
 which in a trice may raise you to an imperial throne." With these 
 words, Don Quixote seemed to have summed up the whole evidence 
 of his madness. However, he could not conclude without adding 
 something more. " Heaven knows," said he, " how willingly I 
 would take Don Lorenzo with me, to instruct him in those virtues 
 that are annexed to the employment I profess, to spare the humble, and 
 crush the proud and haughty. But since his tender years do not qual- 
 ify himifor the hardships of that life, and his laudable exercises detain 
 him, I must rest contented with letting you know, that one way to 
 acqu're fame in poetry, is to be governed by other men's judgment 
 
236 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 more than your own : for it is natural to fathers and mothers not to 
 think their own children ugly ; and this error is nowhere so common 
 as in the offspring of the mind." 
 
 Don Diego and his son were again surprised to hear this medley 
 of good sense and extravagance, and to find the poor gentleman so 
 strongly bent on the quest of these unlucky adventures, the only aim 
 and object of his desires. 
 
 After this, and many compliments and mutual reiterations of offers 
 of service, Don Quixote having taken leave of the lady of the castle, 
 he on Eozinante, and Sancho on Dapple, set out and pursued their 
 journey. They had not travelled far when they were overtaken by 
 two men that looked like students or ecclesiastics, with two farmers, 
 all mounted upon asses. One of the scholars had behind him a small 
 bundle of linen, and two pairs of stockings, trussed up in green buck- 
 ram like a portmanteau ; the other had no other luggage but a couple 
 of foils and a pair of fencing pumps. And the husbandmen had a 
 parcel of other things, which shewed, that having made their market 
 at some adjacent town, they were now returning home with their 
 ware. They all wondered (as indeed all others did that ever beheld 
 him) what kind of fellow Don Quixote was, seeing him make a 
 figure so different from anything they had ever seen. The knight 
 saluted them, and perceiving their road lay the same way, offered 
 them his company, entreating them, however, to move at an easier 
 pace, because their asses went faster than his horse ; and to en- 
 gage them the more, he gave them a hint of his circumstances 
 and profession ; that he was a knight-errant travelling around the 
 world in quest of adventures ; that his proper name was Don 
 Quixote de la Mancha, but his titular denomination, the Knight of the 
 Lions. 
 
 All this was Greek, or pedlar's French, to the countrymen; but 
 the students presently found out his blind side. However, respect- 
 fully addressing him, " Sir Knight," said one of them, " if you are 
 not fixed to any set stage, as persons of your function seldom are, let 
 us beg the honour of your company ; and you shall be entertained 
 with one of ihe finest and most sumptuous weddings that ever was 
 seen, either in La Mancha, or many leagues round it." " The nup- 
 tials of some young prince, I presume.? " said Don Quixote. "No, 
 sir," answered the otheir, " but of a yeoman's son, and a neighbour's 
 daughter ; he the richest in all this country, and she the handsomest 
 you ever saw. The entertainment at the wedding will be new and 
 extraordinary ; it is to be kept in a meadow near the village where 
 the bride lives. They call her Quiteria the Handsome, by reason 
 of her beauty ; and the bridegroom Camacho the Rich, on account 
 of his wealth. They are well matched as to age, for she drawa 
 towards eighteen, aad he is about two-and-fwenty, though soma 
 
CH. LI.] DON QUIXOTE. 237 
 
 nice folks, that have all the pedigrees in the world in their heads, 
 will tell ye that the bride comes of a better family than he ; but that 
 is not minded now-a-days, for money, you know, will hide many 
 faults. And, indeed, this same Camacho is as free as a prince, and 
 designs to spare no cost upon his wedding. He has taken a fancy 
 to get the meadow shaded with boughs, that are to cover it like an 
 arbour, so that the sun will have much ado to peep through, and 
 visit the green grass underneath. There are also provided for the 
 diversion of the company several sorts of antics and morrice-danc- 
 ers, some with swords, and some with bells ; for there are young 
 fellows in his village that can manage them cleverly. I say nothing 
 of those that play tricks with the soles of their shoes when they dance, 
 leaving that to the judgments of their guests. But nothing that I have 
 told or might tell you of this wedding, is like to make it so remarka- 
 ble as the things which I imagine poor Basil's despair will do. This 
 Basil is a young fellow that lives next door to Quiteria's father, 
 flence arose an attachment, like that of old between Pyramus and 
 Thisbe ; for Basil's love grew up with him from a child, and she en- 
 couraged his passion with all the kind return that modesty couid grant ; 
 insomuch that the mutual affection of the two little ones was the com- 
 mon talk of the village. But Quiteria coming to years of maturity, 
 her father began to deny Basil the usual access to his house ; and to 
 cut off his farther pretence, declared his resolution of marrying her 
 to Camacho, who is'indeed his superior in estate, though far short of 
 him ^in all other qualifications; for Basil is the cleverest fellow we 
 have : he will pitch ye a bar, wrestle, or play at tennis with the best 
 in the country ; he runs like a stag, leaps like a buck, plays at nine- 
 pins so well, you would think he tips them down by witchcraft ; sings 
 like a lark ; touches a guitar so rarely, he even makes it speak ; and 
 to complete his perfections, he handles a sword like a fencer." 
 
 " For that very single qualification," said Don Quixote, " he de- 
 serves not only Quiteria the Handsome, but a princess ; nay, Queen 
 Guinever herself, were she now living, in spite of Sir Lancelot and all 
 that would oppose it." " Well," quoth Sancho, who had been silent, 
 and listening all the while, " my wife used to tell me she would have 
 every one marry with their match. All I say is, let honest Basil 
 e'en marry her ! for methinks I have a huge liking to the young man ; 
 and so Heaven bless them together, say I, and a murrain seize those 
 that will spoil a good match between those that love one another ! " 
 *' Nay," said Don Quixote, " if marriage should be always the conse- 
 quence of mutual love, what would become of the prerogative of pa- 
 rents and their authority over their children.? If young girls 
 might always choose their own husbands, we should have the best , 
 families intermarry with coachmen and grooms ; and young heiresses 
 would iirow themselves away unon the first wild young fellows whosa 
 
238 DON QTTIXOTE. 
 
 promising outsides and assurance make them set up for fortunes, 
 though all their stock consists in impudence. For the understanding, 
 which alone should distinguish and choose in these cases as in all 
 others, is apt to be blinded or biassed by love and affection ; and 
 matrimony is so nice and critical a point, that it requires not only our 
 own cautious management, but even the direction of a superior power 
 to choose right. Whoever undertakes a long journey, if he be wise, 
 makes it his business to find out an agreeable companion. How cau- 
 tious then should he be, who is to take a journey for life, whose fel- 
 low-traveller must not part with him but at the grave ; his companion 
 at bed and board, and sharer of all the pleasures and fatigues of his 
 journey ; as the wife must be to the husband ! She is no such sort of 
 ware, that a man can be rid of when ho pleases. When once that is 
 purchased, no exchange, no sale, no alienation can be made : she is 
 an inseparable accident to man : marriage is a noose, which, fastened 
 about the neck, runs the closer, and fits more uneasy by our strug- 
 gling to get loose : it is a Gordian knot which none can untie, and 
 being twisted with our thread of life, nothing but the scythe of death 
 can out it. I could dwell longer on this subject, but that I long to 
 know whether you can tell us anything more of Basil." 
 
 " All I can tell you," said the student, " is, that he is in the case of 
 all desperate lovers ; since the moment he heard of this intended 
 marriage, he has never been seen to smile ; he is in a deep melan- 
 choly, talks to himself, and seems out of his senses ; he hardly eats 
 or sleeps, and lives like a savage in the open fields, his only susten- 
 ance a little fruit, and his only bed the hard ground ; sometimes he 
 lifts up his eyes to Heaven, then fixes them on the ground, and in 
 either posture stands like a statue. In short, ho is reduced to that 
 condition that we who are his acquaintance verily believe that Quite- 
 ria's fatal ' Yes ' of this wedding to-morrow will be attended by his 
 death." 
 
 " Heaven forbid," cried Sancho. " Who can tell what may happen > 
 hethat gives a broken head can give a plaster. This is one day, 
 but to-morrow is another ; and strange things may fall out in the roast- 
 ing of an egg. After a storm, comes a calm. Many a man that 
 went to bed well, has found himself dead in the morning when he 
 awaked. Who can put a spoke in fortune's wheel ? nobody here, I 
 am sure. Between a woman's yea and nay, I would not engage to 
 put a pin's point, so close they be one to another. If Mrs. Quiteria 
 love Mr. Basil, she will give Camacho the bag to hold : for this, 
 same love, they say, looks through spectacles that makes copper like 
 gold, a cart like a coach, and a shrimp like a lobster."' " Whither, 
 in the name of ill-luck, art thou running with thy proverbs now 
 Saucho .' " said Don Quixote. " What dost thou know, poor animal 
 rf fortuae, of her wheel, or any thing else } " " Why truly, sir ' 
 
CH. I.II.] SON QtriXOTE. 239 
 
 quoth Sancho, " if you don't undei-stand me, no wonder if my sen- 
 tences be thought nonsense. But let that pass, I understand myself 
 and I am sure I have not talked so much like a ninny. But you, for- 
 sooth, are so sharp a cricket." " A critic, blockhead," said Don 
 Quixote, " you mean." " What makes you so angry, sir ? " quoth 
 Sancho ; " 1 was never brought up at school nor varsity, to know 
 when I murder a hard word. I was never at court to learn, to spell, 
 sir. Some are born in one town, some in another ; one at St. Jago, 
 another at Toledo ; and even there all are 'not so nicely spoke." 
 
 "You are in the right, friend," said the student ; " those natives of 
 that city who live among the tanners, or about the market of Zocodo- 
 ver, and are confined to mean conversation, cannot speak so well as 
 those that frequent the polite part of the town, and yet they are all 
 of Toledo. But propriety, purity, and elegance of style may be 
 found among men of breeding and judgment, let them be born where 
 they will ; for their judgment is in the grammar of good language, 
 though practice and example will go a great way." 
 
 It was now pretty dark ; but before they got to the village there 
 appeared an entire blazing constellation. ' Their ears were entertained 
 with the pleasing but confused sounds of several sorts of music, 
 drums, fiddles, pipes, tabors, and bells ; and as they approached 
 nearer still, they found a large arbour at the entrance of the town 
 Stuck full of lights, which burnt undisturbed by the least breeze of 
 wind. The musicians, which are the life and soul of diversion at a 
 wedding, went up and down in bands about the meadow. Others 
 were employed in raising scaffolds for the better view of the shows 
 and entertainments prepared for the happy Camacho's wedding, and 
 likewise to solemnise poor Basil's funeral. All the persuasions and 
 endeavours of the students and countrymen could not move Don 
 Quixote to enter the town ; urging for his reason the custom of 
 knights-errant, who chose to lodge in fields and forests under the 
 canopy of Heaven, rather than in soft beds under a gilded roof; and 
 therefore he left them, and went a- little out of the road, full sore 
 against Sancho's will, who had not yet forgot the good lodging ano 
 entertainment he had at Don Diego's house or castle. 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 An account of rich Camacho's wedding, and what hefell poor Basil, 
 
 ScAECE had the fair Aurora given place to the refulgent ruler of the 
 day, and given him time, with the heat of his prevailing rays, to dry 
 thj liquid pearls on his golden locksj when Don Quixote, shaking off 
 
240 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 sluggish sleep from his drowsy limbs, arose and called his squire ; 
 but finding him still snoring, " O thou most happy mortal upon 
 earth," said he, " how sweet is thy repose ; envied by none, and 
 envying no man's greatness, secure thou sleepest, thy soul composed 
 and calm : no power of magic persecutes thee, nor are thy thoughts 
 afirighted by enchantments ! Sleep on, sleep on, a hundred times 
 sleep on. Those jealous cares that break a lover's heart, do not ex- 
 tend to thee ; neither the dread of craving creditors, nor the dismal 
 foresight of inevitable want, or care of finding bread for a helpless 
 family, keep thee waking. Ambition does not make thee uneasy, 
 the pomp and vanity of this world do not perplex thy mind ; for all 
 thy care's extent reaches but to thy ass. "Thy person and thy wel- 
 fare thou hast committed to my charge, a burden imposed on masters 
 by nature and custom, to weigh and counterpoise the offices of ser- 
 vants. Which is the greatest slave .' The servant's business is per- 
 formed by a few manual duties, which only reconcile him more to 
 rest, and make him sleep more sound ; while the anxious master has 
 not leisure to close his eyes, but must labour day and night to make 
 provision for the subsistence of his servant ; not only in time of abun- 
 dance, but even when the Heavens deny those kindly showers that 
 must supply this want." 
 
 To all this fine expostulation Sancho answered not a word ; but 
 slept on, and was not to be waked by his master's calling or otherwise, 
 till he pricked him with the sharp end of his lance. At length, opening 
 his eyelids half way, and rubbing them, after he had gaped and yawn- 
 ed and stretched his drowsy limbs, he looked about him ; and snuff- 
 ing up his nose, " I am much mistaken^" quoth he, " if from this 
 same arbour there comes not a pure steam of a good rasher, that 
 comforts my nostrils more that all the herbs and rushes hereabouts. 
 And truly, a wedding that begins so savourily must be a dainty one." 
 " Away, cormorant," said Don Quixote ; " rouse, and let us go see it, 
 and learn how it fares with the disdained Basil." " Fare ! " quoth 
 Saacho ; " why, if he be poor, he must e'en be so still, and not think 
 to marry Quiteria. It is a pretty fancy for a fellow who has not a 
 cross, to run madding after what is meat for his betters. I will lay 
 my neck that Camacho covers this same Basil from head to foot with 
 white sixpences, and will spend more at a breakfast than the other is 
 worth, and be never the worse. And do you think that Madame 
 Quiteria will quit her fine rich gowns and petticoats, her necklaces of 
 pearl, her jewels, her finery and bravery, and all that Camacho has 
 given her, and may afford to give her, to marry a fellow with whom 
 she must knit or spin for her living ? What signifies his bar-pitch- 
 mg and fencing ? " " Let me beseech you, good Sancho," interrupted 
 Don Quixote, " to bring thy harangue to a conclusion. For my 
 part, I believe, wert thou let alone when thy clack is once set a going, 
 
■CU. LII.J DON QUIXOTE. 24 J 
 
 thou wouldst scarce allow thyself time to eat or sleep, but wouldst 
 prate on to the end of the chapter." " Troth, master," replied San- 
 cho, " your memory must be very short not to remember the articles 
 of our agreement before I came this last journey with you. I was 
 to speak what I would, and when I would, provided I said nothing 
 against my neighbour, or your worship's authority ; and I don't see 
 that I have broken my indentures yet." " I remember no such arti- 
 cle," said Don Quixote ; " and though it were so, it is my pleasui-e 
 you should now be silent ; for the instruments we heard last night 
 begin to cheer the valleys, and doubtless the marriage will be sol- 
 emnised this morning ere the heat of the day prevent the diversion." 
 
 Thereupon Sancho said no more, but saddled Eozinante, and 
 clapped his pack-saddle on Dapple's back ; then both mounting, away 
 they rode fair and softly into the arbour. The first thing that blessed 
 Sancho's sight there, was a whole steer spitted on a large elm before 
 a mighty fire made of a pile of wood, that seemed a flaming moun- 
 tain. Round this bonfire were placed six capacious pots, cast in no 
 common mould, or rather six ample coppers, every one containing a 
 whole shamble of meat, and entire sheep were sunk and lost in them, 
 and soaked as conveniently as pigeons. The branches of the trees 
 round were all garnished with an infinite number of cased hares, and. 
 plucked fowls of several sorts ; and then for Srink, Sancho told above 
 threescore skins of wine, each of which contained above twenty-four 
 quarts ; and, as it afterwards proved, sprightly liquor. A goodly pile 
 of white loaves made a large rampart on the one side, and a stately 
 wall of cheeses set up like bricks made a comely bulwark on the 
 other. Two pans of oil, each bigger than a dyer's vat, served to fry 
 their pancakes, which they lifted out with two strong peels when they 
 were fried enough ; and then they dipped them in as large a bottle 
 of honey prepared for that purpose. To dress the provisions there 
 were above fifty cooks, men and women, all cleanly, diligent, and 
 cheerful. In the ample belly of the steer, they had sewed up twelve 
 little sucking pigs, to give it the more savoury taste. Spices of all 
 sorts lay about in such plenty, that they appeared to be bought by 
 wholesale. In short, the whole provision was indeed country like, 
 but plentiful enough to feast an army. 
 
 Sancho beheld all this with wonder and delight. The first tempta- 
 tion that captivated his senses was the goodly pots ; by and by he 
 falls desperately in love with the skins of wine ; and lastly, his affec- 
 tions were fixed on the frying-pans, if such honourable kettles may 
 accept of the name. The scent of the fried meat put him into such 
 a commotion of spirit, that he could hold out no longer, but accosting 
 one of the busy cooks with all the smooth and hungry reasons he was 
 master of, he begged his leave to sop a luncheon of bread in one of 
 the pans. " Friend," quoth the cook, " no hunger must be ielt neat 
 21 16 
 
242 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 US to-day (thanks to the founder). Alight, man^ and if thou cansl 
 find ever a ladle there, skim out a pullet or two, and much good may 
 they do you." " Alack a-day," quoth Sancho, " I see no ladle, 
 sir." " What a silly helpless fellow thou art ! " cried the cook. 
 " Let me see." With that he took a kettle, arid sousing it into one 
 of the pots, he fished out three hens and a couple of geese at one 
 heive. " Here, friend," said he to Sancho, " take this, and make 
 shift to stay your stomach with that scum till dinner be ready." 
 " Heaven reward you," cried Sancho ; " but where shall I put it } " 
 " Here," answered the cook, " take ladle and all, and thank the 
 founder once more, I say ; nobody will grudge it thee." 
 
 While Sancho was thus employed, Don Quixote saw twelve young 
 f« rmers' sons, all dressed very gay, enter upon stately mares, as richly 
 9 id gaudily equipped as the country could afford, with little bells fas- 
 t ned to their furniture. These in a close body made several careers 
 I p and down the meadow, merrily shouting and crying out, " Long 
 ) ve Camacho and Quiteria ! he is rich and she is fair, and she the 
 ( lirest in the world ! " Poor ignorants (thought Don Quixote, over- 
 I earing them), you speak as you know ; but had you ever seen my 
 fulcinea del Toboso, you would not be so lavish of your praises. 
 
 CHAPTER LIIL 
 The progress of Camacho' s wedding ; with other delightful accidents. 
 
 Don Quixote and Sancho were now interrupted by a great noise of 
 joy and acclamation raised by the horsemen, who, shouting and gal- 
 loping, went to meet the young couple ; who, surrounded by a thou- 
 sand instruments and devices, were coming to the arbour, accompanied 
 by the curate, their relations, and all the better sort of the neighbour- 
 hood, set out in their holiday-clothes. " Hey-day," quoth Sancho, as 
 soon as he saw the bride, " what have we here .' Truly this is no 
 country lass, but a fine court-lady, all in her silks and satins ! Look, 
 lo'ok ye, master, see if, instead of glass necklaces, she have not on 
 fillets of rich coral ; and instead of green serge of Cuencha, a thirty- 
 piled velvet. Bless us, see what rings she has on her fingers ; no jet, 
 no pewter baubles, but pure beaten gold, and set with pearls too ; if 
 every pearl be not as white as a syllabub, and each of them as pre- 
 cious as an eye ! How she is bedizened, and glistens from top to 
 toe ! And now yonder again, what fine long locks the young slut has 
 got ; if they be not false, I never saw longer in my born days ! Ah, 
 what a fine stately person she is ! What a number of trinkets and 
 glaring gewgaws are dangling in her hair and about her neck ! Well, 
 I say no more, but happy is the man that has thee ! " 
 
CH. LIU.] DON QUIXOTE. 243, 
 
 Don Quixote could not help smiling to hear Sancho set forlh tno 
 bride after his rustic way, though at the same time he beheld her with 
 admiration. The procession was just arrived when they heard a 
 piercing outcry, and a voice calling out, " Stay, rash and hast^' peo- 
 ple, stay ! " Upon which, all turning about, they saw a person com- 
 ing after them in a black coat, bordered with crimson, powdered with 
 flames of fire. On his head he wore a garland of mournful cypress, 
 and a large truncheon in his hand, headed with an iron spike. As 
 soon as he drew near, they knew him to be the gallant Basil ; and 
 seeing him come thus unlocked for, and with such an outcry and 
 behaviour, began to fear some mischief would ensue. He came up 
 tired and panting before the bride and bridegroom ; then leaning on 
 his truncheon, he fixed his eyes on Quiteria , and with a fearful hol- 
 ow voice, " Too well you know," cried he, " unkind Quiteria, that 
 by the ties of truth, and the laws of that Heaven which we all revere, 
 while 1 have life you cannot be married to another. You are now 
 about to snap all the ties between us, and gi\|e my right to another ; 
 whose large possessions, though they can procure him all other bless- 
 ings, I had never envied, could they not have purchased you. But no 
 more. It is ordained ; and I will therefore remove this unhappy ob- 
 stacle out of your way. Live, rich Camacho ; live happy with the 
 ungrateful Quiteria many years ; and let the poor, the miserable Ba- 
 sil die, whose poverty has clipped the wings of his felicity, and laid 
 him in the grave ! " 
 
 Saying these words, he drew out of his supposed truncheon a short 
 tuck that was concealed in it, and setting the hilt of it against the 
 ground, he fell upon the point in such a manner that it came out all 
 bloody at his back, the poor wretch weltering on the ground in blood. 
 His friends, strangely confounded by this sad accident, ran to help 
 him ; and Don Quixote, forsaking Eozinante, made haste to his assis- 
 tance, and taking him up in his arms, found there was still life in him. 
 They would have drawn the sword out of his body, but the curate 
 urged it was not convenient till he had made confession, and prepared 
 himself, for death, which would immediately attend the effusion of 
 blood upon pulling the tuck out of tlie body. 
 
 While they were debating this point, Basil seemed to come a little 
 to himself ; and calling on the bride, " Oh, Quiteria ! " said he, with 
 a faint and doleful voice, " now, now, in this last and departing min- 
 ute of my life, even in this dreadful agony of death, would you but 
 vouchsafe to give me your hand, and own yourself my wife, I should 
 think myself rewarded for the torments I endure ; and — pleased to 
 think this desperate deed made me yours, though but for a moment— 
 I would die contented." 
 
 The curate, hearing this, very earnestly recommended to him the 
 care of his soul's health, which at the present juncture was mora 
 
244 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 proper tlian any other worldly concern ; that his time was but short, 
 and he ought to be very earnest with . Heaven, in imploring mercy 
 and forgiveness for all his sins, but especially for this last desperate 
 action. To which Basil answered, that " he could think of no hap- 
 piness till Quiteria yielded to be his ; but if she would do it, that sat- 
 isfaction would calm his spirits, and dispose him to confess himself 
 heartily." 
 
 Don Quixote, hearing this, cried out aloud, " that Basil's demand 
 was just and reasonable, and Signer Camacho might as honourably 
 receive her as the worthy Basil's widow, as if he had received her at 
 her father's hands." Camacho stood alL this while strangely con- 
 founded, till at last he was prevailed on, by the repeated importunities 
 of Basil's friends, to consent that Quiteria should humour the dying 
 man, knowing her own happiness would thereby be deferred but a 
 few minutes longer. Then they all bent their entreaties to Quiteria, 
 some with tears in their eyes, others with all the engaging arguments 
 their pity could suggest. She stood a long time inexorable, and did 
 not return any answer, till at last the curate came to her, and bid her 
 resolve what she would do, for Basil could not now live many min- 
 utes. Then the poor virgin, trembling and dismayed, without speak- 
 ing a word, came to Basil, who lay gasping for breath, with his eyes 
 fixed in his head as if he were just expiring ; she kneeled down be- 
 fore him, and with the most manifest signs of grief beckoned to him 
 for his hand. Th^n Basil opening his eyes, and fixing them in a 
 languishing posture on hers, " Oh, Quiteria," said he, " your heart 
 at last relents when your pity comes too late. Thy arms are now 
 extended to relieve me, when those of death draw me to their em- 
 braces ; and they, alas, are much too strong for thine ! All I desire 
 of thee, O fatal beauty, is this, let not that fair hand deceive me now, 
 as it has done before ; but confess that what you do is free and vol- 
 untary, without constraint, or in compliance to any one's commands ; 
 declare me openly thy true and lawful husband : thou wilt not sure 
 dissemble with one in death, and deal falsely with his departing soul, 
 that all his life has been true to thee ? " 
 
 In the midst of all this discourse he fainted away, and all the by- 
 standers thought him gone. The poor Quiteria, with blushing mod- 
 esty, took him by the hand, and with great emotion, " No force," 
 said she, " could ever work upon my will ; therefore believe it purely 
 my own free will, that I here declare you my only lawful husband : 
 here is my hand in pledge ; and I expect yours as freely in return, if 
 your pains and this sudden accident have not yet bereft you of all 
 sense." " I give it to you," said Basil, with all the, presence of inind 
 imaginable, " and here I own myself thy husband." " And I thy 
 wife," said she, " whethei* thy life be long, or whether from my arms 
 they "jear thee this instant to the grave." " Methinks," quoth Sancho, 
 
CH LIU.] DON QUIXOTE. 245 
 
 " this young man talks too much for one in his condition ; pray udvise 
 him to leave off his wooing, and mind his soul's health. I suspect 
 his death is more in his tongue than between his teeth." Now when 
 Basil and Quiteria had thus plighted their faith to each other, while 
 yet their hands were joined together, the tender-hearted curate, with 
 tears in his eyes, poured on them both the nuptial blessing, beseech- 
 ing Heaven, at the same time, to have mercy on the new-married 
 man's soul, and in a manner mixing the burial service with the matri- 
 monial. 
 
 As soon as the benediction was pronounced, up starts Basil briskly 
 from the ground, and with an unexpected activity whips the sword 
 out of his body, and caught his dear Quiteria. in his arms. All the 
 spectators stood amazed, and some of the simpler sort stuck not to 
 cry out, " A miracle, a miracle ! " " No miracle," cried Basil, "no 
 miracle, but a stratagem." The curate, more astonished than all the 
 rest, came to feel the wound, and discovered that the sword had no 
 where passed through the cunning Basil's body, but only through a 
 tin pipe full of blood artfully fitted close to him ; and, as it was after- 
 wards known, so prepared that the blood could not congeal. In short 
 the curate, Camacho, and the company, found they had all been 
 egregiously imposed upon. As for the bride, she was so far from 
 being displeased, that, hearing it urged that the marriage could not 
 stand good in law because it was fraudulent and deceitful, she pub- 
 licly declared that she again confirmed it to be just, and by the free 
 consent of both parties. 
 
 Camacho and his friends, judging by this that the trick was preme- 
 ditated, and that she was privy to the plot, had recourse to- a strongei 
 argument ; and, drawing their swords, set furiously on Basil, in whose 
 defence almost as many were immediately unsheathed. Don Quix- 
 ote immediately mounting with his lance couched, and covered with 
 his shield, led the van of Basil's party, and falling in with the enemy, 
 charged them briskly. Sancho, who never liked any dangerous 
 work, resolved to, 'stand neuter, and so retired under the walls of the 
 mighty pot whence he had got the precious skimmings, thinking that 
 would be respected, whichever side gained the battle. 
 
 Don Quixote, addressing himself to Camacho's party, " Hold, 
 gentlemen," cried he, " it is not. just thus with arms to redress the 
 injuries of love. Love and war are the same thing, and stratagems 
 and policy are as allowable in the one as in the other. Quiteria was 
 designed for Basil, and he for her, by the unalterable decrees of 
 Heaven. Camacho's riches may purchase him a bride, and more 
 content elsewhere ; and those whom Heaven has joined let no man 
 put asunder ; for I here solemnly declare, that he who first attempts 
 it must pass through me, and this lance through him." At which he 
 shook his lance in the air with so much vigour and dexterity, thai he 
 21* ' 
 
2-16 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 cast a sudden terror into those that beheld him, who did not xnow tho 
 threatening champion. 
 
 In short Don Quixote's words, the curate's mediation, together with 
 Quiteria's inconstancy, brought Camacho to a truce ; and he then 
 discreetly considered, that since Quiteria loved Basil before marriage, 
 it was probable she would love him afterwards ; and that, therefore 
 he had more reason to thank Heaven for so good a riddance than to 
 repine at losing her. This thought, improved by some other con- 
 siderations, brought both parties to a fair accommodation ; and Ca- 
 macho, to shew he did not resent the disappointment, blaming rathei 
 Quiteria's levity than Basil's policy, invited the whole company to 
 stay and take share of what he had provided. But Basil, whose vir- 
 tues, in spite of his poverty, had secured him many friends, drew 
 away part of the company to attend him and his bride to her own 
 town ; and among the rest Don Quixote, whom they all honoured as 
 a person of extraordinary worth and bravery. Poor Sancho followed 
 his master with a heavy heart ; he could not be reconciled to the 
 thoughts of turning his back so soon upon the good cheer and jollity 
 at Camacho's feast, and he had a strange hankering after those pleas- 
 ures which, though he left behind in reality, he yet carried along with 
 him in mind. 
 
 The new-married couple entertamed Don Quixote very nobly, 
 they esteemed his wisdom equal to his valour, and thought him both 
 a Cid in arms and a Cicero in arts. Basil then informed them that 
 Quiteria knew nothing of his stratagem ; but being a pure device of 
 his own, he had made some of his nearest friends acquainted with it, 
 that they should stand by him if occasion were, and bring him off 
 upon the discovery of the trick. " It deserves a handsomer name," 
 said Don Quixote, " since conducive to so good and honourable an 
 end as the marriage of a loving couple. By the way, sir, you must 
 know that the greatest obsfacle to love is want, and a narrow fortune ; 
 for the continual bands and cements of mutual affection are joy, con- 
 tent, and comfort. These, managed by skilful hands, can make va- 
 riety in the pleasures of wedlock, preparing the same thing always 
 with some additional circumstance, to render it new and delightful. 
 But when pressing necessity and intjigence deprive us of those plea- 
 sures that prevent satiety, the yoke of matrimony is often found very 
 galling, and the burden intolerable." 
 
 These words were chiefly directed by Don Quixote to Basil, to 
 advise him by the way to give over those airy sports and exercises, 
 which indeed might feed his youth with praise, but not his old age 
 with bread ; and to bethink himself of some grave and substantial 
 employment that might afford him a competency, and something of 
 a stock for his declining years. Then pursuing his discourse, " The 
 honourable poor man," said he, " when he has a beautiful wife is 
 
CH. LIV.] DON QUIXOTE. 217 
 
 blessed with a jewel ; he that deprives him of her robs him of hia 
 honour, and may be said to deprive him of his life. The woman that 
 is beautiful, and keeps her honesty when her husband is poor, de- 
 serves to be crowned with laurel as the conquerors were of old. — ■ 
 Beauty is a tempting bait, that attracts the eyes of all beholders ; and the 
 princely eagles, and the most high-flown birds, stoop to its pleasing 
 lure. But when they find it in necessity, then kites and crows, and 
 other ravenous birds, will all be grappling with the alluring prey. 
 She that can withstand these dangerous attacks, well deserves to be 
 the crown of her husband. However, sir, take this along with you, 
 as the opinion of a wise man, whose name I have forgot ; he said, 
 ' there was but one good woman in the world,' and his Advice was, 
 that every married man should think his own wife was she, as being 
 the only way to live contented. For my own part, I need not make 
 the application to myself, for I am not married, nor have I any thoughts 
 that way ; but if 1 had, it would not be a woman's fortune, but her 
 character should recommend her ; for public reputation is the life 
 of a lady's virtue, and the outward appearance of modesty is in one 
 sense as good as the reality ; since a private sin is not so prejudicial 
 in this world as a public indecency." 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 An account of the great adventure of Montesinos' Cave. 
 
 Don Qtjixote having tarried three days with the young couple, and 
 been entertained like a prince, he entreated the student who fenced 
 so well to help him to a guide that might conduct him to Montesinos' 
 cave, resolving to go down into it, and prove by his own eyesight 
 the wonders that were reported of it around the country. The stu- 
 dent recommended a cousin-german of his for his conductor, who, he 
 said, was an ingenious lad, a pretty scholar, and a great admirer of 
 hooks of knight-errantry, and could shew him the famous lake of 
 Ruydera too : adding, that he would be very good company for the 
 knight, as being one that wrote books for the booksellers, in order to 
 dedicate them to great men. Accordingly the learrcd cousin came, 
 mounted on an ass, his pack-saddle covered with an old carpet or 
 coarse packing-cloth. Thereupon Sancho having got ready Rozinante 
 and Dapple, well stuffed his wallet, and the student's Jcnapsack to boot, 
 they all took their leave, steering the nearest course to Montesinos' 
 cave. 
 
 To pass the time on the road, Don Quixote asked the guide to 
 what course of study he chiefly applied himself > " Sir," answered 
 ib 5 scholar, " my business is in writiag, and copy-money my chief 
 
248 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Study. I have published some things with the general approbation 
 of. the world, and much to my own advantage. Perhaps, sir, you 
 may have heard of one of my books, called ' The Treatise of Live- 
 ries and Devices ; ' in which I have obliged the public with no less 
 than seven hundred and three sorts of liveries and devices, with their 
 colours, mottos, and ciphers ; so that any courtier may furnish him- 
 self there upon any extraordinary appearance, with what may suit 
 his fancy or circumstances, without racking his own invention to find 
 what is agreeable to his inclination. I can furnish the jealous, the 
 forsaken, the disdained, the absent, with what will fit them to a hair. 
 Another piece, which I now have on the anvil, I design to call the 
 ' MetamorpBoses, or the Spanish Ovid ; ' an invention very new and 
 extraordinary. Another work, which I soon design for the press, I call 
 a ' Supplement to Polydore Vergil, concerning the invention of 
 Things ; ' a piece, I will assure you, sir, that shews the great pains 
 and learning of the compiler, and perhaps in a better style than the 
 old author. For example, he has forgot to tell us who was the first 
 that was troubled with a catarrh in the world. Now, sir, this I im- 
 mediately resolve, and confirm my assertion by the testimony of at 
 least four-and-twenty authentic writers ; by which quotations alone 
 you may guess at what pains I have been to instruct and benefit the 
 public." 
 
 With more discourse of a like kind they passed their journey, till 
 they came to the cave the next day, having slept the night before in a 
 village on the road. There they bought a hundred fathoms of cord, 
 to let Don Quixote down to the lowest part of the cave. No sooner 
 was he come to the place, than he prepared for his expedition into 
 that under-world, telling the scholar that he was resolved to reach 
 the bottom, though deep as the most profound abyss ; and all having 
 alighted, the squire and his guide accordingly girt him fast with a 
 rope. While this was doing, " Good sweet sir," quoth Sancho, " con- 
 sider what you do. Do not venture into such a horrid black hole ! 
 Look before you leap, sir, and be not so wilful as to bury yourself alive. 
 Do not hang yourself like a bottle or a bucket, that is let down to be 
 soused in a well." " Peace, coward," said the knight, " and bind 
 me fast; for surely for me such an enterprise as this is reserved." 
 " Pray, sir," said the student, " when you are in, be very vigilant in 
 exploring and observing all the rarities in the place. Let nothing 
 escape your eyes ; perhaps you may discover there some things wor 
 thy to be inserted in my Metamorphoses." " Let him alone," quoth 
 Sancho, " he will go through with it : he will make a hog or a dog oJ 
 it, I will warrant you." 
 
 Don Q.uixote being well bound, bethought himself of one thing 
 they had forgot. "We did ill," said he, " not to provide ourselves with 
 B little bell, that I might ring for more or less rope as I require it, and 
 
CH. L.V.] DON QUIXOTE. 249 
 
 inform you of my being alive. But smce there is no remedy, Heav- 
 en prosper me." Then kneeling down, he in a low voice recommen- 
 ded himself to the Divine Providence for assistance and success m 
 an adventure so strange, and in all appearance so dangerous. Then 
 raising his voice, " O thou lady of my life," cried he, "most illustri- 
 ous Dulcinea delToboso, if the prayersofanadventurous absent lover 
 may reach the ears of the far distant object of his wishes, by the 
 power of thy unspeakable beauty, I conjure thee to grant me thy fa- 
 vour and protection, in this plunge and precipice of my fortune ! I 
 am now going to engulf, and cast myself into this dismal profun- 
 dity, that the world may know nothing can be impossible to him who, 
 influenced by thy smiles, attempts, under the banner of thy beauty, 
 the most difficult task." 
 
 This said, he got up again, and approaching the entrance of the 
 cave, he found it stopped up with brakes and bushes, so that he would 
 be obliged to make his way by force. Whereupon, drawing his 
 sword, he began to cut and sleish the brambles that stopped up the 
 mouth of the cave ; when, presently, an infinite number of crows 
 and daws came rushing and fluttering out of the cave about his ears, 
 so thick, and with such impetuosity, as almost struck him to the ground. 
 He was not superstitious enough to draw any ill omen from the flight 
 of the birds ; besides it was no small encouragement to him, that he 
 spied no bats nor owls nor other ill-boding birds of night among them : 
 he therefore rose again with an undaunted heart, and committed him- 
 self to the black and dreadful abyss. But Sancho and the student 
 first gave him their benediction, and prayed for the knight's safe and 
 speedy return. 
 
 Don Quixote began to descend, calling for more rope, which they 
 gave him by degrees, till his voice was drowned in the winding of the 
 cave, and their cordage was run out. That done, they began to con- 
 sider whether they should hoist him up again immediately or no ; 
 however, they resolved to stay half an hour, and then they began to 
 draw up the rope, but were strangely surprised to find no weight upon 
 it, which made them conclude the poor gentleman was certainly lost. 
 Sancho, bursting out into tears, made a heavy lamentation, and fell 
 a hauling up the rope as fast as he could, to be thoroughly satisfied. — 
 But after they had drawn up about fourscore fathoms, they felt 
 a weight again, which made them take heart ; and at length they 
 plainly saw Don Quixote. " Welcome," cried Sancho to him, as 
 soon as he came in sight ; " welcome, dear master. I am glad you are 
 come back again ; we were afraid you had been pawned for the reck- 
 oning." But Sancho had no answer to his compliment; and when 
 they had pulled the knight quite up, they found that his eyes were 
 closed as if he had been fast asleep, '^^hey laid him on the ground 
 
250 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and unbound him. Yet he made no sign of waking, and all their 
 turning and shaking was little enough to make him come to him- 
 self. 
 
 At last he began to stretch his limbs, as if he had waked out of 
 the most profound sleep; and staring wildly about him, "Hea\en 
 forgive you, friends ! " cried he, " for you have raised me from one 
 of the sweetest lives that ever mortal led, and most delightful sights 
 that ever eyes beheld. Now I perceive how fleeting are all the joys 
 of this transitory life ; they are but an imperfect dream, they fade 
 like a flower, and vanish like a shadow. O, ill-fated Montesinos ! O 
 Durandarte, unfortunately wounded ! O unhappy Belerraa ! O de- 
 plorable Guadiana ! and you the distressed daughters of Ruydera, " 
 whose flowing waters shew what streams of tears once trickled from 
 your lovely eyes ! " These expressions, uttered with great passion 
 and concern, surprised the scholar and Sancho, and they desired to 
 know his meaning, and what he had seen in that horrid dungeon. 
 " Call it not so," answered Don Quixote, " for it deserves a better 
 name, as I shall soon let you know. But first give me something to 
 eat, for I am prodigiously hungry." They then spread the scholar's 
 coarse saddle-cloth for a carpet ; and examining their old cupboard, 
 the knapsack, they all three sat down on the grass, and eat heartily 
 together, like men that were a meal or two behindhand. When they 
 had done, "Let no man stir," said Don Quixote ; '' sit still, and hear 
 me with attention." 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 Of the wonderful things which the unparalleled Don Quixote declared 
 he had seen in the deep cave of Montesinos^ the greatness and im- 
 possibility of which make this adventure pa^s for apocryphal. 
 
 It was now past four in the afternoon, and the sun was opportupely 
 hid behind the clouds, which, interposing between his rays, invited 
 Don Quixote, without heat or trouble, to relate the wonders he had 
 seen in Montesinos' cave. 
 
 " About twelve or fourteen men's depth," said he, " in the profun- 
 dity of this cavern, on the right hand, there is a concavity wide 
 enough to contain a large waggon, mules and all. This place is 
 not wholly darlj, for through some chinks and narrow holes, that 
 reach to the distant surface of the earth, there comes a glimmering 
 light. I discovered this recess, being already weary of hanging by 
 the loins, discouraged by the profound darkness of the region below me, 
 destitute of a guide, and not knowing whither I went : resolving there- 
 fore to rest myself there a while, I called to you to give me no more 
 
CH. LV.j DON QUIXOTE. 851 
 
 rope, but it seems you did not hear me. I therefore entered, and 
 coiling up the cord, sat upon it very melancholy, and thinking how I 
 should most conveniently get down to the bottom, having nobody to 
 guide or support me. While I thus sat pensive, and lost in thought, 
 insensibly, without any previous drowsiness, I found myself surprised 
 by sleep ; and afl;er that, not knowing how, nor which way I wakened, 
 [ unexpectedly found myself in the finest and most delightful meadow, 
 that ever nature adoiined with her beauties, or the most inventive 
 fancy could ever imagine. Now, that I might be sure this was neith- 
 er a dream nor an illusion, I rubbed my eyes, felt several parts of vny 
 body, and convinced myself that I was really awake, with the use of 
 all my senses, and all the faculties of my understanding sound and 
 active as at this moment. 
 
 " Presently I discovered a sumptuous palace, of which the walls 
 seemed all of transparent crystaj. The spacious gates opening 
 there came out towards me a venerable old man, clad in a sad-colour- 
 ed robe, so long that it swept the ground ; on his breast and shoulders 
 he had a green satin tippet, after the manner of those worn in col- 
 leges. On his head he wore a black Milan cap, and his broad hoary 
 beard reached down below his middle. He had no kind of weapon 
 in his hands, but a rosary of beads about the bigness of walnuts, 
 and his credo beads appeared as large as ordinary ostrich-eggs. The 
 awful and grave aspect, the pace, the port and goodly presence of 
 this old man, each of them apart, and much more altogether, struck 
 me with veneration and astonishment. He came up to me, and, with-, 
 out any previous ceremony, embfecing me close, ' It is a long time,' 
 said he, ' most renowned knight, Don Quixote de la Mancha, that we 
 who dwell in this enchanted solitude have hoped to see you here ; 
 that you may inform the upper world of the surprising prodigies con- 
 cealed from human knowledge in this subterranean hollow, called the 
 cave of Monlesinos, — an enterprise reserved alone for your insuperable 
 heart, and stupendous resolution. Go with me, then, thou most illus- 
 trious knight, and behold the wonders enclosed within the transparent 
 castle, of which I am the perpetual governor and chief warden, being 
 the same individual Montesinos, from whom this cavern took its name.' 
 
 " No sooner had the reverend old man let me know who he was, 
 but I entreated him to tell me, whether it was true or r-o, that, at his 
 friend Durandarte's dying request, he had taken out his heart with a 
 small dagger, the very moment he expired, and carried it to his mis- 
 tress Belerma, as the story was current in the world .? 'It is litsra. V 
 true,' answered the old gentleman, ' except that single circumstance 
 of the dagger ; for I used neither a small nor a large dagger on this 
 occasion, but a well-polished poniard, as sharp as an awl.' 
 
 " The venerable Montesinos having conducted me into the crystal 
 palace, led me into a spacious ground-room, exceeding cool, and all of 
 
252 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 alabaster. In the middle of it stood a marble tomb, that seemed ! 
 masterpiece of art ; upon it lay a knight extended all at length, noi 
 of stone or brass, as on other monuments, but pure flesh and bones : 
 he covered the region of his heart with his right hand, which seemed 
 to me very full of sinews, a sign of the great strength of the body to 
 which it belonged. Montesinos, observing that I viewed this specta- 
 cle with surprise, ' Behold,' said he, ' the flower and mirror of all 
 the living and valiant knights of his age, my friend Durandarte, who 
 together with me and many others, of both sexes, are kept here en- 
 chanted by Merlin the British magician. Here, I say, we are en- 
 chanted ; but how and for what cause no man can tell, though time, I 
 hope, will shortly reveal it. But the most wonderful part of my for- 
 tune is this ; I am as certain, as that the sun now shines, that Duran- 
 darte died in my arms ; and that with these hands I took out his heart, 
 which weighed above two pounds, a sure mark of his courage ; for, 
 by the rules of natural philosophy, the most valiant men have still the 
 biggest hearts. Nevertheless, though this knight really died, he still 
 complains and sighs sometimes as if he were alive.' 
 
 " Scarce had Montesinos spoke these words, but the miserable Du- 
 randarte cried out aloud, ' Oh ! cousin Montesinos, the last and dying 
 request of your departing friend, was to take my heart out of my 
 breast with a poniard or a dagger, and carry it to Belerma.' The 
 venerable Montesinos, hearing this, fell on his knees before the afflict- 
 ed knight, and with tears in his eyes, ' Long, long ago,' said he, ' Du- 
 randarte, thou dearest of my kinsman, have I performed what you 
 enjoined me on that bitter fatal day when you expired. I took out 
 your heart with all imaginable care, and hasted away with it to 
 France, as soon as I had committed your dear remains to the bosom 
 of the earth. , To confirm this truth yet farther, at the first place 
 where I stopped from Roncesvalles,! laid a little salt upon your heart, 
 to preserve it, till I presented it into the hands of Belerma, who, with 
 you and me, and Guadiana * your squire, as also Ruydera (the lady's 
 woman) with her seven daughters, her two nieces, and many others of 
 your friends and acquaintance, is here confined by the necromantic 
 charms of the magician Merlin ; and though it be now above five hund- 
 red years since wewere first conveyed into this enchanted castle, we are 
 still alive, except Euydera, her daughters and nieces, who by the favour 
 of Merlin, that pitied their tears, were turned into so many laices, 
 still extant in the world of the living, and in the province of La Man- 
 cha, distinguished by the name of the lakes of Kuydera. But now I 
 have other news to tell you, which, though perhaps it may not as- 
 suage your sorrows, yet I am sure it will not increase them. Open 
 your eyes, and behold in your presence that mighty knight, of whoii 
 
 * Guadiana, a river in Spain, that sinks into tlie earth, und rises o^in a great distance oiC 
 
CH LV.J DON QUIXOTE. 253 
 
 Merlin the sage has foretold so many wonders : that Don Quixote de 
 la Mancha, I mean, who has not only restored to the world the func- 
 tion of knight-errantry, that has lain so long in oblivion, but advanc- 
 ed it to greater fame than it could boast in any former age. It ia 
 by his power that we may expect to see the charm dissolved, which 
 keeps us here confined ; for great performances are properly reserved 
 for great personages.' ' And should it not be so ? ' answered the 
 grieving Durandarte, with a faint and languishing voice,-^ — ' should it 
 not be so, 1 say > Oh ! cousin, patience, and shuffle the cards.' Then 
 turning on one side, without speaking a word more, he relapsed into 
 his usual silence. 
 
 " After this I was alarmed with piteous howling and crying, which, 
 mixed with lamentable sighs and groans, obliged me to turn about to 
 see whence it proceeded. Then through the crystal* wall I saw a 
 mournful procession of most beautiful damsels, all in black, marching 
 in two ranks, with turbans on their heads, after the Turkish fashion ; 
 and last of all came a majestic lady, dressed also in mourning, with a 
 long white veil that reached from her head down to the ground. Her 
 turban was twice as big as the biggest of the rest. She was some- 
 what beetle-browed, her nose was flattish, her mouth wide, but her 
 lips red ; her teeth, which she sometimes discovered, seemed to be 
 thin, but as white as blanched almonds. She held a fine handkerchief, 
 and within it I could perceive a heart of flesh, so dry and withered, 
 that it looked like mummy. Montesinos informed me that the pro- 
 cession consisted of Durandarte's and Belerma's servants, who were 
 enchanted there with their master and mistress ; but that the last was 
 Belerma herself, who with her attendants used four days in the week 
 constantly thus to sing their dirges over the heart and body of his 
 cousin ; and that though Belerma appeared a little haggard at that 
 juncture, occasioned by the grief she bore in her own heart, for that 
 which she carried in her hand ; yet had I seen her before her misfor- 
 tunes had sunk her eyes and tarnished her complexion, I must have 
 owned, that even the celebrated Dulcinea del Toboso, so famous in 
 La Mancha, and over the whole universe, could scarce have vied with 
 her in gracefulness and beauty. ■ 
 
 " Hold there, good Signor Don Montesinos, said I. You know that 
 comparisons are odious, therefore no more comparing, I beseech you ; 
 but go on with your story. The peerless Dulcinea del Toboso is what 
 she is, and the Lady Belerma is what she is, and has been ; so no 
 more upon that subject. ' I beg your pardon,' answered -Montesinos 
 ' Signor Don Quixote, I might have guessed that you were the Lady 
 Dulcinea's knight, and therefore I ought to have bit my tongue off, 
 sooner than to have compared her to any thing lower than heaven 
 itself This satisfaction, which I thought sufficient from the great 
 Montesinos, stilled the resentment 1 else had shewn, for hearing my 
 22 
 
254 DON QUIXOTii. 
 
 mistress compared to Belerma." " Nay, marry," quoth Sancho, " I 
 wonder you did not give the old fellow a hearty kicking ! How could 
 you leave one hair on his chin? " " No, no, Sancho," answerf,d Don 
 Quixote, " there is always a respect due to our seniors, though they 
 be no knights ; but most when they are such, and under the oppression 
 of enchantment. However, I am satisfied that in what discourse pass- 
 ed between us, I took care not to have anything that looked like an 
 affront fixed upon me." " But, sir," asked the scholar, " how could 
 you see and hear so many strange things in so little time ? I cannot 
 conceive how you could do it." " How long," said Don Quixote, " dcr 
 you reckon that I have been in the cave ? " " A little above an hour,^' 
 answered Sancho. " That is impossible," said Don Quixote, " for 
 saw morning and evening, and evening and morning, three times 
 since ; so that I could not be absent less than three days from this 
 upper world." " Ay, ay," quoth Sancho, " my master is in the right ; 
 for these enchantments, that have the greatest share in all his con' 
 cerns, may make that seem three days and three nights to him, which 
 is but an hour to other people." " It must be so," said Don Quixote. 
 " I hope, sir," said the scholar, " you have eaten something in all that 
 time." " Not one morsel," replied Don Quixote ; " neither have had 
 the least desire to eat, or so much as thought of it ' all the while." 
 " Do not they that are enchanted sometimes eat .'' " asked the scholar. 
 ' They never do," answered Don Quixote. " Do they never sleep 
 neither ? " said Sancho. " Never," said Don Quixote ; " at least 
 they never closed their eyes while I was among them, nor I neither." 
 " This makes good the saying," quoth Sancho, " ' tell me thy com- 
 pany, and I will tell thee what thou art.' Troth ! you have all been 
 enchanted together. No wonder if you neither eat nor slept, since 
 you were in the land of those that always watch and fast. But, sir, 
 would you have me speak as I think ; and pray do not take it in ill 
 
 part, for if I believe one word of all you have said " " What do 
 
 you mean, friend ? " said the student. " Do you think the noble Don 
 Quixote would be guilty of a lie .' and if he had a mind to stretch a 
 little, could he, think you, have had leisure to frame such a number 
 of stories in so short a time } " " I do not think that my master would 
 lie neither," said Sancho. "What do ye think, then, sir } " said Don 
 Quixote. " Well truly, sir," quoth Sancho, " I do believe that this 
 same cunning man, this Merlin, that bewitched or enchanted, as you 
 call it, all that rabble of people you talk of, may have crammed and 
 enchanted, some way or other, all that you have told us, and have yet 
 to tell us, into your noddle." " It is not impossible But such a thing 
 may nappen," said Don Quixote, "though I am. convinced it was 
 othe wise with me ; for I am positive that I saw with these eyes, and 
 felt with these hands, all I have mentioned. But what will you think 
 when I t&U you, anyjng many wonderful things, that I saw three 
 
CH. LV.J DON QUIXOTE. 25& 
 
 country-gMs leaping and skipping about those pleasant fields like so 
 many wilil-.i^oats ; and at first sight knew one of them to be the peu'- 
 less Dulcin.'.a, and the other two the very same we spoke to not f&T 
 from Tobobo. I asked Montesinos .f he knew them ? He answered 
 in the negative ; but imagined them some enchanted ladies, who were 
 new.ly come, and that the appearance of strange faces was no rarity 
 among them, for many of the past ages and the present were enchant- 
 ed there, undar several disguises ; and that, among the rest, he knew 
 Queen Guintver and her woman Quintaniona, that ofiiciated as Sir 
 Lancelot's cu,)-bearer, as he came from Britain." 
 ^ Sancho hearing his master talk at this rate, had like to have forgpt 
 himself, and Lurst out a-laughing ; for he well knew that Dulcinea's 
 enchantment N'as all a fiction, and that he himself was the chief ma- 
 gician, and raiser of the story ; and thence, concluding his master 
 stark mad, " Li an ill hour," quoth he, " dear master of mine, and in 
 a woful day, v-ent your worship down to the other world ; and in a 
 worse hom mt t you with that plaguy Montesinos, that has sent you 
 back in thirf ruoful pickle. You went hence in your right senses ; 
 could talk preitily enough now and then ; had your handsome pro- 
 verbs and wide sayings every foot, and would give wholesome counsel 
 to all that would take it ; but now, bless me ! you talk as if you had 
 left your brains in the devil's cellar." " I know thee, Sancho," said 
 Don Quixote, " and therefore I regard thy words as little as possible." 
 " And 1 yours," replied Sancho : " nay, you may cripple, lame, or 
 kill me, if you please, either for what I have said or mean to say ; I 
 must speak my mind, though I die for it." "While Montesinos and 
 I were thus talking together," continued the knight, " a very odd ac- 
 cident, the thoughts of which trouble me still, broke off ou'r conver- 
 sation. For as we were in the height of our discourse, who should 
 come to me but one of the unfortunate Dulcinea's companions ; and 
 before I was aware, with a faint and doleful voice, ' Sir,' said she, ' my 
 Lady Dulcinea del Toboso gives her service to you, and desires to 
 know how you do ; and being a little short of money at present, she 
 desires you, of all love and kindness, to lend her six reals, or more 
 or less as you can spare it, sir, and she will take care to redeem it 
 very honestly in a little time.' 
 
 " The message surprised me strangely ; and therefore, turning to 
 Montesinos, ' Is it possible, sir,' said I, ' that persons of quality, when 
 enchanted, are in want ? ' ' O ! very possible, sir,' said he ; ' pover- 
 ty rages everywhere, and spares neither quality enchanted nor unen- 
 chanted ; and therefore, since the Lady Dulcinea desires you to lend- 
 her these six reals, let her have the money ; for sure it is very low 
 with her at this time.' ' But my misfortune,' said I, ' is, that I cannot 
 answer the full req'.iest; for I have but four reals about me;' and 
 ihat was the money thou gavest me the other day, Sancho, to distri- 
 
i456 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 bute among the poor. However, I gave tier all I had, an 1 desired her 
 to tell her mistress, I was very sorry for her wants ; and that if I had 
 all the treasures which CrcEsus possessed, they should be at her ser- 
 vice ; and withal, that I died every houi: for want of her reviving com- 
 pany ; and made it my humble and earnest request, that she would 
 vouchsafe to see and converse with her captive servant and weather- 
 beaten knight. ' Tell her,' continued I, ' when she least expects it, 
 she will come to hear how I made a vow, as the Marquis of Mantua 
 did, when he found his nephew Baldwin ready to expire on the moun- 
 tain, never to eat upon a tablecloth, and several other particulars, till 
 he had avenged his death ; so, in the like solemn manner will I swear, 
 never to desist from traversing the habitable globe, and ranging 
 through all the seven parts of the world, more indefatigably than ever 
 was done by Prince Pedro of Portugal, till I have freed her from her 
 enchantment.' ' All this and more you owe my mistress,' said the 
 damsel ; and then, having got the four reals, instead of dropping me 
 a curtsy, she cut me a caper in the air two yards high." 
 
 " Who," exclaimed Sancho, " could ever have believed that these 
 enchanters and enchantments should have so much power as to be 
 witch my master at this rate, and craze his sound understanding in 
 this manner.? Alas ! sir, for the love of Heaven take care of your- 
 self. What will the world say of you ? House up your dozing senses, 
 and do not dote upon those whimsies that have so wretchedly crack- 
 ed that rare head-piece of yours." " Well," said Don Quixote, " 1 
 cannot be angry at thy ignorant tittle-tattle, because it proceeds from 
 thv iove towards me. Thou thinkest, poor fellow, that whatever is 
 beyond the sphere of thy narrow comprehension must be impossible ; 
 but, as I have already said, there will come a lime when I shall give 
 thee an account of some things I have seen below, that will convince 
 thee of the reality of those 1 told thee now, the truth of which ad- 
 mits of no dispute." ' 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 WJdch gives an account of a thousand trifles and stories, as imperti- 
 nent as necessary to the right understanding of this grand history. 
 
 The scholar thought Sancho the most saucy servant, and his master the 
 calmest madman, that ever he saw ; though he attributed the patience 
 of the latter to a certain good humour and easiness of temper, in- 
 fused into him by the sight of his mistress Dulcinea, even under 
 enchantment ; otherwise he would have thought his not check'na 
 Sancho a greater sign of madness than his discfourse. " Noble Don 
 
:h. lti.] don QUIXOTE. 257 
 
 Quixote," said he. " for four principal reasons, I am extremely pleased 
 with having taken this journey with you. First, it has procured me 
 the honour of your acquaintance, which I shall always esteem a sin- 
 gular happiness. In the s^ond place, sir, the secrets of Montesinos' 
 cave and the transformations of Guadiana and Ruydera's lakes have 
 been revealed to me, which may look very great in my Spanish 
 Ovid. My third advantage is, to have discovered the antiquity of 
 card-playing, which I find to have been a pastime in use even in the 
 Emperor Charles the Great's time, as may be collected from the 
 words of Durandarte, who after a long speech of Montesinos', said, 
 as he waked, ' Patience, and shuffle the cards ; ' which vulgar expres- 
 sion he could never have learned in his enchantment. It fpl lows, there- 
 fore, that he must have heard it when he lived in France, which was 
 in the reigti of that emperor ; which observation is nicked, I think, 
 very opportunely for my supplement to Polydore Vergil, who, as I 
 remember, has not touched upon card-playing. I will insert it in my 
 work, I'll assure you, sir, as a matter of great importance, having 
 the testimony of so authentic and ancient an author as sir Duran- 
 darte." 
 
 " There is a great deal of reason in what you say," answered Doij 
 Quixote ; " but more of this some other time — it is late now, and 
 therefore convenient to think of a lodging." 
 
 " Hard by us here, sir," said the author, " is a hermitage, the re- 
 tirement of a devout person, who, as they say, was once a soldier, 
 and is looked upon as a good Christian ; and so charitable, that he 
 has built there a house at his own expense, purely for the entertain- 
 ment of strangers." " But does he keep hens there, trow ? " asked 
 Sancho. " Few hermits in this age are without them," said Don Quix- 
 ote ; " for their way of living now falls short of the strictness and 
 austerity of those in the deserts of Egypt, who went clad only with 
 palm-leaves, and fed on the roots of the earth. Now, because 1 
 speak well of these of old, I would not have you think I reflect on 
 the others : no, I only mean that their penances are not so severe as 
 in former days ; yet this does not hinder but that the hermits of the 
 present age may be good men. I look upon them to be such ; at 
 least, their appearance secures them from scandal : even the hypo- 
 crite that puts on the form of holiness, does less harm than the bare- 
 jaced sinner," 
 
 As they went on in their discourse, they saw a man following thera 
 at a great pace on foot, and switching up a mule laden with lances 
 and halberts. He presently overtook them, saluted them, and passed 
 by. " Stay," cried Don Quixote, seeing him go so fast ; " make no 
 more haste than is consistent with good speed." " I cannot stay, sir," 
 said the man ; " for these weapons that you see mi st be used to-mor- 
 row morning 5 so, sir, as I am in haste, good bye I shall lodge tg- 
 
 as* 17' 
 
258 DON QtriXOTE. 
 
 night at the inn beyond the hermitage ; if you chance to go that waj , 
 there you may find me ; and I will tell you strange news : so fare ye 
 well." Then whipping his mule, on he moved, so fast that Don Quix- 
 ote had not leisure to ask him any more questions. 
 
 The knight, in order to satisfy his curiosity, proposed their holding 
 straight on to the inn, without stopping at the hermitage where the schol» 
 ar designed to have stayed all night. They all consented, and mad© 
 the best of their way. However, when they came near the hermit- 
 age, the scholar desired Don Quixote to call with him for a moment, 
 and drink a glass of wine at the door. Sancho no sooner heard this pro- 
 posed than he turned Dapple that way, and rode thither before ; but, to 
 his grief, the hospitable hermit was abroad, and nobody at home / bur 
 the hermit's companion, who, being asked whether he had any strong 
 liquor within, made answer, that he could not come at any ; but as 
 for water, he might have his fill. " Good ! " quoth Sancho ; 't were 
 mine a water-thirst, or had I any liking to your cold comfort, there 
 are wells enough upon the road. Oh, the good cheer of Don Diego's, 
 and at Camacho's wedding ! when shall I find the like ? " They now 
 spurred' on towards the inn, and soon overtook on the road a young 
 fellow walking leisurely on before them. He carried his sword ovgr 
 his shoulder, with a bundle of' clothes hanging upon it. . He had on 
 a tattered velvet jerkin, with a ragged satin lining ; his stockingjs 
 were of silk, and his shoes square at the toes, after the court fash- 
 ion. He seemed about eighteen years of age — a pleasant-looking 
 lad, and of a lively and active disposition. To pass the fatigue of 
 his journey, he sung all the way ; and, as they came near him, y,aia 
 just ending the last words of a ballad, which were these • 
 
 '* For want of the pence to the-warg T must go : 
 Oh ! had X but monoj it would not bo so." 
 
 " So, young gentleman," said Don Quixote to him, " methinks you 
 go very light and airy. Whither are you bound, I pray you ? " " I am 
 going to the wars, sir," answered the youth ; " and for my travelling 
 thus, heat and poverty will excuse it." " I admit the heat," replied 
 Dpn Quixote ; " but why poverty, I beseech you .'' " " Because I 
 have no clothes to put on," replied the lad, " but what I carry in this 
 bundle ; and if I should wear them out upon the road, I should have 
 nothing to make a handsome figure with in any towp ; for I have no 
 money to buy new ones till I overtake a regiment of foot that lies 
 about some twelve leagues ofi", where I design to enlist myself; and 
 then I shall not want a conveniency to ride with the baggage till we 
 come to Carthagena, where I hear they are to embark ; for I had 
 rather serve the king abroad, than any beggarly courtier at home ' 
 
 But pray," said the scholar, " have you not laid up something while 
 
BH. LTI.] DON QUIXOTE. 259 
 
 you were there ? " " Had I served any of your ' grandees or great 
 persons," said the young man, " I might have had a commission by 
 this time ; for their footboys are presently advanced to captains 
 and lieutenants, or some other good post ; but unhappily it was al- 
 ways my ill-fortune to serve pitiful upstarts and younger brothers , 
 and my allowance was so ill paid, and so small, that the better half 
 was scarce enough to wash my linen ; how then should a poor -page, 
 who would make his fortune, come to any good in such a miserable 
 service?" " But," said Don Quixote, "how comes it, that in all 
 this time you could not get yourself a whole livery?" "Alack-a- 
 day, sir," answered the lad, " I had a couple ; but my master dealt 
 with me as they do with novices in monasteries — if they go off be- 
 fore they profess, the fresh habit is taken from them, and they return 
 them their own clothes. For you must know, that such as I served 
 Only buy liveries for a little ostientation ; so, when they have made 
 their appearance at court,^they sneak down into the country ; and then 
 the poor servants are stripped, and must even betake ^ themselves to 
 their rags again." 
 
 "A sordid trick," said Don Quixote. " But you need not repine 
 at leaving the court, since you do it with so good a design ; for there 
 is nothing in the world more commendable, than to serve God in the 
 first place, and the king in the next, especially in the profession of 
 arms, which, if it does not procure a man so much riches as learning. 
 may at least entitle him to more honour. It is true that more fami- 
 lies have been advanced by the gown ; but yet your gentlemen of the 
 sword, whatever the reason of it is, have always I know not what ad- 
 vantage above the men of learning ; and something of glory and 
 splendour attends them, that makes them outshine the rest of mankind. 
 But take my advice along with you, child : if you intend to raise 
 yourself by military employment, I would not have you be uneasy with 
 the thoughts of what misfortunes may befall you ; the worst can be 
 but to die, and if it be a good honourable death, your fortune is made, 
 and you are certainly happy. Julius Caesar, that valiant Roman em- 
 peror, being asked what kind of death was best, ' That which is sud- 
 den and unexpected,' said he ; and though he answered like a heathen, 
 who knew not the true God, yet, with respect to human infirmities, 
 it was very judicious ; for, suppose you should be cut off at the very 
 first engagement by a cannon-ball, or the spring of a mine, what 
 matters it ? it is but dying, and there is an end of the business. As 
 Terence says, a soldier makes a better figure dead in the field of 
 battle, than alive and safe in flight. The more likely he is to rise in 
 fame and preferment, the better discipline he -keeps ; the better he 
 obeys, the better he will know how to command ; and pray observe, 
 my friend, that it is more honourable for a soldier to smell of gun- 
 powder than of musk and amber. Or, if old age overtakes you in 
 
260 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 •.his noble employment, though all over scars, though maimed and 
 lame, you will still have honour to support you, and secure you from 
 the contempt of poverty, nay, from poverty itself ; for there is care 
 taken that veterans and disabled soldiers may not want ; neither are 
 they to be used as some men do their negro slaves, who, when they 
 are old and past service, are turned naked out of doors, under pre- 
 tence of freedom, to be made greater slaves to cold and hunger — a 
 slavery from which nothing but death can set the wretches free. But 
 I will say no more to you on this subject at this time. Get up behind 
 me, and I will carry you to the innj where you shall sup with me, and 
 to-morrow morning make the best of your way ; and may Heaven 
 prosper your good designs." 
 
 The page excused himself from riding behind the knight, but ac- 
 cepted of his invitation to supper very willingly. Sancho, who had 
 all the while given ear to his master's discourse, is said to have been 
 more than usually surprised, hearing him talk so wisely. Now bless- 
 ings on thee, master, thought he to himself; how comes it about, that 
 a man who says so many good things should relate such ridiculous 
 stories and whimsies as he would have us believe of Montesinos' 
 cave ? By this time it began to grow dark, and they arrived at the 
 inn, where Don Quixote alighting, asked presently for the man 
 with the lances and halberts. The innkeeper answered, that he was 
 rubbing down his mule in the stable. Sancho was very well 
 pleased to be at his journey's end ; and the more that his master 
 took the house for a real inn, and not for a castle, as he used to do.- 
 
 CHAPTER LVII. 
 
 Where you find the grounds of the braying adventures, that of the 
 Puppet-player, and the memorable divining of the fortune-telling 
 Ape. ■ ' - 
 
 Don Quixote was on thorns to know the strange story that the fel- 
 low upon the road engaged to tell him ; so that, going into the stable, 
 he reminded him of his promise, and pressed him to relate the whole 
 matter. " My story will take up some time," quoth the man, "and 
 IS not to be told standing : have a little patience ; let me make 
 an end of serving my mule, and then I will tell your worship such 
 things as will make you stare." " Do not let that hinder you," re- 
 plied Don Quixote ; " for I will help you myself." And so saying, 
 he lent him a helping hand, cleansing the manger, and sifting the 
 barley ; which humble compliance obliged the fellow to tell his tale 
 the mare willingly : so that, seating himself upon a bench, with Doo 
 
CH. LVII.] DON QUIXOTE. 261 
 
 Quixote, the scholar, the page, Sancho, and the innkeeper about him, 
 he began in this manner : 
 
 '" It happened on a time, that in a borough about four leagues from 
 this place, one of the aldermen lost his ass. They say it was by the 
 ix)guery of his maid-servant ; but that is neither here nor there — the 
 ass was lost and' gone, that is certain ; and what is more, it could not 
 be-- found neither high nor low. This same ass had been miss- 
 ing about a fortnight, when another alderman of the same town, 
 meeting the other in the market-place, ' Brother,' quoth he, 
 ■ pay me well, and 1 will tell you news of your ass.' ' Troth ! ' re- 
 plied the other^ 'that I will ; but then let me know where the poor 
 beast is.' ' Why,' answered the other, ' this morning, what should I 
 meet upon the mountains yonder but he, without either pack-saddle 
 or furniture, and so lean that it grieved my heart to see him ; but yet 
 so wild and skittish, that -when I would have driven him home before 
 me, he ran away as if possessed, and got into the thickest of the 
 wood. Now, if you please, we will both go and look for him : I will 
 but step home first and put up this ass, then I will come back to you, 
 and we vri\l set about it.' ' Truly, brother,' said the other, ' I am 
 mightily beholden to you, and will do as much for you another time.' 
 In short, the two aldermen, hand in hand, trudged up the hills, and 
 hunted up and down : but after many a weary' step, no ass was to be 
 found. Upon which, quoth the alderman that had seen him, to the 
 other : ' Hark ye, brother ; I have a device to find out this same ass 
 of -yours, though he were underground, as you shall hear. You 
 must know, I can bray to admiration ; and if you can but bray never 
 so little, the job is done.' ' Never so little ! ' cried the other ; ' I will 
 undertake to bray with any ass or alderman in the land.' ' Well, 
 then,' quoth the other, ' my contrivance is, that you go on one side of 
 the hill, and I on the other ; sometimes you shall bray, and sometimes 
 I ; so that, if your ass be but thereabouts, my life for' yours, he will 
 be sure to answer, and bray again.' ' Gramercy, brother,' quoth the 
 other, ' a rare device ! let you alone for plotting.' They parted ac- 
 cording to agreement ; and when they were far enough off", they both 
 fell a-braying so perfectly well that they cheated one another ; and 
 meeting, each in hopes to find the ass, ' Is it possible, brother,' said 
 the owner of the ass, 'that it was not my ass that brayed ? ' ' No, 
 marry, that it was not; it was I,' answered the other alderman. 
 ' Well, brother,' cried the owner, ' then there is no manner of difierence 
 between you and an ass, as to the matter of braying ; I never heard 
 any thing so natural in my life.' ' Oh, sir,' quoth the other, ' I am 
 nothing to you ; you shall lay two to one aga.inst the best brayer in 
 the kifigdom, and I will go your halves. Your voice is lofty, and of 
 a great compass ; you keep excellent time, and hold out a note rare- 
 ly, and your cadence is full and ravishi/ig. In short, sir, I knock un« 
 
262 DON QT7IX0TG. 
 
 der the table, and yield you the bays.' ' Well, then, brother,' answer* 
 ed the owner, ' I shall always have the better opinion of myself for 
 this one good quality ; for though I knew I brayed pretty well, I nev- 
 er thought myself so great a master before.' After these compli' 
 ments, they, parted again, and went braying, this on one side of the 
 hill, and that on the other. But all to no purpose ; for they still de- 
 ceived one another with their braying, and, running to the noise, me' 
 one another as before. 
 
 " At last they agreed to bray twice one after another, that by that 
 token they might be sure it was not the ass, but they that brayed. 
 But all in vain — they almost brayed their hearts out, but no answer 
 from the ass. And indeed, how could it, poor creature, when they 
 found him at last in the wood half-eaten by the wolves .? ' Alack-a- 
 day ! poor Grizzle,' cried the owner ; ' I do not wonder now he took 
 so little notice of his loving master. Had he been alive, as sure as 
 he was an ass, he would have brayed again. But let him go ; this 
 comfort I have at least, brother ; though 1 have lost him, I have found 
 out that rare talent of yours that has hugely solaced me under this 
 affliction.' ' The glass is in a good hand, Mr. Alderman J quoth the 
 other, ' and if the abbot sings well, the young monk is not much be- 
 hind him.' 
 
 " With this, these same aldermen, very much disappointed as well, 
 as very hoarse, went home and told all their neighbours the whole 
 story word for word ; one praising the other's skill in braying, and 
 the other returning the compliment. In short, one got it by the end, 
 and the other got it by the end ; the boys got it, and all the idle fel- 
 lows got it, and there was such a brawling and such a braying in our 
 town, that nothing else was to be heard. But the thing did not stop 
 here ; Our neighbouring towns had it too ; and when they saw any of our 
 townsfolk, they fell a-braying, hitting us in the teeth with the braying 
 of our aldermen. This made ill blood between us ; for we took it in 
 mighty dudgeon, as well we might, and came to words upon it, and 
 from words to blows ; for the people of our town are well known by 
 this, as the beggar knows his dish, and are apt to be jeered whereso- 
 ever they go. And they have carried the jest so far, that I believe 
 to-morrow or next day, the men of our town, to wit, the brayers, will 
 be in the field against those of another town about two leagues off, 
 that are always plaguing us. I^ow, that we should be well provided, 
 I have brought these lances and halberts that ye saw me carry. So 
 this is my story, gentlefolks ; and if it be not a strange one, I am 
 mistaken." 
 
 Here the nonest man ended ; when presently enters a fellow dress- 
 ed in trousers and doublet all of shamoy leather, and calling out, as 
 if he were somebody : " Landlord," cried he, " have you any lodg- 
 ings ? for here comes the fortune-telling ape, and the puppet-show of 
 
CH. LVII.] DON QTIIXOTE. 263 
 
 Meliaandra's deliverance." " Ha ! " cried the innkeeper, " who hayo 
 we here ? Master Peter ? We shall have a merry night then. Hon- 
 est Master Peter, you are welcome with afi my heart ; but where :8 
 the ape and the show .' " " They will be here presently," said Peter; 
 " I only came before to see if you had any lodgings." " Lodging, 
 man," said the innkeeper ; " I would turn out the Duke of Alva him- 
 self rather than Master Peter should want room. Come, bring in 
 your things, for here are guests that will be good customers to you, I 
 warrant." '^ That is worth hearing," said Peter ; " ancf to encourage 
 them I will lower, my prices; and., if I can but get my charges to- 
 night, I will lo(^k for no more ; so I will hasten forward the cart." 
 This said, he ran out of the door again. 
 
 Don Quixote inquired, who this Master Peter was, and what his ape 
 and his show. " Why, sir," answered the innkeeper, *' he has stroll- 
 ed about the country this great while with a curious puppet-show, which' 
 represents the play of ;Me\lsandra and Don Gayferos, one of the best 
 shows that has been acted time put of mind in this kingdom. Then 
 he has an ape : such, an ape, sir ; but I, will say no more — you shall 
 see, sir. It will tell you every thing you ever did in your life. The 
 like was never seen before. Ask him a question, it will listen to 
 you ; and then, whip, up it leaps on its master's shoulder, and whis- 
 pers first in his ear what it knows, and then Master Petgr tells you. 
 He, tells you what is to come, as well as what is past : it is true, he 
 does not always hit so pat gis to what is to come ; but after all, he is 
 seldom in the wrong. Two reals is the price for every question he 
 answers, or his master for him, which is all one, you know ; and that 
 will mount to money at the year's end, so that it is Ijhought, the rogue 
 is well to pass ; and, indeed, much good wiay it do hirn, for he ig a 
 notable fellow and a good companion ; talks for six men, and drinks 
 for a dozen ; and all this he, gets by his tongue, his ape, and his 
 show." , 
 
 , By this time Peter had, come back with his puppet-show and his 
 ape in a cart. Don Quixote immediately accosted him : ^' Mr. For- 
 tune-teller," said he, " will you be pleased to tell us what^ fish we 
 shall catch, and what will become of us, and here is your fee > " 
 Saying this, he ordered Sancho to deliver Master Peter two reals. 
 " Sir," answered Peter, "this animal gives no account of things to 
 come ; he knows something, indeed, of matters past, a.nd a little of 
 the present." " I would not give a brass jack," cried Sancho, " to 
 know what is past; for who knows that better than myself.? I am 
 not so foolish as to pay for what I know already : but since yoti say 
 he has such a knack at guessing the present, Igt him teill me what my 
 wife Teresa is doing at this moment, and here arp my two reals.' 
 " I will have nothing of you . beforehand," said Master Peter : so 
 clapping himself on his left shoulder, up , skipped the ape thither al 
 
264 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 one frisk, and, laying his mouth to his ear, grated his teeth ; and hay 
 ing made some grimaces and a chattering noise for a minute or wWO 
 with another skip down he leaped upon the ground. Immediatelj up- 
 on this, Master Peter ran to Don Quixote, and fell on his knees, and 
 embracing his legs, " O glorious restorer of knight-errantry," cried 
 he, " I embrace these legs as I would the pillars of Hercules ! Who 
 can sufficiently extol the great Don Quixote de la Mancha, the revi- 
 -erof drooping hearts, the prop and stay of the falling, the raiser of 
 the fallen, and the staff of comfort to the weak and afflicted I " 
 
 At these words Don Quixote stood amazed, Sancho quaked, the 
 ])age wondered, the brayer blessed himself, the innkeeper stared, and 
 the scholar was in a brown study, all astonished at Master Peter's 
 speech, who then, turning to Sancho, " And thou, honest Sancho 
 Panza," said he, " the best squire to the best knight in the world, 
 bless thy good stars, for thy good spouse Teresa is a good housewife, 
 and is at this instant dressing a pound of flax ; she has standing by 
 her, on her left hand, a large broken-mouthed jug, which holds a pretty 
 scantling of wine, to cheer up her spirits." " Truly," quoth Sancho, 
 " that is likely enough, for she is a merry soul ; were it not for a spice 
 of jealousy that she has now and then, I would not change her for 
 the giantess Andondona herself, who, in my master's opinion, was a 
 brave lady, and a famous housewife." " Well," said Don Quixote, 
 " great is the knowledge procured by reading, travel, and experience. 
 What on earth but the testimony of my own eyes could have per- 
 .aded me that apes had the gift of divination ! I am indeed the 
 same Don Quixote de la Mancha mentioned by this ingenious animal, 
 though I must confess somewhat undeserving of so great a character 
 as it has pleased him to bestow on me ; but nevertheless I am not sor- 
 ry to have charity and compassion bear so great a part in my com- 
 mendation, since my nature has always disposed me to do good to all 
 men, and hurt to none." 
 
 " Now, had I but money," said the page, " I would know of Mr. 
 Ape what luck I should have in the wars." " I have told you 
 already," said Master Peter, who was got up from before Don Quixote, 
 " that this ape does not meddle with what is to come ; but if he 
 could, it should cost you nothing, for Don Quixote's sake, whom to 
 oblige, I would sacrifice all the interest I have in the world ; and, as 
 a mark of it, gentlemen, I freely set up my show, and give all the 
 company in the house some diversion gratis." The innkeeper hear- 
 ing this, was overjoyed ; , and ordered Master Peter a convenient 
 room to set up his show, which he immediately went about. 
 
 In the meantime Don Quixote, who could not believe that an ape 
 could oo all this, taking Sancho into a corner, " Look ye, Sancho," 
 said he, " I have been weighing and considering the wonderfjjl gifts 
 of this ape, and I suspect Master Peter must have made a secret com- 
 
CH. LVII.J DON QUIXOTE. 265 
 
 pact with the devil. The ape's knowledge is exactly of the same 
 proportion with the devil's, which only extends to the discovery of 
 things past and present, having no insight into futurity but by such 
 probabfe conjectures and conclusions as may be deduced from the 
 former working of antecedent causes, true prescience and prediction 
 oeing the sacred prerogative of God, to whose allrseemg eyes, all 
 ages, past, present, and to come, without the distinction of succession 
 and termination, are always- present. From this, I say, it is apparent 
 this ape is but the organ through which the devil delivers his answers 
 to those that ask it questions ; and this same rogue should be put mto 
 the Inquisition, and have the truth pressed out of his bones." " For 
 all that," said Sancho, " I would have you ask Master Peter's ape, 
 whether the passages you told us concerning Montesinos' cave be true . 
 OP no ; for, saving the respect I owe your worship, I take them to be 
 no better than idle stories, or dreams at the least." " You may think 
 what you will," answered Don Quixote ; ',' however, I will do as you 
 would have me, although I feel some scruples on the subject." 
 
 Master Peter now came in and told Don Quixote that thp show was 
 ready to begin, and desired him to come and see it, for lie was sure 
 his worship would like it. The knight told him he had a question to 
 put to his ape first, and desired he might tpU bim whether certain 
 things that happened to him in Montesinos' cave were dreams or real- 
 ities, for > he doubted they had something of both in them. Master 
 Peter fetched his ape immediately, and placing him just before the 
 knight and his squire, " Look you," said he, " Mr. Ape, this worthy 
 knight would have you tell him whether some things which happened 
 to him in Montesinos' cave are true or no } " Then, upon the usual 
 signal, the ape jumping upon Master Peter's left shoulder, chattered 
 his answer into his ear, which the interpreter delivered thyis to the in- 
 quirer : " The ape, sir, says that part of those things are false, and 
 part of them true, which is all he can resolve ye as to this question ; 
 and now his virtue has left him, and won't return till Friday next. If 
 you would know any more, you must stay till then, and he will answer 
 as many questions as you please." " Ah, you there now ! " quoth 
 Sancho, "did not I tell you that all you told us of Montesinos' cave 
 would not hold water > " " That the event will determine," replied 
 .the knight, " which we; must leave to process of time to produce ; 
 foy it brings every thing to light, though buried in the bowels of the 
 earth. No more of this at present : let us now see the puppetTshow ; 
 I fancy we shall find something in it worth seeing." " Something I " 
 said Master Peter ; " sir, you shall see a thousind things worth seeing. 
 I tell you, sir, I defy the world to shew such another. I say no more : 
 Operibus credite, et non verbis. But now let us begin, for it grows 
 late, and we have much to do, say, aild shew." 
 
 Don Quixote and Sancho complied, and went into the room whera 
 23 
 
266 CON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the show stood, with a good number of small wax-lights glimmering 
 round about, that made it shine gloriously. Master Peter got to his 
 station within ; and his boy stood before, to tell what the puppets said, 
 and with a white wand in his hand, to explain the several figures as 
 they came in. Then all the audience having taken their places, Don 
 Quixote, Sancho, the scholar, and the page, being preferred to the 
 rest, the boy began a story that shall be heard or seen by those who 
 will take the pains to read or hear the next chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 A pleasant account bf the Puppet-play ; vnth otlier very good things, 
 
 GentlebiJen," said the boy, raising his voice, " we present you here 
 with a true history, taken out of the > chronicles of France, and the 
 Spanish ballads, sung even by the boys about the streets, and in every 
 body's mouth ; it tells you how Don Gayferos delivered his wife Me- 
 'lisandra, that was a prisoner among the Moors in Spain, in the city 
 of Sansuena, now called Saragosa. Now, gallants, the first figure we 
 present you with is Don Gayferos, playing at tables, according to the 
 ballad : 
 
 ' Gayferos now at tables plays, 
 Forgetful of his lady dear.' 
 
 "Next you will mark that personage that peeps out there with a 
 crown. on his head and a sceptre in his hand. It is the Emperor 
 Charlemagne, the fair Melisandra's reputed father, who, vexed at the 
 idleness and. negligence of his son-in-law, comes to chide him ; and 
 pray, observe with what passion and earnestness he rates him, as if 
 he had a mind to lend him half a dozen sound raps over the pate with 
 his sceptre, ; nay, some authors do not stick to tell you he gave him 
 as many, and well laid on too. Now see how he starts up, and in a 
 rage knocks the tables one way, and whirls the men another ; and, 
 calljng for his arms with all haste, borrows his cousin-german Orlan 
 do's sword, Durindana, who withal offers to go. along with, him in this 
 difficult adventure ; but the valorous enraged knight will not let him, 
 and. says, he is able to deliver his wife himself, without his help, 
 though, they kept her down in the very centre of the earth". And 
 now, he is going to put on his armour, in order to begin his journey. 
 
 " No>v, gentlemen, cast your eyes upon yon tower; you, are to 
 suppose it oije of the towers of the castle of Saragosa. That lady, 
 whom you see in the balcony in a Moorish habit, is the peerless Me- 
 iiandra, casting many a, heavy look towards France, thinking of Parii 
 
CH, LVIII.] DON QUIXOTE. 267 
 
 and her husband, the only comfort in her imprisontpent. But now, — 
 silence, gentlemen, pray, silence ! here is an jiccident wholly new, 
 the like perhaps never heard of before. Don't you see that ]yioor 
 who comes on tiptoe, creeping and stealing along with his finger in 
 his moutli, behind Melisandra ? Hear what a smack he gives on her 
 sweet lips, and see how she spits, arid wipes her, mouth with her white 
 smock-sleeve; see how she takes on, and tears ' her lovely hair for 
 very madness, as if it were to blame for this affront. , Next, pray ob- 
 serve that grave Moor that stands in the open gallery ; that is Marsi- 
 lius, the king of Sansuena, who, having been an eye-rwitness of the 
 sauciness of the Moor, ordered him immediately to be apprehended, 
 though his kinsman and great favourite, and .to have two hundred 
 lashes given him. And look how all this is put in execution sooner 
 almost than the fact is committed ; for your Moors, you raust,kqow, 
 don't use any. form of indictment as we do, nor yet have they any 
 legal trials." , ' ^ 
 
 " Child, child," said Don Quixote, " go on directly with your story, 
 and don't keep us here with your excursions and ramblings out of the 
 road. 1 tell you there must be a formal process and legal trial to 
 prove matters of fact." " Boy," , said the master, ftom behind the 
 , show, " do as the gentleman bids you. Don't run so much upon 
 flourishes, but follow your, plain song, v^ithout venturing on counter- 
 point, for fear of spoiling all." " I will, sir," quoth the boy, and so 
 proceeding : " Now, sirs, he that you see there on horseback is Don 
 Gayferos himself, whom his wife, now revenged on the Moor for his 
 impudence,- seeing from the battlements of the tower, takes him for a 
 stranger, and talks with him as such, according to the ballad, 
 
 * Q,uoth Melisandra, if perchance, 
 b'ir Traveller, you go for France, 
 For pity's sake, ask -when you 're there. 
 Foe Gayferos, my huahaad dear.* 
 
 " 1 omit the rest, not to tire you with a long story. It is sufficient 
 that he makes himself known to her ; and accordingly, see how she 
 lets herself down from the balcony, to come at her loving husband 
 and get behind him ; but alas ! the skirt of her gown is caught upon 
 one of the spikes of the balcony, and there she hangs and hovers 
 miserably in the air, without being able to get down. But see how 
 Heaven is merciful, and , sends relief in the greatest distress! Don 
 Gayferos rides, up to hex, and, not' fearing to tear her rich gown, lays 
 hold on it, and at one pull brings her down ; and then at one lift seta 
 her astride upon his herse's crupper, bidding her to sit fast, and clasp, 
 »ier arms about him ; for the Lady Melisandra was not used to that 
 feiad of riding. 
 
 " Observe wow how the horse neighs, and shews how proud ho la 
 
268 
 
 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 of the burden of his braye master and fair mistress. Look now how 
 they turn their backs and leave the city, and gallop it merrily away 
 towards Paris. Peace be with you, for a peerless .couple of true lov- 
 ers ! may ye get safe and sound into your own country, without any 
 let or ill chance in your journey, and live in peace and quietness 
 among your, friends and relations ! " " Plainness, boy ! " cried Mas- 
 ter Peter, " none of your flights, I beseech you." The boy answered 
 nothing, but going on : " Now, sirs," quoth he, " some of those idle 
 people that love to pry into every thing happened to spy Melisandra 
 as she was making her escape, and ran presently and gave Marsilius 
 notice of it: whereupon he straight commanded to sound an alarm ; 
 and now mind what a din and hurly-burly there is, and how the city 
 shakes v^ith the ring of the bells backwards in all the mosques ! " 
 " There you are out, boy," said Don Quixote : " the Moors have no 
 bells, they only use kettle-drums, and a kind of shaulras like our waits 
 or hautboys ; so that your ringing of bells in Sansuena is a mere ab- 
 surdity, good Master Peter." " Nay, sir," said Master Peter, giving 
 over ringing, " if you stand upon these trifles with us, we shall nevei 
 plpase you. Don7t be so severe a critic : are there not a thousand 
 plays that pass with igreat success and applause, though they have 
 many greater absurdities, and nonsense in abundance ? On, boy, 
 on ; no matter, so I get the moneys" " Well said," answered Don 
 Quixote. " And now, sirs," quoth the boy, " observe what a vast 
 company of glittering horse comes pouring out of the city in pursuit 
 of the Christian lovers ; what a dreadful sound of trumpe'ts and cla- 
 rions, and drums ' and kettle-drums, there is in the air. I fear they 
 will overtake them, and then will the poor wretches be dragged. along 
 most barbarously at the tails of th^ir horses, which would be sad in- 
 deed." 
 
 Don Quixote, seeing such a number of Moors, and hearing such an 
 alarm, thought it high time to assist the-flying lovers ; and starting up, 
 " It shall never be said while I live," cried he aloud, " that I suffered 
 such a wrong to be done to so famous a knight and so daring a lover 
 as Don Gayferos. Forbear then your unjust pursuit, ye base-born 
 rascals ! Stop, or prepare to meet my furious resentment ! " Then 
 drawing out his sword to make good his threats, at one spring he gets 
 to the show, and with a violent l\iry lays at the Moorish puppets, cut- 
 ting and slashing in a most terrible manner ; some he overthrows, and 
 beheads others ; maims this,and cleaves that in pieces. Among the 
 rest of his merciless strokes, he thundered one down with such a 
 mighty force, that had not Master Peter luckily squatted down, it had 
 certainly chopped off" his head as easily as one might cut an apple. 
 " Hold, hold, sir " cried the pup'9et-player, after this narrow es9ape, 
 " hold, for pity's sake ! What dc you mean, sir ? These are no real 
 Afoors that you cut and hack so but poor harmless puppets made of 
 
CH. LVIII.] DON QUIXOTE. 269 
 
 pasteboard. Think of what you do ; you ruin me for ever. Oh that 
 ever I was born ! you have broke me quite." But Don Quixote, 
 without minding his Words, ^doubled and redoubled his blows so thick, 
 and laid about him so outrageously^ that in less than two credos he 
 had cut all the strings and wires, mangled the puppets, and spoiled 
 and demolished the whole machine. King Marsilius was in a grievous 
 condition. The Emperor Charlemagne's head and crown were cleft 
 in two. The whole audience was in a sad consternation. The ape 
 scampered off to the top of the house. The scholar was frightened 
 out of his wits ; the page was very uneasy ; and Sancho himself wasf 
 in a terrible fright ; for, as he said after the hurricane was over, ho 
 had never seen his master in such a rage before. 
 
 The general rout of the puppets being over, Don Quixote's fury 
 began to abate ; and with a more pacified countenance turning to the 
 company, " Now," said he, " I could wish all those incredulous per- 
 sons here who slight knight-errantry might receive conviction of their 
 error, and behold undeniable proofs of the benefit of that function; 
 for how miserable had been the condition of poor Don Gayferos and 
 the fair Melisandra by this time, had I not been here and stood up in 
 their defence ! I make no question but those infidels would have ap- 
 prehended them, and used them barbarously. Well, when all is done, 
 long live knight-errantry ; l6ng let it live, I say, above all things what- 
 soever in this world ! " " Ay, ay," said Master Peter, in a doleful 
 tone, " let it live long for me, so I may die ; for why should I live so 
 unhappy as to say with King Rodrigo, ' Yesterday I was lord cf Spain, 
 to-day have not a foot of land I can call mine ? ' It is not half an 
 hour, nay scarce a moment, since 1 had kings and emperors at com- 
 mand. I had horses in abundance, and chests and bags full of fine 
 things ; but now you see me a poor sorry undone man, quite and clean 
 broke and cast down, and in short a mere beggar. What is worst of 
 all, I have lost my ape, too : and all through the rash fury of this 
 knight here, who they say protects the fatherless, redresses wrongs, 
 and does other charitable deeds, but has failed in all these good 
 offices to miserable me. Well may I call him the Knight of the Sor^ 
 rowful Figure, for he has put me and all that belongs to me in a sor- 
 rowful case." 
 
 The puppet-player's lamentations moving Sancho's pity, " Come," 
 quoth he, " don't cry. Master Peter, thou breakest my heart to hear 
 thee take on so ; don't be cast down, man, for my meister's a better 
 Christian, I am sure, than to let any poor man come to loss by him ; 
 when he comes to know he has done you wrong, he will pay you for 
 every farthing of damage, I will engage." " Truly," said Master Peter, 
 " if ^is worship would but pay me for the puppets he has spoiled, I 
 will ask no more, and he will discharge his conscience ; for ne that 
 wrongSyhis neighbour, and does not make restitution, can never hope 
 23* 
 
-270 DON QUIi.)TE. 
 
 to be saved, that is certain." "I grant it," said Don Qu.xote ; " but I am 
 5ot sensible how I have in the least injured you, good Master Peter ! ' 
 " How, sir ! not injured me ? " cried Master Peter. " Why, these 
 poor relics 'that lie here on the cold ground cry out for vengeance 
 against you. Was it not the invincible force of that powerful arm of 
 yours that has scattered and dismembered them so } And whose 
 were those bodies, sir, but mine } and by whom was I maintained but 
 by them .' " 
 
 " Well," said Don Quixote, " now I am thoroughly convinced of a 
 truth which 1 have had reason to believe before; that those cursed 
 magicians that daily persecute me, do nothing but delude me, first 
 drawing me into dangerous adventures by the appearances of them as 
 really they are, and then presently after changing the face of things 
 as they please. Eeally and truly, gentlemen, 1 vow and protest be- 
 fore you all that hear me, that all that was acted here seemed to be 
 really transacted ipso facto as it appeared. To me Melisandra ap- 
 peared to be Melisandra, Don Gayferos was Don Gayferos, Marsilius 
 Marsilius, and Charlemagne was the real Charlemagne. Which ^be- 
 ing so, I could not contain my fury, and acted according to the duties 
 of my function, which obliges me to take the injured side. Now, 
 though what I have done proves to be quite contrary to my good de- 
 sign, the fault ought not to be imputed to me, but to my persecuting 
 foes ; yet I own myself sorry for the mischance, and will myself pay 
 the costs. Let Master Peter see what he must have for the figures, 
 and I will pay it him now in good and lawful money." " Heaven 
 bless your worship," cried Master Peter, with a profound cringe, " I 
 could expect no less from the wonderful Christianity of the valorous 
 Don Quixote de la Mancha, the sure relief and bulwark of all mis- 
 erable wanderers. Now let my landlord and the great Sancho be 
 mediators and appraisers between your worship and myself, and I 
 will stand to their award." 
 
 They agreed : and presently Master Peter taking up Marsilius, 
 king of Saragosa, that lay by on the ground with his head off: " You 
 see, gentlemen," said he, '.' it is impossible to restore this king to his 
 former dignity ; and therefore, with submission to your better judg- 
 ments, I think that for his destruction, and to get him a successor, 
 seven and twenty pence is little enough on conscience." " Proceed,'" 
 said Don Quixote. " Then for this that is cleft in two," said Master 
 Peter, taking up the Emperor Charlemagne, " I think he is richly 
 worth one and thirty pence halfpenny." ■" Not so richly neither,'"' 
 quoth SanchOi "Truly," said the innkeeper, " I think it is pretty 
 reasonable, but we will make it even money ; let the poor fellow 
 have half a crown." " Come," said Don Quixote, "let him have his 
 full price ; we will not stand haggling for so small a matter in a case 
 tike this : so make haste, Master Peter, for it is near supper time, and 
 
CH. LIZ.] DON QUIXOTE. 271 
 
 I have some strong presumptions that I shall eat heartily." " Now,'? 
 said Master Peter, " for this figur« here that is without a nose and 
 blind with one eye, being the fai; Melisandra, I will be reasonable 
 with you; give me fourteen pence ; I would not take less from my 
 brother." 
 
 In this manner he went on, setting his price upon the dead and 
 wounded, which the arbitrators moderated to the content of both par- 
 ties ; and the whole sum amounted to forty reals and three quarters ; 
 which Sancho paid him down ; and then Master Peter demanded two 
 reals more for the trouble of catching his ape. " Give it him," said 
 Don Quixote, " and set the monkey to catch the ape ; and now would 
 I give two hundred more to be assured that Don Gayferos and the 
 Lady Melisandra were safely arrived in France among their friends." 
 " Nobody can better tell than my ape," said Master Peter ; " though 
 who will catch him I know not, if hunger or his kindness for me 
 do not bring us together . again to-night. However to-morrow 
 will 1)6 a new day ; and when it is light we will see what is to be 
 none." 
 
 The whole disturbance being appeased, to supper they went lov- 
 ingly together ; and Don Quixote treated the whole company, for he 
 was liberality itself. Before day, the man with the lances and halberts 
 left the inn, and, some time after, the scholar and the page came to 
 take leave of the knight ; the first to return home, and the second to 
 continue his journey, towards whose charges Don Quixote gave him 
 twelve reals. As for Master Peter, he knew too much of the knight's 
 humour to desire to have any thing to do with him ; and therefore, 
 having picked up the ruins of the puppet-show, and got his ape again, 
 by break of day he packed off to seek his fortune. The innkeeper, 
 who did not know Don Quixote, was as much surprised at his liberal- 
 ity as at his madness. In fine, Sancho paid him very honestly b)' 
 his master's order, and mounting a little before eight o'clock, they 
 left the inn, and proceeded on their journey ; during which some 
 other matters occurred, a knowledge of which is very requisite for the 
 better iinderstanding of this famous history. 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 Wherein is shewn Don Quixote's ill success in the braying adventure, 
 which did not end so happily as he desired and expected. 
 
 Aftee Don Quixote had left the inn, he resolved to take a sight of 
 the, river Ebro, and the country about, it, before he went to Saragosa, 
 since he was not straitened for time ; but might do that, and yet &'• 
 
272 DON QUIXOTE, 
 
 rive soon enough to make one at the jousts and tournaments m tnat 
 city. Two days he travelled without meeting with any thing worth 
 his notice or the reader's ; when on the third, as he was riding up a 
 hill, he heard a great noise of drums, trumpets and guns. At first he 
 thought that some regiment of soldiers was on its march that way, 
 which made him spur up Eozinante to the brow of the hill, that he 
 might see them pass by ; and then he saw in a bottom above two 
 hundred men, as near as he could guess, armed with various weapons, 
 as lances, cross-bows, partisans, halberts, pikes, some few firelocks, and 
 a great many targets. Thereupon he descended into the vale, and 
 made his approaches towards the battalion so near as to be able to 
 distinguish their banners and observe their devices ; more especially 
 one that was to be seen on a standard, of white satin* on which was 
 represented to the life a little jackass, much like a Sardinian ass-colt, 
 holding up his head, stretching out his neck, and thrusting out his 
 tongue, in the very posture of an ass that is braying, with this distich 
 written in fair characters about it : 
 
 " »Twas something more than nothir^ which one day 
 Made one and t'other worthy builin bray." 
 
 Don Quixote drew this inference from the motto, that those were the 
 inhabitants of the braying town ; and he acquainted Sancho with what 
 he had observed, giving him also to understand, that the man who told 
 them the story of the two braying aldermen was apparently in the 
 wrong? since, according to the verses on the standard, they were two 
 bailiffs, and not two aldermen. " It matters not one rush what you 
 call them," quoth Sancho; "for those very aldermen that brayed 
 might in time come to be made bailiffs of the town ; and so both 
 those titles might have been given them well enough. But what is it 
 to you or me, or the story, whether the two brayers were aldermen or 
 bailiflTs, so they but brayed as we are told .' As if a bailifi" were not 
 fiS likely to bray as an alderman ! " 
 
 In short, both master and man plainly understood that the men who 
 were thus up in arms were those that were jeered for braying, got 
 together to fight the people of another town, who had indeed abused 
 them more than was the part of good neighbours ; thereupon Don 
 Quixote advanced towards them, to Sancho's great grief, who had no 
 manner of likitig to such kind of adventures. The multitude soon 
 got about the knight, taking him for some champion, who was come 
 to their assistance. But' Don Q,uixote^, lifting up his vizor, with a 
 graceful deportment rode up to the standard, and there all the chief 
 leaders of the army got together about him, in order to take a survey 
 of his person, no less amazed at this strange appearance than the 
 rest. Don Quixote seeing them look so earnestly on bin:, and no man 
 olTer so much as a word or question, took occasion from their silenct 
 
cii. Lix.] SON qnixoT£. 273 
 
 to break his own ; and raising his voice, " Good gentlemen," cried 
 he, " I beseech you, with all the endearments imaginable, to give no 
 interruption to the discourse I dm^now delivering to you, unless you 
 find it distasteful or tedious ; which, if I am unhappy enough to occa- 
 sion, at the least hint you shall give me, I will put a seal on my lips 
 and a padlock on my tongue." They all cried that he might speak 
 what he pleased, and they would hear him with all their hearts. 
 Having this license, Don Quixote proceeded : 
 
 " Gentlemen," said he, " I am a knight-errant ; and my profession 
 is to shew favour to those that are in necessity, and to give' assistance 
 to those that are in distress. I am no stranger to the cause of 
 your uneasiness, which excites you to take arms against your insult- 
 ing neighbours ; and having often reflected upon the motives which 
 have brought you together, I have drawn this inference ; that accord- 
 ing to the laws of arms, you really injure yourselves in thinking your- 
 selves affronted ; for no particular person can give an affront to a whole 
 town and society of men, except it be by accusing them all of high trea- 
 son in general for want of knowing on which of them to fix some trea- 
 sonable action, of which he supposes some of them to be guilty. Taking 
 it for granted, then, that no particular person can affront a whole king- 
 dom, province, city, commonwealth, or body politic, it is but just to con- 
 clude, that it is needless to revenge such a pretended affront ; since 
 such an abuse is no sufficient provocation, and, indeed, positively no 
 affront. It would be a pretty piece of wisdom, truly, should those 
 out of the town of Reloxa sally out every day on those who spend 
 their ill-natured breaths, miscalling them every where. It would be 
 a fine business, indeed, if the inhabitants of those several famous 
 towns that are nick-named by our rabble, and called, the one cheese- 
 mongers, the other costermongers, these fishmongers, and those soap- 
 boilers, should know no better than to think themselves dishonoured, 
 and in revenge be always drawing out their swords at the least word, 
 for every idle insignificant quarrel. No, no. Heaven forbid ! men 
 of sagacity and wisdom, and well-governed commonwealths, are 
 never induced to take up arms, nor endanger their persons and 
 estates, but on the four following occasions. In the first place, to de- 
 fend the holy Catholic faith. Secondly, for the security of their 
 lives, which they are commanded to preserve by the laws of God and 
 nature. Thirdly, the preservation of their good name, the reputation 
 of their family, and the conservation of their estates. Fourthly, the 
 service due to their prince in a just war ; and, if we please, we may 
 add a fifth, which, indeed, may be referred to the second : the /defence 
 of our country. To these five capital causes may be subjoined sev- 
 eral others, which may induce men to vindicate themselves, and have 
 recourse even to the way of arms ; but to take them up for mere 
 trifles, and such occasions as rather challenge our mirth and contemp- 
 
 18 
 
SJ74 DON QUIXOTK. 
 
 tuous laugliier than revenge, shews the person who is guilty of such 
 proceedings to labour under a scarcity of sense. Besides, to seek 
 after an unjust revenge (and indeed no human revenge can be just) is 
 directly against the holy law we profess, which commands us to for- 
 give our enemies, and to do good; to those that hate us : an injunc- 
 tion which, though it seems difficult in the implicit obedience we 
 should pay to it, yet is only so to those who have less of heaven than 
 of the world, and more of the flesh than of the spirit. For the Re- 
 deemer of mankind, whose words never could deceive, said ' that 
 his yoke was easy j and his burden light ; ' and according to that, he 
 could prescribe nothing to our practice, which was impossible to be 
 done. Therefore, gentlemen, since reason and religion recommend 
 love and peace to you, I hope you will not render yourselves obnox- 
 ious to all laws, both human and divine, by a breach of the public 
 ti'anquillity." 
 
 'i' Verily," quoth Sancho to himself, " this master of mine mtjst 
 have been bred a parson ; if not, he is as like one as one egg is like 
 another." Don Quixote paused a while to take breath ; and, perceiv- 
 ing his auditory still willing to give him attention, had proceeded 
 in his harangue, had not -Sancho's good opinion of his parts made 
 him lay hold on this opportunity to talk in his turn-. " Gentlemen," 
 quoth he, "my master, Don Quixote de la Mancha, once called the 
 Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, and now the Knight of the Lions, is 
 a very judicious gentleman, and talks Latin and his own mother- 
 tongue as well as any of your 'varsity-doctors. Whatever discourse 
 he takes' in hand, he speaks to the purpose ; he has all the laws and 
 rule^ of punctilio and honour at his fingers' end ; so that you have no 
 more to do but to do as he says, and if in taking his counsel you ever 
 tread awry, let the blame be laid on my shoulders. And, indeed, as 
 you have already been told, it is a very silly fancy to be ashamed to 
 hear one bray ; for I remember when I was a boy, I could bray as 
 often as I listed, and nobody went about to hinder me ; and I could 
 do it so rarely, and to the life,; without vanity be it spoken, that all 
 the asses in our town would fall a braying when they heard me bray : 
 yet for all this, I was an honest body's child, and came of good pas?- 
 entage, do ye see ; it is true, indeed, four of the best young men ia 
 our parish envied me for this great ability of mine ; but I cared not a 
 rush for their spite. Now, that you may not think L tell you a stoiy, 
 do but hear me, and then judge; for this rare, art is like swimming, 
 which, when once learned, is never to be. forgotten I " 
 
 This said, he clapped both the palms of his hands to his. nose, and 
 fell a braying so obstreperously, that it made the neighbouring valleys 
 ring again. But while he was thus braying, one of those that stood 
 next to him, believing he did it to mock them, gave him such a hearty 
 
OH. LX.] DON QUIXOTE. 275 
 
 blow with a quarter-staff on his back, that he brought him to the 
 grounds 
 
 Don Quixote, seeing what a rough entertainmrint had been given 
 to his squire, moved with his lance in a threatening posture towards 
 the man that had used poor Sancho thus ; but the crowd thrust them- 
 selves in such a manner between them, that the knight found it im- 
 practicable to pursue the revenge he designed. At the same time, 
 finding that a shower of stones began to rain about his ears, and a 
 great number of cross-bows and muskets were getting ready for his 
 reception, he turned Rozinante's reins, and galloped from them as 
 fast as four legs would carry him, at the same time expecting at ever}' 
 step that he should be shot through the back, and have the bullet 
 come out at his brbast. But the country battalion were satisfied with 
 seeing him fly, and did not offer to shoot at him. 
 
 As for Sancho, he was set upon his ass before he had well recover- 
 ed his senses, and then they suffered him to move off; not that the 
 poor fellow had strength enough to guide him, but Dapple naturally 
 followed Rozinante of his own accord. The Don' being at a good dis-' 
 tance from the armed multitude, faced about, and seeing Sancho pac- ' 
 ing after him without any troublesome attendants, stayed for his com- 
 ing up. As for the rabble, they kept their posts till it grew dark, and 
 their enemies not having taken the field to give them battle, they 
 marched home, so oveijoyed to have shewn their courage, without' 
 danger, that, had they been so well bred as to have known the ancient 
 custom of the Greeks, they would have erected a trophy iii that 
 place. 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 Of some things which he that reads shall know, if he reads them with 
 
 attention. 
 
 When the valiant man flies, he must have 'discovered some foul play, 
 smd it is the part of prudent persons to reserve themselves for more fa- 
 vourable opportunities. This truth is verified in Don Quixote ; who, 
 rather than expose himself to the fuiy of an incensed and ill-design- 
 ing multitude, prudently took himself out of their reach. Sancho 
 came after him, as already narrated, laid across his ass; and having 
 recovered his senses, overtook him at last, and let himself drop from 
 his pack-saddle at Rozinante's feet, all battered and bruised, and in a 
 Borrcful condition, Don Quixote presently dismounted to search his 
 wounds, and finding no bones broken, but his skin whole fron head 
 to feet " You must bray," cried he angrily; "you must bra f mus- 
 
276 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 you ! It is a piece of excellent discretion to talk of halters in the 
 house of a man whose father was hanged. What counter-part could 
 you expect to your music, blockhead, but a thorough-bass of bastina- 
 does ! Thank Providence, sirrah, that as they gave you a dry bene* 
 diction with a quarter-staff, they did not cross you with a cutlass.": 
 " I havn't breath to answer you at present," quoth Sancho, " but my 
 back and shoulders speak enough for me. Pray let us make the best 
 of our way from. this cursed place, and whene'«r I bray again, may 
 1 be as well punished for it. Yet I cannot help saying, that your knights- 
 errant can betake themselves to their heels, and yet leave their trusty 
 squires to be beaten like stock-fish in the midst of their enemies." 
 " A retreat is not to be accounted a flight," replied Don Quixote ; 
 " for know, Sancho, that courage which has not wisdom- for its guide 
 falls under the name of temerity ; and the rash man'a successful ac- 
 tions are rather owing to his good fortune than to his bravery. I own 
 I did retire, but I deny that I fled ; and in such a retreat I did but im- 
 itate many valiant men, who, not to hazard their persons indiscreetly, 
 reserved themselves for a more fortunate hour. Histories are full of 
 examples of this nature, which I do not care to relate at present, be 
 cause they would be niore tedious to me than profitable to thee." 
 
 By this time Don Quixote had helped Sancho to bestride his ass; 
 and being himself mounted on Rozinante, they paced softly along, 
 and got into a grove of poplar-trees, about a quarter of a league from 
 the place where they mounted. Yet as softly as they rode, Sancho 
 could not help now and then heaving- up deep sighs and lamentable 
 groans. Don Quixote asked him why he made such a heavy moan ? 
 Sancho told him, that from his neck to his back-bone he felt such, 
 grievous pains that he was ready to sink. " Without doubt," said 
 Don Quixote, " that is by reason that the staff by which thou wert 
 struck was broad and long ; and so, having fallen on those parts of 
 thy back, caused a contusion there, and aSects them all vyith pain ; 
 and had it been of a greater magnitude, thy grievances had been so 
 much the greater." ■ 
 
 " Truly," quoth Sancho, " you have cleared that in very pithy 
 words, of which nobody made any doubt. Was the cause of my 
 ailing so hard to be guessed, that you must tell me that so much of 
 me was sore as was hit by the weapon .? But I find you are like- all 
 the world, that lay to heart nobody's harms but their own. I find 
 whereabouts we are, and what I am like to get by you ; for even as 
 you left me now in the lurch, to be belaboured, and the other day to 
 dance the caper-galliard in the blanket you wot of, so I must expect 
 a hundred and a hundred more of these good things in your service ; 
 and as the mischief has now lighted on my shoulders, next time it 
 may fly at my eyes. Would it not be better for me to trudge home 
 to my wife and children, and look after my house, with that little wit 
 
CH. LX.J DON QUIXOTE. 277 
 
 that Heaven has given me, without galloping afler your tail, high and 
 low, through cross-roads and by-ways, eating ill, and drinking worse r 
 Then, after a man has tired himself off his legs, when he would be 
 glad of a good bed, to have a master cry, ' Here, are you sleepy ? 
 lie down, Mr. Squire, your bed is made :. take six feet of good hard 
 ground, and measure your body there ; and if that won't serve you, 
 take as much more, and welcome.' " 
 
 " I durst lay a wager," said Don Quixote, interrupting him, " that 
 now thou art suffered to prate without interruption, thou feelest no 
 mannerof pain in thy whole body. Prithee taikon, my child ; say 
 anything that comes uppermost to thy mouth, or is burdensome to thy 
 brain ; so it but alleviates thy pain, thy impertinences will rathei 
 please than offend me ; and if thou hast such a longing desire to be 
 at home with thy wife and children. Heaven forbid I should be against 
 it. Thou hast money of mine in thy hands : see how long it is since 
 we sallied out last from home, and cast up thy wages by the month, 
 and pay thyself." 
 
 "An' it like your worship," quoth Sancho, "when I served my 
 master Carrasco, father to the bachelor, your worship's acquaintance, 
 I had two ducats a-month, besides my victuals : I don't know what 
 you'll give me ; though I am sure there is more trouble in being 
 squire to a knight-errant than in being servant to a farmer ; for truly, 
 we that go to plough and cart in a former's service, though we moil 
 and sweat so a-days as not to have a dry thread to our backs, let the 
 worst come to the worst, are sure of a supper from the pot, and to 
 sleep soundly in a bed. But I don't know when I have had a good 
 meal's meat, or a good night's rest, in all your service, unless it were 
 that short time when we were at Don Diego's house, and when I made 
 a feast on the savoury skimming of Camacho's cauldron, and eat, 
 drank, and slept at Mr. Basil's." 
 
 " I grant all this, Sancho," said Don Quixote ; " then how much 
 more dost thou expect from me than thou hadst from thy master Car- 
 rasco .' " " Why, truly," quoth Sancho, " if youx worship will pay 
 me twelvepence a-month more than Thomas Carrasco gave me, I 
 shall think it very fair, and tolerable wages ; but then, instead of the 
 island which, you know, you promised me, I think you cannot in con- 
 science give me less than six-and-thirty pence a-month more, which 
 will make in all thirty reals, neither more nor less." " Very well,' 
 said Don Quixote, " let us see,lhen ; it is now twenty-five days since 
 we set out from home — ^reckon what this comes to, according to the 
 wages thou hast allowed thyself, and be thy own paymaster." " Ah, 
 but," quoth Sancho, " we are quite out in our account : for as to the 
 governor of an island's place, which you promised to help me to, wa 
 ought to reckon from the time you made the promise to this very 
 day." " Well, anl pray how long is it ? " asked Don Quixote. " If 
 24 
 
278 DON QUIXOTE, 
 
 I remember rightly," quoth Sancho, " it is about some twenty yean 
 ago, two or three days more or less." 
 
 ' With that Don Quixote fell a-laughing heartily. " Why,"' cried 
 he, " all my sallies, including the time I spent in the Sierra Morena, 
 have hardly taken up two months ; and hast thou the impudence to 
 affirm it is twenty 3nears since I promised the grant of the island .? I 
 am novi- convinced thou hast a mind to make all the money which 
 thou hast of mine in thy keeping go for the payment of thy wages. 
 If this be thy meaning, well and good : e'en take it, and much good 
 may it do thee ; for rather than be troubled any longer with such a 
 varlet, I would contentedly see myself without a penny. Away, then, 
 pack off with thy ass this moment, and get thee home ; for thou shalt 
 never stay in my service any longer. Oh, how much bread, how many 
 promises, have I now ill bestowed on thee ! Vile, grovelling wretcli, 
 thou hast more of the beast than of the man ! when I was just going 
 to prefer thee to such a post, that in spite of thy wife thou hadst been 
 called my lord, thou sneakest away from me. Well mightest thou 
 say, indeed, that honey is not for the mouth of an ass. Thou art in- 
 deed a very ass ; an ass thou wilt live, and an ass thou wilt die ; for I 
 dare say, thou wilt never have sense enough while thou livest to know 
 thou art a brute." 
 
 While Don Quixote thus upbraided and railed at Sancho, the poo? 
 fellow, all dismayed, and touched to the, quick, beheld him with a 
 wistful look ; and the tears standing in his eyes for grief, " Good sir," 
 cried he, with a doleful voice, " I confess I want nothing but a tail to 
 be a perfect ass ; if your worship will be -pleased but to put on one, I 
 shall deem it well set on, and be your most faithful ass all the days of 
 my life : but forgive me, I beseech you, and take pity on my youth. 
 Consider I have but a dull head-piece of my own ; and if tongue runs 
 at random sometimes, it is because I am more fool than knave, sir : 
 
 ' Ho who errs and mends, 
 To heaven himBelf commends.' " 
 
 " I should wonder much," said Don Quixote, " if thou shoulds) 
 not interlard thy discourse with some pretty proverb. Well, I wil'. 
 pardon thee this once, provided thou correct those imperfections, and 
 shewest thyself of a less craving temper. Take heart, then, and let 
 the hopes which thou mayest entertain of the performance of my 
 promise raise in thee a nobler spirit." 
 
 Matters being thus amicably adjusted, they put into the grove, where 
 the Don laid himself at the foot of an elm, and his squire at the foot 
 of a beech ; for every one of those trees, and such others, has always 
 a foot, though i-ever a hand. Sancho had but an ill night's rest of it, 
 for his bruises made his bones more than ordinarily sensible of the 
 
CH. LXl.] DON QUIXOTE. 279 
 
 colli. As for Don Quixote, he entertained himself with his usual ima- 
 ginadons. However, they both slept, and by break of day were 
 ready to continue their journey. 
 
 CHAPTER LXI. 
 What happened to Don Quixote with the fair Huntress^ 
 
 [t happened that the next day about sunset, as they were coming out 
 of the wood, Don Quixote cast his eyes on a verdant meadow, and at 
 the farther end of it descried a company, whom, upon a nearer view, 
 he judged to be persons of quality taking the diversion of hawking. 
 Approaching nearer yet, he observed among them a fine lady, upon 
 a white steed in green trappings, and a saddle of cloth-of-silver. She 
 rode with a gosshawk on her left hand, by which Don Quixote judged 
 her to be of quality, and mistress of the train that attended ; as, inr 
 deed, she was. Calling to his squire, " Sancho," cried he, " run 
 and tell that lady on the palfrey .that I, the Knight of the Lions, hum- 
 bly salute her highness ; and that if she pleases to give me leave, I 
 should be proud to have the honour of waiting on her, and kissing her 
 fair hands. But take special care, Sancho, how thou deliverest thy 
 message ; and be sure not to lard my compliments with any of thy 
 proverbs." 
 
 Sancho moved on, forcing Dapple from his old pace to a gallop ; 
 and approaching the fair huntress, he alighted, and, falling on his 
 knees, " Fair lady," quoth he, " that knight yonder, called the 
 Knight of the Lions, is my master ; I am his squire, Sancho Panza 
 by name. This same Knight of the Lions, who but the other day 
 was called the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure, has sent me to tell 
 you, that so please your worship's grace to give him leave, with your 
 good liking, to d«if as he has a mind, which, as he says, and as I be- 
 lieve, is only to sgrve your high-flown beauty, and be your eternal 
 vassal, you may chance to do a thing that would be for your own 
 good, and he would take it for a huge kindness at your hands." 
 
 " Indeed, honest squire," said the lady, " you have acquitted your- 
 self of your charge with all the grace which such an embassy requires. 
 Rise, I pray ; for it is by no means fit that the squire to so great a 
 knight (to whose name and merit we are no strangers) should remain 
 on his knees. Rise, and desire your master by all means to honour 
 us with his company, that my lord duke and I may pay him our re- 
 spects at a mansion we have hard by." 
 
 Sancho, oveijoyed with this gracious answer, returned to his mas- 
 ter to whom he repeated all that the great lady had said to him ; 
 
280 
 
 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 praising to the skies, in his clownish phrase, her great beauty and 
 courteous nature 
 
 Dqji Quixote, pleased with this good beginning, seated himself 
 handsomely in the saddle, fixed his toes in his stirrups, set the beaver 
 of his helmet as he thought best became his face, roused up Eozi- 
 nante's mettle, and with a graceful assurance moved forwards to kiss 
 the duchess's hand, j As soon as Sancho went from her, she sent for 
 the duke, her husband, and gave him an account of Don Quixote's 
 embassy. Thereupon they both attended his coming with a pleasant 
 impatience ; for, having read the first part of his history, they were 
 no less desirous to be acquainted with his person ; and resolved, aa 
 long as he stayed with them, to give him his own way, and humour 
 hinj in all things, treating him with all the forms essential to the en 
 tertainment of a knight-errant ; which they were the better able to do, 
 having been much conversant with books of that kind. 
 
 And now Don Quixote drew nigh with his vizor up ; and Sancho, 
 seeing him offer to alight, made all the haste he could to be ready to 
 hold his stirrup. But as ill-luck would have it, as he was throwing 
 his leg over his pack-saddle to get off, he entangled his foot so 
 strangely in the rope that served him instead of a stirrup, that, not 
 being able to get it out, he hung by the heel with his nose to the 
 ground. On the other side, Don Quixote, who was used to have his 
 stirrup held when he dismounted, thinking Sancho had hold of it 
 already, lifted up his right leg over the saddle to alight ; but as it 
 happened to be ill girt, down it came with him to the ground ; while 
 he, confounded with shame, bestowed many a severe reproach on his 
 poor squire, who was all the while held fast with his foot in the stocks . 
 The duke seeing them in that condition, ordered some of his people 
 to help them ; and they raised Don Quixote, who was in no very good 
 case with his fall. However, limping as well as he could, he went to., 
 pay his duty to the lady, and would have fallen on his knees at her 
 horse's feet ; but the duke alighting, would by no means permit it ; 
 and embracing Don Quixote, " I am sorry," said he, " sir knight, 
 that such a mischance should happen to you at your first appearance 
 in my territories ; but the negligence of squires is often the cause of 
 yorse accidents." " Most generous prince," said Don Quixote, " I 
 ;an think nothing bad that could befall me here, since I have had tho 
 happiness of seeing your grace ; for though I had fallen ever so low 
 the glory of this interview would raise me up again. My squire, in 
 deed, is much more apt to set loose his saucy tongue than to gird a 
 saddle well ; but prostrate or erect, on horseback or on footj in any 
 posture, I shall always be at your grace's command, and no less a- 
 her grace's, your worthy consort. Worthy did I say .? yes, she is 
 worthy to be called the Queen of Beauty, and Sovereign Lady of al. 
 Courtesy." " Paidon me there," said the duke, " noble Don Quixot* 
 
SH. LXII.J DON QTTIXOTE. 251 
 
 de- la Mancha ; where the peerless Dulcinea is remembered, the praise 
 of all other beauties ought to be forgotten." 
 
 Sancho was now got clear of the noose, and standing near tlie 
 duchess. "An't please your worship's highness," quoth he, before 
 his master could answer, "it cannot be denied, nay, I dare vouch it 
 in any ground in Spain, that my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso is woundy 
 handsome and fair. But where we least think, there starts the hare ; 
 and 'he that makes one handsome pipkin may make two or three 
 hundred;' and so, do ye see, you may understand by this that my 
 Lady Duchess here does not a jot come short of my Lady Dulcinea 
 d^l Toboso." Don Quixote, upon this, addressing himself to the 
 duchess, "Your grace must know," said he, "that no knight-errant 
 ever had such an eternal babbler, such a bundle of conceit for a squire, 
 as ]! have; and if I have the honour to continue for some time in your 
 service, your grace will find it true." "I am glad," answered the 
 duke, " that honest Sancho has his conceits,, which is a sign he ia 
 wise ; for merry conceits, you know, sir, are not the offspring of a 
 dull brain; and therefore, if Sancho be merry and jocose, I will war- 
 rant him also a man of sense. But, not to lose our time here, come 
 
 on, Sir Knight of the Sorrowful Figure " "Knight of the Lions, 
 
 your highness should say," quoth Sancho; "the Sorrowful Figure is 
 out of date ; and so pray let the Lions come in play." f Well, 
 then," said the duke, "I entreat the Knight of the Lions to vouchsafe 
 us his presence at a castle I have hard by, where he shall find such en. 
 tertainment as is justly due to so eminent a personage, such honours as 
 the duchess and myself are wont to pay to knights-errant that travel 
 this way." 
 
 Sancho having by this time got Rozinante ready, and girded the 
 saddle tight, Don Quixote mounted his steed, and the duke a stately 
 horse of his own, and the duchess riding between them both, they 
 moved towards the castle. She desired that Sancho might always 
 attend near her ; for she was extremely taken with his notable sayings. 
 Sancho was not hard to be entreated, but crowded in between them, 
 and made a fourth in their conversation, to the great satisfaction both 
 of the duke and duchess, who esteemed themselves very fortunate 
 in having an opportunity to entertain at their castle such a knight-ei 
 rant, and such an erring squire. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIL 
 
 Which treats of many and great matters. 
 
 Sancho was overjoyed tp find himself so much in the duchess's fa. 
 vour, flattering himself that he-should fare no worse at her castle than 
 b? jiad doi}3 at Don Diego's s^nd Basil's hoyse: for l^e wa? oyer f 
 
 34* ■ ■ 
 
282 
 
 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 corA'a. friend to a plentiful way of living, and therefore never failed 
 to taiie such opportunities by the forelock wherever he met them. Nom^ 
 before' ,ne" got to the castle, the duke rode away from them, to in- 
 struct /us servants how to behave themselves toward Don Quixote ; so 
 that no sooner did the knight come near the gates, than he was me 
 by two of the duke's lackeys, in long vests of fine crimson satin, whr 
 suddenly taking him in their arms, lifted him from his horse witho- 
 any further ceremony. 
 
 And now, being entered into a' large court-yard, there came two 
 damsels, who threw a long mantle of. fine scarlet over Don Quixote's 
 shoulders. In an instant, all the galleries about the court-yard were 
 crowded with men and women, the domestics of the duke, who cried 
 out, " Welcome, the flower and cream of knight-errantry ! " Then 
 they sprinkled bottles of scented water upon Don Quixote, the duke, 
 and the duchess ; all which agreeably surprised the Don, and persua- 
 ded him his knight-errantry was indeed more than mere fancy ; for 
 he found himself treated just as he had read that the brothers of the 
 order were entertained in former ages. 
 
 They were now led up a stately staiircase, Eind'then into a noble hall, 
 sumptuously hung with rich gold brocade. ' Here his armour was 
 taken ofi" by six young damsels, that served him instead of pages, all 
 of them fully instructed by the duke arid duchess how to behave 
 themselves towards Don Quixote, so that he might look on his enter- 
 tainment as conformable to those which the famous knights-errant re- 
 ceived of old. , 
 
 Don Quixote then retired and dressed' himself, put on his belt and 
 sword, threw his scarlet cloak over his shoulders, and clapped on a cap 
 of green velvet, which had been left him by the damsels. Thus ac- 
 coutred, he was led with great pomp, some of the attendants walking 
 before and some behind, into the supper-apartment, where a table 
 was magnificently set out for four people. 
 
 Ajs soon as he approached, the duke and the duchess came as far as 
 the door to receive him, and with them a grave ecclesiastic, one of 
 those that live in and govern great men's houses. 
 
 After a thousand courtly compliments on all sides, Don Quixote at 
 last approached the table, between the duke and the duchess ; and here 
 arose a contest ; for the knight, being offered the upper end of the 
 table, thought himself obliged to decline it. However, he could not 
 withstand the duke's pressing importunities, but was forced at last to 
 comply. The parson sat right against him, and the duke and the 
 duchess on each side. 
 
 Sancho stood by all the while, gaping with wonder to see the hon- 
 our done his master ; and observing how many ceremonies passed, and 
 what entreaties the duke used to prevail with him to sit at the uppisr 
 end of the table, " With your worship's good leave," quoih he, " I 
 
CH. LXII.] DON QUIXOTE, 283 
 
 will tell you what happened'once in our town, in refeience to this stir 
 and ado that you have had now about places." The words were 
 scarce out of his mouth, when Don Quixote be^n to tremble, aa 
 having reason to believe he was about to say some irtipertinent thing 
 or other. Sancho bad his eyes upon him, and, presently understand- 
 ing his motions, " Sir," quoth he, " don't fear ; 1 won't be unmanner- 
 ly, I warrant you. I will speak nothing but what shall be to the pur- 
 pose ; I havn't so soon forgot the lesson you gave me about talking 
 sense or nonsense, little or much." " I dont know what thou meanest," 
 said Don Quixote ; " say what thou wilt, so thou do it quickly." 
 « Well," quoth Sancho, turning to the duke, " what I am going to tell 
 you is every tittle true. Should I trip never so little in my story, my 
 master is here to take me up, and give me the lie." " Prithee," said 
 Don Quixote, " trip as much as thou wilt for me ; I won't be thy hin- 
 drance ; but take heed, however, what thou sayest." " Nay, nay," 
 quoth Sancho, " let me alone for that ; I have heeded it and reheeded 
 it over and over, and that you shall see, I warrant you." " Truly, 
 my lord,"" said Don Quixote, " it were convenient that your grace 
 should order this fellow to be turned out of the room, for he will 
 plague you with a thousand impertinences." " Oh ! as for that, you 
 must excuse us," said the duchess ; " Sancho must not stir a step 
 I'll engage for him, he ^hall say nothing but what is proper." — 
 " Many and many proper years," quoth Sancho, " may your grace 
 live, madam duchess, for your good opinion of me, though it is more 
 your goodness than my desert. Now then for my tale. 
 
 " Once on a time a gentleman, of a good estate and family, for he 
 was of the blood of the Alamos of Medina del Campo, and married 
 one Donna Mencia de Quinones, who was the daughter of Don Alonzo 
 de Maranon, a knight of the order of St. Jago, the very same that 
 was drowned in the Herradura, about whom that quarrel happened 
 formerly in our town, in which I heard say, that my master, Don Quix- 
 ote, was embroiled, and little Tom, the mad-cap, who was the son of 
 
 old Balvastro the farrier, happened to be sorely hurt Is not all 
 
 this true now, master .' Speak the truth, that their worships' graces 
 may know that I am neither a prater nor a liar." " Thus far," said 
 the clergyman, " I think that thou art the first rather than the latter ; I 
 can't tell what I shall make of thee by and by." " Thou producest 
 so many witnesses, Sancho," said Don Quixote, '" and mentionest so 
 many circumstances, that I must needs own I believe what thou sayest 
 to be true. But g( on, and shorten thy story ; for as thou beginnest, 
 I'm afraid thou'lt not have done these two days." " Pray, don't let 
 him shorten it," said the duchess ; " Jet him go on hisown way, though ho 
 ■vere not to make an end of it these six days ; I shall hear him with 
 pleasure, and think the time pleasantly employed." " This same 
 gentleman, then," continued Sancho, " I know him as w.ell as I know 
 
284 DON auixoTK. 
 
 my right hand from my left, for it is not a bow-shot from my house 
 to his ; this gentleman, I say, invited a husbandman to dine with him, 
 who was a poor man, but main honest" 
 
 " On, friend," said the chaplain; " at the rate you proceed, your 
 tale won't reach its end before you reach the other world." " A little 
 more of your Christian patience, good doctor," quoth Sancho. ^' Now 
 this same husbandman, as I said before, coming to this gentleman's 
 house, who had given him the invitation, — Heaven rest his soul, poor 
 heart ! for he is now dead and gone ; and more than that, they say 
 he died the death of an angel. For my part, I was not by him when 
 he died, for I was gone to harvest-work at that very time, to a place 
 called Temblique." "Prithee, honest friend," said the clergyraaiji 
 " leave your harvest-work, and come back quickly from Temblique^ 
 without staying to bury the gentleman, unless you have a mind to oc- 
 casion more funerals ; therefore pray make an end ' of your story." 
 "You must know, then," quoth Sancho, "that as they two were ready 
 to sit down at the table, — I mean the husbandman and the gentle- 
 man methinks I see therh now before my eyes plainer than ever 
 
 I did in my born days,—- the husbandman would not sit till the gen- 
 ileman had taken his place ; but the gentleman m^de him a sign to 
 put himself at the upper end. 'By no means, sir,' quoth the hus- 
 bandman. ' Sit down,' said the other. ■ ' Good your worship,' quoth 
 the husbandman. 'Sit where I bid thee,' said the gentleman. Still 
 the other excused himself and would not ; and the gentleman told 
 him he should, as meaning to be master in his own house. But the 
 over-mannerly looby, fancying he should be hugely well bred, and 
 v-ivil in it, scraped, and cringed, and refused, till at last the gentleman, 
 n a great passion, even took him by the shoulders, and forced him into 
 Jie chair. ' Sit there, clodpate,' cried he ; ' for let me sit wherever 
 ' will, that still will be the upper end, and the place of worship to thee.' 
 And now you have my tale, and I think I have spoke nothing but what 
 IS to the purpose." 
 
 Don Quixote's face was flushed with anger and shame, so that the 
 ■duke and duchess were obliged to check their mirth when they per- 
 ceived Sancho's roguery, that Don Quixote might not be puttoo much 
 out of countenance. And therefore to turn the discourse, that Sancho 
 might not run into other fooleries, the duchess asked Don Quixote 
 what news he had of the Lady Dulcinea, and how long it was since he 
 had sent her any giants or robbers for a present, not doubting but that 
 he had lately subdued many such. " Alas ! madam," answered he, 
 " my misfortunes have had a beginning, but I fear will never have an 
 end. I have vanquished giants, elves, and cut-throats, and sent them 
 to the mistress of my soul, but where shall they find her ? She is 
 enchanted, madam, and transformed to the ugliest piece of rusticity 
 .^t can be imagined." " I don't know, sir," quoth Sancho ; " wheo 
 
en. LXIII.] DON QUIXOTE. S8ft 
 
 I saw her last, she seemed to be the finest creatwre in the varsal 
 world ; thus far, at least, I can safely vouch for her upon my own 
 knowledge, that for activity of body and leaping, the best tumbler of 
 them alt does not go beyond her. Upon my honest word, madam 
 duchess, she will vault from' the ground upon her ass like a cat." 
 " Have you seen her enchanted ? " said thj? duke, i " Seen her ! " 
 quoth Sancho ; " and who was the first that hit upon, this trick of her 
 enchantment, think you, but I? She is as much enchanted as my 
 father." 
 
 The churchman hearing them talk of, giants, elves, and enchant- 
 ments, began to suspect this was Don Quixote de la Mancha, whose 
 history the duke so often used to read, though he had- several times 
 reprehended him for it, telling him it was a folly to read such follies.- 
 Being confirmed in his suspicion,' he addressed himself very angrily 
 to the duke. " My lord," said he, " your grace will have a large ac- 
 count to give- one day for encouraging- this poor man's follies. I sup- 
 posethis same Don Quixote, or Don Quite Sot, or whatever you are 
 pleased to call* him, cannot be quite so besotted as you, endeavour to 
 make him, by giving him such opportunities to run on in his fantastical 
 humours.?"" Then directing his discourse to Don Quixote, "Hark 
 ye," said he, " Signer Addlepate. Who has put it into your head that 
 vou are a knight-errant, and that you vanquish giants and robbers ! 
 Go, go, get you home again, look after your children, if you have 
 any, and what honest business you have to do, and leave wandering 
 about the world building castles in the air, and making yourself a 
 laughing-stock to all that know you, or know you not. Where have 
 you found that there ever has been, or are now, any such things as 
 fcnights-errant .' Where will you meet with giants in Spain, or mon- 
 sters in da Mancha .? Where shall one find your enchanted Dulcineas, 
 and all those legions of whimsies and chimeras that are talked of in 
 your account, but in your own empty skull .' " 
 
 Don Quixote gave this reverend person a hearing with great 
 patience. But at last, seeing him silent, without minding his re- 
 spect to the duke and duchess, up he started with indignation and 
 fury in his looks, and said But his answer deserves a chapter 
 
 by itself. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIII. 
 
 Don Quixote's answer to his reprover ; with other grave and merry 
 
 accidents. 
 
 Don Quixote having thus suddenly got up, with his whole frame 
 agitated with indignation, cast an angry look on his indiscreet censor, 
 and thus opake * " Th\s place, the presence of these noble persona 
 
286 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and the respect I have always had for your function, check, my jusi 
 resentment, and tie up my hands from taking the satisfaction of a 
 gentleman. For these reasons, and since every one knows th&t yott 
 gown-men, as well as women, use no other weapons but your tongues, 
 I will fairly engage you upon equal terms, and combat you at youj 
 own weapon. I should rather have expected sober admonitions from 
 a man of your cloth, than infamous reproaches. Charitable and 
 wholesome correction ought to be managed at another rate, and with 
 more moderation. The least that can be said of this reproof, which 
 you have given me here so bitterly and in public, is, that it has ex 
 ceeded the bounds of Christian correction, and a gentle one had been 
 much more becoming. Is it fit, that without any insight into the offence 
 which you reprove, j'ou should, without any more ado, call the offen- 
 der fool, sot, and addlepate .' Pray, sir, what foolish action have you 
 seen me do, that should provoke you to give me such ill language 
 and bid me so magisterially go home to look after my wife and chil 
 dren, before you know whether I have any ? Don't you think thosp 
 deserve as severe a censure who screw themselves into other men's 
 houses, and pretend to rule the master .? A fine world it is, truly, 
 when a poor pedant, who has seen no more of it than lies within 
 twenty leagues about him, shall take upon him to prescribe laws to 
 knight-errantry, and judge of those who profess it ! You, forsooth, 
 esteem it an idle undertaking, and time lost, to wander through the 
 world, though scorning its pleasures and sharing the hardships and 
 toils of it, by which the virtuous aspire to the high seat of immortali- 
 ty. If persons of honour, knights, lords, gentlemen, or men ot", 
 any birth, should take me for a fool or a coxcomb, I should 
 think it an irreparable affront. But for mere scholars, that never 
 trode the path of chivalry, to think me mad, I despise and laugh at it. 
 lam a knight, and a knight will I die, if so it please Omnipotence. 
 Some choose the high road of haughty ambition ; others the low wfiys 
 of base servile flattery ; a third sort take, the crooked path of deceit- 
 ful hypocrisy ; and a few, very few, that of true religion. I, for my 
 own part, follow the narrow track of knight-errantry ; and for the ex- 
 ercise of it I despise riches, but not honour. I have redressed griev- 
 ances, and righted the injured, chastised the insolent, vanquished giants, 
 and trod elves and hobgoblins under my feet. 1 am in love, but no 
 more than the profession of knight-errantry obliges me to be. My 
 intentions are all directed to virtuous ends, and to do no man wrong, 
 but good to all the world. And now let your graces judge, most ex-, 
 cellent duke and duchess, whether a person who makes it his only 
 study to practise all this deserves to be upbraided for a fool." 
 
 " Well said, truly," quoth Sancho ; ^' say no more yourself, my 
 good lord and master ; stop when you are well ; for there is not the 
 least matter to be added more on your side, Besides, since Mr. Par 
 
CH. LXni.] DON QUIXOTE. 2S1 
 
 son has had the face to say, point-blank, as one may say, that there 
 neither are, nor ever were, any knights-errant in the world, no mar- 
 vel he does not know what he says." " What ! " said the clergyman, 
 " I warrant you are that Sancho Panza to whom they say your master 
 lias promised an island ? " " Ay, marry am I," answered Sancho , 
 " and I am he that deserves it as well as another body ; and I am one 
 of those of whom they say, ' Keep with good men and thou shalt be 
 one of them;' and of those of whom it is said again, ' Not with whom 
 thou wert bred, but with whom thou hast fed ; ' as also, ' Lean against 
 a good tree, and it will shelter thee.' I have leaned and stuck close 
 to ray good master, and kept him company this many a nionth ; and 
 now he and I are all one ; and I must be as he is ; and so he live, 
 and I live, he will not want kingdoms to rule, nor shall I want islands 
 to govern." 
 
 " That thou shalt not, honest Sancho," isaid the duke ; " for I, on 
 the great Don Quixote's account; will now give thee government of 
 an odd one of my own of no small consequence." " Down, down 
 on thy knees,- Sancho," cried Don Quixote, "and kiss his grace's 
 feet for this favour." Sancho did accordingly ; but when the clergy- 
 man saw it, he got up in a great heat. " By the habit which I wear," 
 cried he, " I can scarce forbear telling your grace, that you are as 
 mad as these sinful wretches. Well may they be mad, when such 
 wise men as you humour and authorise their frenzy. You may keep 
 them here, and stay with them yourself, if your grace pleases j but 
 for my part, I will leave you and go home, to save myself the labour 
 of reprehending what I can't mend." With that, leaving the rest of 
 his dinner behind him, away he flung, the duke and the duchess not 
 being able to pacify him ; though, indeed, the duke could not say 
 much to him for laughing at his impertinent passion. 
 
 When he had done laughing, " Sir Knight of the Lions," said he, 
 " you have answered so well, that you need no farther satisfaction of 
 the angry clergyman ; especially if you consider that whatever he 
 imght say, it was not in his power to fix an affront on a person of 
 your character, since women and churchman* cannot give an af- 
 front." " Very true, my lord," said Don Quixote ; " and I ought not 
 to have any resentment for whai that good man said, neither, indeed, 
 have I any. I only wish he would have stayed a little longer, that I 
 might have convinced him of his error in believing there were never 
 any knights-errant in the world. Had Amadis, or any one of his 
 innumerable race, but heard him say any thing like this, I can assure 
 his reverence it would have gone hard -with him." 
 
 " I will answer for it, it would," quoth Sancho ; " they would 
 lave undone him as you would undo an oyster, and have cleft hint 
 from head to foot as one would slice a pomegranate, or a ripe musk- 
 melon. They were a parcel of tough blades^ and would not, hava 
 
288 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 swallowed such a pill. I verily believe, had Einaido of Moi italbar, 
 but heard the poor man talk at this rate, he would have given him 
 such a gag as would have secured him from prating these three years. 
 Ay, ay, if he had fallen into their clutches, see how he would- have 
 got out again." The duchess was ready to die with laughing at San- 
 cfio, whom she thought a more pleasant fool and a greater madman 
 than his master ; and she was not the only person at that time of 
 this opinion. ^ 
 
 The duchess now took an opportunity to desire the knight to give 
 a particular description of the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso's beauty and 
 accomplishments, not doubting but that his good memory would enable 
 him to do it well ; adding withal, that according to the voice of fame, 
 she must needs be the finest creature in the whole world, and conse- 
 quently in La Mancha. 
 
 With that, Don Quixote, fetching a deep sigh, " Madam," said he, 
 " could 1 pluck out my heart, and expose it to your grace's view, 
 I might save my tongue the labour of attempting that which it 
 cannot express, and you can scarce believe ; for there your grace 
 would see her beauty depainted to the life. But why should i 
 undertake to delineate and copy one by one each several perfec- 
 tion of the peerless Dulcinea ? That task were worthy of the pen- 
 cils of Parrhasius, Timantes, and Apelles, or the graving-tools of 
 Lysippus. The hands of the best painters and statuaries should in- 
 deed be employed to give in speaking paint, in marble and Corinthi- 
 an brass, an exact copy of her beauties ; while Ciceronian and De- 
 mosthenian eloquence laboured to reach the praise of her endow- 
 ments." " Pray, sir," asked the duchess, " what do you mean by 
 that word Demosthenian ? " " Demosthenian eloquence, madam," , 
 said Don Quixote, " is eis much as to say, the eloquence of Demos- 
 thenes ; and the Ciceronian, that of Cicero ; the two greatest orators 
 that ever were in the world." " It is true," said the duke ; " and 
 you but shewed your ignorance, my dear, in asking such a question. 
 Yet the noble Don Quixote would highly oblige us, if he would but 
 he pleased to attempt her picture now ; for even in a rude draught of 
 her lineaments, I question not but she.will appear so charmmg as to 
 deserve the envy of the brightest of her sex." " Ah, my lord," said 
 Don Quixofe, " it would be so indeed, if the misfortune which not 
 long since befell her had not in a manner razed her idea out of the 
 seat of my memory ; and as it is, I ought rather to bewail her change 
 than describe her person : for yoUr grace must know that as I lately 
 went to kiss her hands, and obtain her benediction, and leave for my 
 intended absence in quest of new adventures, I found her quite anoth- 
 er creature than I expected. I found her enchanted — transformed 
 from a princess to a country-wench, from beauty to ugli;iess, from 
 courtliness to rusticity, from a reserved lady to a jumping Joan ; iti 
 
Ch. LXni.] DON QUIXOTE. 289 
 
 short, from Dulcinea del Toboso to a peasantess of Sayago." " Bless 
 us ! " cried the duke with a loud voice, " what villain has done the 
 world such an injury? Who has robbed it not only of the beauty 
 that was its ornament, but of those charmihg graces that were its de- 
 light, and that virtue which was its living honour ? " " Who should it 
 be," replied Don Quixote, " but one of those cursed magicians who 
 have persecuted me, and will continue to do so, till they have sunk 
 me and my lofty deeds of chivalry into the profound abyss of oblivion. 
 Yes, they wound me in that part which they well know is most sensi- 
 ble ; aware, that to deprive a knight-errant of his lady, is to rob him 
 of the eyes with which he sees, of the sun that enlightens him, and of 
 th© food that sustains him. For, as I have often said, a knight-errant 
 without a lady is like a tree without leaves, a building without mortar, 
 or a shadow without a body that causes it." 
 
 " I grant all this," said the duchess ; " yet if we may believe the 
 history of your life, which was lately published with universal ap- 
 plause, it seems to imply, to the best of my remembrance, that you 
 never saw the Lady Dulcinea, and that there is no such lady in the 
 world; but rather that she is a mere notional creature, proceeding 
 from your own fancy, and there endowed with all the charms and 
 good qualifications which you are pleased to ascribe to her." 
 
 " Much may be said upon this point," said Don Quixote ; "Heaven 
 kndws whether there be a Dulcinea in the world or not, and whether 
 she be a notional creature or not. These are mysteries not to be so 
 narrowly inquired into. I do indeed make her the object of my con- 
 templations, and, as I ought, look on her as a lady endowed with all 
 hose qualifications that may raise the character of a person to univer- 
 sal fame. She is tome beautiful without blemish, reserved without 
 pride, amorous with modesty, agreeable for her courteous temper, 
 and courteous as an effect of her generous education, and, in short, 
 of an illustrious parentage. For beauty displays its lustre to a higher 
 degree of perfection when joined with noble bloodj than it can in those 
 that are meanly descended." 
 
 " The observation is justj" said the duke ; " but give me leave, sir, 
 to propose to you a doubt, which the reading of that history hath start- 
 ed in my mind. It is, that, allowing there be a Dulcinea at Toboso, 
 or elsewhere, and as beautiful as you describe her, yet I do not find 
 she can any way equal in greatness of birth the Orianas, the Alastra- 
 jareas, the Madasimas, and a thousand others, of whom we read in 
 those histories with which you have been so conversant." " To this," 
 said Don Quixote, " I answer, that Dulcinea is the daughter of her 
 own actions, and that virtue ennobles the blood. A virtuous man of 
 mean condition is more to be esteemed than a vicious person of qual- 
 .ty. Besides, Dulcinea is possessed of those other endowments that 
 may entitle her to crowns and sceptres, since beauty alone has raised 
 25 19 
 
290 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 many of her sex to a throne." ^" I must own, sir," said the duchess, 
 " that in all your discourse, you, as we say, proceed with the plum« 
 met of reason, and fathom all the depths of controversy. Therefore 
 I submit ; and from this time I am resolved to believe, and will make 
 all my domestics, nay, my husband too, if there be occasion, believe 
 and maintain, that there is a Dulcinea del Toboso extant and living at 
 this day ; that she is beautiful and of good extraction ; and to sum up 
 all in a word, altogether deserving the services of so great a knight as 
 the noble Don Quixote ; which I think is the highest commendation 1 
 can bestow on her. But yet I must confess there is still one scruple 
 that makes me uneasy, and causes me to have an ill opinion of San- 
 cho. It is that the history tells us, that when Sancho Panza carried 
 your letter to the Lady Dulcinea, he found her winnowing a sack of 
 corn ; by the same token, that it was the worst sort of wheat, which 
 makes me much doubt her quality." 
 
 " Your grace must know," answered Don Quixote, " that almost 
 every thing that relates to me is managed quite contrary to what the 
 affairs of other knights-errant used to be. Whether the unfathomable 
 will of destiny, or the implacable malice of envious enchanters, or- 
 ders it so or no, I cannot tell. But I have good reason to believe that 
 these magicians, finding they cannot work their wicked ends directly 
 on me, revenge themselves on what I most esteem, and endeavouf tc 
 take away my life by persecuting that of Dulcinea, in whom and for 
 whom 1 live. And therefore the unfortunate lady must be thus en- 
 chanted, misused, disfigured, chopped, and changed. My enen"es 
 wreaking their malice on her, have revenged themselves on me, wh»cl» 
 makes me^bandon myself to sorrow, till she be restored to her forri«e> 
 perfections. 
 
 " I have been the more large in this particular, that nobody migh' 
 insist on what Sancho said of her sifting of corn ; for if she appeanpo 
 changed to me, what wonder is it if she seemed so to him ? In short, 
 Dulcinea is both illustrious and well-born, being descended of the 
 most ancient and best families in Toboso, of whose blood I am posi- 
 tive she has no small share in her veins , and now that town will be 
 no less famous in after ages for being the place of hernativity tlan 
 Troy for Helen, though on a more honourable account. 
 
 " As for Sancho Panza's part, I assure your grace he is one of fhe 
 most pleasant squires that ever waited on a knight-errant. Sometimes 
 he comes out with such sharp simplicities, that one is pleasantly puz- 
 zled to judge whether he be more knave or fool. The varlet, indeed, 
 is full of roguery enough to be thought a knave ; but then he has yet 
 more ignorance, and may better be thought a fool. He doubts of 
 every thing, yet believes every thing ; and when one would think he 
 had entangled himself in a piece of downright folly beyond recovery, 
 he brings himself off of a sudden so cleverly that he is applauded to 
 
CH. IXIV.] DON QUIXOTE. 291 
 
 the skies. In short, 1 would not change him for the best squire that 
 wears a head, though I might have a city to boot ; and therefore I do 
 not know whether I had best let him go to the government which your 
 grace has been pleased to promise him. Though I must confess his 
 talents seem to lie pretty much that way ; for, give never so little a 
 whet to his understanding! he will manage his government as well as 
 the king does his customs. Then experience convinces us that neith- 
 er learning, nor any other abilities, are very material to a governor. 
 Have we not a hundred of them that can scarce read a letter, and 
 yet they govern as sharp as so many hawks .? Their main business 
 is only to mean well, and to be resolved to do their best ; for they 
 cannot want able counsellors to instruct them. Thus those governors 
 who are men of the sword, and no scholars, have their assessors on 
 the bench to direct them. My counsel to Sancho shall be, that he 
 neither take bribes nor lose his privileges ; with sorne other little in- 
 structions, which. I have in my head for him, and which at a proper 
 time I will communicate, both for his private advantage and the pub- 
 lic good of the island he is to govern." 
 
 Here the conversation ceased, and Don Quixote went to take his 
 afternoon's sleep ; but the duchess desired Sancho, if he were not 
 very sleepy, to pass the afternoon with her and her woman in a cool 
 room. Sancho told her grace, that indeefti he did use to take a goc«l 
 sound nap, some four or five hours long, in a summer's afternoon; 
 but to do her good honour a kindness, he would break an old custom 
 for once, and do his best to hold up that day, and wait on her wor- 
 ship. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIV. 
 
 Containing ways and means for disenchanting the peerless Dulci 
 nea del Toboso, being one of the most famous adventures in 
 the whole book. 
 
 The duke and duchess were extremely diverted with the humours of 
 their guests. Resolving, therefore, to improve their sport by carry- 
 ing on some pleasant design that might bear the appearance of an 
 adventure, they took the hint from Don Quixote's account of Monte- 
 sinos' cave, as a subject from which they might raise an extraordina- 
 ry entertainment ; the rather, since, to the duchess' amazement, 
 Sancho was so foolish as to believe that Dulcinea del Toboso was 
 really enchanted, though he himself had been the first contriver of 
 the story, and her only enchanter. 
 Accordingly, having given directions to their servants that nothing 
 
392 SON CUIXOTE. 
 
 might be wanting, and proposed a day for hunting the wild boar, in 
 five or six days they were ready to set out with a train of huntsmen 
 and other attendants not unbecoming the greatest prince. They pre- 
 sented Don Quixote with a hunting-suit, hut he refused it, alleging it 
 superfluous, since he was in a short time to return to the hard exer- 
 cise of arms, and could carry no sumpters nor wardrobes along with 
 him ; but Sancho readily accepted one of fine green cloth, designing 
 to sell it the first opportunity. 
 
 The day appointed being come, Don Quixote armed, and Sancho 
 equipped himself in his new suit, and mounting his ass, which he 
 would not quit for a good horse that was offered him, he crowded 
 among the train of sportsmen. The duchess also made one of the 
 compatiy. The knight, who was courtesy itself, very gallantly would 
 hold the reins of her palfrey, though the duke seemed very unwilling 
 to let him. In short, they came to the scene of their sport, which 
 was in a wood between two high mountains, where alighting, and tak- 
 ing their several stands, the duchess, with a pointed javelin in her 
 hand, attended by the duke and Don Quixote, took her stand in a 
 place where they knew the boars were used to pass through. 
 
 And now the chastf began with full cry, the dogs opened, the horns 
 sounded, and the huntsmen hollowed in so loud a concert, that there 
 was no hearing one another. Soon after, a hideous boar, of a mon- 
 strous size, came on : and being baited hard by the dogs^ and followed 
 close by the huntsmen, made furiously towards the pass which Don 
 Quixote had taken ; whereupon the knight, grasping his shield and 
 drawing his sword, moved forward to receive the raging beast. The 
 duke joined him with a boar-spear, and the duchess would have been 
 foremost, had not the duke prevented her. Sancho alone, seeing the 
 furious animal, resolved to shift for himself; and away he ran, as 
 fast as his legs would carry him, towards a high oak, to the top of 
 which he endeavoured to clamber ; but, as he was getting up, one o{ 
 the boughs unluckily broke, and he was tumbling down, , when a 
 stump of another bough caught hold of his new coat, and stopped his 
 fall, slinging him in the air by the middle, so that he could neither 
 get up nor down. His fine green coat was torn ; and he fancied 
 every moment the wild boar was running that way, with foaming 
 mouth and dreadful tusks, to tear him to pieces ; which so disturbed 
 him, that he roared and bellowed for help, as if some wild beast had 
 been devouring him in good earnest. 
 
 At length the tusky boar was laid at his length, with a number of 
 pointed spears fixed in him ; and Don Quixote, being alarmed by 
 Sancho's noise, which he could distinguish easily, looked about, and 
 discovered him swinging from the tree with his head downwards, and 
 close by him poor Dapple, who, like a true friend, never forsooTc him 
 in his adversity. Don Quixote went and took down his squire, who 
 
CH. LXIV.] DON QUIXOTE. 293 
 
 as soon as he was at liberty, began to examine the damage his Hivn 
 hunting-suit had received, which grieved him to the soul j for he priz- 
 ed it as much as if it had made him heir to an estate. 
 
 Meanwhile, the boar, being laid across a Iprge mule, and covered 
 with branches of rosemary and myrtle, was carried in triumph by the 
 vibtorious huntsmen to a large field-tent, pitched in the middle of the 
 wood, where an excellent entertainment was provided, suitable to the 
 magnificence of the founder. 
 
 Sancho drew near the duchess, and shewing her his torn coat, 
 " Had we been hunting the hare now, or catching sparrows," quoth 
 he, " my coat might have slept in a whole skin. For my part, I won- 
 der what pleasure there can be in beating the bushes for, a beast 
 which, if it does but come at you, may be the death of you. I have 
 not forgotten an old song to this purpose : 
 
 * May Fabila's Bad fate be thine, 
 And make thee food for bears or swine.' '* 
 
 "That Fabila," said Don Quixote, "was a king of the Goths — 
 who, goiijg a-hunting once, was devoured by a bear." " That is it I 
 say," qiioth Sancho ; " and therefore why should kings arid other 
 great folks run themselves into harm's way, when they may have 
 sport enough without it.' what pleasure can you find, any of you all, 
 in killing a poor beast that never meant any harm .' " " You are 
 mistaken, Sancho," said the duke ; " hunting wild beasts is the most 
 proper exercise for knights and princes ; for in the chase of a stout 
 noble beast may be represented the whole art of war, stratagemSj 
 policy, and ambuscades, with all other devices usually practised to 
 overcome an enemy with safety. Here we are exposed to the ex- 
 tremities of heat and cold ; ease and laziness can have no room in this 
 diversion ; by this we are inured to toil and hardship, our limbs are 
 strengthened, our joints made pliable, and our whole body hale and 
 active. In short, it is an exercise that may be beneficial to many, 
 and can be prejudicial to none ; and the most enticing property is its 
 rarity, being placed above the reach of the vulgar, who may indeed 
 enjoy the diversion of other sorts of game, but not this noble kind, 
 nor that of hawking, a sport also reserved for kings and persons of 
 quality. Therefore, Sancho, let me advise you to alter your opinion 
 when you become a governor : for then you will find the great advan- 
 tage of these sports and diversions." " You are out far wide, , 
 sir," quoth Sancho ; " it were better that a governor had his leg? 
 broken, and be laid up at home, than to be gadding abroad at this 
 rate. It would be a pretty business, forsooth, when poor people 
 come, weary and tired, to wait on the governor about business, that he 
 should be rambling about the woods for his pleasure ! There would 
 l»e a sweet government truly ! Truly, sir, T think these sports and 
 25* 
 
294 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 pastimes are fitter for those that have nothing to do, thaa ftr gover 
 nors." " I wish with all my heart," said the duke, " that you prove 
 as good as you promise ; but saying and doing are different things." 
 " Well, well," quoth Sancho, " be it how it will, I say that an honest 
 man's word is as good as his bond. Heaven's help is better than 
 early rising. My meaning is, that with Heaven's help, and my honest 
 endeavours, I shall govern better than any gosshawk. Do but put 
 your finger in my mouth, and try if I cannot bite." " A plague pii 
 thee, and thy impertinent proverbs," said Don Quixote : " shall I never 
 get thee to talk sense without a string of that disagreeable stuff? " 
 " Oh, sir," said the duchess, " Sancho's proverbs will always please 
 for their sententious brevity, though they were as numerous as a print- 
 ed collection ; and I assure you I relish them more than I should do 
 others that might be better, and more to the purpose." 
 
 After this, and such like diverting talk, they left the tent, and walk- 
 ed into the wood, to see whether any game had fallen into their nets. 
 Now, while they were thus intent upon their sport, the night drew on 
 apace, and more cloudy and overcast than was usual at that time of 
 the year, which was about midsummer ; but it happened very criti- 
 cally for the better carrying on the intended contrivance. A little 
 while after the close of the evening, when it grew quite dark, in a 
 moment the wood seemed all on fire, and blazed in every quarter. 
 This was attended with an alarming sound of trumpets, and other 
 warlike instruments, answering one another from all sides, as if sev 
 eral parties of horse had been hastily marching through the wood. 
 Then presently was heard a confused noise of Moorish cries, such as 
 are used in joining battle ; which, together with the rattling of the 
 drums, the loud sound of the trumpets and other instruments of war, 
 made such a hideous and dreadful concert in the air, that the duke 
 was amazed, the duchess astonished, Don Quixote was surprised, and 
 Sancho shook like a leaf; and even those that knew the occasion of 
 all this were affrighted. 
 
 This consternation caused a general silence ; and by and by, one 
 riding post, equipped like a fiend, passed by the company, winding a 
 huge hollow horn. " Hark you, post," said the duke ; " whither so 
 fast ? what are you ? and what parties of soldiers are those that 
 march across the wood .? " " I go," cried the post, in a hideous un- 
 earthly tone, " in quest of Don Quixote de la Mancha ; and those 
 that are coming this way are six bands of necromancers, that con- 
 ' duct the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso enchanted in a triumphant 
 chariot. She is attended by that gallant French knight, Montesinos, 
 who comes to give information how she may be freed from enchant 
 ment." " Wert then as much a demon," said the duke, " as thy hor- 
 rid shape speaks thee to be, thou wouldst have known this knight here 
 before thee to be that Don Quixote de la Mancha whom thou seekest.' 
 
€H. LXIT.] DON QUIXOTE. 295 
 
 " On my cooscience," replied he, " I never thought of it ; for I have 
 so many things in my head, that it almost distracts me ; I had quito 
 forgotten my errand." Then directing himself to Don Quixote 
 without dismounting : " To thee, O Knight of the Lions ! " cried he, 
 " (and I wish thee fast in their claws,) to thee am I sent by the valian' 
 but unfortunate Montesinos, to bid thee attend his coming in this very 
 place, whither he brings one whom they call Dulcinea del Toboso, 
 in order to give thee instructions touching her disenchantment. — 
 Now I have delivered my message, I must fly." This said, he wind- 
 ed his monstrous horn, and without staying for an answer, disap- 
 peared. 
 
 While Don Quixote stood pondering these things, " Well, sir," 
 said the duke to him, " what do you intend to do ? will you stay ? " 
 " Stay ! " cried Don Quixote, " shall I not ? I will stay here, in- 
 trepid and courageous, though all the infernal powers enclose me 
 round." " So you may, if you will," quoth Sancho ; " but if any 
 more devils or horns come hither, they shall as soon find me in Flan- 
 ders as here." 
 
 And now the night grew darker and darker, and several shooting lights 
 were seen glancing up and down the wood, like meteors or exhala- 
 tions from the earth. Then was heard a horrid noise, like the creaking 
 of the ungreased wheels of heavy waggons, from which piercing and 
 ungrateful sound bears and wolves are said to fly. This odious jar- 
 rjng was presently seconded by a greater, which seemed to be the dread- 
 ful din and shocks of four several engagements, in each quarter of 
 the wood, with all the sounds and hurry of so many joined battles. 
 On one side were heard several peals of cannon; on the. other, the 
 discharging of numerous volleys of small-shot ; here the shouts of 
 the engaging parties that seemed to be near at hand ; there, cries of 
 the Moors, that seemed at a great distance. In short, the strange, 
 confused intermi^^ture of drums, trumpets, cornets, horns, the thun- 
 dering of the cannon, the rattling of the small-shot, the creaking of 
 the wheels, and the cries of the combatants, made the most dismal 
 noise imaginable, and tried Don Quixote's courage to the uttermost. 
 But poor Sancho was annihilated, and fell into a swoon at the duchess' 
 feet ; who ordering some water to .be sprinkled on his face, at last 
 recovered him, just as the foremost of the creaking carriages came 
 up, drawn by four heavy oxen, covered with mourning, and carrying 
 a large lighted torch upon each horn. On the top of the cart or wag- 
 gon was an exalted seat, on which sat a venerable old man, with a 
 beard as white as snow, and so long that it reached, down to his girdle. 
 He was clad in a long gown of black buckram, as wer ■■ also two 
 fiends that drove the waggons, both so very monstrous and ugly, that 
 Sancho, having seen them once, was forced to shut his eyes, and 
 would not venture upon a second look. The cart, which was stuck 
 
296 DON QUIXOTE, 
 
 full of lights within, having come up, the reverend old man stood up 
 and cried with a loud voice, " I am the sage Lirgander ; " and th« 
 cart passed on, without one jvord more being spoken. Then followed 
 another cart, with another grave old man ; who making the cart stop 
 at a convenient distance,' rose up. from his high seat, arid in as deep a 
 tone as the first, cried, "I am the sage Alquife, great friend to Urgan- 
 da the Unknown ; " and so went forward. He was succeeded by a 
 third cart, that moved in the same solemn pace, and hore a person 
 not so ancient as the rest, but a robust and sturdy, sour-looking, ill- 
 favoured fellow, who rose tip from his throne, like the rest, and with 
 a more hollow, and diabolical voice cried out, " I am Archelaus the 
 Enchanter, the mortal enemy;of Amadis de Gaul, and all his race ; " 
 which' said, he 'passed by," like the other carts, which taking a short 
 turn, made a halt ; and the grating noise of the wheels of the wag- 
 gons ceasing, an excellent concert of sweet music was heard, which 
 mightily comforted poor Sancho ; and, passing with him for a good 
 omen, " My lady," quoth he to the duchess,' from whom he would 
 not budge an inch, " there can be no mischief sure where there is 
 music." " Very true," said the duchess, " especially where there is 
 brightness and light." " Ay, but there is no light without fire," re- 
 plied Sancho, " and the brightness comes most from flames. Who 
 knows but those about us may burn us! But music I take to be 
 always a sign of feasting and merriment." " We shall know pres- 
 ently what this will come to," said Don Quixote ; and he said right, 
 for you will find it in the next chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER LXV. 
 
 Wherein is continued the information given to Don Quiicote how to 
 disenchant Dulcinea ; with other wonderful passages. 
 
 When the pleasant music drew near, there appeared a stately tri- 
 umphal chariot, drawn by six dun mules, covered with white, upon 
 each of which sat a penitent, clad also in white,' and holding a great 
 lighted torch in his hand. The carriage was twice or thrice longer 
 than any of the former, twelve • other penitents being placed at the 
 top and sides, all in white, and bearing likewise each a lighted torch 
 which made a dazzling and surprising appearance. There was a 
 high throne erected at the farther end, on which sat a nymph array- 
 ed in doth of silver, with many golden spangles glittering all about 
 her, which m4de her dress, though not rich, appear very glorious. 
 Her face was covered with transparent gauze, through the flo»'ifig 
 
CH. LXV."| • DON QUIXOTE. 291 
 
 folds of which might be descried a most beautiful face ; and, by tho 
 great light which the torches gave, it was easy to discern that, as she 
 was not less than seventeen years of age, neither could she be thought 
 above twenty. Close by her was a figure, clad in a long gown, like 
 that of a magistrate, reaching down to its feet, and its head covered 
 with a black veil. When they came directly opposite to the company, 
 the hautboys that played before, ceased, and the Spanish harps and 
 lutes that were in the chariot did the like ; then the figure in the gown 
 stood up ; and, opening its garments and throwing away its mourning 
 veil, discovered a bare and frightful skeleton, that represented the de- 
 formed figure of Death ; which startled Don Quixote, made Sancho's 
 bones rattle in his skin for fear, and caused the duke and the duchess 
 to seem more than commonly disturbed. This living Death being 
 thus got up, in a dull, heavy, sleepy tone, as if its tongue had not been 
 well awake, began in this manner : 
 
 " O glory thou of all that e'er could grace 
 A coat of dteel, and fence of adamant ! 
 ^ Light, lantern, path and polar star and guide 
 To all who dare dismiss ignoble sleep 
 And downy ease for exercise of arms, 
 For toils continual, perils, wounds, and blood ! 
 Knight of unfathomed worth, abyss of praise. 
 Who blend'flt in one the prudent and the brave : 
 To thee, great Q.uijL0te, 1 this truth declare ; 
 That, to restore to her true state and form 
 Tnboso's pride, the peerless Dulcinea, 
 'Tis Fate's decree that tiancho do bestow 
 Three thousand lashes, and eke three hundred mora, 
 Each to afflict and sting and gall him sore. 
 So shalrrelent the authors of her woes. 
 Whose awful will 1 for her ease disclose." 
 
 " What ! " quoth Sancho, " three thousand lashes ! I will not give 
 myself three ; I will as soon give myself three stabs. Mr. Merlin, if 
 you have no better way for disenchanting the Lady Dulcinea, she 
 may even lie bewitched to her dying day for me." 
 
 " How now, opprobrious rascal ! " cried Don Quixote ; " sirrah, 
 I will take you and tie your dogship to a tree, and there I will not on- 
 ly give you three thousand three hundred lashes, but six thousand 
 six hundred, you varlet ! " " Hold f" cried Merlin, hearing this ; 
 " this must not be ; the stripes inflicted on honest Sancho must be 
 voluntary, without compulsion, and only laid on when he thinks most 
 convenient. No set time is for the task fixed ; and if he has a mind 
 to have'abated one half of this atonement, it is allowed, provided the 
 remaining stripes be struck by a strange hand, and heavily laid on." 
 
 " Neither a strange hand nor my own," quoth Sancho, " neithe- 
 heavy nor light, shall touch my flesh. Is the Lady Dulcinea mine, 
 that my body must pay for the transgressions of her eyes .' My mas- 
 ter, indeed, who is part of her, he it is who ought to lash himself for 
 
298 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 her, and do a]l that is needful for her delivery ; but for me to whip 
 myself — no!" Ir 
 
 No sooner had Sancho thus declared himself, than the nymph who 
 sat by the shade of Merlin arose, and throwing aside. her veil, discov- 
 ered a face of extraordinary beauty ; and with a masculine air ad- 
 dressed herself to Sancho : " wretched squire, with thy soul of flint ! 
 Hadst thou been required to throw thyself headlong from some high 
 tower ; hadst thou been desired to kill thy wife and children with some 
 bloody and sharp scimitar, no worder if thou hadst betrayed some 
 squeamishness ; but to hesitate al XDUt three thousand three hundred 
 lashes, which there is not a wretched schoolboy but receives everj , 
 month, it amazes, stupefies, and affrights all who hear it, and even 
 all who shall hereafter be toldit. Helent, malicious and evil-minded 
 man ! be moved by my blooming youth, which 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 Signer Merlin here 
 present, hoping that these charms may soften that iron heart ; for 
 the tears of afflicted beauty turn rocks into cotton, and tiger? into 
 lambs." 
 
 " What say you to that, Sancho ! " quoth the duchess. " I say, 
 madam," answered Sancho, " 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 alohe," re- 
 plied Sancho, " for I cannot stand now to a letter more or less ; the 
 thought of these lashes so torments me that I know not what I say or do. 
 But I would fain know one thing from the Lady Dulcineadel Tobosp. , 
 and. that is, where she learnt her manner of asking a favour ? She 
 comes to desire me to tear my flesh with stripes, and at the same 
 time lays upon me such a bead-roll of ijl names that the devil may 
 bear them for me. What ! does she think my flesh is made of brass } 
 Or,, that I care a rush whether she is enchanted or not } Where are 
 the presents she has brought to soften me ? 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 grisf to see this rent in my jacket, and 
 people come to desire that 1 would also tear my flesh, and that too 
 of my own goodwill ; I having Just as much mind to the thing as to 
 turn Turk." " In truth, friend Sancho," said the duke, " if you dc 
 not relent and become softer than a ripe fig, you finger no govern- 
 ment 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 an- 
 cient enchanters can move to compassion ! Really, Sancho, I an< 
 compelled to say — no stripes no government."' " May I not be al 
 lowed two days, riy lord," replied Sancho, " to consi'der what is best 
 for me to do ? " " In no wise can that be," cried Merlin ; " on thii 
 
tH. LXVl.] DON QUIXOTE. 299 
 
 spot and a this instant you must determine ; for Dulcinea must either 
 return to Montesinos' cave and to her rustic sl'ape, or in her present 
 . form be carried to the Elysian fields, there to \'ait until the penance 
 be completed." " Come, friend Sancho," said the duchess, " be of 
 good cheer, and shew yourself grateful to your •A'aster, whose bread 
 you have eaten, and to whose generous nature and noble feats of chiv- 
 alry we are all so much beholden. Come, my son, give your con- 
 sent, leave fear to the cowardly ; a good heart bret\ 's bad fortune, as 
 you well know." 
 
 " Well," saiS Sancho, " since every body tells m ' so, though the 
 thing is out of all reason, I promise to give myself th.^ three thousand 
 three hundred lashes, upon condition that I may lay ihem on when- 
 ever I please, without being tied to days or times ; anci I will endea- 
 vour to get out of debt as soon as I possibly can, that tI<o beauty of 
 my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso may shine forth to all the vorld ; as it 
 seems she is really beautiful, which I much doubted." 
 
 No sooner had Sancho pronounced his consent than the it.'ttumerable 
 instruments poured forth their music, and volleys of muskietry were 
 discharged, while Don Quixote clung about Sancho's necl', giving 
 him a thousand kisses ; the duke and duchess, and all who wvre pre- 
 sent, likewise testified their satisfaction. The car now mov*id on ; 
 and in departing, the fair Dulcinea bowed her head to the duk, > and 
 duchess, and made a low curtsy to Sancho. 
 
 By this time the cheerful and joyous dawn began to appea the 
 flowrets of the field expanded their fragrant beauties to the light, ^nd 
 brooks and streams, in gentle murmurs, ran to pay expecting riviTs 
 their crystal tribute. The earth rejoiced, the sky was clear, and tisD 
 air serene and calm ; all combined- and separately giving manifest 
 tokens that the day, which followed fast upon Aurora's heels, wouli 
 be bright and fair. The duke and duchess, having happily executet 
 their ingenious project, returned highly gratified to their castle, ant 
 determined on the continuation of fictions, which afforded more pleas 
 ures than realities. 
 
 CHAPTER LXVI. 
 
 Wherein is recorded the wonderful and inconceivable adventure oj 
 the afflicted Duenna, or the Countess of Trifaldi ; and likemst 
 Sancho Panza's letter to his loife, 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 o perform the 
 
300 DON QTTIXOTE. 
 
 part of Duloinea, and personated himself the shade of Bferiin. As 
 sisted by the duke and duchess, he now prepared anothei scene still 
 more entertaining than the former. 
 
 The next day the 'duchess inquired pf Sancho if he had begun his 
 penance for the relief of his unhappy lady.' " Ay, truly, I have,', 
 said he ; " for the last night I gave myself five lashes." The duchess 
 desired to know how he had given them. " With the palm of my 
 hand," said he. " That," replied the duchess, " is rather clapping 
 than whipping, and I am of opinion Signor Merlin will not be so easily 
 satisfied. My good Sancho must get a rod' of briers or of whipcord,; 
 for letters written in blood cannot be disputed, and the deliverance of 
 a great lady like Duloinea 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." "Fear not," answered the 
 duchess, " it sl\all 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 wtitten a letter to my wifei 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 ihe duchess. " Wha 
 should indite it but I myself, sinner as I am.'" replied Sancho. 
 " And did you write it too ? " said the duchess. " No, indeed," an- 
 swered Sancho ; " for I can neither read nor write, though I can set 
 my mark." " Let us see it," said the duchess ; " for I dare say it 
 shews the quality and extent of your genius." Sancho took the let- 
 ter out of his bosom, unsealed, and the duchess read as follows : — 
 
 Sancho Penza's Letter to his wife, Teresa Panza. 
 
 " If 1 have been finely lashed, I have been finely mounted up , a 
 I have got a good government, it has cost me many good lashes. 
 This, my dear Teresa, thou canst not understand at present ; anottiei 
 time thou wilt. Thou must know, Teresa, that I am determmed 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 fourSj 
 like a cat. Thou shalt be a governor's wife : see then whether any 
 body will dare to tread on thy heels. I here send thee a green hunt 
 ing-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 coun- 
 try 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 at Monte- 
 linos' cave ; and the sage Merlin the wizard, has pitched upon me to 
 
CH. LXVI.J DON QUIXOTE. 301 
 
 disenchant the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, who among you is called 
 Aldonza Lorenzo. When I have given myself three thousand .ind 
 three hundred lashes, lacking five, she will be free from enchantment. 
 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 
 «hall 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 to me. Dapple is well, and sends thee his hearty service ; 
 part with him I will nbt, 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 wordsi God has not been pleased to throw in my way an- 
 other portmanteau, and another hundred crowns, as once before ; but, 
 one way or anotherj thou art sure to be rich and happy. 
 " 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 outof 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 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 mean- 
 ing," 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 a garden where they were to dine that day , 
 and there Sancho's letter was shewn to the duke, who read it with 
 great pleasure. After dinner, as Sancho was entertaining the com- 
 pany with some of his relishing conversation, they suddenly heard 
 the dismal sound of an unbraced drum, accompanied by a fife. All 
 were surprised at this martial and doleful harmony, especially Don 
 Quixote, who was so agitated' that he could scarcely keep his seat. 
 As for Sancho, it is enough to say that fear carried him to his usual 
 refuge, which was the duchess' 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 mourn- 
 ing 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 
 26 
 
302 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 by a personage of gij^-antrt itature, enveloped in a robe of the blackest 
 dye, the train whereof wat« of immoderate length, and over it he -wore 
 a broad black belt, in whii h was slung a mighty scimitar, enclosed 
 within a sable scabbard. icJis 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, wit'j 
 much gravity and statelineso In short, his dark robe, his enormous 
 bulk, his soleraiv deportment, \ nd the funereal gloom of his figure, to- 
 gether with his attendants, might well produce the surprise that ap- 
 peared on every countenance. With all imaginable respect and for- 
 mality he appro&chod and knell iown before the duke, who received 
 him standing, and would in no \)..se suffer him to speak till he rose 
 up. The monstrous apparition, then rising, lifted up his veil, and 
 exposed to view his fearful length i f beard — the longest, whitest, and 
 most luxuriant that ever human e'j es beheld ; when, fixing his eyes 
 on the duke, in a voice grave and so.iorous, he said, " Most high and 
 potent lord, my name is Trifaldin of tie White Beard, and I am squire 
 to the Countess Trifaldi, otherwise ca)led the Afflicted Duenna, from 
 whom I bear a message to your highne is, requesting that you will be 
 pleased to give her ladyship permissioi to approach, and relate to 
 your magnificence the unhappy and woiderful circumstances of her 
 misfortune. But first, she desires to knc w whether the valorous and 
 invincible knighi, Don Quixote de la Mai cha, resides at this time in 
 your castle ; for m quest of him she has ti.ivelled on foot, and fasting, 
 from the kingdoin of Candaya to this yiur territory; an exertion 
 miraculous and intiredible, were it not wroi ght by enchantment. She 
 is now at the outward gate of this castle, and only waits your high- 
 ness's invitation to eater." Having said thi 3, he hemmed, stroked his 
 beard from top to bottom, and with much gri.vity and composure stood 
 expecting the duke's answer, which was to this effect : " Worthy Tri- 
 faldin of the White Beard, long since have we been apprised of the 
 afflictions of my lady the Countess Trifaldv, who, through the malice 
 of enchanters, is too truly called the Afflictexl Duenna ; tell her, there 
 fore, that she may enter, and that the valiaat knight Don Quixote de 
 la Mancha is here present, from whose generous assistance she may 
 safely promise herself all the redress she requires." Trifaldin, on 
 receiving the duke's answer, bent one knee to the ground ; then giv- 
 ing a signal to his musical attendants, he retired, leaving all in aston- 
 ishment at the majesty of his figure and deportment. 
 
 The duke, then turning to Don Quixote, said, " It is evident, sir 
 knight, that neither the clouds of malice nor of ignorance can obscure 
 the light of your valour and virtue : behold, the afflicted and oppress- 
 ed flock hither in quest of you from far distant countries ; such is 
 their confidence in the strength of that arm, the fame whereof spreads 
 over the whole face of the earth '. " " I wish, my kird duke,' 
 
CH. LXVII.] ■ DON QUIXOTE. 303 
 
 answered Dor. Quixote, " that holy person who, hut 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. Let the afflicted 
 Iftily come forward £ind make knowL he- request, and, be it whatever 
 It may, she may rely on the strength of thi.a arm a.'}-^ the resolute 
 courage of my soul." 
 
 CHAPTER LXVII. 
 
 Li lohich 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 I have heard an apothecary of Toledo, 
 who talked like any goldfinch, say that no good ever comes of med- 
 dling 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 can- 
 not 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." " Yes, in sooth, so it is," said Donna Rod- 
 riguez ; " but these squires are our sworn enemies ; they can find no 
 other pastime than reviling us. Foul slanderers ! by my faith, if I 
 were allowed, I would prove to all here present that there is no virtue 
 that is not contained in a duenna." " I am of opinion," quoth the 
 duchess, " that my good donna 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 
 government has got into my head, 1 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 afilicted 
 iady. The d.:chess asked the duke whether it would not be propel 
 
304 DON QUIXC-'E. 
 
 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 an- 
 swer ; " 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 inter- 
 meddle in this matter, Sancho ? " said Don Quixote. " Who, sir," 
 answered Sancno, " but I myself .> Have I not a right to intermeddle, 
 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 sec 
 what kind of a countess this is, and then we shall judge what courtesy 
 is due to her." 
 
 CHAPTER LXVIII. 
 
 Of 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, with white veils of thin muslin, that al- 
 most 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, which, had it been napped, each grain would have been of the 
 size of a good ronceval-pea. The train, or tail, 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. 
 The twelve duennas, with the lady, advanced slowly, 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. 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 doz- 
 en 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 handmaid ; for my mind, already bewildered with affile 
 tion, will only be still more confounded." " He must be wholly des- 
 titute of understanding, lady countess," quoth the duke, " who could- 
 not discern your merit by your person, which alone claims all the 
 cream or courtesy, and all the flower of well-bred ceremonv." Then 
 
CH. LXTIII.] DON QUIXOTE. 305 
 
 raising her by the hand, he led her to a chaii close by the duches«, 
 wiio also received her with much politeness. 
 
 During the ceremony, Don Quixote was silent, and Sancho dying 
 with impatience to see the face of the, Tr'faldi, 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 
 at length the afflicted lady began in these words : " Confident 1 am, 
 most potent lord, most beautiful lady, and' most discreet, spectators, 
 that my most unfortunate miserableness will find in your generous 
 g.nd compassionate bowels a most merciful sanctuary ; for so doleful 
 and dolorous is my wretched state, that it is sufficient to mollify mar- 
 ble, to soften adamant, and melt down the steel of the hardest hearts. 
 But before the rehearsal of my misfortunes is comnieaced, I earnest- 
 ly desire to be informed whether this noble circle be adorned by the 
 presence of that most renowned knight, Don Quixote de la Mancha, 
 and his squire Panza. " That same Panza," said Sancho, before any 
 one could answer, " stands here before you, and also Don Quixote ; and 
 therefore, most dolorous duenna, say >vhat you will ; for we are all 
 ready to be your most humble servants." 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 for- 
 titude of a knight-errant, the little all that 1 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, im- 
 plore benevolence, nor have recourse to preambles,, but plainly and 
 ^yithout 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, 
 and struggling to kiss them, said, " I prostrate myself, Q invincible 
 knight, before these feet and legs, which are the bases and pillars of 
 knight-errantry, and will kiss these feet, wljose steps lead to the end 
 and termination of my misfortunes ! O valorous errant, whose true 
 exploits surpass and obscure the fabulous feats of the Amadises, Es- 
 plandians, and Belianises of old ! " Then, leaving Don Quixote, she 
 turned to Sancho Panza, and taking him by the hand, said, " O thou, 
 the most trusty squire that ever served knight-errant in present or 
 past ages, whose goodness is of greater extent than that beard of my 
 usher Trifaldin ; well mayest theu boast that, in serving Ddh Quixote, 
 thou dost serve, in epitome, all the knights-errant that ever shone in 
 the annals of chivalry ! I conjure thee, by thy natural benevolence 
 and inviolable fidelity, to intercede with my lord in my behalf, that 
 the light of his favour inay forthwith shine upon the humblest find 
 unhappiest of countesses." 
 
 The duke and duchess could scarcely 'preserve their gravity, and 
 ft'ere highly pleased with the ingenuity of the countess Trifaldi who, 
 " ^ 36^ 80 
 
306 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 having seated herself, thus began her tale of sorrow : " The famous 
 kingdom of Candaya had for its queen the lady Donnt Maguncia, 
 widow of King Archipiela, who died, leaving the Infanta Antonoma- 
 sia, 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 Aptonomasia arrived at the age of 
 fourteen, with such a perfection of beauty that nature could not raise 
 it to a pitch higher ; 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. Her 
 wondrous beauty attracted innumerable adorers ; and princes of her 
 own and every other nation became her slaves. Among the rest, a 
 private cavalier of the court had the audacity to aspire to that earthly 
 heaven ; confiding in his youth, his gallantry, his sprightly and happy 
 wit, with numerous other graces and qualifications. Indeed, I must 
 confess to your highnesses, though with reverence be it spoken, he 
 could touch the guitar to a miracle. He was, besides, a poet, and a 
 fine dancer, and had so rare a talent for making bird-cages that he 
 might have gained his. living by it, in case of need. So many parts 
 and elegant endowments were sufficient to have moved a mountain, 
 much more the tender heart of a virgin. But all his graces and ac- 
 complishments would have proved ineffectual, had not the robber and 
 ruffian first artfully contrived to make a conquest of me. The assas- 
 sin 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 : 
 
 Tho tyrant fair whose beauty sent 
 
 The throbbing mischief to my heart, 
 The more my anguish to augment, 
 
 Forbids me to reveal tlie 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, reflect- 
 ing on the evils I incurred, that poets — at least your amorous poets, 
 should be banished from all good and well regulated commonwealths ; 
 for, instead of composing pathetic verses like those of the Marquis 
 of Mantua, which make women and children weep, they exercise 
 iheir skill in soft strokes and tender touches, which pierce the soul, 
 
CH. LXTllI.] DON QUIXOTE. 307 
 
 and, entering the body like lightning, consume all within, inrhile the 
 garment is left unsinged. Another time he sung : 
 
 * Come, death, 'with gently stealing pace, 
 And take me unperoeived away, 
 Nor let me aee thy wiahed-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 
 — then, alas ! they are no sooner heard than the whole frame is in a 
 state of emotion : the soul is seized with a pleasing delirium of all the 
 senses. I therefore say again, most noble auditors, that such versi- 
 fiers deserve to be banished to the Isle of Lizards : though, in truth, 
 the blame lies chiefly with the idiots who sufier themselves to be de- 
 luded 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 1 burn ; 
 1 shiver in flames ; in despair I hope ; I fly, yet stay ; ' with other 
 flim-flams of the like stamp, of which such kind of writings are full. 
 Then again,- when they promise to bestow on us the Phoenix of Ara- 
 bia, the crown of Ariadne, the ringlets of Apollo, the pearls of the 
 South Sea, the gold of Tiber, and the balsam of Pencaya, how boun- 
 tiful are their pens ! how liberal in promises which they cannot per- 
 form ! 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 treacherous cavaKer. Thus being made the go-between, 
 the wicked man was often in the chamber of the — not by him', but 
 by me, betrayed Antonomasia, as her lawful spouse : for, sinner as I 
 am, never would I have consented unless he had been her true hus- 
 band, that he should ihave come within the shadow of her shoe-string ! 
 No, no, marriage must be the forerunner of any business of this kind 
 undertaken by me ; the only mischief in the affair was that, they were 
 ill-sorted : Don Clavijo being but a private gentleman, aijd ; the Infan- 
 ta Antonomasia, as I have already said, heiress of the kingdom. 
 
 " For some time this intercourse, enveloped in the sagacity of my 
 circumspection, was concealed from every eye. At length we laid 
 our three heads together, and determined that Don Clavijo should de- 
 mand Antonomasia in marriage before the vicar, in virtue of a con- 
 tract signed and given him by the infanta herself, to be his wife, and 
 
308 DON' QUIXOTE. 
 
 SO worded by my wit that the force of Samson could m have broke* 
 through it. Our plan was immediately carried into execudjn ; the vica/ 
 examined the contract, took the lady's confession, and she was plac- 
 ed in the custody of an honest alguazil." " Bless me," said Sancho, 
 " alguazils too, and poets, and songs, and roundelays, in Candaya ! I 
 swear the world is the same every where ! But pray get on, good 
 Madam Trifaldi, for it grows late, and I am on thorns till I know thf 
 end of this long story." " I shall be brief," answered the countess. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIX. 
 
 Wherein the Countess Trifaldi continues her stupendous and memo- 
 rable 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 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," 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 ofience was not so much ou^ 
 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 woiild have been a bad business 
 and past cure ; but as she made choice of a well-bred young cavalier 
 of such good parts, — faith and troth, though mayhap it was foolish, 
 it was no such mighty matter ; for, as my master says, bishops are 
 made out of learned men, and why may not kings and emperors be 
 made out of cavaliers, especially if they be errant ? " "Thou art in 
 the right, Sancho," said Don Quixote ; " for a knight-errant, with but 
 two grains of good luck, is next in 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 1 " 
 answered the countess, " ay, and so bitter that, in comparison, worm' 
 wood is sweet and rue savoury ! 
 " The queen being really dead, and not in a swoon, wt buried her 
 
CH. LXIX.J L7N QtriXOTE. 30d 
 
 and scarcely had we covwed her with earth and pronounced the last 
 farewell, when — '■ Quis talia fando temperet a lacrymis ? ' — lo, upon 
 ihe queen's sepulchre, who should appear, mounted on a wooden 
 horse, but her cousin-german the giant Malambruno ! Yes, that cruel 
 Qecromancer came expressly to revenge the death of his cousin, and 
 lO chastise the presumptuous Don Clavijo and the foolish Antonomasia, 
 ooth of whom, by his cursed art, he instantly transformed, — her into 
 1 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 valor- 
 ous 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 the head, he seemed preparing to cut my throat, or 
 whip off my head at a blow. Though struck with horror, and almost 
 speechless, trembling and weeping, I begged for mercy in such a 
 moving tone and melting words, that I at last prevailed on him to stop 
 the cruel execution which he meditated. In short, he ordered into 
 nis 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 put 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 pyebald. The duke 
 and duchess viewed the spectacle with surprise ; and Don Quixote 
 Sancho, and the rest, were all lost in amazement. " Thus," contin- 
 ued the Trifaldi, " hath the 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 obscured the light of our countenances with 
 such an odious cloud ! " Here, being overcome with the strong sense 
 of her calamity, she fell into a swoon. 
 
310 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 CHAPTER LXX. 
 
 Wivich treats of matters relating and appertaining to this advenivre, 
 and to this memorable history. 
 
 The history then proceeds to relate, that when Sancho saw the afflict- 
 ed lady faint away, he said, " Upon the word of an honest man, 1 
 swear I never heard or saw, nor has my master ever told me, nor did 
 such an adventure as this ever enter into his thoughts ! A thousand 
 devils overtake thee — not to say curse thee — Malambruno, for an en- 
 chanter and giant ! Couldst thou hit upon no other punishment for 
 these poor creatures, than clapping beards upon them ? Had it not 
 been better to have whipt off half their noses, though they had snuf: 
 fled for it, than to have covered their faces with scrubbing-brushes ? 
 And, what is worse, I'll wager a trifle they have not wherewithal to 
 pay for shaving." " That is true, indeed, sir," answered one of the 
 twelve ; " we have not wherewithal to satisfy the barber ; and there- 
 fore, 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 for a 
 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 eye- 
 brows for ladies, we, the duennas of her ladyship, would never have 
 any thing to do with them ; for they are most of them no better than 
 they should be ; and therefore, if we are not relieved by Sig.ior Doii 
 Quixote, with beards we shall live, and with beards be carried to our 
 graves." " I would pluck off my own in the land of Moors," said 
 Don Quixote, " if I failed to deliver you from yours." 
 
 " Ah, valorous knight ! " cried the Trifaldi, having now recovered 
 from her fainting-fit, addressing the knight : " Once again, then, illus- 
 trious errant and invincible hero, let me beseech and pray that your 
 gracious promises may be converted into deeds ! " " The business 
 shall not sleep with me," answered Don Quixote ; " therefore say, 
 madam, what I am to do, and you shall soon be convinced of my rea- 
 diness to serve you." " Be it known, then, to you, sir," replied the 
 afllicted dame, " that from this place to the kingdom of Candaya, by 
 land, is computed to be about five thousand leagues, one or two more 
 or less ; but through the air in a direct line it is three thousand two 
 hundred and twenty-seven. You are likewise to understand, that Ma- 
 lambruno 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 ; but one of a very remarkable 
 description, for it should be that very wooden horse upon which Peter 
 of Provence carried off the fair Magalona, and which is governed by 
 a peg in his forehead, serving instead of a bridle. This famous steed 
 
CH. LXX.] DON QUIXOTE 811 
 
 tradition reports to have been formed by the cunning hand of Merlin 
 the enchanter, who sometimes allowed him to be used by his particu- 
 lar 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 Magalona : whisking her through the air behind him on the 
 crupper, and leaving all that beheld him from the earth gaping with 
 astonishment. Since the time of Peter to the present moment, we 
 know of none that mounted him ; but this we know, that Malambruno, 
 by his art, has now got possession of him, and by his means posts 
 about to every part of the world. To-day he is here, to-morrow in 
 France, and the next day in Potosi ; and the best of it is, that this 
 same horse neither eats nor sleeps, nor wants shoeing ; and, without 
 wings, he ambles so smoothly that, in his most rapid flight, the rider 
 may carry in his hand a cupful 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 Dap- 
 sle, though he is no high-flyer ; but by land I will match him against 
 all the amblers in the world." The gravity of the company was 
 disturbed for a moment by Sancho's observation ; but the unhappy 
 lady proceeded : " Now this horse," said she, " if it be Malambruno's 
 intention that our misfortune should have an end, will be here this 
 very evening ; for he told me that the sign by which I should be as- 
 sured of my having arrived in the presence of my deliverer would 
 be, his sending me the horse thither with all convenient despatch." 
 " And pray," quoth Sancho, " how many will that same horse carry ? " 
 " Two persons," answered the lady ; " one in the saddle, and the 
 other on the crupper ; and generally these two persons are the knight 
 and his squire, when there is no stolen damsel in the case." " I 
 would fain know," quoth Sancho, " by what name he is called." 
 " His name," 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 Frontino, which was the steed of ilogero ; nor is it Bootes, nor 
 Pyrois — names given, it is said, to horses of the sun, neither is he 
 called Orelia, like the horse which the unfortunate Koderigo, the last 
 king of the Goths in Spain, mounted in that battle wherein he lost his 
 kingdom and his life." '*I will venture a wager," quoth Sancho, 
 "since they have given him none of these famous and well-known 
 names, neither have they given him that of my master's here, 
 Kozinante, which in fitness goes beyond all the names you have men- 
 tioned." " It is very ti:ue," answered the bearded lady ; " yet the 
 name he bears is correct and significant ; for he is called Clavileno 
 el Aligero ; whereby his miraculous peg, his wooden f/ame, and ex- 
 
312 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 traordinary spejd are all curiously expressed ; so that, in respect of 
 Ills name, he may vie with the renowned Eozinanto." " I dislike not 
 his name," replied Sanch'o ; " but with what bridle or with 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, brushing 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 good jest, indeed, for me, who 
 caa hardly sit 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 unheard the best 
 lady in the land. Let every one shave or shear, as he likes best ; I 
 have uo mind for so long a journey ; my master may travel by him- 
 self. Besides, I have nothing to do with it ; I am not wanted for the 
 taking off these beards, as well as the business of my lady Dulcinea." 
 " Indeed, my friend, you are," said the Trifaldi ; " and so much need 
 is there of your kind help, that without it nothing can be dqne." "In 
 the name of all the saints," quoth Sancho, " what have squires to dc 
 with their masters' adventures > Are we always to share all 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 se;' 
 down in their books, ' such a knight achieved such an adventure, with 
 the help of such an one his squire, without whom he could not have 
 done it.' 1 say, it would be something if we had our due ; but in- 
 stead 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 man, 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 hini' ! I will stay with my lady duchess here ; and perhaps 
 when he ccanes back he may find Madam Dulcinea's business 
 pretty forward ; for I intend at my leisure time to lay it on to some 
 purpose." 
 
 " Nevertheless, honest Sancho," quoth the duchess, " if your com pa 
 ny be really necessary, you will not refuse to go : indeed, all good peo- 
 ple will make it their business to entreat you ; for piteous, truly, would 
 it be, that through your groundless fears, these poor ladies should re- 
 main in this unseemly plight." " Odds my life ! " exclaimed Sancho, 
 " were this piece of charity undertaken for modest maidens, or poor 
 chiirity-girls, a man might engage to undergo something ; but to take 
 all this trouble to rid duennas of their beards — plague take Ihem ! I 
 
CH. LXXI.] DON QUIXOTE. 313 
 
 had rather see the whole finical and squeamish tribe bearded, from 
 the highest to the lowest of them ! " " You seem to be upon bad 
 terms with duennas, friend Sancho," said the duchess, " and are of 
 the same mind as the Toledan apothecary ; but, .in truth, you are in 
 the wrong ; for I have duennas in my family who might serve as 
 models to all duennas , and here is my Donna Eodriguez, who will 
 not allow me to say otherwise." 
 
 " Enough, your excellency," quoth Don Quixote ; " as for you, 
 Lady Trifaldi and your persecuted friends, I trust thaf 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 
 nq 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 duen- 
 nian order, abominated by apothecaries, calumniated by squires, and 
 scoffed at by pages ! " 
 
 CHAPTER LXXL 
 
 Of the arrival of Clavileno ; vnth the conclusion of this prolix 
 adventure. 
 
 Evening now came on, which was the time when the famous horse 
 Clavileno was expected to arrive. When lo, on a sudden, four sava- 
 ges entered the garden, all clad in green ivy, and bearing on their 
 shoulders a large wooden horse ! They set him upon his legs on the 
 ground, and one of the savages said, " Let the knight mount who has 
 the courage to bestride this wondrous machine." " Not I," quoth 
 Sancho ; " for neither have I courage, nor am I 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." Having thus 
 spoken, he left Clavileno, and with courteous demeanour departed 
 with his companions. 
 
 The afflicted ladv no sooner perceived the horse than almost with 
 27 ' 
 
814 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 tears, adOiessing herself to Don Quixote, " Valorous knight," said 
 she, " Malambruno has kept his word ; here is the horse. Mount, 
 therefore, with your squire behind you, and give a happy beginning 
 to your journey." " Madam," said Don Quixote, "I. will do it with 
 all my heart, without waiting for either cushion or spurs ; so 
 great is my desire to see your ladyship and these your unfortunate 
 friends rescued." " That will not I," quoth Sancho, " either with 
 a bad or good will ; and if this shaving cannot he done without my 
 mounting, let my master seek some other squire, or these madams 
 some other barber ; for being no wizard, I have no stomach for those 
 journeys. What will my islanders say when they hear that their gov- 
 ernor goes riding upon the wind ? Besides, it is three thousand 
 leagues from here to Candaya — 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." " Friend Sancho," said 
 the duke, " your island neither floats nor stirs, and therefore it will 
 keep till you return ; and as you know that all offices of any value are 
 obtained by some consideration, what I expect in return for this gov- 
 ernment I have conferred upon you, is only that you attend your mas- 
 ter on this memorable occasion ; and whether you return upon Cla- 
 vileno with the expedition his speed promises, or be it your fortune to 
 return on foot, like a pilgrim, from house to house, and from inn tc 
 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 gov- 
 ernor. My good-will is equally unchangeable ; and to doubt that, 
 Signor Sancho, would be a notorious injury to the inclination I have 
 to serve you." " Good your worship, say no more," quoth Sancho ; 
 I am a poor squire, and my shoulders cannot bearthe weightof so much 
 kindness. Let my master mount ; let my eyes be covered, and good 
 luck go with us. But tell me, when we are aloft, may I not say my 
 prayers, and 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 enchant- 
 ments with great discretion and much precaution." " Well, let us 
 away," quoth Sancho, " and Heaven prosper us ! " " Since the 
 memorable business of the fulling-mills," said Don Quixote, " I 
 have never seen thee, Sancho, in such trepidation ; and were I as su- 
 perstitious 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 seesti 
 
CH. LXXI.] DON QUIXOTE. 315 
 
 my good Sanoho, the long journey we are about to undertake ; the 
 period of our return is uncertain, and Heaven alone knows what leis- 
 ure or convenience our affairs may admit during our absence ; I earn- 
 estly 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." " By my soul," quoth Sancho, 
 " your worship is stark mad ! Verily, verily, your worship is out of 
 all reason. Let us go and shave these duennas ; and on my return, 
 I promise to make such despatch in getting out of debt that your wor- 
 ship shall be contented,— can I say more .' " " With that promise," 
 said Don Quixote, " I feel somewhat comforted, and believe thou wilt 
 perform it ; for though thou art not over wise, thou art staunch in thy 
 integrity." 
 
 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 la- 
 dies have pierced my 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 get 
 up first." " That is true," replied Don Quixote ; and pulling a hand- 
 kerchief out of his pocket, he requested the afflicted lady to place the 
 bandage over bis eyes ; but it was no sooner done than he uncovered 
 them again, saying, " I remember to have read, in the jEneid of Vir- 
 gil, that the fatal wooden horse, dedicated by the Greeks to their tute- 
 lary 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 be in 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 Quix- 
 ote, now considering that to betray any fbrther doubts would be a re- 
 flection 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 
 
316 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 very deficient in softness, he humbly begged the duke to accomnio* 
 date him, if possible, with some pillow or cushion, though it were 
 from the duchess' 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 cortipany, he sufiered his eyes 
 lO be covered. But, soon after, he raised the bandage, and looking 
 sorrowfully at his friends, begged them, with a countenance of woe 
 to assist him at that perilous crisis with a few Paternosters and Ave- 
 marias, as they hoped for the same charity from' others when in the 
 like extremity. 
 
 They were now blindfolded, and Don Quixote feeling himself firm- 
 ly 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 1 
 Now you fly aloft ! — See how they cut the air more swiftly than an 
 arrow ! Now they mount and soar, and astonish the world below ! 
 Steady, steady, valorous Sancho 1 you seem to reel and totter in your 
 seat — ;beware of falling ; for, should you drop from that tremendous 
 height, your fall will be more terrible than that of Phaeton ! " San- 
 cho hearing all this, pressed closer to his master ; and grasping him 
 fast, he said, " How can they say 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 extraordi- 
 nary flights, to see or hear a thousand leagues is nothing — but squeeze 
 me not quite so hard, good Sancho, or thou jvilt 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 ; — indeed, it goes as 
 glibly as if it did not move at all !. Banish fear, my friend, the busi- 
 ness goes on swimmingly, with a gale fresh and fair behind us." " I 
 think so too," quoth Sancho ; " for I feel the wind here as if a thou- 
 sand 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 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, " it 
 
uH. LXXI.J DON QUIXOTE. 311 
 
 we are not already there, or very near it, for half my beard is singed 
 ofT— I have a huge mind, sir, to peep out and see whereabouts we 
 are." " Heaven forbid such rashness ! " said Don Quixote ; " re- 
 member the true story of the licentiate Torralvo, who was carried by 
 magicians, hoodwinked, riding on a cane, with his eyes shut, and m 
 twelve hours reached Rome ; where, lighting on the tower of Nona, 
 ne saw the tumult, witnessed the assault and death of the constable of 
 Bourbon, and the next morning returned to Madrid, where he gave la 
 account of all that he had seen. During his passage through the air, 
 he said that he was tempted 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 down- 
 wards 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 ; " I can only say 
 that, if Madam Magalona was content to tide upon this crupper with- 
 out a cushion, her flesh could not have been the tenderest in the 
 world." 
 
 This conversation between the two heroes was overheard by the 
 duke and duchess, and all who were in their garden, to their great 
 diversion ; and, being now disposed to finish the adventure, they ap- 
 plied 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 remained in the 
 garden were laid stretched on the ground as if in a trance. Don 
 Quixote and Sancho got upon their legs in but an indifferent plight, 
 and looking round, were amazed to find themselves in the same gar- 
 den 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 are 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 
 27* 
 
318 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 the arms of her beloved turtle : — such is the will of Merlin, prince of 
 enchanters." 
 
 Don Quixote having read the prophetic decree, and perceiving al 
 once that it referred to the disenchantment of Dulcinea, he expressed 
 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 with- 
 out damage to the bars, as you will find by that record." The duke 
 gradually, as if awaking from a sound sleep, seamed 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, declaring 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 won- 
 ders ; for, as we were passing through the region of fire, as my mas- 
 ter called it, I had, you must know, a mighty mind to take a peep , 
 and, though my master would not consent to it, I, who. have an itch 
 to know everything, and a hankering after whatever is forbidden, 
 could not help, softly and unperceived, shoving the cloth a little aside, 
 when through a crevice I looked down, and there I saw (Heaven bless 
 us !) the earth so far off that it looked to me no bigger than 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 for the people upon it ; a hazel- 
 nut, good man, would have covered the whole earth." " Like 
 enough," said Sancho ; " but, for all that, I had a side-view of it, and 
 saw it all." " Take heed, Sancho," said the duchess ; " for one can- 
 not 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 enchant- 
 ment I might see the whole earth, and all the men upon it, in what- 
 ever way I looked ; and, if your ladyship will not credit that, neithei 
 
na LXXI.] BON QUIXOTE. 3<9 
 
 will you believe me when I tell you that, thrusting up the kerchief 
 close to my eyebrows, I found myself so near the sky that it was not 
 above a span from me, and it so fell out that we passed close by the 
 place where the seven she-goats are kept ; and truly, having been a 
 goatherd in my youth, I no sooner saw them but I longed to play with 
 them awhile ; and, had I not done it, I verily think I should have died ; 
 so what does 1 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 foot." " 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 suchlike concerns are out of 
 the order of nature, I do not wonder at Sancho's assertions ; for my 
 own part, I can truly say I neither looked up nor down, and saw 
 neither heaven nor earth, nor sea nor sands. It is, nevertheless, cer- 
 tain 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, J 
 cannot believe ; for, the fiery region lying between the sphere of the 
 moon and the uppermost region of the air, we could not reach that 
 place where the seven goats are which Sancho speaks of without be- 
 ing burnt ; and, since we were not burnt, either Sancho lies or Sancho 
 dreams." " I neither lie nor dream," answered Sancho : " only ask 
 me the marks of these same goats, and by them you may guess 
 whether I speak the truth or not." " Tell us what they were, Sancho," 
 quoth the duchess. " Two ' of them," replied Sancho, " are green 
 two 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 ; 
 " yoiur highness will allow that there must be some difference between 
 the celestial goats and those of this lower world." They did not 
 choose to question Sancho any more concerning his journey, perceiv- 
 ing him to be in the humour to ramble all over the heavens, and tell 
 them all that was passing there, without having stirred a foot from the 
 place where he mounted. 
 
 Thus concluded the adventure of the atHicted duenna, which fur- 
 nished 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 h^ lived for ages. " Sancho," said Don Quixote (whispering 
 him m the ear), " if thou wouldst have us credit all thou hast told us 
 just now, I expect thee to believe what I saw in Montesinos' cave — I 
 say no more," 
 
320 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXII. 
 
 The instructions which Don Quixote gave to Sancho Panta, before he 
 went to his government ; with other well-digested matter. 
 
 The duke and duchess being so well pleased with the adventure of 
 the afflicted duenna, were encouraged to proceed with other projects, 
 seeing that there was nothing too .extravagant for the credulity of the 
 knight and the 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. " To-morrow," said he, " you surely 
 -depart for your island, and this evening you shall be fitted with suita- 
 ble 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 suita- 
 ble 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 a soldier 
 as, in the office you will hold, arras and learning are united." " As 
 for learning," replied Sancho, " I have not much of that, for I hardly 
 know my A, B, C : but to be a good governor, it will be enough that 
 I am able to make my Christ-cross ; and as to arms, I shall handle such 
 as are given me till I fall, and so God help me." "With so good an 
 intention," quoth the duke, " Sancho cannot do wrong." At this time 
 Don Quixote came 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 : 
 
 " I am thankful to Heaven, friend Sancho, that, even before fortune 
 has crowned my hopes, prosperity has gone forth to meet thee. I, 
 who have 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, per- 
 sist, and yet do not obtain what they desire ; whilst another comes, 
 and, without knowing how, jumps at once into the preferment for 
 which so many had sued in vain. It is truly said that ' merit does 
 much, but fortune more.' 
 
 • Tho happy have thoir days, and those they choose ; 
 Th' unhappy have but hours, and those they lose \ ' 
 
CH LXXII.] DON QUIXOTE. 321 
 
 Thou, who, in respect to me, art but a very simpleton, without either 
 fearly 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 1 say, friend Sancho, that thou mayest not ascribe ihe 
 favour done thee to thine own merit, but give thanks, first to Hea-i en, 
 which disposeth things so kindly ; and in the next place, acknowledge 
 with gratitude the inherent grandeur of the profession of knight- 
 errantry. 
 
 " Listen now to the few counsels which I shall give thee for thy con- 
 duct : 
 
 " First, my son, fear God ; for, to fear him is wisdom ; and being 
 wise, thou canst not err. 
 
 " Conceal not the meanness of thy family, nor think it disgraceful to 
 be descended from peasants ; for, when it is seen that thou art not 
 thyself ashamed, none will endeavour to make thee so ; and deem it 
 more meritorious to be a virtuous humble man than a lofty sinner. 
 Infinite is the number of those who, born of low extraction, have risen 
 to the highest dignities both in church and state ; and of this truth 1 
 could tire thee with examples. 
 
 " If thou takest thy wife with thee (and it is not well for those who 
 are appointed to governments to be long separated from their fam- 
 ilies), teach, instruct, and polish her frotn 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 to a better match, seek not one to serve 
 thee for a hook and angling-rod ; for, believe me, whatever the judge's 
 wife receives, the husband must account for at the general judgment, 
 and shall be made to pay fourfold for all that of which he has render-- 
 ed no account 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 jus- 
 tice, from thee than the applications of the wealthy. 
 
 " Be equally solicitous to sift out the truth amidst the presents and 
 promises of the rich, and the sighs and entreaties of the poor. 
 
 " Whenever equity may justly temper the rigour of the law, 
 let not the whole force of it bear upon the delinquent : for it is 
 better that a judge should lean on the side of compassion than se- 
 verity. 
 
 " If perchance the scales of justice be not correctly balanced, let the 
 error be imputable to pity, not to gold. 
 
 " If perchance the cause of thine enemy come before thee, forget 
 ihy injuries, and think only on the merits of the case. 
 
 21 
 
322 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 " Let not private affection blind thee in another man's cause ; fot 
 the errors tiou 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 jus- 
 tice, 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 suf- 
 ficient, without the addition of abusive language. 
 
 " When the criminal stands before thee, recollect the frail and de- 
 praved nature of man, and, as much as thou canst, without injustice 
 to the suffering party, shew pity and clemency ; for, though the attri- 
 butes of God are all equally adorable, yet his mercy is more shining 
 and attractive in our eyes than his justice. 
 
 " If, Sancho, thou observest these precepts, thy days will be long 
 and thy fame eternal ; thy recompense full, and thy felicity unspeak- 
 able. Thou shalt marry thy children to thy heart's content, 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 grandchildren's children, with their tender 
 and pious hands, shall close thine eyes. 
 
 " The advice I have just given thee, Sancho, regards the good and 
 ornament of thy mind ; now listen to the directions I have to give 
 concerning thy person and deportment." 
 
 CHAPTER LXXIII. 
 Of the second instruction Don Quixote gave Sancho Panza. 
 
 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 pro- 
 ceeded : 
 
 " As to the regulation of thy own person and domestic concerns," 
 said he, " in the first place, Sancho, I enjoin thee to be cleanly in all 
 things. Keep the nails of thy fingers neatly pared, nor suffer them to 
 grow as some do, who ignorantly imagine that long nails beautify the 
 hand, whereas it is a foul and unsightly object. 
 
 " Examine prudently the income of thy office, and, if it will afford 
 
CH. LXXIII.] rON QUIXOTE. 323 
 
 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 shall thou have attendants 
 both in heaven and earth, — a provision which our vain-glorious great 
 never think of. 
 
 " Eat neither garlic nor onions, lest the smell betray thy rusticity. 
 Walk with gravity, and speak deliberately ; but not so as to seem to 
 be listening to thyself; for afiectation is odious. 
 
 " Eat little at dinner, and less at supper ; for the health of the 
 whole body is tempered in the laboratory of the stomach. 
 
 " Drink with moderation ; for inebriety neither keeps a secret, nor 
 performs a promise. 
 
 " In the next place, Sancho, do not intermix in thy discourse such 
 a multitude of proverbs as thou wert wont to do ; for, though proverbs 
 are concise and pithy sentences, thou dost often so drag them in by 
 the head and shoulders that they seem rather the meuxims of folly 
 than of wisdom. , 
 
 " Let thy sleep be moderate ; for he who rises notwith 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 at- 
 tainment of a good wish. 
 
 " At this time I have but one more admonition to give thee, which, 
 ♦hough 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 'late thee, and he who is preferred will not 
 reward thee. 
 
 " As for thy dress, wear breeches and hose, long coat, and a cloak 
 somewhat longer ; but for trousers or trunk-hose, think not of them : 
 they are not becoming either gendemen or governors. 
 
 " This is all the advice, friend Sancho, that occurs to me at present ; 
 hereafter, as occasions offer, my instructions .will be ready, provided 
 thou art mindful to inform me of the state of thy affairs." 
 
 " Sir," answered Sancho, " I see very well that all your worship 
 has told me is wholesome and profitable ; but what shall I be the bet- 
 ter for it if I cannot keep it in my liead ? It is true, I shall not easily 
 forget what you said about paring my nails, and marrying again if 
 the opportunity offered ; but for your other quirks and quillets, I pro- 
 test 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 car 
 not read them myself, Iwill give them to my confessor, that he may 
 repeat and drive them into me in time of need." 
 
 " Heaven defend me ! " said Don Q,uixote, " how scurvy doth it 
 losk in a governor to be unable to read or write ! Indeed, Sancho, I 
 
!K4 DON QXriXOTE. 
 
 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, m 
 early life, he was so indocile and perverse that his teachers could 
 beat nothing good into him. Truly this is a great defect in thee, and 
 therefore I would have thee learn to write, if it were only thy name." 
 
 " That I can do already," quoth Sancho ; " for, when I was stew- 
 ard of the brotherhood in our village, I learned to make certain marks 
 like those upon wool-packs, which they told me stood for my name. 
 But, at the worst, I can feign a lameness in my right hand, and get 
 another to sign for me : there is a remedy for everything but death ; 
 and, having the staff in my hand, I can do what I please. Besides, 
 
 as your worship knows, he whose father is mayor and 1 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 ; ' — besides, ' the rich man's blunders pass current 
 for wise maxims ; ' so that I, being a governor, and therefore wealthy, 
 and bountiful to boot — as I intend to be — nobody will see any blem- 
 ish in me. No, no, let the clown daub himself with honey, and he 
 will never want flies. As much you have, just so much you are 
 worth, said my grannam ; revenge yourself upon the rich who can." 
 " Away with your proverbs," exclaimed Don Quixote ; " this hour, or 
 more, thou hast been stringing thy musty wares, poisoning and tortur- 
 ing me without mercy. Take my word for it, these proverbs will 
 one day bring thee to the gallows. However, I am comforted in 
 having given thee the best counsel in my power ; and therein, having 
 done my duty, I am acquitted both of my obligation and my promise : so 
 God speed thee, Sancho, and govern thee in thy government, and dis- 
 appoint my fears for thy turning all things upside down in that poor 
 island ; which I might indeed prevent, by giving the duke a more 
 perfect insight into thee, and discovering to him thou art nothing bet 
 ter than a bundle of proverbs, and sackful of knavery." 
 
 " Look you, sir," quoth Sancho, " if you think me not fit for this 
 government, I will think no more^on it. Alas ! the least snip of my 
 soul's nails (as a body may say) is dearer to me than my whole body ; 
 and I hope I can live plain Sancho still, upon a luncheon of bread 
 and a clove of garlic, as contented as Governor Sancho upon ca- 
 pons and partridges. Death and sleep make us all alike, rich and 
 poor, high and low. Do but call to mind what first put this whim of 
 government into my noddle, you will find it was your own self; for, 
 as for me, I know no more what belongs to islands and governors than 
 a blind buzzard. So if you fancy the devil will have me for being a 
 governor, le* me be plain Sancho still, and go to heaven, rather than 
 my lord governor, and go to hell." 
 
 " These last words of thine, Sancho," said Don Quixote, " in my 
 
CH. LXXIV.] DON HUIXOTE. 325 
 
 opinion, prove thee worthy to govern a thousand islands. Thou hast 
 naturally a good disposition, without which all knowledge is insuffi- 
 cient. Recommend thyself to Divine Providence, and be sure never 
 to depart from uprightness of intention ; I mean, have still a firm 
 purpose and design to be thoroughly informed in all the business that 
 shall come before thee ; and act upon just grounds, for Heaven al- 
 ways favours good desires. And so let us go to dinner ; for I believe 
 now the duke and duchess expect us.'.' 
 
 CHAPTER LXXIV. 
 
 How Sancho Panza was carried to his government ; and of the 
 strange adventure that befell Don Quixote in the castle. 
 
 After dinner, Don Quixote gave Sancho, in writing, the copy of hw 
 verbal instructions, ordering him to get somebody to read them to him- 
 But the. squire had no sooner got them, than he dropt the paper, 
 which fell into the duke's hands, who communicating the same to the 
 duchess, they found a fresh occasion of admiring the mixture of Don 
 Quixote's good sense and extravagance ; and so, carrying on the hu- 
 mour, they sent Sancho that afternoon, with a suitable equipage, to 
 the place he was to govern, which, wherever it lay, was to be an 
 'sland to him. 
 
 It happened that the management of this affair was committed to a 
 steward of the duke's, a man of a facetious humour, and who had 
 not only wit to start a pleasant design, but discretion to carry it on. 
 He had already personated the Countess Trifaldi very successfully ; 
 and, with his master's instructions in relation to his behaviour towards 
 Sancho, could not but discharge bis trust to a wonder. Now it fell 
 out, that Sancho no sooner cast his eyes on the steward than he fan- 
 cied he saw the very face of Trifaldi ; and turning to his master, 
 " Look, sir," quoth he, " and see if this same steward of the duke's 
 here has not the very face of my Lady Trifaldi." Don Quixote 
 looked very earnestly on the steward, and Having perused him from 
 top to toe, " Sancho " said he, " thou art in the right ; I see their 
 faces are the very same. Yet, fc r all that, the steward and the dis- 
 consolate lady cannot be the same person, for that would imply a 
 very great contradiction, and niight involve us in more abstruse and 
 difficult doubts than we have conveniency now to discuss or examine, 
 Believe me, friend, our devotion cannot be too earnest, that we may 
 be delivered from the power of these cursed enchantments." " You 
 may think, sir," quoth Sancho, " that I am in jest, but I heard him 
 •peak just now, and I thought the very voice of Madam Trifaicu 
 28 
 
326 DON C^TJIXOTE. 
 
 sounded in my ears. But mum is the word ; I say nothing, though 1 
 shall watch him well, to find out whether I am right or wrong in my 
 suspicion." " Well, do so," said Don Quixote ; " and fail not to ac- 
 quaint me with all the discoveries thou canst make in this affair, 
 and other occurrences in thy government." 
 
 At last, Sancho set out with a numerous train. He was dressed 
 like a man of the long-robe, and wore over his other clothes a while 
 sad-coloured coat or gown, of .watered camblet, and a cap of the 
 same stuff". He was mounted on a mule ; and behind him, by the 
 duke's order, was led his Dapple, bridled and saddled like a horse of 
 state, in gaudy trappings of. silk; which sJ delighted Sancho, that 
 every now and then he turned his head about to look upon him, and 
 thought himself so happy, that now he would not have changed for- 
 tunes with the Emperor of Germany. 
 
 Immediately upon Sancho's departure, Don Quixote found the want 
 of his presence ; and, had it been in his power, he would have revok- 
 ed his authority, and deprived him of' his commission. The duchess, 
 perceiving his disquiet, and desiring to know the cause of his melan- 
 choly, told him, that if it was Sancho's absence made him jncasy, 
 she had squires enough, and damsels in her house, that should supply 
 his place in any service he would be pleased to command. " It is true, 
 Madam," answered Don Quixote, " I am somewhat concerned for the 
 absence of Sancho : but there is a more material cause of my pres- 
 ent uneasiness, and I must beg to be excused, if, among the many 
 obligations your grace is pleased to confer on me, I decline all but 
 the good intention that has offered them. All I have further to crave 
 is, your grace's permission to be alone in my apartment, and to be 
 my own servant^' " Sir," said the duchess, waving further discourse, 
 " it is supper-time, and my lord expects us. Come, then, let u.s to 
 supper, that you may go to bed betimes ; for you must needs be wes,ry 
 still with the long journey you took to Candaya yesterday." " Indeed, 
 madam," answered Don Quixote, " I feel no manner of wearine.is ; 
 for I can safely swear to your grace, that I never rode an easier hor.se, 
 nor a better • goer, than Clavileno. For my part, I cannot imagine 
 what could induce Malambruno to part with so swift and gentle a 
 horse, and to burn him too in such a manner." 
 
 Don Quixote repeated his thanks to the duchess and after supper 
 retired to his chamber, where, conformably to his determination, he 
 remained alone. He shut the door of his chamber after him, and 
 updressed himself by the light of two wax-candles. As he was put- 
 ting off" his hose, there fell — oh, misfortune, unworthy of such a 
 personage — about four-and-twenty stitches of one of his stockings, 
 which made it look like a lattice-window. The good knight was ex- 
 tremely afflicted, and would have given an ounce of silver for a 
 drachm of green silk ; green silk, 1 say, becauf/e his stockings wn 
 
CH. LXXIV.] DON QUIXOTE. 327 
 
 green. However, for his consolation, he bethought himself that San- 
 cho had left him a pair of light boots, which he designed to put. on 
 the next day. 
 
 He laid himself down with a pensive, heavy mind ; the thought of 
 Sancho's absence, and the irreparable damage that his stocking had 
 received, made him uneasy ; he would have darned it, though it had 
 been with silk of another colour — one of the greatest tokens of want 
 a poor gentleman can shew. At last he put out the lights, but it 
 was so hot that he could not compose himself to rest. Getting up, 
 therefore, he opened a little shutter of a barred window that looked 
 into a fine garden, and was presently sensible that some people were' 
 walking and talking there. He listened, and as they raised their 
 voices, he easily overheard their discourse. 
 
 " No more, dear Emerenia," said one to the other. "Do not press 
 me to sing ; you know that from the first moment this stranger came 
 to the castle, and my unhappy eyes gazed on him, I have been too 
 conversant with tears and sorrow to sing or relish songs I Alas, all 
 music jars when the soul is out of tune^ Besides, you know the least 
 thing wakens my lady, and I would not for the world she should find 
 us here. But, grant she might not wake ; what will my singing sig- 
 nify, if this new jEneas, who is come to our habitation to make me 
 wretched, should be asleep, and not hear the sound of my com- 
 plaint ? " " Pray, my dear Altisidora," said the other, " do not make 
 yourself uneasy with those thoughts ; for, without doubt, the duchess 
 is fast asleep, and every body in the house, but we and the master of 
 your heart. He is certainly awake ; I heard him open his windosv 
 just now : then sing, my poor grieving creature, sing, and join the 
 melting music of the lute to the soft accents of thy voice." " Alas ! 
 my dear," replied Altisidora, " it is not that which frightens me most : 
 [ would not have my song betray my thoughts, for those that do not 
 know the mighty force of love will be apt to take me for a light and 
 ndiscreet creature ; but yet, since it must be so, I will venture : bet- 
 ter shame on the face, than sorrow in the heart." This said, she be-, 
 gan to touch her lute so sweetly, that Don Quixote was ravished. At 
 the same time, the infinite number of adventures of this nature, such 
 as he had read of in his books of knight-errantry ; windows, grates, 
 gardens, serenades, courtships, meetings, parleys, &.c., crowded into 
 his imagination, and he presently fancied that one of the duchess' 
 damsels was in love with him, and struggling to conceal her passion. 
 He began to be apprehensive of the danger to which his fidelity was 
 exposed, but yet firmly determined to withstand the powerful allure- 
 ment ; and so recommending himself, with a great deal of fervency, 
 to his Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he resolved to hear the music; and, 
 to let the serenading ladies know he was awake, he feigned a kind of 
 sneeze, which did not a little please them, for it was the only thing 
 
3QS DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ihey wanted to be assjred their jest was not lost. Witli that, Altisi 
 dora, having tuned her lute afresh, after a flourish began her serenade 
 which, when Don Quixote had heard to an end, he thus began hit 
 expostulation : " Why," said he, with a sigh heaved from the bottom 
 of his heart, " why must I be so unhappy a knight, that no damsel 
 can gaze on me without falling in, love ! Why must the peerless 
 Dulcinea be so unfortunate ? Queens, why do you envy her .■' Em- 
 presses, why do you persecute her ? Damsels of fifteen, why do you 
 attempt to deprive her of her right .' Leave, oh, leave the unfortu- 
 nate fair ! Let her triumph, glory, and rejoice, in the quiet possession 
 of the heart which love has allotted her, and the absolute sway which 
 she bears over my yielding soul. Away, unwelcome crowd of loying 
 impertlnents ; Dulcinea alone can soften my temper, and mould me 
 as she pleases. For her I am all sweetness ; for you I am bitterness 
 itself. There is to me no beauty, no prudence, no modesty, no gaie- 
 ty, no nobility among your sex, but in Dulcinea alone. Let Altisidora 
 weep or sing, still I am Dulcinea's, and hers alone, dead or alive, 
 dutiful, and unchanged, in spite of all the necromantic powers in the 
 world." This said, he hastily shut the window, and flung himself into 
 his bed with as high an indignation as if he had received some great 
 aflTront. There let us leave him awhile, seeing that the great Sancho 
 Panza calls upon us to attend him on the commencement of his fa 
 mous government. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXV. 
 
 How the great SancJio Panza took possession of his island, and iti 
 what manner he began to govern. 
 
 After having travelled a certain distance. Governor Sancho, with his 
 attendants, came to a town that had about a thousand inhabitants, and 
 was one of the best in the duke's territories. They gave him to un- 
 derstand that the name of the place was the island of Barataria. As 
 soon as he came to the gates, the magistrates came out to receive 
 him, the bells rung, and all the people gave general demonstrations 
 of joy. They then delivered him the keys of the gates, and received 
 him as pei^'petual governor of the island of Barataria. 
 
 Next they carried him to the court of justice ; where, when they 
 had placed him in his seat, " My lord governor," said the duke'o 
 steward to him, " it is an ancient custom here, that he who takes pos- 
 session of this famous island must answer some difiicult and intricate 
 question that is propounded to him ; and, by the return he makes, 
 the people feel the pulse of his understanding, and, by an estimate 
 
OH. LXXV ] DON QUIXOTE. 329 
 
 of his abilities, judge whether they ought to rejoice or to be sorry for 
 his coming." 
 
 All the while the steward was speaking, Sancho was staring on an 
 ujscription in large characters on the wall over against his seat ; and, 
 as he could not read, he. asked what was the meaning of that which 
 he saw painted there upon the wall. " Sir," said they, " it is an ac- 
 count of the day when your lordship took possession of this island , 
 and the inscription runs thus : ' This day the Lord Don Sancho Pan- 
 za took possession of this island, which may he long enjoy.' " "And 
 who is he," asked Sancho, " whom they call Don Sancho Panza?" 
 " Your lordship," answered the steward ; " for we know of no other 
 Panza in this island but yourself, who now sits in this chair." "Well, 
 friend," said Sancho, '-pray take notice that Don does not belong to 
 me, nor was it borne by any of my family before me. Plain Sancho 
 Panza is my name ; my father was called Sancho, my grandfather 
 Sancho, and all of us have been Panzas, without any Don or Donna 
 added to our name. I already guess your Dons are as thick as stones 
 in this island. But it is enough that Heaven knows my meaning ; if 
 my government happens to last but four days to an end, it shall go 
 hard but I will clear the island of those swarms of Dons, that must 
 needs be as troublesome as so many gnats. Come, now for your 
 question, good Mr. Steward ; and I will answer it as well as I can, 
 whether the town be sorry or pleased." 
 
 At this instant, two men came into the court, the one dressed like a 
 country fellow, the other looked like a tailor, with a pair of shears in 
 his hand. " If it please you, my lord," cried the tailor, " this honest 
 man came to my shop yesterday ; for, saving your presence, I am a 
 tailor, and free of my company too ; so, my lord, he shewed me a 
 piece of cloth : ' Sir,' quoth he, ' is there enough of this to make a 
 cap } ' Whereupon I measured the stuff, and answered, Yes. Now, 
 as I imagined, do you see, he could not but imagine (and perhaps he 
 imagined right enough,) that I had a mind to cabbage some of his 
 cloth — judging hard of us honest tailors. ' Prithee,' quoth he, 'look 
 there be not enough for two caps ? ' Now I smelt him outj and told 
 him there was. Whereupon the old knave, going on to the same 
 tune, bid me look again, and see whether it would not make three ; 
 and at last if it would not make five .' I was resolved to humour my 
 customer, and said it might ; so we struck a bargain. Just now the 
 man is come for his caps, which I gave him ; but he refuses to pay 
 me for my work ; and i^ow he will have me give him his cloth again, 
 or pay him for it," '^ Is this true, honest man > " said Samsho to the 
 farmer. " Yes, if \t please you," answered the fellow ; " but pray 
 let him shew thp fivp caps he has made me." " With all my heart," 
 cried the tailor ; and with that, pulling his hand from under his cloak, 
 he K§lc( \>p five little tiny caps, hanging upon his four fingers an<j 
 
330 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 thumb, k's upon so many pins. " There," quoth he, •' you see the 
 five caps this good gaffer asks for ; and, on my conscience, I have 
 not wronged him of the least shred of his cloth ; and let any work- 
 man be judge." The sight of the caps, and the oddness of the cause, 
 set tne whole court a-laughing. Only Sancho sat gravely considering 
 a while ; and then, " Methinks," said he, " this suit may be decided 
 without any more ado, with a great deal of equity ; and therefore, the 
 judgment of the court is, that the tailor shall lose his making, and the 
 countryman his cloth, and that the caps be given to the poor prison- 
 ers ; and so let there be an end of the business." 
 
 If this sentence provoked the laughter of the whole court, ^he next 
 no less raised their admiration. For after the governor's order was 
 executed, two old men appeared before him ; one of them with a large 
 cane in his hand, which he used as a staff. " My lord," said the oth- 
 er, who had none, " some time ago, I lent this man ten gold crowns, 
 to do him a kindness, which money he was to repay me on demand. 
 I did not ask him for it again for a good while, lest it should prove in- 
 convenient. However, perceiving that he took no care to pay me, I 
 have asked him for my due ; nay, I have been forced to dun him hard 
 for it. But still, he did not only refuse to pay me again, but denied 
 he owed me any thing, and said that ' if I lent him so much money, 
 he certainly returned it.' Now, because I have no witnesses of the 
 loan, nor he of the pretended payment, I beseech your lordship to put 
 him to his oath ; and if he will swear he has paid me, I will freely 
 forgive him before God and the world." " What say you to this, old 
 gentleman with the staff.? " asked Sancho. " Sir," answered the old 
 man, " I own he lent me the gold ; and since he requires my oath, I 
 beg you will be pleased to hold down your rod of justice, that I may 
 swear upon it how I have honestly and truly returned him his money." 
 Thereupon the . governor held down his rod '; and in the mean time 
 the defendant gave his cane to the plaintiff to hold, as if it hindered 
 him while he was to make a cross and swear over the judge's rod. 
 This done, he declared it was true the other had lent him ten crowns, 
 but that he had really returned him the same sum into his own hands. 
 The great governor, hearing this, asked the creditor what he had to 
 reply. He made answer that, since his adversary had sworn it, he 
 was satisfied; for he believed him to be a better Christian than 
 offer to forswear himself, and that perhaps he had forgotten he had 
 been repaid. Then the defendant took his cane again, and having 
 made a low obeisance to the judge, was immediately leaving the 
 court ; which, when Sancho perceived,^ reflecting on the passage of 
 the cane, and admiring the creditor's patience, after he had thought a 
 while he suddenly ordered the old man with the staff to be called back. 
 " Honest man " said Sancho, " let me look at that cane a littie ; I 
 lijaye a use for -t." " With all my heart, sir," answered the other 
 
tia. LXXTI.] IX)N QUIXOTE. 331 
 
 " here it is ; " and with that he gave it to him. Sancho took it, and 
 giring it to the other old man, " There," said he, " go your ways, 
 and Heaven he with you, for now you are paid." " How so, my 
 lord ? " cried the old man ; " do you judge thiscane to be worth ten gold 
 crowns ? " " Certainly," said the governor, " or else I am the great- 
 est dunce in the world. And now you shall see whether I have not 
 a head-piece fit to govern a whole kingdom, upon a shift." This said, 
 he ordered the cane to be broken in open court ; which was no soon- 
 er done, than out dropped the ten crowns. All the spectators were 
 amazed, and began to look on their governor as a second Solomon. 
 They asked him how he could conjecture that the ten crowns <vere in 
 the cane. He told them that he had observed how the defendant gave it 
 to the plaintiflF to hold while he took his oath, and then swore he had 
 truly returned him the money into his own hands, after which he took 
 his cane again from the plaintiff: this considered, it came into his 
 head that the money was lodged within the reed.' From whence may 
 be learned, that though sometimes those that govern are destitute of 
 sense, yet it often pleases God to direct them in their judgment. The 
 two old men went away, the one to his satisfaction, the other with 
 shame and disgrace ; and the beholders were astonished ; insomuch 
 that the person who was commissioned to register Sahcho's words and 
 actions, and observe his behaviour, was not able to determine whether 
 he should not give him the character of a wise man, instead of that 
 of a fool, which he had been thought to deserve. 
 
 And now let us leave honest Sancho here for a while for his mas- 
 ter, who requires our attendance, Altisidora's serenade having strange- 
 ly discomposed his mind. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXVI. 
 
 Of a dreadful alarm which Don Quixote experienced. 
 
 We left the great Don Quixote profoundly buried in the thoughts into 
 which Altisidora's serenade had plunged him. At the return of light, 
 our knight, more early than the sun, forsook his downy bed, put on 
 his chamois apparel, and, drawing on his walking-boots, concealed in 
 one of them the disaster of his hose. He threw his scarlet cloak ovei 
 his shoulder, and clapped on his valiant head his cap of green velve 
 edged with silver lace. Over his right shoulder he hung his belt, th< 
 sustainer of his trusty executing sword. About his wrist he wore thi 
 rosary, which he always carried about him ; and thus accoutred, witi 
 a great deal of state and majesty, he moved towards the antechani 
 ber, where the duke and duchess were ready dressed, and expectirjj 
 his conmg. As he went through a gallery, hemet Altisidora and i^t 
 
332 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 companion, who waited for him in the pjissage ; and no soonei did 
 Altisidora espy him, than she . dissembled a swooning: fit, and imme* 
 diately dropped into the arms o£ her friend. Which Don Quixote 
 perceiving, he approached,; and, turning to the damsel, " I know the 
 meaning of all this,'" said he, "and whence these accidents proceed." 
 " You know more than I do," answered the assisting ; damsel ; " but 
 this I am sure of, that ihitherto there is not a damsel in this house that 
 has enjoyed her health better than Altisidora.; I never knew her make 
 the least complaint before. Pray, ray Lord Don Quixote, retire ; for 
 this poor young creature wUl not come tO' herself while you are by." 
 " Madam," answered the knightj ";I beg that a lute maybe left in my 
 chamber this evening, that I may. assuage, this lady'S' grief as well as 
 I can ; for in the beginning of an afiair of this kind, a speedy discovery 
 of aversion or pre-engagement is the most effectual cure." i This said, 
 he left them, that he might not be found- alone with them-by those that 
 might happen to go by. He was scarce gone when Altisidora's fit 
 was over ; and, turning to her companion, " By all means,"' said she'i 
 " let him have a lute ; for without doubt the knight has a mind to give 
 us some music, and we shall have sport enough." Then they went 
 and acquainted the duchess with their iproceeding^ and Don QuLx 
 ote's desiring a lute ; whereupon she plotted with the duke and her 
 woman a new contrivance, to . have a little harmless sport i with the 
 knight. 1 . • I , . , 
 
 At eleven o'clock Don Quixote retired to his apartment, and finding 
 a lute there, he tuned it, opened the window, and^ perceiving i there 
 was somebody walking in the garden^ he ran over the strings of the 
 instrument ; and having tuned it again as nicely as he could, he coughed 
 and cleared his throat ; and then, with a voice somewhat hoarse yet 
 not unmusical, he sang the following song, which he had composed 
 himself that very day : 
 
 THE ADVICE 
 
 Love, a strong desij^ing. f<ley . . 
 
 Carclesu hearts with ease deceives i 
 Can thy breast resist his blow, 
 
 Which your sloth unguarde^ leaves ? 
 
 If you're idle, you're destroyed, ' 
 
 All his art on you he trios ; 
 Biit be watchful and employed. 
 
 Straight thti baffled tempter flies. 
 
 Maids for modest «race admired. 
 
 If ; they would tneir fortunes raise, 
 Must ill silence live retired ; 
 , 'Tis their virtue speaks their praise. 
 
 The .divine Tobosan fair, 
 
 Dulcinea, claims me whole j 
 Nothip^ can h'et inioge'teai' ; 
 *TiB one substance with my soul 
 
 Then lot fortune smile or frown. 
 
 Nothing shall my faith remove ; 
 Constant truth, the lover's erowo. 
 
 Can work miracles in love. 
 
en. LxxTi.] SON quixote. 333 
 
 No sooner had Don. Quixote made an end of his song, to which the 
 duke, duchess, Altisidora, and almost all the people in the castle 
 listened all the while, than "on a sudden, from an open gallery over 
 the knight's window, they let' down a rope, with at least a hundred 
 little tinkling bells hanging about it. After that came down a great 
 number of cats, poured out of a huge sack, all of them with smaller 
 bells tied to their tails. ■ The jangling of the bells, and -the squalling 
 of the cats, made such a dismal noise, that the very 'contrivers of the 
 jest themselves were scared for the present, and Don Quixote was 
 strangely surprised- and quite dismayed. At the same time, as ill- 
 luck would have it, two or three frighted cats leaped in tljrough the 
 bars of his chamber-window, and running up and down the room like 
 so many evil spirits, one w'ould have thought a 'whole legion of de- 
 mons had been flying about the chamber. They put out the candles 
 that stood lighted there, and endeavoured to get out. Meanwhile, the 
 rope with the bigger bells about it was pulled up and down, and those 
 who knew nothing of the contrivance were greatly surprised. At 
 last Don Quixote, recovering from his astonishment, drew his sword, 
 and fenced and laid about him at the window, crying aloud, " Avaunt, 
 ve wicked enchanters ! hence, infernal scoundrels 1 I am Don Quixote 
 de la Mancha, and all your cursed devices cannot work their ends 
 against me." And then, running after the cats, he began to thrust 
 and cut at them furiously, while they strove to get out. At last they 
 made their escape at the window — all but one of them ; who, find- 
 ing himself hard put to it, fl^w in his face, and laying hold on his nose 
 with his claws and teeth, put him to such pain that the knight began 
 to cry out as loud as he could. Thereupon, the duke and the duchess, 
 imagining the cause of his outcry, ran to his assistance immediately ; 
 and having opened the door of his chamber with a master-key, found 
 the poor knight struggling hard with the cat, that would not quit its 
 hold: By the light of the candles which they had with them, they 
 saw the unequal combat. The duke offered to interpose and take off 
 the animal, but Don Quixote would not permit him. " Let nobody 
 touch him," cried he ;■ " let me alone hand to hand with this sorcerer, 
 this necromancer ; I'll make him know what it is to deal with Don 
 Quixote de la Mancha ! " But the cat, not minding his threats, 
 growled on, and still held fast ; till at length the duke got its claws 
 unhooked, and flting him out at the window. Don Quixote's face 
 was hideously scratched, and his nose in no very good condition. 
 Yet nothing vexed him so much as that they had rescued out of his 
 hands the villanous necromancer. Immediately some ointment was 
 sent for, and Altisidora herself applied some plasters to his sores, 
 whispering in his ear at the same time, " Cruel, hard-hearted knight,'' 
 said she, "all these disasters are befallen thee as a just punishment 
 for by obdurate stubbornness and disdain. May thy squire Sahchd 
 
334 DON QTTIXiJTB 
 
 forget to whip himself, that thy darling Duicinea may never be deliv- 
 ered from her enchantment, at least so long as I, thy neglected adorer, 
 live ! " Don Quixote made no answer at all to this ; only he heaved 
 up a profound sigh,* and then went to take his repose, after he had 
 returned the "duke and the duchess thanks, not so much for their assis- 
 tance against that rascally crew of jangling enchanters — for he defied 
 them all — but for their kindness and good intent. Then the duke 
 and duchess left him, not a little troubled at the miscarriage of their 
 jest, which they did not think would have proved so fatal to the knight^ 
 as to oblige him, as it did, to keep his chamber some days ; during 
 which time there happened to him another adventure, more pleasant 
 than the last ; which, however, cannot be now related ; for the his- 
 torian must return to Sancho Panza, who was very busy, and no less 
 pleasant, in his government. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXVII. 
 
 Which gives a further account of Sancho Fanza's behaviour in 
 Ms government. 
 
 The history informs us that Sancho was conducted from the court of 
 justice to a sumptuous palace, where, in a spacious room, he found 
 the cloth laid, and a magnificent entertainment prepared. As soon 
 as he entered, the wind-music played, and four pages waited on him 
 with water for washing his hands, which he did with a great deal of 
 gravity. The instruments ceasing, Sancho sat down at the upper end 
 of the table ; for there was no seat but there, and the cloth was only 
 laid for one. A certain personage, who afterwards appeared to be a 
 physician, c&me and stood at his elbow, with a whalebone wand in 
 his hand. Then they took off a curious white cloth that lay over the 
 dishes on the table, and discovered a great variety of fruit and other 
 eatables. One that looked like a student said grace ; a page put a 
 laced cloth under Sancho's chin ; and another set a dish of fruit before 
 him. But ]\e had hardly put one bit into his mouth before the physi- 
 cian touched the dish with his wand, and then it was taken away by 
 a page in an instant. Immediately another, with meat, was put in the 
 place ; but Sancho no sooner offered to taste it than the doctor, with 
 the wand, conjured it away as fast as the fruit. Sancho was amazed 
 at this sudden removal, and looking about him on the company, asked 
 them, " Whether the dinner was only to shew off their sleight of 
 hand." " My Lord Governor," answered the physician, " you are to 
 eat here no otherwise than according to the use and custom of other 
 islands wheve there are governors. I am a doctor of physic, my 
 
CH. HXVII.] DON QITIZOTE. 336 
 
 lord, and have a salary allowed me in this island for taking charge of 
 the governor's health, and I am more careful of it than of my own, 
 studying night and day his constitution, that I may know what to pre- 
 scribe when he falls sick. Now the chief thing I do is, to attend him 
 always at his meals, to let him eat what I think convenient for him, 
 and to prevent his eating what I imagine to be prejudicial to his health. 
 Therefore I ordered the fruit to be taken away, because it is too cold 
 and moist ; and the pther dish, because it is as much too hot, and over- 
 seasoned with spices, which are apt to increase thirst; and he that 
 drinks much destroys and consumes the radical moisture, which is the 
 fuel of life." 
 
 " So, then," quoth Sancho, " th s dish of roasted partridges here 
 can do me no manner of harm." " Hold," said the physician, " the 
 Lord Governor shall not eat of them while I live to prevent it." 
 " Why so ? " cried Sancho. " Because," answered the doctor, " our 
 great master, Hippocrates, the north-star and luminary of physic, says, 
 in one of his aphorisms, Omnis saturatio mala, perdids autem pessi- 
 ma ; that is, ' AH repletion is bad, but that of partridges is worst of 
 all.' " " If it be so," said Sancho, " let Mr. Doctor see which of all 
 these dishes on the table will do me the most good and least harm, 
 and let me eat of that, without having it whisked away with his wand. 
 For, by my hopes, and the pleasures of government, as I live I am 
 ready to die with hunger ; and, not to , allow me to eat my victuals 
 (let Mr. Doctor say what he will) is the way to shorten my life, and 
 not to lengthen it." " Very true, my lord," replied the physician ; 
 " however, I am of opinion you ought not to eat of these rabbits ; nor 
 would I have you taste that veal. Indeed, if it were neither roasted 
 nor pickled, something might be said ; but as it is, it must not be." 
 " Well, then," said Sancho, " what think you of that huge dish yon- 
 der that smokes so .' I take it to be an oUa podrida ; and that being a 
 hodge-podge of so many sorts of victuals, sure I cannot but light upon 
 something there that will be both wholesome and pleasant." " Absit,^' 
 cried the doctor, " far be such an ill thought from us ; no diet in the 
 world yields worse nutriment than those mish-mashes do. Simple 
 medicines are generally allowed to be better than compounds ; for, 
 in a composition, there may happen a mistake by the unequal proper ■ 
 tion of the ingredients ; but simples are riot subject to that accident. 
 Therefore, what I would advise at present, as a fit diet for the govern- 
 or for the preservation and support of his health, is a hundred of small 
 wafers, and a few thin slices of marmalade, to strengthen his stomach 
 and help digestion." Sancho hearing this, leaned back upon his 
 chair, and, looking earnestly in the doctor's face, very seriously ask- 
 ed him what his name was, and where he had studied } " My lord," 
 answered he, " I am called Doctor Pedro Eezio de Aguero. The 
 name of the place where I was born is Tirteafuera, and lies between 
 
336 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Caraquel and Almodabar del Campo, on the right hand ; and T took 
 my degree of doctor in the University of Ossuna." " Hark you," 
 said Sancho,in a mighty chafe, " Mr. Doctor Pedro Reziode Ague- 
 ro, take yourself away ! Avoid the room this moment, or assure(lly 
 I'll get me a good cudgel, and, beginning with your carcass, will so 
 belabour and rib-roast all the physic-mongers in the island, that I will 
 not leave therein one of the tribe, — of those, I mean, that are igno-' 
 rant quacks ; — for as for learned and wise physicians, I will make 
 much of them, and honour them like so many angels. Once more, 
 Pedro Rezio, I say, get out of my presence ! Avaunt ! or I will take 
 the chair I sit upon, and comb your head with it to some purpose, and 
 let me be called to an account about it when I give up my office ; I 
 do not care, I will clear myself by saying I did the world good ser- 
 vice, in ridding it of a bad physician, the plague of a commonwealth. 
 Let me eat, I say, or let them take their government again ; for an 
 office that will not afford a man his victuals is not worth two horse- 
 beans." The physician was terrified, seeing the governor in such a 
 heat and would at once have slunk out of the room, had not the souna 
 of a post-horn in the street been heard that moment ; whereupon the 
 steward, immediately looking out of the window, turned back and said 
 there was an express come from the duke, doubtless with some de- 
 spatch of importance. 
 
 Presently the messenger entered, with haste and concern m his 
 looks, and pulling a packet out of his bosom, delivered it to the gov- 
 ernor. Sancho gave it to the steward, and ordered him lo read the 
 direction, which was this : " To Don Sancho Panza, governor of the 
 island of Barataria, to be delivered into his own hands, or those of his 
 secretary." " Who is my secretary ? " cried Sancho. " It is I, my 
 lord," answered one that was standing by ; " for I can write and read, 
 and am a Biscayner." " That, last qualification is enough to make 
 thee set up for secretary to the emperor himself," said Sancho. 
 " Open the letter, then, and see what it says." The new secretary 
 did so, and having perused the despatch by himself, told the governor 
 that it was a business that was to be told only in private. Sancho or- 
 dered every one to leave the room, except the steward and the car- 
 ver, and then the secretary read what follows. 
 
 " I have received information, my Lord Don Sancho Panza, that 
 some of our enemies intend to attack your island with great fury one 
 of these nights : you ought, therefore, to be watchful, and stand upon 
 your guard, that you may not be found unprovided. I have also had 
 intelligence from faithful spies, that there are four men got into the 
 town in disguise, to murder you ; your abilities being regarded as a 
 great obstacle to the enemy!s designs. Look about you, take heed 
 how you admit strangers to speak with you, and eat nothing sert you 
 
CH. LIXVII.] DON QUIXOTE. 337 
 
 as a present. I will t^e care "to send you assistance, if you stand in 
 need of it. And in every thing I rely on your prudence. From our 
 castle, the leth of August, at four in the morning. 
 
 '" Your friend, ' The Buke." 
 
 Sancho was astonished at the news, and those that 'were with him 
 were no less concerned. But at last, turning to the steward, '^ I will 
 tell you," said hej " what is first to he done in this case, and that with 
 all speed. Clap that same Doctor Rezio in a duligeon ; for if any 
 body has a mind to kill me, it must be he^ and' that with a lingering 
 death, the worst of deaths, hunger-starving." "However," said the 
 carver, " I am of opinion your honour ought not to eat any of the 
 things that stand here before you ; for they were sent in by some of 
 the convents, and it is a common saying, ' The devil lurics behind the 
 cross.' " " Which nobody can deny^' quoth Sancho ; " and therefore 
 let me have, for the present, but a luncheon of bread, and some four 
 pounds of raisins ; there can be no poison in that ; for, in short, I 
 cannot live without eating ; and, if we must be in readiness against 
 these battles, we had need be well victualled. Meanwhile, secretary, 
 do you send my lord duke an answer, and- tell him his order shall be 
 fulfilled in every part. Kemember me kindly to my lady, and beg 
 of her not to forget to send one on purpose with my letter and bundle 
 to Teresa Panza, my wife ; which T shall take as a special favour, and 
 I will be mindful to serve her to the best of my power. And, when 
 your hand is in, you may crowd in my service to my master Don 
 Quixote de la Mancha, that he- may see lam neither forgetful nor un- 
 grateftil. The- rest I leave to you ; put 'in what you will, and do your 
 part like a good secretary and a staunch 'Biscayner. Now, tatke away 
 hpre,'. and bring me something to eat 5< and then you shall seel am 
 able to deal "with all the spies, wizard's,- and cut^throat dogs, that dare 
 to meddle with me and my island." ■; 
 
 At that time ia page entering the roomi "i My lord," said he, " there 
 is a countryman ^without desires to speak with your lordship about 
 business of 'great consequence." " It is a stiange- thing," cried San- 
 cho, " that one must be still plagued with these rneh of business ! Is 
 it possible they should be such sots as not to understand this is not a 
 time for business ? Do they fancy that we governors arid distributors 
 of justice are made of iron and marble, and have no need of rest and 
 refreshment like other creatures of flesh and blood ? If my govern^ 
 ment does but last, as I shrewdly guess it will not, I will get some of 
 these men of business laid by -die heels. WelU for once, let the fel- 
 low come in ; but first take heed he be not one ot tneisipies or ruiffian 
 rogues that wovild murder me." " As for that," said the page, " I 
 dare say he had no hand in the plot ; poor soul, he looks as if he 
 could not help it ; there is no more harm in him, seemingly, than in a 
 29 22 
 
SdS DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 piece of good bread." " There is no need to fear," said the stew 
 xrd, " since we are all here by yfeu." " But, hark you," quotl. San 
 cho, " now Doctor Rezio is gone, might not I eat something, that has 
 some substance in it, though it were but a crust and an onion ? " 
 "At night," answered the carver, " your honour shall have no cause 
 to complain ; supper shall make amends for the want of your din- 
 ner." 
 
 Now the countryman came in, and, by his looks, seemed to be a 
 good, harmless ■ soul. "Which is my lord governor.?" quoth he. 
 "Who but hethat sits in the chair.'" answered the secretary. "I 
 humble myself to his worship's presence," quoth the fellow ; and 
 with that, falling on his kiiees, begged to kiss his hand, which Sancho 
 refused, but bid him rise, and tell him what he had to say. The 
 countryman then got up : " My lord," said he, " I am a husbandiiian 
 of Miguel Turra, a town some two leagues from Ciudad-Real." 
 " Here is another Tirteafuera," quoth Sancho ; " well, go on, friend, 
 I know the place full well ; it is not far from our town." " If it 
 please you," said the countryman, " my business is this : I was mar- 
 ried, by Heaven's mercy, in the face of our holy mother the church, 
 and I have two boys that take their learning at the college , the 
 youngest studies to become a bachelor, and the eldest to be a master 
 of arts. I am a widower, because my wife is dead ; she died, if it 
 please you, or, to speak more truly, she was killed, as one may say 
 by a doctor. Now, sir, I must tell you," continued the farmer, " that 
 that son of mine, the bachelor of arts that is to be, fell in love with a 
 maiden of our town, Clara Perlerino by name, the daughter of An- 
 drew Perlerino, a mighty rich farmer ; and Perlerino is not the right 
 name neither ; but, because the whole generation of them is troubled 
 with the palsy, they used to be called, from the name of that com- 
 plaint, Perlaticos, but now they go by that of Perlerino ; and truly it 
 fits the young woman rarely, for she is a precious pearl for beauty, 
 especially if you stand on her right side and view her : she looks like 
 a flower in the field. On the left, indeed, she does not look altogether 
 so well ; for there she wants an eye,, which she lost by the small-pox,- 
 that has digged many pits somewhat deep all over her face ; but those 
 that wish her well, say that is nothing, and that those pits are so many 
 graves to bury lovers' hearts in. I hope my lord governor will par- 
 don me for dwelling thus on the picture, seeing it is merely out of my 
 hearty love and affection for the girl." i " Prithee, go on as long as 
 thou wilt," said Sancho ; " I am mightily taken with thy discourse ; 
 and, if 1 had but dined, I would not desire a better desert." " Alas! 
 sir, all I have said is nothing ; could I set before your eyes her pretty 
 carriage, and her shape, you would admire. But that is not to be 
 done." 
 
 " So far so goad," said Sancho : " but let us suppose you have 
 
CH. LXXVII;] DON QUlXOTh. 339 
 
 drawn her from head to foot ; what is it you would be at now ? Come 
 to the point, friend, without so many windings and turnings, and go- 
 ing round about the bush." " Sir," said the farmer, " I would desire 
 your honour to do me the kindness to give me a letter of accom 
 modation to the father of my daughter-in-law, beseeching him tc 
 be pleased to let the marriage be fulfilled, seeing we are not 
 unlike neither in estate nor bodily concerns ; for to tell you the truth, 
 my lord governor, my son is bewitched ; and having once had the ill- 
 luck to fall into the fire, the skin of his face is shrivelled up like a 
 piece of parchment, and his eyes are somewhat sore and\ full of 
 rheum. B*»»-, when all is said, he has the tertiper of an angel ; and 
 were he not apt to thump and belabour himself now and then in hw 
 fits, you would take him to be a saint." 
 
 " Have you anything else to ask, honest man?" said Sancho. 
 " Only one thing more," quoth the farmer ; " but I am somewhat 
 afraid to speak it ; yet I cannot find in my" heart to let it rot within 
 me ; and, therefore, I must out with it. I would desire your worship 
 to bestow on me some three hundred or six hundred ducats towards 
 my bachelor's portion, only to help him to begin the world and, fur- 
 nish him a house ; for, in short, they would live by themselves, with- 
 out being subject to the impertinences of a father-in-law." " Well 
 said Sancho, " see if you would have any thing else ; if you- woula, 
 do not let fear or bashfulness be your hindrance. Out with it, man." 
 " No, truly," quoth the farmer ; and he had scarcely spoken the 
 words when the governor, starting up, and laying hold of the chair 
 he sat on, " You brazen-faced impudent country booby ! " cried he 
 " get out of my presence this moment, or I will crack your jolter- 
 head with this chair ! You vagabond, dost thou come at this time of 
 day to ask me for six hundred ducats .-' Where should I have them, 
 clod-pate ? And if I had them, why should 1 give them thee ? 
 What care I for Miguel Turra, or all the generation of the Perlerinos .' 
 Avoid the room, I say, or I'll be as good as my word. It is not a day 
 and a half that I have been governor, and thou wouldst have me pos- 
 sess six hundred ducats already ! " 
 
 The steward made signs to the farmer to withdraw, and he went 
 out accordingly hanging down his head, and to all appearance very 
 much afraid lest the governor should make good his angry threats ; for the 
 cunning knave knew very well how to act his part. But let us leave 
 Sancho in his angry mood ; and let there be peace and quietness 
 while we return to Don Quixote, whom we left with his face coAi'er- 
 ed over with plasters, the scratches which he had got having obliged, 
 him to HO less than eight days' retirement ; during whicii time there 
 happened that which we promise to relate with the same punctuality 
 and verac y with which all the particulars cf this history are de« 
 tailed 
 
340 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXVIII. 
 
 What happened to Don Quixote toith Bonna Rodriguez as also other 
 passages worthy to be recorded. 
 
 Don Quixote, thus unhappily hurt, was extremely discontented and 
 melancholy. He was some days without appearing in public ; and 
 one night, when he was thus confined to his apartment, as he lay awake 
 reflecting on his misfortunes and Altisidora's importunities, he perceiv- 
 ed somehody was opening his chamber-door with a key, and presently 
 imagined that the damsel herself was coming. "No," said he, loud 
 enough to be heard, " the greatest beauty in the universe shall never 
 remove the dear idea of the charming fair that is engraved and stamp- 
 ed in the very centre of my heart, and the most secret recesses of 
 my breast. No, thou only mijtr.ess of my soul, whether transformed 
 into a country girl, or into one of the nymphs of the golden Tagus, 
 that weave silk and gold in the loom ; whether Merlin or Montesinos 
 detained thee where th^y pleased, be Vv^here thou wilt, thou still art 
 mine; and wherever I shall be, I must and will be thine." Just as 
 he ended his speech, the door opened. He fixed his eyes on it, and 
 when he expected to have . seen the doleful Altisidora, he beheld a 
 most reverend pnatron approaching jn a white veil, so long that it cover- 
 ed her, from head to foot. Betwixt her left-hand fingers she carried 
 half a candle lighted, and held her right before her face to keep the 
 blaze of the taper from her eyes, which were hidden by a huge pair 
 of spectacles. AH the way she trod very softly, and moved at a very 
 slow pace. Don Quixote watched her motions, and observing her 
 garb and silence, took her for some enchantress that came in that 
 dress to practise, her wicked sorceries uppn him, and began to make 
 the sign of the cross as fast as he qould. The vision advanced all 
 the while ; and being got to the middle of the chamber, lifted up its 
 eyes and saw Don Quixote thus making a thousand crosses on his 
 breast. But if he was astonished at the sight of such a figure, she 
 vas no less affrighted at his ; so that, as soon as she spied him, so 
 lank, bepatRhed and. muffled up, "Bless me," cried she, " what is 
 this ! " With the sudden fright she dropped the candle, and now, 
 being in the dark, as she was running out, the length of her dress made 
 her stumble, and down she fell. in the middle of. the chamber. Don 
 Quixote at the same time was in great anxiety. " Phantom," cried 
 he, " or whatsoever thou art, J conjure thee to tell me who thou art, 
 and what thou requirest of me .' " The old woman, hearing herself 
 thus conjured, judged Don Qui.xote's fears by her own, and therefore, 
 with a low and doleful voice, " My Lord Don Quixote," said she " if 
 you ara he, I am neither a phantom nor a ghost, but Donna Rodriguez, 
 
en. LXSVIII.] DON QUIXOTE. 341 
 
 my lady duchess's matron of honour, who come to you about a cer- 
 tain grieveinoe of the nature of those which you use to redress." " Tell 
 me, Donna Rodriguez," said Don Quixote, " are not you come to 
 manage some love intrigue .? ' If you are, take it from me, you will 
 lose your labour : it is all in vain, thanks to the peerless beauty of 
 my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso. In a word, madam, provided you 
 come not on some such embassy, you mav go' light your candle and 
 returo, and we will talk of any thing you please." "I have come 
 with no such purpose," said the duenna. *' But stay a little, I will go 
 light my candle, and then I will tell you my tnisfortunes ; for it is 
 you that sets to right every thing in the world." This said, aWay 
 she went, without stopping for an answer. ' 
 
 Donna Rodriguez having returned, sat down in a chair at some 
 distance, without taking off her spectacles, or setting down the can- 
 dle. After they had both remained some minutes in silence, the first 
 that broke it was the knight. " Now, madam," said he, " you may 
 freely unburden your heart, sure of attention to your complaints Eind 
 assistance in your distress." " I believe as much," said the matron, 
 " and promised myself no less charitable an answer from a person of 
 so graceful and pleasing a presence. The case, then, is, noble sir, 
 that though you see me sitting in this chair, in the nliddle of Arragon, 
 in the habit of an insignificant unhappy duenna, I am of Asturias de 
 Oviedo, and one of the be/st families in that province. But my hard 
 fortune, and the neglect of -my parents, brought me to Madrid, where, 
 because they could do no better, they placed me with a court lady to 
 be her chambermaid. And, though I say it, for all manner of plain 
 work I was never outdone by any one in all my life. My father and 
 , mother left me at service, and returned home ; and some few years 
 after they both died, and went to heaven, I hope ; for they were very 
 good and religious Catholics. Then was I left an orphan, and wholly 
 reduced to the sorrowful condition of such court-servants, wretched 
 wages, and a slender allowance. About the same time the gentle- 
 man-usher fell in love with me before I dreamt of any such thing. 
 He was somewhat stricken in years, had a fine beard, was a persona- 
 ble man, and, what is more, as good a gentleman as the king ; for he 
 was of the mountains. We did not carry matters so cipse but it 
 came to my lady's ear, and so, without more ado, she caused us to 
 be married in the face of our holy mother the Catholic church, from 
 which marriage sprung a daughter, who made an end of my good 
 fortune, if I had any. When she came to be sixteen years of age, 
 who should happen to fall in love with her but a rich farmer's son, 
 that lives in one of my lord duke's villages not far off; he cour^d her, 
 gained her consent, and was under promise of marriage to her ; but 
 he now refuses to make his word good. The duke is no .stranger to 
 the business, for I have made compla'nt to him about it many and 
 29* ■ 
 
34J DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ma? y times, ai i begged of him to enjoin the young man to wed my 
 daughter ; but 'le turns his deaf ear to me, and canpot endure I should 
 speak to him >f it, because the young knave's father is rich, and 
 lends the duk» money, and is bound for him upon all occasions, so 
 that he would yy no means disoblige him. 
 
 " Therefor' , sir, I apply myself to your worship, and beseech you 
 to see my d'."ghter righted,. either by entreaties or by force, seeing 
 every body <'tys you were sent into the world to redress grievances 
 and assist tlif>se in adversity. Be pleased tp cast an eye of pity on 
 my daughter's orphan state, her beauty, her youth, and all her other 
 good parts ; for, on my conscience, of all the danisels my lady has, 
 there is not ine can come up to her by a mile ; no, not she that is 
 cried up as ♦he finest of them all, whom they call Altisidora : I am 
 sure she is '>ot to be named the same day ; for, let me tell you, sir, 
 all is not gr\d that glisters. This same Altisidora, after all, is a hoity- 
 toity, that ^ is more vanity than beauty, and less modesty than confi- 
 dence." 
 
 Scarce ' ad this passed, when the chamher-door flew open, which 
 so started Donna Rodriguez, that she let fall her candle, and the 
 room remained as dark as a wolf's mouth, as the saying is ; and 
 presently the poor duenna felt somebody hold her by the throat, and 
 squeeze it so hard, that it was not in her power to cry out ; and 
 another beat her so unmercifully that it would have moved anyone 
 but those that did it to pity. Don Quixote was not without compas- 
 sion, yet he lay silent, not knowing what the meaning of this bustle 
 might be, and fearing lest the tempest that poured on the poor mat- 
 ron might also light upon himself; and . not without reason ; for in- 
 deed, after the mute executioners had well beat the old gentlewoman 
 (who durst not cry out), they came to Don Quixote, and pinched him 
 so hard and so long, that in his own defence he could not forbear lay- 
 mg about him with his fists as well as he could, till at last, after the 
 scuffle had lasted about half an hour, the invisible phantoms vanished. 
 Donna Rodriguez, lamenting her hard fortune, left the room without 
 speaking a word to the knight. As for him, he remained where he 
 was, sadly pinched and tired, and very moody and thoughtful, not 
 knowing who this wicked enchanter could be that had used him in 
 that manner. But now let us leav.e him, and return to Sancho Panza, 
 who calls upon us, as the order of our history requires. 
 
CH. LZXU ] VON QUIXOTE. 343 
 
 CHAPTER LXXIX. 
 
 What happened to Sancho Panza as he went the rounds in his island. 
 
 We left our mighty governor much out of humour with that saucy 
 knave of a countryman, who according to the instructions he had 
 received from the steward, and the steward from the duke, had ban- 
 tered his worship with his impertinence. Yet, as much a dunce and 
 fool as he was, he' made his party good against them all. At last, 
 addressing himself to those about him, among whom was Dr. Pedro 
 Eezio, who had ventured into the rooni again : " Now," said he, " do 
 I find in good earnest that judges and governors must be made of 
 brass, that they may be proof against the importunities of those that 
 pretend business ; who, at all hours and at all seasons, would be 
 heard and despatched, without any regard to anybody but themselves. 
 Now if a poor judge does not hear and despatch them presently, 
 either because he is otherwise busy and cannot, or because they do 
 not come at a proper season, then do they grumble, and give him 
 their blessing backwards, rake up the ashes of his forefathers, and 
 would gnaw his very bones. But with your leave, good Mr. Busy- 
 body, with all your business, you are too hasty ; pray have a little 
 patience, and wait a fit time to make your application. Do not come 
 at dinner-time, or when a man is going to sleep ; for we judges are 
 flesh and blood, and must allow nature what she naturally requires ; 
 unless it be poor I, who am not to allow mine any food ; thanks to my 
 friend Mr. Dr. Pedro Kezio Tirteafuera, here present, who is for 
 starving me to death, and then vows it is for the preservation of my 
 life." 
 
 All that knew Sancho wondered to hear him talk so sensibly, and 
 began to think that offices and places of trust .inspired some men with 
 understanding, as they stupefied and confounded others. However, 
 Dr. Pedro promised him he should sup that night, though he trespass- 
 ed against all the rules of Hippocrates. This pacified the governor, 
 and made him wait with a mighty impatience for the evening. To nis 
 thinking, the hour was so long coming that he fancied time stood sjiU ; 
 but yet at last the wished-for moment came, and they served him up 
 some minced beef with onions, and some calves-feet, somewhat stale. 
 The hungry governor presently fell to with more eageriiess and appe 
 tite than if theyvhad given him Roman pheasants or Lavajos geese. 
 And after he had pretty well taken ofi" the sharp edge of his stomach 
 turning to the physician, " Look you," quoth he, " Mr. Doctor, here- 
 after never trouble yourself to get me dainties or tit-bits to humour 
 my stomach ; that would but take it quite off the hinges, by reason il 
 has been used to nothing but good beef, bacon, pork, goats-flesh, luf 
 
344 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 nips, and onions ; and if you ply me with your kick-shaws, your nice 
 courtiers' fare, it will but make my stomach squeamish and untoward, 
 and I should perfectly loathe them one time or another. However, 
 I shall not take it amiss-, if Master Sewer-will now and then get me 
 one of those oUa podridas (and the stronger they are the better), 
 where all sorts of good things are stewed, and, as it were, lost in one 
 another ; and I shall remember him, and make him amends one of 
 these days. But let nobody put tricks upon travellersi and make a 
 fool of me ; for either we are or we are not. Let us be merry and 
 wise ; when God sends his light, he sends it to all. I will govern this 
 island fair and square, without underhand dealings' or taking of bribes ; 
 but take notice, I will not bate an inch of my right ; and therefore ' let 
 every one cairry an even hand, and mind their hits, or else I would 
 have them to know there are rods in pickle for them. They that urgs 
 me too far shall rue for it : make yourself honey, and the flies will 
 eat you." " Indeed, my lord governor," said' the steward, " your 
 lordship is much in the right in all you have said ; and I dare engage 
 for the inhabitants of this island, that they will obey and observe your 
 commands with diligence, love, and punctuality ; for yourgeiitle way 
 of governing, in the beginning of your administration, does not give 
 them the least opportunity to act or to design any thing to yorir lord- 
 ship's disadvantage." " I believe as much," answered Sancho, " and 
 they would be silly wretches, should they offerto do or think other- 
 wise. Let me tell you too, it is my pleasure you take care of me 
 and my Dapple, that we may both have our food as we ought, which 
 is the most material business. Next let us think of going the rounds, 
 when it is time for me to do so ; for I intend to clear this island of all 
 fi'th and rubbish, of all rogues and vagrants, idle fellows, and sturdy 
 beggars. For I would have you to know, my good friends, that your 
 slothful, lazy, lewd people in a commonwealth, are like drones in a 
 bee-hive, that waste and' devour the honey which the labouring bees 
 gather. I design to encourage the husbandmen^ preserve the privi- 
 leges of the gentry, reward virtuous persons ; and above all things, 
 reverence religion, and have regard to the honour of religious men. 
 What think you of this, my good friends .' Do I talk to the purpose, 
 or do I talk idly .' " "You speak so well, my lord governor," an- 
 swered the steward, " that I stand in admiration to hear you utter so 
 many notable things, and in every word a sentence ; far from what 
 they who have sent Jrou hither, and they who are here present, evei 
 expected from your understanding. But every day produces some 
 new wonder ; jests are turned into earnest, and those who designed to 
 laugh at others, happen to be laughed at themselves." 
 
 It being now night, and the governor having supped, he prepared to 
 walk the rounds ; and set forward, attended by the stewani, the sec- 
 retary, the gentleman- waiter, the" historiographer (who was to registeiP 
 
«H. LXXIX.] DON QUIXOTE. 3^15 
 
 his acts), several sergeants, and other limbs of the law ; so many in 
 number that they made a little battalion, in the middle of which the 
 great Sancho marched with his rod of justice in his hand, in a notable 
 manner. They had not walked far before they heard the clashing of 
 swords, which made them hasten to the place whence the noise came. 
 Being come thither, they found only two men fighting, who gave over 
 on perceiving the officers. " What," cried one of them at the same 
 time, " do they suffer folks to be robbed in the town, in defiance of 
 Heaven and the king; do they let men be. stripped in the middle of 
 the street ? " " Hold, honest man," said Sancho ; " have a little pa- 
 tience, and let me know the occEision of this fray, for I am the 
 governor." " My lord," said the other party, " I will tell you in a 
 few words. Your lordship must know that this gentleman, just now, 
 at a gaming-ordinary over the way, won above a thousand reals ; I 
 stood by all the while, and gave judgment for him in more than one 
 doubtful cast, though I could not well tell how to do it in conscience. 
 He carried off his winnings ; and when I expected he would have 
 given me a crown gratuity, up he got, £uid went away without giving 
 me any thing. I ran after him, not very well pleased with his pro- 
 ceeding, yet very civilly desired him to consider I was his friend ; 
 that he knew me to be a gentleman, though fallen to decay, that had 
 nothing to live upon, my friends having brought me up to no employ- 
 ment ; and therefore I entreated him to be so kind as to give me eight 
 reals ; but the stingy soul would give me but four sneaking reals. And 
 now, my lord, you may see how little shame and conscience there is 
 in him. But had not your lordship come just in the nick, I would have 
 made him disgorge his winnings, and taught him the difference be- 
 tween a rook and a jackdaw." " What say you to this ? ".cried San- 
 cho to the other. The other made answer, " That he could not deny 
 what his antagonist had said, that he would give him but four reals, 
 because he had given him money several times before ; and they who 
 expect benevolence should be mannerly, and be thankful for what is 
 given them, without haggling with those that have won, unless they 
 know them to be common cheats, and the money not won fairly ; and 
 that to shew he was a fair gamester, and no sharper, as the other said, 
 there needed no better proof than his refusal to give him any thing, 
 bince the sharpers are always in fee with these bully-rocks, who know 
 them, and wink at their cheats." " That is true," said the steward. 
 " Now what would your lordship have us to do with these men ? " " I 
 will tell you," said Sancho : " first, you that are the winner, whether 
 by fair play or by foul, give your bully-back here a hundred reals im- 
 jnediately, and thirty more for the poor prisoners ; and you that have 
 nothing to live on, and were brought up to no employment, and go 
 sharping up and down from place to place, pray take your hundred 
 reals, and be sure by t>morrow to go out of this island, and not to set 
 
346 DON QUIXOTE 
 
 foot in it again these ten years and a day, unless you have a mind to 
 make an end of your banishment in another world ; for if I find you 
 here, I will make you swing on a gibbet, with the help of the hang- 
 man. Away, and let nobody offer to reply, or I will lay him by the 
 heels." Thereupon the one disbursed and the other received ; the 
 first went home, and the last went out of the island ; and then the 
 governor, going on, " Either I shall want of my will," said he, " or 
 I will put down these disorderly gaming-houses,; for I have a fancy 
 they are highly prejudicial." One of the ofiiqers now came holding 
 a youth, and having brought him before the governor, " If it please 
 your worship,?' said he, " this young man was coming towards us, but 
 as soon as he perceived it was the rounds, he sheered off, and set 
 a-running a^ fast as his legs would carry him — a sign he is no better 
 than he should be." " What made you run away, friend > " said 
 Sancho. " Sir," answered the young man, " it was only to avoid the 
 questions one is commonly teased with by the watch." " What busi- 
 ness do you follow .' " asked Sancho. " I am a weaver by trade,", 
 answered the other. " A weaver of what .' " asked the governor, 
 " Of steel-heads for lances, with your worship's good leave," said the 
 other. " Oh, oh," cried Sancho, " you are a wag, I find, and pre- 
 tend to pass your jests upon us. Very well. And pray whither are 
 you going at this time of night .' " " To take the air, if it like your, 
 worship," answered the other. " Good," said Sancho ; " and where 
 do they take the air in this island } " " Where it blows," said the 
 youth. " A very proper answer," cried Sancho. "You are a very 
 pretty impudent fellow, that is the truth of it. But pray make ac- 
 count that I am the air, or the wind, which you please, and that I will, 
 blow you to the round-house. Here, take him, and carry him away 
 thither dire'ctly ; I will take care the youngster shall sleep out of the 
 air to-night ; he might catch cold else by lying abroad." " You shall 
 as soon make me a king," said the young man, " as make me sleep 
 out of the air to-night." " Why, you young slip-string," said San- ' 
 cho, " is it not in my power to commit thee to prison, and fetch thee 
 out again as often as it is my will and pleasure ? " " For all your 
 power," answered the fellow, " you shall not make me sleep in pris- 
 on." " Say you so ! " cried Sancho ; " here, away with him ti^ 
 prison, and let him see to his cost who is mistaken, he or I ; and, lest 
 the jailor should be greased in the fist to let him out, I will fine him; 
 in. two thousand ducats if he let thee stir a foot out of prison." " AH 
 that is a jest," said the other ; " for I defy all mankind to make me, 
 sleep this night in a prison." " Hast thou some angel," said Sancho, 
 " to take off the irons which I will have thee clapped in, and get thee 
 out .' " " Well now, my good lord governor," said the young man 
 very pleasantly, " let us talk reason, and come to the point. Sup-. 
 pose your lordship should send me to jail, and get me laid* by the 
 
CH. LXZIX.] DON QUIXOTE. 347 
 
 heels m the dungeon, shackled and manacled, and lay a heavy penal- 
 ty on the jailor in case he let me out ; and suppose your orders be 
 strictly obeyed ; yet for all that, if I have no mind to sleep, but will 
 keep awake all night, without so much as shutting my eyes, pray can 
 you, with all the power you have, make me sleep whether I will or 
 no ? " " No, certainly," said the secretary ; " and the young man 
 has made out his meaning." " Well," said Sancho, " but I hope you 
 mean to keep yourself awake, and only forbear sleeping to please 
 your own fancy, and not to thwart my will > " " I mean nothing 
 else indeed, my lord," said the lad. " Why, then, go home and 
 sleep," quoth Sancho, " and heaven send thee good rest ; I will not 
 be thy hindrance. But have a care another time of sporting with 
 justice ; for you may meet with some in office that may chance to 
 break your head, while you are Breaking your jest." The youth 
 went his way, and the governor continued his rounds. 
 
 A while after came two of the officers, bringing a person alonsr 
 with them. " My lord governor," said one of them, " we have 
 brought here one that is dressed like a man, yet is no man, but a 
 woman, and no ugly one neither." Thereupon they lifted up to her 
 eyes two or three lanterns, and by their light discovered the face of a 
 woman about sixteen years of age, beautiful to admiration, with her 
 hair put up in a network caul of gold and green silk. Sancho was 
 surprised at her beauty, and asked her who she was, whither she was 
 going, and upon what account she had put on such a dress. " Sir," 
 said she, casting her eyes on the ground with a decent bashfulness, 
 " I cannot tell you before so many people what I have so much reason 
 to wish may be kept a secret. Only this one thing I do assure you, 
 I am no thief, nor evil-minded person, but an unhappy maid, whom 
 the force of jealousy hsis constrained to transgress the laws of deco- 
 rum." The steward hearing this, " My lord governor," said he, " be 
 pleased to order your attendants to retire, that the gentlewoman may 
 more freely tell her mind." The governor did accordingly ; and all 
 the company removed to a distance, except the steward, the gentleman- 
 waiter, and the secretary ; and then the young lady thus proceeded : 
 
 " I am the daughter of Pedro Perez Mazorca, farmer of the wool 
 in this town, who comes very often to my father's house." " This 
 will hardly pass, madam," said the steward ; " for I know Pedro 
 Perez very well, and he has neither son nor daughter ; besides, you 
 tell us he is your father, and yet that he comes very often to your 
 father's house." " I observed as much," said Sancho. " Indeed 
 gentlemen," said she, " I am now so troubled in mind, that I know not 
 what I say ; but the truth is, I am the daughter of Diego de la Liana, 
 whom I suppose you all know." " Now this may pass," said the 
 stewaYd ; " for I know Diego de la Liana, who is a very considerable 
 gentleman, has a good estate, and a s »n and a daughter. But since 
 
348 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 his wife died, nobody in this town can say he ever saw that daugh'er 
 for he keeps her so close, that he hardly suffers the sun to look on her 
 though indeed the common report is, that she is an extraordinary 
 beauty." " You say very true, sir," replied the young lady ; " and 
 I am that very daughter. As for my beauty, if fame has given you 
 a wrong character of it, you will now be undeceived, siate you have 
 seen my face ; " and with this she burst outintp tears. The secreta- 
 ry, perceiving this, whispered the gentleman- waiter in the ear: 
 " Sure," said he, " some extraordinary matter must have happened 
 to this poor young lady, since it could oblige one of her quality to come 
 out of doors in this disguise." "That is without question," answered 
 the other ; " for her tears, tooj confirm the suspicion." Saricho com- 
 forted her with the best reasons he could think on, and bid her not be' 
 afraid, but tell them what had befallen her. 
 
 " You must know, gentlemen," said she, " that it is now ten years 
 that my father has kept me close — ever since my mother died. We 
 have a small chapel in the house, where we hear mass ; and in all 
 that time I have seen nothing but the sun by day, and the moon and 
 stars by night ; neither do I know what streets, squares, market-, 
 places, and churches are ; noj nor men, except my father, my brother^, 
 and that Pedro Perez the Wool-farmer, whom I at first would 
 have passed upon you for my father. This confinement (not being 
 allowed to stir abroad, though but to go to church) has made me un- 
 easy this great while, and made me long to see the world, or at least 
 the town where I was born, which I thought was no unlawful or un- 
 seemly desire. When I heard them talk of feasts, prizes, acting of 
 plays, and other public sports, l aslced my brother, who is a year 
 younger than I, what they meant by those things, and a world of ; 
 others, which I have not seen ; and he informed me as well as he 
 could ; but that made me but the more eager to be satisfied by my 
 own eyes. In short, I begged of my brother — I wish I never had 
 done it — ■ — " And here she relapsed into tears. The steward per- 
 ceiving it, " Come, madam," said he, "pray proceed, and make an 
 end of telling us what has happened to you ; for your words and your 
 tears keep us all in suspense." " Lhave but few more words to ^dd," 
 answered she, " but many more tears to shed ; for they are commonly 
 the fruit of such imprudent desires." 
 
 Thereupon, with broken sobs and half-fetched sighs, " Sir," said 
 she, " all my misfortune is, that I desired my brother to lend me some 
 of his clothes, and that he would take me out some night or other to 
 see all the town, while our father was asleep. Importuned by my en- 
 treaties, he consented ; and, having lent me liis clothes, he put on 
 mine, which fit him as if they had been made for him. So this very 
 night, about an hour ago, we got Out; and being guided by my father's 
 footboy, and our own unruly desires, we took a ramble over the whola 
 
CH. LXXIX.] DON QUIXOTE. 349 
 
 town ; and as we were going home, we perceived a great number of 
 people coming our way ; whereupon, said my brother, ' Sister, this is 
 certainly the watch ; follow me, and let us not only run, but fly as 
 fast as we can ; for if we should be known, it will be worse for us.' 
 With that, he fell a running as fast as if he had wings to his feet. 1 
 fell a running too ; but was so frightened, that I fell down before I 
 had gone half-a-dozen steps ; and then a man overtook me, and 
 brought me before you and this crowd of people, by whom, to my 
 shame, I am taken for an ill creature — a bold, indiscreet night-walk- 
 er." All this was afterwards confirmed by her brother, who was now 
 brought by some of the watch, one of whom had at last overtaken 
 him, after he had left his sister. He had nothing on but a very rich 
 petticoat and a blue damask manteau, with a gold galloon ; his head 
 without any ornament but his own hair that hung down in natural curls 
 like so many rings of gold. The governor, the steward,' and the 
 gentleman-waiter took him aside ; arid after they had examined him 
 apart, why he had put on that dress, he gave the same answer hia 
 sister had done, and with no less bashfulness and concern ; much to 
 the satisfaction of the gentleman-waiter, who was much smitten with 
 the young lady's charms. 
 
 As for the governor, after he had heard the whole matter, " Truly, 
 gentlefolks," said he, " here is a little piece of childish folly ; and to 
 give an account of this wild frolic and slip of youth, there needed 
 not all these sighs and tears, nor those hems, and ha's, and long ex- 
 cuses. Could not you, without any more ado, have : said, our names 
 are so and so, and we stole out of our father's house for an hour or 
 two, only to ramble about the town, and satisfy a little curiosity , and 
 there had been an end of the story, without all this weeping and wail- 
 ing?" "You say very well," said the young damsel; " but you 
 may imagine that, in the trouble and -fright I was in, I could not be- 
 have myself as I should have done." " Well," said Sancho, " there 
 is no harm done ; go along with us, and we will see you home to 
 your father's ; perhaps you may not yet be missed. But have a care 
 how you gad abroad to see fashions another time. Do not be too 
 venturesome ; an honest maid should be still at home, as if she had 
 one leg broken. A hen and a woman are lost by rambling ; and she 
 that longs to see, longs also to be seen. I need say no more." 
 
 The young gentleman thanked the governor for his civility, and 
 then went home under his conduct. Being come to the house, the 
 young spark threw a little stone against one of the iron-barred win- 
 dows ; and presently a maid-servant, who sat up for them, came 
 down, opened the door, and let him and his sister in. 
 
 The governor, with his company, then continued his rounds, talk- 
 iiig all the way as they went of the genteel carriage and beauty of 
 » 30 
 
350 DON QTTIXOTE. 
 
 the brother and sistor, and the great desire these poor children hat" to 
 see the world by night. 
 
 As for the gentleman-waiteir, he was so passionavely in love, tha« 
 he resolved to go the next day and demand her of her father in mar 
 riage, not doubting bat the old gentleman would comply with him, as 
 he was one of the duke's principal servants. On the other side, 
 Sancho had a great mind to strike a match between the young man 
 and his daughter Sanchica ; and he resolved to bring it about as soon 
 as possible — believing no man's son could think himself too good 
 for a governor's daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXX. 
 
 Which narrates the success of the page that carried Sancho's letter to 
 
 his wife. 
 
 The duchess, having a great desire to continue the merriment which 
 Don Quixote's extravagances afforded them, the page that acted the 
 part of Dulcinea in the Wood was despatched away to Teresa Panza 
 with a letter from her husband (for Sancho, having his head fiill of 
 his government, had quite forgotten to do it) ; and at the same time 
 the duchess sent another from herself, with a large costly string of 
 coral as a present. 
 
 Now the page was a sharp and ingenious lad ; and being very- de- 
 sirous to please his lord and lady, made the best of his way to San- 
 cho's village. When he came near the place, he saw a company of 
 females washing at a brook, and asked them whether they could 
 inform him if there lived not in that town a woman whose name was 
 Teresa Panza, wife to one Sancho Panza, squire to a knight called 
 Don Quixote de la Mancha ? He had no sooner asked the question, 
 than a young girl that was washing among the rest stood up : " Tere- 
 sa Panza is my mother," quoth she ; " that gaffer Sancho is my own 
 father, and that same knight our master." " Well, then, damsel," 
 said the page, " pray go along with me, and bring me to your moth- 
 er ; for I have a letter and a token here for her from your father." 
 " That I will, with all my heart, sir," said the girl, who seemed to be 
 about fourteen years of age ; and with that, leaving the clothes she 
 was washing to one of her companions, without staying to dress hei 
 head or put on her shoes, away she sprung before the page's horse 
 barelegged, and with her hair about her ears. " Come along, if i. 
 please you," quoth she ; " our house is hard by ; it is but just as yor 
 come into the towe ; and my mother is at home, but brimful of sor 
 
CH. LXSX.J DON QUIXOTE. 351 
 
 row, pojr S3ul ; for she has not heard from my father, I do not know 
 how long." " Well," said the page, " I bring lidiags that will cheer 
 her hia^t, I warrant her." At last, what with leaping, running, and 
 jumpiMg, the girl being come to the house, " Mother, mother," cried 
 she, St loud as she could, before she went in, " come out, mother — 
 come out ; here is a gentleman has brought letters from my father ! " 
 At th..t summons, out came the mother, spinning a lock of coarse 
 flax, nith a russet petticoat about her, a waistcoat of the same, and 
 her s nock hanging loose about it. Take her otherwise, she was none 
 of th ! oldest, but looked somewhat turned of forty — strong-built, 
 sinew f, hale, vigorous, and in good case. " What is the matter, 
 girl ? ' quoth she, seeing her daughter with the page ; " what gentle- 
 man IS that ? " " A servant of your ladyship's, my Lady Teresa 
 PansMi," answered the page ; and at the same time alighting, and 
 thiowmg himself at her feet, " My noble Lady Donna Teresa," said 
 he, " permit me the honour to kiss your ladyship's hand, as you are 
 the wife of my Lord Don Sancho Panza, governor of the island of 
 Barataria." " Alack-a-day ! " quoth Teresa, " what do you do ? I 
 am none of your court-dames ; but a poor, silly, country body, a 
 ploughtnaa's daughter, — the wife. Indeed, of a sqi sire-errant, but no 
 governor." " Your ladyship," replied the page, " is the most worthy 
 wife of a thrice-worthy governor ; and for proof of what I say, be 
 pleased to receive this letter and this present." With that, he took 
 out of his pocket a string of coral beads, set in gold, and putting it 
 about her neck, " This letter," said he, " is from his honour the gov- 
 ernor ; and another that I have for you, together with these beads, 
 are from her grace the lady duchess, who sends me now to your 
 ladyship." 
 
 "Teresa stood amazed, and her daughter was transported. " Now," 
 quoth the young baggage, " if our master, Don Quixote, be not at 
 the bottom of thip. He has given my father that same government 
 or earldom he has promised him so many times." " You say right," 
 answered the page ; " it is for the Lord Don Quixote's sake that the 
 Lord Sancho is now governor of the island of Barataria." " Good 
 sir," quoth Teresa, " read it me, if it like your worship ; for though 
 I can spin, I cannot read a jot." " Nor I neither," cried Sanchica ; 
 " but do but stay a little, and I will go fetch one that shall, either the 
 bachelor Samson Carrasco, or our parson himself, who will come 
 with all their hearts to hear the news of my father." " You may 
 spare yourself the trouble," said the page; "for though I cannot 
 spin, yet I can read ; and I will read it to you." With that ne read 
 the letter, which is now omitted, because it has been inserted before 
 That done, he pulled out another from the duchess, which runs as 
 follows . 
 
352 don quixote. 
 
 "Fkiend Teresa, 
 
 " Your husband Sancho's good parts, his wit and honesty, obligea 
 me to desire the duke, my husband, to bestow on him the government 
 of one of his islands. I am informed he is as sharp as a hawk in 
 his office, for which I am very glad, as well as my lord duke, ana 
 return Heaven many thanks that I have not been deceived in making 
 choice of him for that preferment ; for you must know, Signora Ter- 
 esa, it is a difficult thing to meet with a good governor in this world. 
 
 " I have sent you, my dear friend, a string of coral beads, set in 
 gold ; I could wish they were oriental pearls for your sake ; but a 
 small token may not hinder a great one. The time will come when 
 we shall be better acquainted ; and when we have conversed together, 
 who knows what may come to pass .' 
 
 " I understand you have fine large acorns in your town ; pray send 
 me a dozen or two of them ; I shall set a greater value upon them as 
 coming from your hands. And pray let me have a good long letter, 
 to let me know how you do ; and if you have occasion for any thing, 
 it is but ask and have. 
 
 " Your loving friend, 
 
 " The Duchess. 
 
 " From this castle." 
 
 "Ah!" quoth Teresa, when she had heard the letter, " what a 
 good lady is this ! not a bit of pride in her ! Let me be buried with 
 such ladies, and not with such proud madams as we have ip our 
 town ; who, because they are gentlefolks, forsooth, think the wind 
 must not blow on them, but come flaunting to church as stately as if 
 they were queens. It seems they think it scorn to look upon a poor 
 country woman. But, la you ! here is a good lady, who, though she 
 be a duchess, calls me her friend, and uses me as if I were as high as 
 herself. Well, may I see her as high as the highest steeple in the 
 whole country ! As for the acorns she writes for, I will send her good 
 ladyship a whole peck, and such swinging acorns, that every body 
 shall come to admire -them far and near. And now, Sanchica, see 
 that the gentleman be made welcome, and want for nothing. Take 
 care of his horse. Run to the stable ; get some eggs ; cut some ba- 
 con : he shall fare like a prince. The rare news he has brought me, 
 and his good looks, deserve no less. Meanwhile, I must run and tell 
 my neighbours the news. Our good curate, too, shall know it, and 
 Mr. Nicholas the barber ; for they have all along been thy father's 
 friends." " Ay, do, mother," said the daughter ; " but, hark you, 
 you must give me half the beads ; for, I daresay, the great lady 
 knows better things than to give them all to you." " It is all thy own, 
 child," cried the mother ; " but let me wear it a few days about my 
 
3H. LXXX.] DON QUIXOTE. 353 
 
 neck, for thou canst not think how it rejoices the very heait of me." 
 " You will rejoice more presently," ^aid the page, " when you see 
 what I have got in my portmanteau ; a fine suit of green cloth, 
 which the governor wore but one day a-hunting, and has here sent to 
 my Lady Sanchica." 
 
 Presently, away ran Teresa, with the beads about her neck, and 
 the letters in her hand, all the while playing with her fingers on the 
 oapers, as if they had been a timbrel ; and meeting, by chance, the 
 curate and the bachelor Carrasco, she fell a-dancing and frisking 
 about. " Faith and troth," cried she, "we are all made now. We 
 have got a little thing called a 'government.' And now, let the 
 proudest of them all toss up her nose at me, and I' will give her as 
 good as 'she brings. I will make her know her distance." "How 
 now, Teresa .' " said the curate ; " what mad fit is this ? what papers 
 are these in your hand > " " No mad fit at all," answered Teresa ; 
 " but these are letters from duchesses and governors, and these beads 
 about my neck are right coral, the Ave-marias I mean, and the Pater- 
 nosters are of beaten gold ; and I am a governor's lady, I assure you." 
 " Verily," said the curate, " there is no understanding yOii, Teresa ; 
 we do not know what you mean." " There is what will clear the 
 riddle," quoth Teresa ; and with that she gave them the letters. 
 Thereupon, the curate having read them aloud, that Samson Car- 
 rasco might also be informed, they both stood and looked on one 
 another, and were more at a loss than before. The bachelor asked 
 her who brought the letter ? Teresa told them it was a sweet, hand- 
 some, young man, as fine as anything ; and that he had brought her 
 another present worth twice as much. The curate took the string of 
 beads from her neck, and finding that it was a thing of value, he 
 could not conceive the' meaning of all this. " I cannot tell," cried he 
 ." what to think of this business. I am convinced these beads are right 
 coral and gold ; but again, here is a duchess sends to beg a dozen or 
 two of acorns." " Crack that nut if you ckri," said Samson Carrasco. 
 " But come, let us go to see the messenger, and probably he will clear 
 our doubts." 
 
 Thereupon, going with Teresa, they found the page sifting a little 
 corn for his horse, and Sanchica cutting a rasher of bacon, to be fried 
 with eggs, for his dinner. They both liked the page's mien and his 
 garb ; and after the usual compliments, Samson desired him to tell 
 them some news of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza ; for though they 
 had read a letter from the latter to his wife, and another from the 
 duchess, they were no better than riddles to theni ; nor could they 
 imagine hqw Sancho should come by a government, especially of an 
 island, well knowing that all the islands in the Mediterranean, or the 
 greatest part of them, were the king's. 
 ' i^ ggntlpraen," answered the page, " it is a certain truth, that Signor 
 
 30* ?3 
 
354 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Sancho Panza is a governor, but whether it be of an island or net, I 
 do not pretend to determine ; but this I can assure you, that he com. 
 mands in a town that has above a thousand inhabitants. And as for 
 my lady duchess's sending to a countrywoman for a few acornf, that 
 is no such wonder, for she is so free from pride, that I have known 
 her send to borrow a comb of one of her neighbours. You must know, 
 our ladies of Arragon, though they are as noble as those of Castile, do 
 not stand so much upon formalities and punctilios, neither do they 
 take so much state upon them, but treat people with more familiarity." 
 
 The curate and the bachelor plainly perceived that the page spoke 
 jestingly : but yet the costly string of beads, and the hunting suit, 
 which by this time Teresa had let them see, confounded them again. 
 " Then, sir, you assure us still," said Carrasco, " that Sancho is really 
 a governor, and that a duchess sends these presents and letters upon 
 his account ; for though we see the things, and read the letters, we 
 can scarce prevail with ourselves to believe it, but are apt to run into 
 our friend Don Quixote's opinion, and look on all this as the effect 
 of some enchantment ; so that I could find in my heart to feel and 
 try whether you are merely a visionary messenger or a real creature 
 of flesh and blood." 
 
 " For my part, gentlemen," answered the page, " all 1 can tell you 
 is, that I am really the messenger I appear to be ; that the Lord San- 
 cho Panza is actually a governor ; and that the duke and the duchess, 
 to whom I belong, are able to give, and have given him that govern 
 ment ; where, I am credibly informed, he behaves himself most wor- 
 thily. Now if there be any enchantment in the matter, I leave you 
 to examine that ; for I know no more of the business." " That may 
 be," said the bachelor, " but yet duhitat Augustinus." " You may 
 doubt if you please," replied the page, " but I have told you the truth, 
 which will always prevail over falsehood, and rise uppermost, as oil. 
 does above water. But if you will operibus credere, et non verbis. 
 let one of you go along with me, and you shall see with your eyes 
 what you will not believe by the help of your ears." " I will g(j 
 with all my heart," quoth Sanchica ; "take me up behind ye, sir; 1 
 have a great mind to see my father." " The daughters of govern- 
 ors," said the page, " must not travel thus unattended, but in coaches 
 or litters, and with a handsome train of servants." " Oh," quoth 
 Sanchica, " I can go a journey as well on an ass as in one of your 
 coaches. I am none of your tender squeamish things, not I." 
 " Peace, chicken," quoth the mother, " ihou dost not know what 
 thou sayest ; the gentleman is in the right : times are altered. When 
 it was plain Sancho it was plain Sanchica ; but now he is a governor, 
 thou art a lady : I cannot well tell whether I am right or no." " My Lady 
 Teresa says more than she is aware of," said the page. " But now," 
 continued he, " give me a mouthful to eat as soon as you can,. fp» I 
 
CH. LXSXI.] DON QUIXOTE. 355 
 
 must go back this afternoon." " Be pleased then, sir," said the 
 curate, " to go with me, and partake of a slender meal at my ho jse, 
 for my neighbour Teresa is more willing than able to entertain so good 
 a guest." The page excused himself a while, but at last complied, 
 being persuaded it would be much for the better ; and the curate, on 
 his side, was glad of his company, to have an opportunity to inform 
 himself at large about Don Quixote and his proceedings. The bach- 
 elor proffered Teresa to write her answers to her letters ; but as she 
 looked upon him to be somewhat waggish, she would not permit him 
 to be of her counsel ; so she gave a roll and a couple of eggs to a 
 young acolyte of the church who could write, and he wrote two let- 
 ters for her, — one to her husband, and the other to the duchess, all 
 of her own inditing ; and perhaps not the worst in this famous his- 
 torv, as hereafter may be seen. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXI. 
 
 A continuation of Sancho Panza's government ; toitli other enter- 
 taining passages. 
 
 The morning of that day arose which succeeded the governor's 
 round, the remainder of which the gentleman-waiter spent not in 
 sleep, but in the pleasing thoughts of the lovely face and charming 
 grace of the disguised maiden ; on the other side, the steward be- 
 stowed that time in writing to his lord and lady what Sancho did and 
 said ; wondering no less at his actions than at his expressions, both 
 which displayed a strange intermixture of discretion and simplicity. 
 
 At last the lord governor was pleased to rise ; and by Dr. Pedro 
 Rezio's order, they brought him for his breakfast a little conserve and 
 a draught of fair water, which he would have exchanged with all his 
 heart for a good luncheon of bread and a bunch of grapes ; but see- 
 ing he could not help himself, he was forced to make the best of a 
 bad market, and seem to be content, though sorely against his will and 
 appetite ; for the doctor made him believe that to eat but little, and 
 that which was dainty, enlivened the spirits and sharpened the wit 
 and consequently such a sort of diet was most proper for persons in 
 authority and weighty employments, wherein there is less need of the 
 strength of the body than that of the mind. This sophistry served 
 to famish Sancho, who, however, hungry as Hl was, by the strength 
 of his slender breakfast, failed not to give audience that day ; and the 
 first that came before him was a stranger, who put the following 
 case to him, the steward and the rest of the attendants being 
 present : 
 
356 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 " My lord," said he, " a large river divides in two parts one ana 
 the same lordship. I beg your honour to lend me your attention, for 
 it is a case of great importance and some difficulty. Upon this rivei 
 there is a bridge, at the one end of which there stands a gallows, and 
 a kind of court of justice, where four judges used to sit for the exe- 
 cution of a certain law made by the lord of the land and river, which 
 runs thus : 
 
 " ' Whoever intends to pass from one end of this bridge to the 
 other, must first, upon his oath, declare whither he goes, and what his 
 business is. If he swear truth, he may go on ; but if he swear false, 
 he shall be hanged, and die without remission upon the gibbet at the 
 end of the bridge.' 
 
 " After due promulgation of this law, many people, notwithstand- 
 ing its severity, adventured to go over this bridge, and as it appeared 
 they swore true, the judges permitted them to pass unmolested. It 
 happened one day that a certain passenger being sworn, declared, 
 that by the oath he had taken, he was come to die upon that gallows, 
 and that was all his business. 
 
 " This put the judges to a nonplus ; ' for,' said they, ' if we let this 
 man pass freely, he is forsworn, and according to the letter of the 
 law, he ought to die ; if we hang him, he has sworn truth, seeing he 
 swore he was to die on that gibbet ; and then by the same law we 
 should let him pass.' 
 
 " Now your lordship's judgment is desired what the judges ought 
 to do with this man : for they are still at a stand, not knowing what 
 to determine in this case ; and having been informed of your sharp 
 wit, and great capacity in resolving difficult questionsj they sent me 
 to beseech your lordship, in their names, to give your opinion in so 
 intricate and knotty a case." 
 
 " To deal plainly with you," answered Sancho, " those worshipful 
 judges that sent you hither might as well have spared themselves the 
 trouble ; for I am more inclined to bluntness, I assure you, than sharp- 
 ness : however, let me hear your question once more, that I may 
 thoroughly understand it, and perhaps I may at last hit the nail upon 
 the Read." The man repeated thie question again ; and when he had 
 done, " Hark, honest man," said Sancho, " either I am a very dunce, 
 or there is as much reason to put this same person you talk of to 
 death, as to let him live and pass the bridge ; for if the truth saves 
 him, the lie condemns him. Now I would have" you tell those gen- 
 tlemen that sent you, since there is as much reason to bring him off 
 as to condemn him, that they even let him go free ; for it is always 
 more commendable to do good than hurt. Nor do I speak this of my 
 own head ; but I remember one precept, among many others, that 
 my master Don Quixote gave me the night before I came to govern 
 this island, which was, that when the scale of justice is even, or a caw 
 
CH. LXXXI ] DON QUIXOTE. 357 
 
 is doubtful, we should prefer mercy before rigour ; and it has pleased 
 God I should call it to mind so luckily at this juncture." 
 
 " For my part," said the steward, " this judgment seems to me so 
 equitable, that I do not believe Lycurgus himself, who gave the laws 
 lo the Lacedaemonians, could ever have decided the matter better than 
 the great Sancho has done. And now, sir, sure there is enough done 
 /or this morning; be pleased to adjourn the court, and I will give order 
 ihat your Excellency may dine to your heart's content." " Well 
 said," cried Sancho ; f' that is all I want, and then a dear stage and 
 no favour. Feed me well, and then ply me with cases and questions 
 thick and threefold ; you shall see me untwist them, and lay them 
 open as clear as the sun." 
 
 Sancho having plentifully dined that day, in spite of all the apho- 
 risms of Dr. Tirteafuera,' when the cloth was removed, in came an 
 express with a letter from Don Quixote to the governor. Sancho or- 
 dered the secretary to read it to himself, and if there was nothing in 
 It for secret perusal, then to read it aloud. The secretary having 
 first run it over accordingly, " My lord," said he, " the letter may not 
 only be publicly read, but deserves to be engraved in characters of 
 gold ; and thus it is : " 
 
 Don Quixote de la Mancha to Sancho Panza, Governor of the Island 
 
 of Barataria. 
 
 " When I expected to have had an account of thy carelessness and 
 blunders, friend Sancho, I was agreeably disappointed with news of 
 thy wise behaviour ; for which I return theinks to Heaven, that can 
 raise the lowest from their poverty, and turn the fool into a man of 
 sense. I hear thou governest with all discretion ; and that, neverthe-- 
 less, thou retainest the humility of the meanest creature. But I desire 
 thee to observe, Sancho, that it is many times very necessary and con- 
 venient to thwart the humility of the heart, for the better support of 
 authority. For the ornament of a person that is advanced to an em- 
 inent post must be answerable to its greatness, and not debeised to the 
 inclination of his former meanness. Let thy apparel be neat and 
 'handsome ; even a stake, well dressed, does not look like a stake. I 
 would not have thee wear foppish gaudy things, nor affect the garb of 
 a soldier in the circumstances of a magistrate ; but let thy dress be 
 suitable to thy degree, and always clean and comely. 
 
 " To gain the hearts of thy people, I chiefly recommend two 
 things : one is, to be affable, courteous, and fair to all the world ; the 
 other, to take care that plenty of provisions be never wanting, — 
 for nothing afficts or irritates more the spirit of the poor than scarci- 
 ty and hunger. 
 
 " Do not put out many new orders ; and if thou dost put out any 
 
358 DON JiTTIXOTE. 
 
 see that they be wholesome and good, and that they be strictly ob« 
 served ; for laws not well obeyed are no better than if they were not 
 made, and only shew that the prince who had the wisdom and author- 
 ity to make them had not the resolution to see them executed ; and 
 laws that only threaten, and are not kept, become like the log that 
 was given to the frogs to be their king, which they feared at first, but 
 at last scorned and trampled on. 
 
 " Be a father to virtue, but a father-in-law to vice. Be not always 
 severe, nor always merciful ; choose a mean between the two ex- 
 tremes ; for that middle point is the centte of discretion. 
 
 " Visit the prisons, the shambles, and the public markets ; for the 
 governor's presence is highly necessary in such places. 
 
 " Be a terror to the butchers, that they may be fair in their weights , 
 and keep hucksters and fraudulent dealers in awe, for the same 
 reason. 
 
 " Write to thy lord and lady, and shew thyself grateful ; for in- 
 gratitude is the offspring of pride, and one of the worst corruptions 
 of the mind ; whereas he that is thankful to his benefactors gives a 
 testimony that he will be so to God, who has done, and continually 
 does him, so much good. 
 
 " My lady duchess despatched a messenger on purpose to thy 
 wife Teresa, with thy hunting sqit, and another present. We expect 
 his return every moment. 
 
 " I have been somewhat out of order by a certain encounter I had 
 lately, not much to the advantage of my nose ; but all that is nothing ; 
 for if there are necromancers that misuse me, there are others ready 
 to defend me. 
 
 " Send me word whether the steward that is with thee had any 
 hand in the business of the Countess Trifaldi, as thou wert once of 
 opinion ; and let me also have an account of whatever befalls thee 
 since the distance between us is so small. I have thoughts of leav- 
 ing this idle life ere long ; for I was not born for luxury and ease. 
 
 " A business has offered, that I believe will make me lose the duke 
 and duchess's favour ; but though I am heartily sorry for it, that does 
 not alter my resolution ; for, after all, I owe more to my profession 
 than to complaisance ; and, as the saying is. Amicus Plato, sed magis 
 arnica Veritas. I send thee this scrap of Latin, flattering myself that 
 since thou camest to be a governor, thou mayest have learned some- 
 thing of that language. Farewell, and Heaven keep thee above the 
 pity of the world. 
 
 " Thy friend, 
 
 " Don Quixote de la Mancha." 
 
 Sancho gave great attention to the letter ; and it was highly ap- 
 plauded, both for sense and integrity, by every body that heard it. Af- 
 
CH. LXXXI.J DON QUIXOTE. 359 
 
 ter that, he rose from table, and calling the secretary, went without 
 any further delay, and locked himself up with him in his chamber, to 
 write an answer to his master Don Quixote, which was as follows : 
 
 Sancho Panza to Don Quixote de la Mancha. 
 
 '* I am so taken up with business, that I have not yet had time to 
 let you know whether it goes well or ill with me in this same govern- 
 ment, where I am more hunger-starved than when you and I wander- 
 ed through woods and wildernesses. 
 
 " My lord duke wrote to me the other day, to inform me of some 
 spies that were got 'nto this island to kill me ; but as yet I have dis- 
 covered none, but a certain doctor, hired by the islanders to kill all 
 the governors that come near it. They call him Dr. Pedro Rezio de 
 Anguero, and he weis born at Tirteafuera. His name is enough to 
 make me fear he will be the death of me. This same doctor says 
 of himself, that he does cure diseases when you have them ; but 
 when you have them not, he only pretends to keep them from com- 
 ing. The 'physic he uses, is fasting upon fasting, till he turns a body 
 to a mere skeleton ; as if to be wasted to skin and bones were not as 
 bad as a fever. In short, he starves me .to death ; so that, when I 
 thought, as being a governor, to have plenty of good hot victuals and 
 cool liquor, and to repose on a soft feather-bed, I am come to do pen- 
 ance like a hermit. 
 
 " I have not yet so much as fingered the least penny of money, 
 either for fees or any thing else ; and how it comes to be no better 
 with me I cannot imagine, for I have heard that the governors who 
 come to this island are wont to have a very good gift, or at least a 
 very round sum given them by the town before they enter. Arid 
 they say too that this is the usual custom, not only here, but in other 
 places. 
 
 " Last night, in going my rounds, 1 met with a mighty handsome 
 damsel in boy's clothes, and a brother of hers in woman's apparel. 
 My gentleman-waiter fell in love with the girl, and intends to make 
 her his wife, as he says. As for the youth, I have pitched on him to 
 be my son-in-law. To-day we both design to talk to the father, one 
 Diego de la Liana, who is a gentleman, and an old Christian every inch 
 of him. 
 
 " I visit the markets as you advised me, and yesterday found one 
 of the hucksters selling hazle-nuts. She pretended they were all 
 new ; but I found she had mixed a whole bushel of old, empty rotten 
 nuts among the same quantity of new. With that, I adjudged thenj 
 to be given to the hospital boys, who know how to pick the good from 
 the bad, and gave sentence against her that she should not come 
 into the market for fifteen days ; and people said I did well. 
 
360 DON QI7IXOTE. 
 
 " I am mightily well pleased that my lady duchess has writ'en to 
 my wife Teresa Panza, and sent her the token you mention. It shall 
 go hard but I will requite her kindness one time or other. Pray give 
 my service to her ; and tell her from me, she has not cast her gift in 
 a broken sack, as something more than words shall shew. 
 
 " If 1 might advise you, and had ray wish, there should be no fall- 
 ing out between your worship and my lord and lady ; for, if you 
 quarrel with them, it is I must come by the worst for it. And, since 
 you mind me of being grateful, it will not look well in you not to be 
 so to those who have made so much of you at their castle. 
 
 " If my wife Teresa Panza writes to me, pray pay the postage, 
 and send me the letter; for I mightily long to hear how it is 
 with, her, and my house and children. 
 
 " Your worship's servant, 
 
 "Sancho Panza, the Governor." 
 
 The secretary made up the letter, and immediately despatched it. 
 Then those who carried on the plot against Sancho combined togeth- 
 er, and consulted how to release him from the cares of government ; 
 and Sancho passed that afternoon in making several regulations for 
 the better establishment of that which he imagined to be an island. 
 
 In short, he made so many wholesome ordinances, that to this day, 
 they are observed in that place, and called " The Constitutions of the 
 great Governor Sancho Panza." 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXII. 
 
 A relation of the adventures of the second disconsolate or dts- 
 tressed matron, otherwise called Donna Rodriguez ; with the 
 letters of Teresa Panza to the Duchess and to her husband. 
 
 Don Quixote's wounds being healed, he began to think the life he 
 led in the castle not suitable to the order which he professed ; he re- 
 solved, therefore, to set off for Saragosa, where, at the approaching 
 tournament, he hoped to win the armour, the usual prize at the f^ti- 
 vals of that kind. Accordingly, as he sat at table with the loid and 
 lady of the castle, he began to acquaint them with his design ; when 
 behold two women entered the great hall, clad in deep mourning from 
 head tf foot. One of them approaching Don Quixote, threw herself 
 at his feet, where, lying prostrate, and in a manner kissing them, 
 she fetched such doleful sighs and made such lamentations, that all 
 present were not a little surprised. And, though the duke and 
 duchess imagined it to be some new device of their servants, yet, 
 
CH. LZXXII.] DON QUIXOTE. 361 
 
 perceiving with what earnestness the woman sighed and lamented, 
 they were in doubt, and knew not what to think ; till the compassion- 
 ate champion, raising her from the ground, made her to Uft up her 
 veil, and discover, what they least expected, the face of Donna Rod- 
 riguez, the duenna of the family ; and the other mourner proved to 
 be her daughter, whom the'rich farmer's son had deluded. All those 
 \hat knew them were in great admiration, especially the duke and 
 tuchess ; for, though they knew her simplicity, they did not believe 
 htr so far gone in folly. At last, the sorrowful matron, addressing 
 hej^elf to the duke and duchess, " May it please your graces," said 
 she, " to permit me to direct my discourse to this knight ; for it con- 
 cerns me to get out of an unhappy business, into which the impu- 
 dence of a treacherous villain has brought us." With that the duke 
 gave htr leave to speak ; then applying herself to Don Quixote, " It 
 is not long," said she, " valorous knight, since I gave your worship 
 an account how basely a young graceless farmer had used my dear 
 child, and you then promised me to stand up for her, and see her 
 righted ; and now I understand you are about to leave this castle, in 
 quest of the adventures Heaven shall send you. And therefore, be- 
 fore you are gone nobody knows whither, I have this boon to beg of 
 your worship, that you would do so much as challenge this sturdy 
 clown, and make him marry my daughter, according to his promise." 
 " Worthy matron," answered Don Quixote, with a great deal of 
 gravity Eind solemn form, " moderate your tears, or, to speak more 
 properly, dry thiem up, and spare your sighs ; for I take upon me to 
 see your daughter's wrongs redressed. Therefore, with my lord 
 duke's permission, I will instantly depart to find out this ungracious 
 wretch ; and, as soon as he is found, I will challenge him, and kill 
 him, if he persists in his obstinacy ; for the chief end of my profes- 
 sion is, to pardon the submissive, and to chastise the stubborn ; to re- 
 lieve the miserable, and destroy the cruel." " Sir knight," said the 
 duke, " you need not give yourself the trouble of seeking the fellow 
 of whom that good matron complains ; for I already engage that he 
 shall meet you in person to answer it here in this castle, where lists 
 shall be set up for you both, observing all the laws of arms that gught 
 to be kept in affairs of this kind, and doing each party justice, as all 
 princes ought to do that admit of single combats within their territo- 
 ries." " Upon that assurance," said Don Quixote, " with your grace's 
 leave, I, for this time, wave my punctilio of gentility ; and, debasing 
 myself to the meanness of the offender, qualify him to measure 
 • lances with me." With that, pulling off his glove, he flung it down 
 into the middle of the hall, and the duke took it up, declaring, as he 
 already had done, that he accepted the challenge in the name of his 
 vassal ; fixing the time of combat to be six days after, and the place 
 to be the castle-court ; the arms to be such as are usual among knights 
 31 
 
362 DON QUIX07K. 
 
 as lanco, shield, armour of proof, and all other pieces, without fraud, 
 advantage, or enchantment, after search made by the judges of the 
 field. 
 
 *' But," added the duke, " it is requisite that this matron and her 
 daughter commit the justice of their cause into the hands of their 
 champion; for otherwise there will be nothing done, and the chal- 
 lenge is void." " I do," answered the matron. " And so do I," 
 added the daughter, all ashamed, and in a crying tone. The prelim- 
 inaries being adjusted, and the duke having resolved with himself 
 what to do in the matter, the petitioners went away, and the duchess 
 ordered they should no longer be looked on as her domestics,, but aa 
 ladies-errant, that came to demand justice in her castle ; and, accord- 
 ingly, there was a peculiar apartment appointed for them, where they 
 were served as strangers, to the amazement of the other servants, 
 who could not imagine what would be the end of Donna Rodriguez 
 and her forsaken daughter's undertaking.. 
 
 Presently in came the page that had carried the letters and the 
 presents to Teresa Panza. The duke and duchess were overjoyed to 
 see him returned, having a great desire to know the success of his 
 journey. They inquired of him accordingly ; but he told them that 
 the account he had to give them could not well be delivered in public, 
 nor in few words ; and therefore begged their graces would be pleas- 
 ed to take it in private, and, in the meantime, entertain themselves 
 with those letters. With that, taking out two, he delivered them to 
 her grace. The superscription of the one was, " These for my Lady 
 Duchess, of I do not know what place ; " and the direction on the 
 other, thus, " To my husband Sancho Panza, Governor of the Island 
 of Barataria." 
 
 The duchess having opened her letter, read it aloud, that the whole 
 oompany might hear what follows : 
 
 " My Lady, 
 " The letter your honour seal me pleased me hugeously ; for, troth. 
 It is what I heartily longed for. The string of coral is a good thing, 
 and my husband's hunting suit may come up to it. All our town 
 takes it mighty kindly, and is very glad that your honour has made 
 my spouse a governor, though nobody will believe it, especially our 
 curate, master Nicholas the barber, and Samson Carrasco the bache- 
 lor. But what care I whether they do or no .' So it be true, as it is, 
 let every one have their saying. Though (it is a folly to lie) I had 
 not believed it neither, but for the coral and the suit ; for every body 
 here takes my husband to be a dolt, and cannot for the life of them 
 magine what he can be fit to govern, unless it be a herd of goats. 
 Well, Heaven be his guide, and speed him as he sees best for hia 
 ttiildren. As for me, my dear lady, I am resolved, with your good 
 
CH, LliXMJ UOJM (QUIXOTE. 363 
 
 liking, to make hay while the sun shines, and go to court, to loll it 
 along in a coach, and make my neighbours, that envy me already, 
 stare their eyes out. And, therefore, good your honour, pray bid my 
 husband send me store of money, for I believe it is dear living at 
 court ; one can have but little bread there for sixpence, and a pound 
 of flesh is worth thirty maravSdis, which would make one stand 
 amazed. And if he is not for my coming, let him send me word 
 in time ; for my go-ssips tell me, that if I and my daughter go about 
 the court as we should, spruce and fine, my husband will be better 
 known by me, than I by him ; for many cannot choose but ask, 
 What ladies are these in the coach ? With that one of my servants 
 answers, ' The wife and daughter of Sancho Panza, governor of the 
 island of Baratar?& ; ' and thus shall my husband be known, and I 
 honoured, far and near. 
 
 " You cannot think how I am troubled that we have gathered no 
 acorns hereaway this year ; however, I send your highness about 
 half-a-peck, which I have culled one by one : I went to the mountains 
 on purpose, and got the biggest I could find, I wish they had been as 
 big as ostrich-eggs. 
 
 " Pray let not your mightiness forget to write to me, and I will be 
 sure to send you an answer, and let you know how I do, and send you 
 all the news in our village. My daughter Sanchica, and my son, kiss 
 your worship's hands. 
 
 " Your servant, 
 
 "Tekesa Panza." 
 
 This letter was very entertaining to all the company, especially to 
 the duke and duchess ; insomuch, that her grace asked Don Quixote 
 whether it would be amiss to open the governor's letter, which she 
 imagined was a very good one ? The knight told her that, to satisfy 
 her curiosity, he would open it; which heing done, he found what 
 follows : 
 
 " I received thy letter, dear Sancho ; and I vow and swear to thee, 
 as I am a Catholic Christian, I was within two fingers' breadth of 
 running mad for joy. When I heard that thou wert made a governor, 
 I was so transported, I had like to have fallen down dead vvun mere 
 gladness ; for thou knowest sudden joy is said to kill as soon as great 
 sorrow. I had the suit thou sentest me before my eyes, and the lady 
 duchess's corals about my neck, — held the letter in my hands, and 
 had him that brought them standing by me ; and for all that, I thought 
 what I saw and felt was but a dream. For who could have thought a 
 goatherd should ever come to be governor of islands ? But what said 
 my moiJier, ' Who a great deal must see, a great while must live.' 
 My lady iuchess will tell thee how I long to go to court. Pray think 
 
364 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 of it, and let me know thy mind ; for I mean to credit thee there, by 
 going in a coach. 
 
 " Neitlier the curate, the barber, the bachelor, nor the sexton, will 
 believe thou art a governor ; but say it is all juggling or enchantment, 
 as all thy master Don Quixote's concerns used to be ; and Samson 
 threatens to find thee out, and put this maggot of a government cut 
 of thy pate, and Don Quixote's madness out of his coxcomb. For 
 my part, I do but laugh at them, and look upon my string of coral 
 and contrive how to fit up the suit thou sentest me into a gown foi 
 thy daughter. 
 
 " The news here is, that Berrueca has married her daughter to a 
 sorry painter, that came hither pretending to paint any thing. The 
 township set him to paint the king's arms over the town-hall ; he asked 
 hem two ducats for the job, which they paid him : so he fell to work 
 and was eight days a-daubing, but could make nothing of it at last 
 and said he could not hit upon such puddling kind of work, apd ac 
 gave them their money again. Yet for all this he married with the 
 name of a good workman. The truth is, he has left his pencil upon 
 it, and taken the spade, and goes to the field like a gentleman 
 Sanchica makes bone-lace, and gets her three half-pence a-day clear, 
 which she saves in a box with a slit, to go towards Jbuying household 
 stufl". But now she is a governor's daughter, she has no need to work 
 for thou wilt give her a portion. The fountain in the market is dried 
 up. A- thunderbolt lately fell upon the pillory : there may they all 
 light ! I expect thy answer to this, and thy resolution concerning my 
 going to court. 
 
 " Thy wife, 
 
 "Tekesa Panza." 
 
 These letters were admired, and caused a great deal of laughter 
 and diversion ; and, to complete the mirth, at the same time the ex- 
 press returned that brought Sancho's answer to Don Q,uixote, which 
 was likewise publicly read, and startled and delighted all the hearers. 
 Afterwards, the duchess withdrew to know of the page what he had 
 to relate of Sancho's village ; of which he gave her a full account, 
 without omitting the least particular. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXIII. 
 The toilsome end and conclusion of Sancho Panza' s government. 
 
 To think the affairs of this life are always to remain in the same state, 
 is an erro leous fancy. The face of things rather seems continually 
 to chang4 and roll with circular motion ; summer succeeds the spring 
 
CH. LXXXIII.J DON QUIXOTE. 365 
 
 autumn the summer, winter the autumn, and then ■epiing again. So 
 time proceeds in this perpetual round ; only the life of man is ever 
 hastening to its end, swifter than time itself, without hopes to be re- 
 newed, unless in the next, that is unlimited and infinite. For even 
 by the ligjit of nature, and without that of faith, many have discov- 
 ered the swiftness and instability of this prtesent being, and the dura- 
 tion of the eternal life which is expected. But this moral reflection 
 of our author is here chiefly intended to shew the uncertainty of San- 
 cho's fortune, how soon it vanished like a dream, and how from his 
 high preferment he returned to his former low station. 
 
 It was now but the seventh night, after so many days of his 
 government, when the careful governor had betaken himself to his 
 repose, sated not with bread and wine, but cloyed with hearing causes, 
 pronouncing sentences, making statutes, and putting out orders and 
 proclamations. Scarce was sleep beginning to close his eyes, when 
 of a sudden he heard a great noise of bells, and most dreadful out- 
 cries, as if the whole island had been sinking. Presently he started, 
 and sat up in bed, and listened with great attention, to try if he could 
 learn how far this uproar might concern him. But, while he was 
 thus hearkening in the dark, a great number of drums and trumpets 
 were heard, and that sound being added to the noise of the bells and 
 the cries, gave so dreadful an alarm, that his fear and terror increased, 
 and he was in a sad consternation. Quitting his bed, he ran and 
 opened his chamber-door, and saw about twenty men come running 
 along the galleries with lighted torches in one hand, and drawn swords 
 in the other, all crying out, " Arm ! my lord governor, arm ! a world 
 of enemies are got into the island, and we are undone, unless your 
 valour and conduct relieve us ! " Thus bawling and running with 
 great fury and disorder, they got to the door where Sancho stood, 
 quite scared out of his senses. " What would you have me arm 
 for ? " cried Sancho ; " do I know any thing of arms or fighting, think 
 you .' Why do you not rather send for Don Quixote, my master ? 
 he will despatch your enemies in a trice. Alas, I understand nothing 
 of this hasty service." " For shame, my lord governor," said anoth- 
 er ; " what a faint-heartedness is this .' See, we bring you here arms 
 offensive and defensive ; arm yourself and march to the market- 
 place ; be our leader and captain as you ought, and shew yourself a 
 governor." " Why, then, arm me ; and good luck attend me ! " 
 quoth Sancho. With that they brought him two large shields, which 
 they had provided ; and tied the one behind upon his back, and the 
 other before upon his breast, having got his arms through some holes 
 made on purpose. Now the shields being fastened to his body, as hard 
 as cords could bind them, the poor governor was cased up and im- 
 mured as straight as an arrow, without being able so much as to bend 
 liis knees, or stir a step. Then, having put a lance in his hand for hiiii 
 31* 
 
366 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 to lean upon and keep himself up, they desired him to march and .'es d 
 them on, and put life into them all ; telling him that they did not 
 doubt of victory, since they had him for their commander. " March ! " 
 quoth Sancho, " how do you think I am able to do it, squeezed as 1 
 am .' These boards stick so plaguy close to me, I cannot so much 
 as bend the joints of my knees ; you must even carry me in youf 
 arms, and lay me across or set me upright before some passage, and 
 I will make good that spot of ground, either with this lance or my 
 body." " Fie, my lord governor," said another ; " it is more your 
 fear than your armour that stiffens your legs, and hinders you from 
 moving. March on ; it is high time ; the enemy grows stronger, and 
 the danger presses." The poor governor, thus urged, endeavoured to 
 go forward ; but the first motion he made threw him to the ground at 
 full length, so heavily that he gave over all his bones for broken : and 
 there he lay like a huge tortoise in his shell, or a flitch of bacon be- 
 tween two boards, or like a boat overturned upon a flat with the keel 
 upwards. Nor had those droll companions the least compassion upon 
 him as he lay ; but putting out the lights, they made a terrible noise, 
 and clattered with their swords, and laid on so furiously upon hia 
 shields, that if he had not shrunk his head into them for shelter, he 
 had been in a woful condition. Squeezed up in his narrow shell, he 
 was in a grievous fright, praying from the bottom of his heart for de- 
 liverance from the unhappy trade of governing islands. At last, 
 when he least expected it he heard a cry — " Victory, victory I the 
 enemy is routed I Now, my lord governor, rise ; come and enjoy 
 the fruits of conquest, and divide the spoils taken from the enemy by 
 the valour of your invincible arms." " Help me up," cried poor San- 
 cho, in a doleful tone ; and when they had set him on his legs, " Let 
 all the enemy I have routed," quoth he, " be nailed to my forehead ; 
 I will divide no spoils of enemies ; but if I have one friend here, I 
 only beg he would give me a draught of wine to comfort me." 
 Thereupo.n they gave him wine, and took off his shields. After that, 
 what with his fright and what with the toil he had endured, he fell 
 into a swoon, insomuch that those who acted this scene began to re- 
 pent they had carried it so far. But Sancho recovering from his fit 
 in a little time, they also recovered from their uneasiness. Being 
 come to himself, he asked what it was o'clock. They answered, it 
 was now break of day. He said nothing, but creeping along softly 
 (for he was too much bruised to go along very fast), he got,to the 
 stable, followed by all the company ; and coming to Dapple, he em- 
 braced the quiet animal, gave him a loving kiss on the forehead, and 
 with tears in his eyes, " Come hither," said he, " my friend, thou 
 faithful companion and fellow-sharer in my travels and miseries • 
 when thee and I consorted together, and all my cares were but to 
 mend thy furnhure and feed thy carcase, then happy were my days 
 
CH. LXXXIII.] ION QUIXOTE. 367 
 
 my months, and years. But since I foifsook thee, and clambered up 
 the towers of ambition and pride, a thousand woes, a thousand tor- 
 ments, have haunted and worried my soul." 
 
 While Sancho was talking thus^ he fitted on his packsaddle, nobody 
 offering to say anything to him. This done, with a great deal of 
 difficulty he mounted his ass ; and then, addressing himself to the 
 steward, the secretary, the gentleman-waiter, and Doctor Pedro Re- 
 zio, and many others tK**! stood by : " Make way, gentlemen," said 
 he, " and let me return tO my former liberty. Let me go, that I 
 may seek my old course of life, and rise again from that death which 
 buries me here alive. I know better what belongs to ploughing, delv- 
 ing, pruning, and planting of vineyards, than how to make laws, 
 and defend countries and kingdoms. St. Peter is very well at Rome ; 
 which is as much as to say, let every one stick to the calling he w^s 
 born to. A spade does better in my hand than a governor's trun- 
 cheon ; and I had rather have a mess of plain porridge than lie at the 
 mercy of an officious physic-monger, who starves me to death. I 
 had rather solace myself under the shade of an oak in summer, 
 and wrap myself up in a double sheep-skin in the winter, at my lib- 
 erty, than lay me down, with the slavery of a government, in fine 
 Holland sheets, and case my body in furs and sables. Heaven be 
 with you, gentlefolks ; and pray tell my lord duke from me, that poor 
 I was born, and poor I am at present. I have neither won nor lost ; 
 which is as much as to say, without a penny I came to this govern- 
 ment, and without a penny I leave it — quite contrary to what other 
 governors of islands use to do when they leave them. Clear the 
 way, then, I beseech you, and let me pass." " This must not be, my 
 lord governor," said Dr. Rezio ; " for I will give your honour a balsamic 
 drink, that is a specific against falls, dislocations, contusions, and all 
 manner of bruises, and that will presently restore you to your former- 
 health and strength. And then for your diet, I promise to take a 
 new course with you, and to let you eat abundantly of whatsoever 
 you please." " It is too late, Mr. Doctor," answered Sancho ; " you 
 should' as soon make me turn Turk, as hinder me from going.. No, 
 no ; these tricks shall not pass upon me again. • Every sheep with its 
 like. Let not the cobbler go beyond his last ; and so let me go, for 
 it is late." " My lord governor," said the steward, " though it grieves 
 us to part with your honour, your sense and Christian behaviour en- 
 gaging us to covet your coriipany, yet we would not presume to stop 
 you against your inclination ; but you know that every governor, be- 
 fore he leaves the place he has governed, is bound to give an account 
 of his administration. Be pleased, therefore, to do so for the time 
 you have been among us, and then peace be with you." " No man 
 has power to call me to an account," replied Sancho, " but my lord 
 duke. To him it is that I am going, and to him I will give a fair and 
 
368 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 square account. And, indeed, going away so bare as I do, thera 
 needs no greater proof that I have governed like an angel." " In 
 truth," said Dr. Rezio, " the great Sancho is in the right ; and 1 am 
 of opinion we ought to let him go ; for certainly the duke will be 
 very glad to see him." Thereupon they all agreed to let him pass ; 
 offering first to attend him, and supply him with whatever he might 
 want in his journey, either foir entertainment or convenience. Sancho 
 told them that all he desired was, a little corn for his ass, and half a 
 cheese and half a loaf for himself, having occasion for no other 
 provisions in so short a journey. With that, they all embraced him, 
 and he embraced them all, not without tears in his eyes ; leaving 
 them in admiration of the good sense which he discovered, both in 
 his discourse and unalterable resolution. 
 
 CHAPTEE LXXXIV. 
 
 WTiat happened to Sancho hy the way ; with other matters which 
 you will have no more to do than to see. 
 
 Sancho pursued his way until the night overtook him within half a 
 league of the duke's castle. However, as it was summer-time, he 
 was not much uneasy, and chose to go out of the road, with a design 
 to stay there till the morning. But, while he sought some place 
 where he might rest himself, he and Dapple tumbled of a sudden 
 into a very deep hole, among the ruins of an old building. As he 
 was falling, he fancied himself sinking down into some bottomless 
 abyss ; but he was in no such danger, for by the time he had descend- 
 ed somewhat lower than eighteen feet, Dapple made a full stop at the 
 bottom, and his rider found himself still on his back, without the least 
 hurt in the world. Presently Sancho began to consider the condition 
 of his bones, held his breath, and felt all about him ; and finding 
 himself sound and in a whole skin, he thought he could never give 
 Heaven sufiicient thanks for his wondrous preservation ; for at first 
 he gave himself over for lost and broken into a thousand pieces. He 
 groped with both hands about the walls of the pit to try if it were 
 possible to get out without help ; but he found them all so steep, tha* 
 there was not the least hold or footing to get up. This grieved him 
 lO the soul ; and to increase his sorrow. Dapple began to raise his 
 Yoice in a very piteous and doleful manner, which pierced his mas- 
 ter's very heart : nor did the poor beast make such moan without 
 reason, for to say the truth, he was but in a woful condition. " Woe's 
 me," cried Sancho, " what sudden and unthought of mischances 
 every foot befall us poor wretches in this miserable world ! Who 
 
CH. LXXXIV.] DON QUIXOTE. 369 
 
 would have thought that he who but yesterday saw himself seated on 
 the throne of an island-governor, and had servants and vassals at his 
 beck, should to-day find himself buried in a pit, without the least soul 
 to help him or come to his relief? - Here we are likely to perish with 
 hunger, I and my ass, if we do not die before, he of his bruises, and 
 I of grief and anguish^ At least, I shall not be so lucky as was my 
 master Don Quixote, when he went down into the cave of the en- 
 chanted Montesinos. He found better fare there than he could have at his 
 own house ; the cloth was laid, and his bed made, and he saw noth- 
 ing 'but pleasant visions ; but I am like to see nothing here but toads 
 and snakes. Unhqppy creature that I am ! What have my foolish 
 designs and whimsies brought me to ! " 
 
 At length, after a whole night's lamenting and complaining at a 
 miserable rate, the day came on ; and its light having confirmed 
 Sancho in his doubts of the possibility of getting out of tiiat place 
 without help, he again made a vigorous outcry, to try whether any 
 body might not hear him. But alas, all his calling was in vain ; for 
 all around there was nobody within hearing ; at first he gave himself 
 over for dead and buried. He cast his eyes on Dapple, and seeing 
 him extended on the ground, and sadly dejected, he went to him, and 
 tried to get him on his legs, which, with much ado, by means of his 
 assistance, the poor beast did at last, being hardly able to stand. 
 Then he took a luncheon of bread out of his wallet, that had run the 
 same fortune with them, and giving it to the ass, who took it not at all 
 amiss, and made no bones of it, " Here," said Sancho, as if the 
 beast had understood him, " a fat sorrow is better than a lean." At 
 length, he perceived on one side of the pit a great hole, wide enough 
 for a man to creep through stooping. He drew to it, and having 
 crawled through on all fours, found that it led into a vault, that en- 
 larged itself the further it extended, which he could easily perceive, 
 the sun shining in toward%,the top of the concavity. Having made 
 this discovery, he went back to his ass, and like one that knew what 
 belonged to digging, with a stone he began to remove the earth that 
 was about the hole, and laboured so efiectually, that he soon made a 
 passage for his comp'^nion. Then taking him by the halter, he led 
 him along through the cave, to try if he could not find a way to get 
 out on' the other side. " Alas ! " said he to himself, " what a heart 
 of a chicken have I ! This, which to me is a sad disaster, to my 
 master Don Quixote would be a rare adventure. He would look up- 
 on these caves and dungeons as lovely gardens and glorious palaces, 
 and hope to be led out of these dark narrow cells into some fine 
 meadow ; while I, luckless, heartless wretch that I am, every step 1 
 take, expect to sink into some deeper pit than this, and go down I do 
 not know whither." Thus he went on, lamenting and despairing, and 
 thought he had gone somewhat more than half a league, when at last 
 
 24 
 
370 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 he perceived a kind of confused light, like ti at of day, break in at 
 some open place, but which, to poor Sancho, seemed a prospect of a 
 passage into another world. 
 
 But here we leave him a while ; and return to Don Quixote, wha 
 entertained and pleased himself with the hope of a speedy combat 
 between him and Donna Eodriguez's enemy, whose wrongs he de- 
 signed to see redressed. 
 
 CHAPTEK LXXXV. 
 
 Which treats of matters that relate to this history, and no other. 
 
 The duke and duchess resolved that Don Quixote's challenge against 
 their vassal should not be ineffectual ; and the young man being fled 
 into Flanders, to avoid having Donna Rodriguez to his mother-in-law, 
 they made choice of a Gascoin lackey, named Tosilos, to supply his 
 place, and gave him instructions how to act his part. Two days after, 
 the duke acquainted Don Quixote, that within four days his antago- 
 nist would meet him in the lists, armed at all points like a knight, to 
 maintain that the damsel lied through the throat in saying that he had 
 ever promised her marriage. Don Quixote was mightily pleased 
 with this news, promising himself to do wonders on this occasion ; 
 and esteeming it an extraordinary happiness to have such an oppor- 
 tunity to «hew, before such noble spectators, how great were his valour 
 and his strength. Cheered and elevated with these hopes, he waited 
 for the end of these four days, which his eager impatience made him 
 think so many ages. 
 
 It happened one morning, as he was riding out to prepare and ex- 
 ercise against the time of battle, that Eozinante pitched his feet near 
 the brink of a deep cave ; insomuch that, if Don Quixote had not 
 used the best of his skill, he must infallibly have tumbled into it. 
 Having escaped that danger, he was tempted to look into the cave 
 without alighting ; and wheeling about, rode up to it. While he was 
 satisfying his curiosity and seriously musing, he thought he heard a 
 noise within ; and thereupon listening, he could distinguish these 
 words, which in a doleful tone arose out of the cavern : " Ho, above 
 there ! is there no good Christian that hears me ; no charitable knight 
 or gentleman, that will take pity of a sinner buried alive, a poor 
 governor without a government.'" Don Quixote fancied he heard 
 Sancho's voice, which did not a little surprise him ; and for his better 
 satisfaction, raising his voice as much as he could, " Who is that be- 
 low } " cried he ; " who is that complains .' " " Who should it be, to 
 his sorrow," cried Sancho, " but the most wretched Sancho Panza 
 
CH. LXXXV.] DON QUIXOTE. 371 
 
 governor, foi his sins and for his unlucky errantry, of the isiland of 
 Barataria, foimerly squire to the famous knight Don Quixote de la 
 Mancha ? " These words redoubled Don Quixote's surprise, and in- 
 creased his amazement : " I conjure thee," said he, " as I am a 
 Catholic Christian, to tell me who thou art ? And if thou art a soul 
 in pain, let me know what thou wouldst have me to do for thee ? For 
 since my profession is to assist and succour all that are afflicted in 
 this world, it shall also be so to relieve and help those who stand in 
 need of it in the other, and who cannot help themselves." " Surely 
 sir," answered he from below, " you that speak to me should be my 
 master Don Quixote. By the tone of your voice it can be no man 
 else." " My name is Don Quixote," replied the knight, " and I think 
 it my duty to assist not only the living but the dead in their necessities. 
 Tell me then who thou art, for thou fillest me with astonishment .' " 
 " Why, then," replied the voice, " I make oath that I am Sancho 
 Panza, your squire, and that I never was dead yet in my life. But 
 only having left my government, for reasons and causes which I have 
 not leisure yet to tell you, leist night unluckily I fell into this cave, 
 where I am still, and Dapple with me, that will not let me tell a lie ; 
 for, as a farther proof of what I say, he is here." Now what is 
 strange, immediately, as if the ass had understood what his master 
 said, to back his evidence, he fell a-braying so obstreperously, that he 
 made the whole cave ring again. " A worthy witness," cried Don 
 Quixote ; " I know his bray, and I know thy voice too, my Sancho. 
 I find thou art my real squire ; stay, therefore, till I go to the castle, 
 which is hard by, and fetch more company to help thee out of the 
 pit into whicff thy sins doubtless have thrown thee." " Make haste, 
 I beseech you, sir," quoth Sancho, " and come again as fast as you 
 can ; for I can no longer endure to be here buried alive." 
 
 Don Quixote went with all speed to the castle, and gave the duke 
 and duchess an account of Sancho's accident, whilst they did not a 
 little wonder at it ; though they conceived he might easily enough 
 fall in at the mouth of the cave, which had been there time out of 
 mind. But they were mightily surprised to hear he had abdicated his 
 government, before they had an account of his coming away. 
 
 In short, they sent ropes and other conveniences by their servants 
 to draw him out ; and at last, with much trouble and labour, both he 
 and his Dapple were restored to the light of the sun. They then pro- 
 ceeded to the castle, where the duke and duchess waited for them in 
 the gallery. As for Sancho, he would not go up to see the duke, 
 till he had seen his ass in the stable, and provided for him ; for he said 
 the poor beast had but sorry entertainment in his last night's lodging. 
 This done, away he went to wait on his lord and lady ; and throwing 
 himself on his knees, " My lord and lady," said he, " I went to go- 
 vern your island of Barataria, such being your will and pleasure, 
 
372 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 though it was your goodness more than my desert. Naked I entered 
 into it, and naked I came away. I neither won nor lost. Whether 
 1 governed well or ill, there are those not far off can tell ; and let them 
 lell, if they please, that can tell better than I. I have resolved 
 doubtful cases, determined law-suits, and all the while ready to die 
 for hunger ; such was the pleasure of Doctor Pedro Eezio, of Tir- 
 teafuera, that physician in ordinary to island-governors. Enemies set. 
 upon us in the night ; and after they had put us in great danger, the 
 people of the island say they were delivered, and had the victory ; 
 and may Heaven prosper them as they speak truth ! In short, in that 
 time I experienced all the cares and burdens this trade of government 
 brings along with it, and I found them too heavy for my shoulders. 
 I was never cut out for a ruler, and I am too clumsy to meddle with 
 edge-tools ; and so, before the government left me, I even resolved to 
 leave the government ; and accordingly, yesterday morning I quitted 
 the island as I found it, with the same streets, the same houses, and 
 the same roofs to them, as when I came to it. I have asked for 
 nothing by way of loan, and have made no hoard against a rainy day. 
 I designed, indeed, to have issued out several wholesome orders, but 
 did not, for fear they should not be kept ; in which case, it signifies 
 no more to make them than if one made them not. So, as I said be- 
 fore, I came away from the island without any company but my Dap- 
 ple. I fell into a cave, and went a good way through it, till this 
 morning, by the light of the sun, I spied my way out ; yet not so easy 
 but, had not Heaven sent my master, Don Quixote, to help me, there 
 I might have staid till doomsday. And now, my lord duke and "my 
 lady duchess, here is your governor Sancho Panza agaiA ; who by a 
 ten days' government, has only picked up so much experience as to 
 know he would not give a straw to be a governor, not only of an 
 island, but of the whole world. This being allowed, kissing yo'ir 
 honour's hands, and doing like the boys when they play at trusse or 
 saiUe, who cry, ' Leap you, and then let me leap,' so I leap from the 
 government to my old master's service again." 
 
 Thus Sancho concluded his speech ; and Don Quixote, who all the 
 while dreaded he would have said a thousand impertinencies, was 
 glad in his heart, finding him end with so few. The duke embraced 
 Sancho, and told him he was very sorry he had quitted his govern- 
 ment so soon ; but that he would give him some other employmen* 
 that should be less troublesome, and more profitable. The duchess 
 was no less kind, giving order he should want for nothing ; for he 
 Eeemed sadly bruised and out of order. 
 
CR. LXXXVI.] DON QUIXOTE. 373 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXVI. 
 
 Of the extraordinary and unaccountable comiat between Don Quix 
 ote de la Mancha and the lackey Tosilos, in vindication of tlie 
 matron Donna Rodriguez's daughter. 
 
 The day appointed for the combat was now come ; nor had the duke 
 forgotten to give his lackey, Tosilos, all requisite instructions how to 
 vanquish Don Quixote, and yet neither kill nor wound him ; to which 
 purpose he gave orders that the spears, or steel heads of their lances, 
 should be taken off; making Don Quixote sensible that Christianity, 
 for which he had so great a veneration, did not admit that such con- 
 flicts should so much endanger the lives of the combatants ; and that 
 it was enough he granted him free lists in his territories, though it was 
 against the decree of the holy council, which forbids such challenges ; 
 for which reason he desired them not to push the thing to the utmost 
 rigour. Don Quixote replied, that his grace had the sole disposal of 
 all things, and it was only his duty to obey. 
 
 And now, the dreadful day being come, the duke caused a spacious 
 scaffold to be erected for the judges of the field of battle, and for the 
 matron and her daughter, the plaintiffs. 
 
 An infinite number of people flocked from all the neighbouring 
 towns and villages, to behold the wonderful combat, the like of which 
 had never been seen, or so much as heard of in these parts. The 
 first that made his entrance at the barriers was the marshal of 
 the field, who came to survey the ground, and rode all over it, that 
 there might be no foul play, nor private holes, nor contrivance to make 
 one stumble or fall. After that entered the matron and her daughter, 
 who seated themselves in their places, all in deep mourning, with no 
 small demonstration of sorrow. Presently, at one end of the field, 
 appeared the peerless champion, Don Quixote de la Mancha ; a while 
 after, at the other, entered the grand lackey, Tosilos, attended with a 
 great number of trumpets, and mounted on a mighty steed, that shook 
 the very earth. The valorous combatant came on, well tutored by the 
 duke his master how to behave himself toward Don Quixote, being 
 warned to spare his life by all means ; and therefore, to avoid a shock 
 in his first career, that might otherwise prove fatal, should he encoun- 
 ter him directly, Tosilos fetched a compass about the barrier, and at 
 last made a stop right against the two women, casting a curious eye 
 upon her that had demanded him in marriage. Then the marshal of 
 the field called to Don Quixote, and, in presence of Tosilos, asked 
 the mother and the daughter whether they consented that Don Quix- 
 ote de la Mancha should vindicate their right, and whether they would 
 stand or fall by the fortune of their champion. They said they did, 
 33 
 
374 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 and allowed of whatever he should do in their behalf as gopd ani 
 valid. The duke and duchess were now seated in a gallery that was 
 over the barriers, which were surrounded by a vast throng of specta 
 tors, all waiting to see the terrible and unprecedented conflict. The 
 nonditions of the combat were these : That if Don Quixote were 
 the conqueror, his opponent should marry Donna Eodriguez's daugh- 
 ter ; but if the knight were overcome, then the victor should be dis- 
 charged from his promise. Then the marshal of the field placed 
 each of them on the spot whence he should start, dividing equally be- 
 tween them the advantage of the ground, that neither of them might 
 have the sun in his eyes. And now the drums beat, and the clangour 
 of the trumpets resounded through the air ; the earth shook under 
 them, and the hearts of the numerous spectators were in suspense, 
 — some fearing, others expecting, the good or bad issue of the battle. 
 Don Quixote, recommending himself to Heaven and his Lady Dul- 
 cinea del Toboso, stood expecting when the precise signal for the on- 
 set should be given. But our lackey's mind was otherwise employed, 
 and all his thoughts were upon what I am going to tell you. 
 
 It seems, as he stood looking on his female enemy, she appeared to 
 him the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his whole life ; 
 which being perceived by the little blind archer to whom the world 
 gives the name of Love, he took his advantage ; and, fond of improv- 
 ing his triumphs, though it were but over a lackey, he came up to him 
 softly, and, without being perceived by any one, he shot an arrow two 
 yards long into the poor footman's side, so smartly that his heart was 
 pierced through and through — a thing which the mischievous boy 
 could easily do ; for love is invisible, and has free ingress or egress 
 where he pleases, at a most unaccountable rate. You must know, 
 tnen, that when the signal for the onset was given, our lackey was in 
 an ecstasy — transported with the thoughts of the beauty of his lovely 
 enemy, insomuch that he took no manner of notice of the trumpet's 
 sound; quite contrary to Don Quixote, who no sooner heard it than, 
 clapping spurs to his horse, he began to make towards the enemy with 
 Eozinante's best speed. Tosilos saw Don Quixote come towards him ; 
 yet, instead of taking his career to encounter him — without leaving 
 the place — he called as loud as he could to the marshal of the field • 
 " Sir," said TOsilos, " is not this duel to be fought that I may marry 
 yonder lady or let it alone ? " " Yes," answered the marshal. "Why, 
 then," said the lackey, " I feel a burden upon my conscience, and am 
 sensible I should have a great deal to answer for, should I proceed 
 any farther in this combat ; and therefore I yield myself vanquished, 
 and desire I may marry the lady this moment." The marshal of the 
 field was surprised ; and as he was privy to the duke's contrivance of 
 that business, the lackey's unexpected submission put him to such A 
 nonplus, that ho knew no* wh^t to answer On the other side, Dan 
 
CH. LXXXVI.] DON QUIXOTE. 375 
 
 Quixote stopped in the middle of his career, seeing his adversary did 
 not put himself in a posture of defence. The duke could not imagine 
 why the business of the field was at a stand ; but the marshal having 
 informed him, he was amazed, and in a great passion. In the mean- 
 time Tosilos, approaching Donna Rodriguez, " Madam," cried he, " 1 
 am willing to marry your daughter ; there is no need of law-suits 
 nor of combats in the matter ; I had rather make an end of it peace- 
 ably, and without the" hazard of body and soul." " Why, then," said 
 the valorous Don Quixote, hearing this, " since it is so, I am discharg- 
 ed of my promise ; let them even marry in God's name, and Heaven 
 Diess them, and give them joy ! " At the same time the duke, com- 
 ing down within the lists, and applying himself to Tosilos, " Tell ine, 
 knight," said he, " is it true that you yield without fighting ; and 
 that, at the instigation of your timorous conscience, you are resolved 
 to marry this damsel ? " " Yes, if it please your grace," answered 
 Tosilos. "Marry, and I think it be the v,wisest course," quoth San- 
 cho ; " for what says the proverb } What the mouse would get, 
 give the cat, and keep thyself out of trouble." In the meanwhile 
 Tosilos began to unlace his helmet, and called out that somebody 
 might help him oif with it quickly, as being so choked with his armour 
 that he was scarce able to breathe. With that they took off his hel- 
 met with all speed, and then the lackey's face was plainly discovered. 
 Donna Rodriguez and her daughter perceiving it presently, " A 
 cheat — a cheat!" cried they: "they have got Tosilos, my lord 
 duke's lackey, to counterfeit my lawful husband : justice of Heaven 
 and the king — this is a piece of malice and treachery not to be en- 
 dured ! " " Ladies,", said Don Quixote, " do not vex yourselves ; 
 ihere is neither malice nor treachery in this case ; or, if there be, the 
 duke is not in fault. No ; these evil-minded necromancers that perse- 
 cute me are the traitors ; who, envying the glory I should have got by 
 this combat, have transformed the face of my adversary into this, 
 which you see is the duke's lackey. But take, my advice, madam," 
 added he to the daughter, " and, in spite of the baseness of my ene- 
 mies, marry him ; for I dare engage it is the very man you claim as 
 your husband." The duke, hearing this, angry as he was, could hard- 
 ly forbear losing his indignation in laughter. " Truly," said he, " so 
 many extraordinary Eiccidents every day befall the great Don Quixote, 
 that I am inclined to believe this is not my lackey, though he appears to 
 be so. But, for our better satisfaction, let us defer the marriage but 
 a fortnight, and in the meanwhile keep in close custody this person 
 that has put us into this confusion ; perhaps by that time he may re- 
 sume his former looks ; for, doubtless, the malice of those mischiev- 
 ous magicians against the noble Don Quixote cannot last so long, 
 especially when they find all these tricks and transformations of so 
 little avail." " Alaok-a-day, sir ! " quoth Sancho, " those pl^^ur 
 
376 DON QUIXOTE 
 
 imps are not so soon tired as you think ; for where my master is con- 
 cerned, the}' use to form and deform, and chop and change this into 
 that, and that into the other. It is but a little while ago that they 
 transmogrified the Knight of the Mirrors, whom he had overcome, 
 into a special acquaintance of ours, the bachelor Samson Carreisco, 
 of our village ; and as for the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, our mistress, 
 they have bewitched and bedevilled her into the shape of a mere 
 country blouze ; and so I verily think this saucy fellow here is likely 
 to live a footman all the days of his life." " Well," cried the daugh- 
 ter, " let him be what he will, if he will have me, I will have him. 
 I ought to thank him ; for I had rather be a lackey's wife than his 
 that deluded me, who has proved himself no gentleman." To be 
 short, the sum of the matter was, that Tosilos should be confined, to 
 see what his transformation would come to. Don Quixote was pro- 
 claimed victor, by general consent ; and the people went away, most 
 of them very much out of humour, because the combatants had not 
 cut one another to pieces to make them sport, according to the custom 
 of the young rabble, who are sorry when, after they have stayed in 
 hopes to see a man hanged, he happens to be pardoned, either by 
 the party he has wronged or the magistrate. The crowd being dis- 
 persed, the duke and duchess returned with Don Quixote into the 
 castle ; Tosilos was secured, and kept close. As for Donna Rodri- 
 guez and her daughter, they were very well pleased to see, one way 
 or another, that the business would end in marriage ; and Tosilos flat 
 tered himself with the like expectation. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXVII. 
 
 How adventures crowded so thick on Don Quixote that they trod upon 
 one another's heels. 
 
 Don Qttixote thought it now time to leave the idle life he had led in 
 the castle, believing it a mighty fault thus to shut himself up, and 
 indulge his appetite among the tempting varieties of dainties and de- 
 lights which the lord and lady of the place provided for his entertain- 
 ment as a knight-errant. Accordingly, one day he acquainted- the 
 duke and duchess with his sentiments, and begged their leave to de 
 part. They both seemed very unwilling to part with him ; but yet at 
 last yielded to 'lis entreaties. The duchess gave Sancho his wife's 
 letters, which he could not hear read without weeping. " Who would 
 have thought," cried he, " that all the mighty hopes with which my 
 wife swelled herself up at the news of my preferment, should come 
 to this at last . and how I should be reduced again to trot after my 
 
BH. LXXXVII.J DON QUKOTE. 377 
 
 master Don Quixote de a Mancha, in search of hunger and broken 
 bones ! However, I am glad to see my Teresa was like herself, in 
 sending the duchess the acorns, which if she had not done, she had 
 shewed herself ungrateful, and I should never have forgiven her. 
 My comfort is, that no man can say the present was a bribe ; for 
 I had my government before she sent it ; and it is fit those who have 
 a kindness done them should shew themselves grateful, though it be 
 with a small matter." 
 
 Don Quixote, having taken his solemn leave of the duke and duch- 
 ess overnight, left his apartment the next morning and appeared in 
 his armour in the court-yard — the galleries all round about being 
 filled at the same time with the people of the house ; the duke and 
 duchess being also there to see him. Si'iacho was upon his Dapple, 
 with his cloak-bag, his wallet, and his provision, very brisk and cheer- 
 ful ; for the stewar,d that acted the part of Trifaldi had given him a 
 purse, with two hundred crowns in gold, to defray expenses. 
 
 Don Quixote no sooner breathed the air in the open field, than he 
 fancied himself in his own element ; he felt the spirit of knight-er- 
 rantfy reviving in his breast ; and turning to Sancho, " Liberty," said 
 he, " friend Sancho, is one of the most valuable blessings that Heaven 
 has bestowed upon mankind. Not all the treasures concealed in the 
 bowels of the^earth, nor those in the bosom of the sea, can be com- 
 pared with it. For liberty a man may, nay ought, to hazard even 
 his life, as well as for honour, accounting captivity the greatest mise- 
 ry he can endure. I tell thee this, my Sancho, because thou wert a 
 witness of the good cheer and plenty which we met with in the castle. 
 Yet, in the midst of those delicious feasts, among those tempting 
 dishes, and those liquors cooled with snow, methought I suffered the 
 extremity of hunger, because I did not enjoy them with that freedom 
 as if they had been my own ; for the obligations that lie upon us to 
 make suitable returns for kindnesses received, are ties that will not let 
 a generous mind be free. Happy the man whom Heaven has blest 
 with bread, for which he is obliged to thank kind Heaven alone ! " 
 " For all these fine words," quoth Sancho, " it is not proper for us to be 
 unthankful for two good hundred crowns in gold, which the duke's 
 steward gave me in a little purse, which I have here, and cherish in 
 my bosom as a relic against necessity, and a comforting cordial next 
 my heart, against all accidents ; for wp are not like always to meet 
 with castles where we shall be made naiich of." 
 
 As the knight and squire went on discoursing of this and other 
 ■natters, they had not ridden much more than a league ere they espied 
 about a dozen men, who looked like country fellqws, sitting Ej.t their 
 victuals, with their cloaks under them, on the green grass in' the mid- 
 dle of a meadow. Near them they saw several white < lotfia or 
 sheets, spread out and laid close tp one another, that seemed to cover 
 
 ' ^' sr ^ " 
 
478 DON QTJIXOTE. 
 
 something. Don Quixote rode up to the people, and after he liad 
 civilly saluted them, asked what they had got under that linen. 
 " Sir," answered one of the company, " they are some carved images, 
 that are to be set up at an altar we are erecting m our town. We 
 cover them lest they should be sullied, and carry them on our should- 
 ers for fear they should be broken." " If you please," said Don 
 Quixote, " I should be glad to see them ; for, considering the care 
 you take of them, they should be pieces of value." " Ay, marry 
 are they," quoth another, " or else we are mistaken ; for there is never 
 an image among them that does nyt stand us more than fifty ducats ; 
 and that you may know I am no liar, do but stay, and you shall see 
 with your own eyes." With that, he took off the cover from one of 
 the figures, that happened to be St. George on horseback, and under 
 his feet a serpent coiled up, his throat transfixed with a lance, with 
 the fierceness that is commonly represented in the piece ; and all, as 
 they use to say, spick and span new, and shining like beaten gold. 
 Don Quixote having seen the image, " This," said he, " was one of 
 the best knights-errant the church-militant ever had ; his name was 
 Don St. George, and he was an extraordinary protector of damsels. 
 What is the next } " The fellow having uncovered it, it proved to be 
 St. Martin on horseback. " This knight, too," said JDon Quixote at 
 ihe first sight, " was one of the Christian adventurers ; and I arn ap; 
 to think he was more liberal than valiant ; and thou mayst perceive 
 it, Sancho, by his dividing his cloak with a poor man : he gave him 
 half, and doubtless it was winter-time, or else he would have given it him 
 whole, he was so charitable." " Not so, neither, I fancy," quotl. 
 Sancho ; " but I guess he stuck to the proverb, To give and keep what 
 is fit, requires a share of wit." Don Quixote smiled, and desired the 
 men to shew him the next image, which appeared to be -that of the 
 patron of Spain on horseback, with his sword bloodj', trampling down 
 Moors, and treading over heads. " Ay, this is a knight indeed," cried 
 Don Quixote, when he saw it ; " he is called Don St. Jago Mata 
 Moros, or Don St. James the Moor-killer ; and may be reckoned one 
 of the most valorous saints and professors of chivalry that the earth 
 then enjoyed, and Heaven now possesses." Then they uncovered 
 another piece, which shewed St. Paul falling from his horse, with al. 
 the circumstances usually expressed in the story of his conversion , 
 and represented so to the life, that he looked as if he had been an- 
 swering the voice that spoke to him from heaven. " This," said Don 
 Quixote, " was the greatest enemy the church-militant had once, and 
 proved afterwards the greatest defender it wi^ ever have ; — in his 
 life a true knight-errant, and m death a stedfast saint ; an indefatiga- 
 ble labourer in the vineyard of the Lord, a teacher of the Genti es, 
 who had Heave i for his school, and Christ himself for his master 
 »nd insTructor," Then Don Quixote, perceiving there were no more 
 
3a. LIXXVII.] D( N QUIXOTE. 379 
 
 ini&ges, desired the men to cover those he had seen ; " And now, my 
 good friends,* said he to them, " I cannot but esteem the sight that 1 
 have had of these images as a happy omen ; for these saints and 
 knights were of the same profession that I follow, which is that of 
 arms : the difference only lies in this point, that they were saints, and 
 fought according to the rules of holy discipline ; and I am a sinner, 
 and fight after the manner of men." 
 
 All this while the men wondered at Don Quixote's figure, as well 
 as his discourse, but could not understand one half of what he meant. 
 So that, after they had made an end of their dinner, they got up their 
 images, took their leave of Don Quixote, and continued their journey. 
 
 Sancho remained full of admiration, as if he had never known his 
 master : he wondered how he should come to know all these things 
 and fancied there was not that history or adventure in the world but 
 he had it at his fingers' ends. " Truly, master of mine," quoth he, 
 " if what has happened to us to-day may be called an adventure, it 
 is one of the sweetest and most pleasant we ever met with in all our 
 rambles ; for we are come ofi" without a basting, or the least bodily- 
 fear. We have not so much as laid our hands upon our weapons ; 
 but here we be safe and sound, neither dry nor hungry. Heaven be 
 praised that I have seen all this with my own eyes ! " " Thou sayest 
 well, Sancho," ^id Don Quixote ; " but I must tell thee that seasons 
 and times are not always the same, but often take a different course , 
 and what the vulgar call forebodings and omens, for which there are 
 no rational grounds in nature, ought only to be esteemed happy en- 
 counters by the wise. One of these superstitious fools, going out of 
 his house betimes in the morning, meets a friar of the blessed order 
 'of St. Francis, and starts as if he had met a griffin, turns back, and 
 runs home again. Another wiseacre happens to throw down the salt 
 on the table-cloth, and thereupon is sadly cast down himself; as if 
 nature were obliged to give tokens of ensuing disasters by such slight 
 and inconsiderable accidents as these. A wise and truly religious 
 man ought never to pry into the secrets of Heaven. Scipio, landing 
 in Africa, stumbled and fell down as he leaped ashore. Presently 
 his soldiers took this for an ill omen ; but he, embracing the earth, 
 cried, ' I have thee fast, Africa ; thou shall not escape me.' " 
 
 Thus discoursing, they got into a wood quite out of the road ; and 
 on a sudden Don Quixote, before he knew where he was, found him- 
 self entangled in some nets of green thread, that were spread across 
 among the trees. Not being able to imagine what it wsis, " Certainly, 
 Sancho," cried he, " this adventure of the nets must be one of the 
 most unaccountable that can be imagined. Let me die, now, if this 
 be not a stratagem of the evil-minded necromancers that haunt me, 
 to stop my way." With that the knight put briskly forward, resolv- 
 ing to break through ; but in the very moment there sprung from be- 
 
380 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 hmd the trees two most beautiful shepherdesses, at least tl.ey appea^ 
 ed to be so by their habits, only with this difference, that they were 
 richly dressed in gold brocade. Their flowing hair hung down about 
 their shoulders in curls as charming as the sun's golden rays, and 
 circled on their brows with garlands of green baize and red-flower- 
 gentle interwoven. As for their age, it seemed not less than /fifteen, 
 nor more than eighteen years. This unexpected vision dazzled and 
 amazed Sancho, and surprised Don Quixote ; till at leist one of the 
 shepherdesses opening her coral lips, " Hold, sir," she cried ; " pray 
 do not tear those nets which we have spread here, not to oflend you, 
 but to divert ourselves ; and because it is likely you will inquire why 
 ♦.hey are spread here, and who we are, I shall tell you in few words. 
 " About two leagues from this place lies a village, where there are 
 many people of quality and good estates ; among these several have 
 made up a company to come and take their diversion in this place, 
 which is one of the most delightful in these parts. To this purpose 
 we design to set up a new Arcadia. The young men have put on the 
 habit of shepherds, and ladies the dress of shepherdesses. We have 
 got two eclogues by heart ; one out of the famous Garcilasso, and the 
 other out of Camoens, the most excellent Portuguese poet ; though 
 we have- not yet repeated them, for yesterday was but the first day 
 of our coming hither. We have pitched some tents among the trees, 
 near the banks of a large brook that waters all these meadows. And 
 last night we spread these nets, to catch such simple birds as our calls 
 should allure into the snare. Now, sir, if you please to afibrd us 
 your company, you shall be made very welcome, and handsomely 
 entertained ; for we are all disposed to pass the time agreeably." 
 " Truly, fair lady," answered Don Quixote, " I applaud the design of 
 your entertainment, and return you thanks for your obliging ofiers ; 
 assuring you, that if it lies in my power to serve you, you may de- 
 pend on my obedience " to your commands ; for my profession is the 
 very reverse of ingratitude, and aims at doing good to all persons, 
 especially those of your merit and condition ; so that were these nets 
 spread over the surface of the whole earth, I would seek out a pas- 
 sage throughout new worlds, rather than I would break the smallest 
 thread that conduces to your pastime : and that you may give some 
 credit to this seeming exaggeration, know, that he who makes this 
 promise is no less than Don Quixote de la Mancha, if ever such a 
 name has reached your ears." " Oh, my dear," cried the other 
 shepherdess, " what good fortune is this ! , You see this gentleman 
 before us ; I must tell you he is the most valiant, the most loving 
 and the most complaisant person in the world, if the history of hi? 
 exploits, already in print, does not deceive us. I have read it, and J 
 hold a wager, that honest fellow there by him is one Sancho Panza 
 his squire the most comical creature that ever was." " You have hi 
 
CH. LXiXVII.] DON QUIXOTE. 381 
 
 it," quoth Sancho, " I am that very squire you wot of; and there is 
 my .ord and master, the aforesaid Don Quixote de la Mancha." " Oh 
 pray, my dear," said the other, " let us entreat him to stay ; our 
 father and our brothers will he mighty glad of it. I have heard of 
 his valour and his merit, as much as you now tell me ; arid what is 
 more, they say he is the most constant and faithful lover m the world, 
 and that his mistress, whom they call Dulcinea del Toboso, bears- the 
 prize from all the beauties in Spain." " It is not without justice," 
 said Don Quixote, " if your peerless charms do not dispute with her 
 that glory. But, ladies,! beseech you do not endeavour to detain me ; 
 for the indispensable duties of my profession will not suffer me to 
 rest in one place." 
 
 At the same time came the brother of one of the shepherdesses, 
 clad like a shepherd, but in a dress as splendid and gay as those of 
 the young ladies. They told him that the gentleman whom he saw 
 with them was the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha, and that other, 
 Sancho Panza, his squire, of whom he had read the history. The 
 gallant shepherd having saluted him, begged of him so earnestly to 
 gnuit them his company to their tents, that Don Quixote was forced 
 to comply, and go with them. 
 
 About the same time the nets were drawn and filled with divers 
 httle birds, who being deceived by the colour of the snare, fell into 
 the demger they would have avoided. Above thirty persons, all gaily 
 dressed like shepherds and shepherdesses, got together there ; and 
 being informed who Don Quixote and his squire were, they were not 
 a little pleased, for they were already no strangers to his history. In 
 short they carried them to their tents, where they found a sumptuous 
 entertainment ready. They obliged the knight to take the place of 
 honour ; and while they sat at table, there was not one that did not 
 gaze on him, and wonder at so strange a figure. 
 
 At last, the cloth being removed, Don Quixote with a great deal ol 
 gravity, lifting up his voice, " Of all the sins that men commit," said 
 he, " none, in my opinion, is so great as ingratitude, though some think 
 pride a greater ; and I ground my assertion on this, that hell is said 
 to be full of the ungrateful. Ever since I had the use of reason, I 
 have employed my utmost endeavours to avoid this crime ; and if I 
 am not able to repay the benefits I receive in their kind, at least I am 
 not wanting in real intentions of making suitable returns ; and if that 
 be not sufficient, I make my acknowledgments as public as I can : for 
 he that proclaims the kindnesses he has received, shews his disposition 
 to repay them if he could ; and those that receive are generally infe- 
 rior to those that give. The Supreme Being, that is infinitely above 
 all things, bestows his blessings on us so much beyond the capacity 
 of all other benefactors, that all the - acknowledgments we can make 
 can never hold proportion with his goodness. However, a thankful 
 
382 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 mind in some measure supplies its want of power, with hearty desirea 
 and unfeigned expressions of a sense of gratitude and respect. I am 
 in this condition, as to the civilities I have been treated with here ; 
 for I am unable to make an acknowledgment equal to the kindnesses I 
 have received. I shall, therefore, only offer you what is within the 
 narrow limits of my own abilities, which is to maintain, for two whole 
 days together, in the middle of the road that leads to Saragosa, that 
 these ladies here, disguised in the habits of shepherdesses, are the 
 fairest and most courteous damsels in the world, excepting only the 
 peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, sole mistress of my thoughts ; without 
 offence to all that hear me, be it spoken." 
 
 Here Sancho, who had all the while given ear to his master's com- 
 pliments, thought fit to put in a word or two. " Now, in the name 
 of wonder," quoth he, " can there be any body in the world so im- 
 pudent as to say that this master of mine is a madman i Pray, tell 
 me, ye gentlemen shepherds, did you ever know any of your coun- 
 try parsons, though never so wise, or so good scholars, that could de- 
 liver themselves so finely .' Or is there any of your knights-errant, 
 though never so famed for prowess, that can make such an offer as 
 he has here done } " 
 
 Don Quixote turned towards Sancho, and, beholding him with eyes 
 full of fiery indignation, "Can there be any body in the world," cried 
 he, " that can say thou art not an incorrigible blockhead, Sancho ; a 
 compound of folly and knavery, wherein malice also is no small in- 
 gredient.' Who bids thee meddle with my concerns, or busy thy- 
 self with my folly or discretion ? Make no reply ; but go and sad- 
 dle Eozinante, if he is unsaddled, that I may immediately perform 
 what I have offered ; for in so noble and so just a cause, thou mayest 
 reckon all those who shall presume to oppose me subdued and over- 
 thrown." This said, up he started, with marks of anger in his looks, 
 to the amazement of all the company, who were at a loss whether 
 they should esteem him a madman or a man of sense. They endea- 
 voured to prevail with him, however, to lay aside his challenge, telling 
 him they were sufficiently assured of his grateful nature, without expos- 
 ing him to the danger of such demonstrations ; and as for his valour, they 
 were so well informed by the history of his numerous achievements, 
 that there was no need of any new instances to convince them of it. 
 But all these representations could not dissuade him from his purpose ; 
 and therefore, having mounted Rozinante, braced his shield and 
 grasped his lance, he went and posted himself in the middle of the 
 highway, not far from the verdant meadows, followed by Sancho on 
 his Dapple, and all the pastoral society, who were desirous to see the 
 event of that unaccountable defiance. 
 
 And now the champion, having taken his ground, made the neigh- 
 bouring air ring with the following challenge : " O ye, whoever you 
 
CH. LXXXVII.] DON QUIXOTE. 383 
 
 are, knights, squires, on foot or on horseback, that now pass, or shall 
 pass this road within these two days, know, that Don Quixote de la 
 Mancha, knight-errant, stays here to assert and maintain that the 
 nymphs who inhabit these groves and meadows, surpass, in beauty 
 and courteous disposition, all those in the universe, setting aside the 
 sovereign of my soul, the lady Dulcinea del Toboso. And he that 
 dares uphold the contrary let him appear." 
 
 Twice he repeated these words, and twice they were repeated in 
 vain. But fortune, that had a strange hand at managing his concerns, 
 now shewed him a merry sight ; for by and by he discovered on the 
 road a great number of people on horseback, many of them with 
 lances in their hands, all trooping togetlier very fast. The company 
 that watched Don Quixote's motions no sooner spied such a squadron, 
 driving the dust before them, than they got out of harm's way, not 
 judging it safe to be so near danger ; and as for Sancho, he sheltered 
 himself behind Rozinante's crupper ; only Don Quixote stood fixed 
 with an undaunted courage. When the horsemen came near, one of 
 the foremost, bawling to the champion, " Ho, ho ! " cried he, " get 
 out of the way, or these bulls will tread thee to pieces." " Go to, 
 you scoundrels ! " answered Don Quixote, " none of your bulls are 
 any thing to me, though the fiercest that ever were fed on the banks 
 of Xarama. Acknowledge, all in a body, what I have proclaimed 
 here to be truth, or else stand combat with me." But the herdsmen 
 had not time to answer, neither had Don Quixote any to get out of 
 the way, if he had been inclined to it ; for the herd of wild bulls 
 were presently upon him, and a huge company of drivers and people, 
 that were going to a town where they were to be baited the next day. 
 So, bearing all down before them, knight and squire, horse and man, 
 they trampled them under foot at an unmerciful rate.- There lay 
 Sancho mauled, Don Quixote stunned. Dapple bruised, and Eozinante 
 in very indifferent circumstances. But for all this, afler the whole 
 rout of men and beasts were gone by, up started Don Quixote, ere 
 he was thoroughly come to himself, and staggering and stumbling, 
 falling and getting up again as fast as he could, he began to run aftei 
 them. " Stop, scoundrels, stop ! " cried he aloud ; " stay ; it is a 
 single knight defies you all, one who scorns the humour of making a 
 golden bridge for a flying enemy." But the hasty travellers did not 
 stop, nor slacken their speed, for all his loud defiance ; and minded it 
 no more than the last year's snow. 
 
 At last, weariness stopped Don Quixote ; so that, with all his anger, 
 and no prospect of revenge, he was forced to sit down on the road 
 till Sancho came up to him with Rozinante and Dapple. Then the 
 master and man made a shift to remount ; and, with more shame than 
 satisfaction, hastened their journey, without taking leave o.' tf sii 
 friends of the new Arcatiia. 
 
384 BON QUIXOTE. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXVIII. 
 
 Of an extraordinary accident that happened to Don Quixote, which 
 may well pass for an adventure. 
 
 A CLEAR fountain, which Don Quixote and Sancho found among some 
 verdant trees, served to refresh them, besmeared with dust, and tired 
 as they were, after the rude encounter of the bulls. There, by the 
 brink, leaving Rozinante and Dapple, unbridled and unhaltered, to 
 their own liberty, the two forlorn adventurers sat down. The squire 
 then went to the wallet, and having taken out of it what he used to 
 call his stomach-sauce, laid it before the knight. But Don Quixote 
 would eat nothing for pure vexation, and Sancho durst not begin for 
 good manners, expecting that he would first shew him the way. 
 However, finding him so wrapped in his imaginations as to have no 
 thoughts of lifting his hand to his mouth, the squire, without letting 
 one word come out of his, laid aside all kind of good breeding, and 
 made a fierce attack upon the bread and cheese before him. " Eat, 
 friend Sancho," cried Don Quixote, " repair the decays of nature, 
 and sustain life, which thou hast more reason to cherish than I ; leave 
 me to die, abandoned to my sorrows, and the violence of my misfor- 
 tunes. I was born, Sancho, to live dying, and thou to die eating." 
 
 " For my part," quoth Sancho, " I am not so simple yet as to kill 
 myself. No, I am like the cobbler that stretches his leather with his 
 teeth : I am for lengthening my life by eating ; truly, master, there 
 is no greater folly in the world than for a man to despair, and throw 
 the helve after the hatchet. Therefore take my advice, and eat as I 
 do ; and when you have done, lie down and take a nap ; the fresh 
 grass here will do as well as a feather-bed. I daresay by the time 
 you awake you will find yourself better in body and mind." 
 
 Don Quixote followed Sancho's counsel, for he was convinced the 
 squire spoke good philosophy at that time. However, in the mean- 
 while, a thought coming into his mind, " Ah ! Sancho," §aid he, " if 
 thou wouldst but do something that I am now going to desire thee, my 
 cares would sit more easy on rue, and my comfort would be more 
 certain. It is only this : while, according to thy advice, I try to com- 
 pose my thoughts with sleep, do but step aside a little, and take the 
 reins of Rozinante's bridle, and give thyself some three or four hun- 
 dred smart lashes, in part of the three thousand and odd thou art to 
 receive to disenchant Dulcinea ; for, in truth, it is a shame and very 
 great pity that poor lady should remain enchanted all this while, 
 through thy carelessness and neglect." " There is a great deal to be 
 said as to that," quoth Sancho, " but it may well keep ; first let us 
 go to sleep, and then come what will come. Let my Lady Dulcinea 
 
CH. LIXXVIII.J DON QUIXOTE. 3^ 
 
 have a little patience. There is nothing lost that comes at last j 
 while there is life there is hope ; which is as good as to say, I live 
 with an intent to make good my promise." Don Quixote gave him 
 thanks, ate a little, and Sancho a great deal and then both betook 
 themselves to their rest ; leaving those constant friends and compan- 
 ions, Kozinante and Dapple, to their own discretion, to repose or feed 
 at random on the pasture that abounded in that meadow. 
 
 The day was now far gone, when the knight and the squire awoke. 
 They mounted, and held on their journey, making the best of their 
 way to an inn, that seemed to be about a league distant. I call it an 
 inn because Don Quixote himself called it so, contrary to his custom, 
 it being a common thing with him to take inns for castles. 
 
 Being got thither, they asked the innkeeper whether he had got 
 any lodgings .' " Yes," answered he ; " and as good accommodation 
 as you will find anywhere." They alighted, and, after Sancho had 
 seen Kozinante and Dapple well provided for in the stable, he went 
 to wait on his master, whom he found sitting on a seat made in the 
 wall — the squire blessing himself more than once that the knight had 
 not taken the inn for a castle. Supper-time approaching, Don Quix- 
 ote retired to his apartment, and Sancho, staying with his host, asked 
 him what he had to give them for supper ? " What you will," an- 
 swered he ; " you may pick and choose — fish or fiesh, butchers' 
 meat or poultry, wild-fowl, and what not ; whatever land, sea, and 
 air afford for food, it is but ask and have ; everything is to be had in 
 this inn." " There is no need of all this," quoth Sancho, " a couple 
 of roasted chickens will do our business ; for my master heis a nice 
 stomach, and eats but little ; and, as for me, I am none of your un- 
 reasonable trenchermen." " As for chickens," replied the innkeeper, 
 " truly we have none ; for the kites have devoured them." " Why, 
 then," quoth Sancho, " roast us a good handsome pullet, with eggs, 
 so it be young and tender." " A pullet, master ! " answered the 
 host, " I sent above fifty yesterday to the city to sell ; but, setting 
 aside pullets, you may have any thing else." " Why then," quoth 
 Sancho, " even give us a good joint of veal or kid." " Cry you 
 mercy ! " replied the innkeeper, " now I remember me, we have none 
 left in the house ; the last company that went cleared me quite ; but 
 by next week we shall have enough, and to spare." " We are in a 
 fine case, indeed," quoth Sancho ; " now will I hold a good wager 
 that all these defects must be made up with a dish of eggs and ba- 
 con." " Hey day ! " cried the host, " my guest has a rare knack at 
 guessing ; I told him I had no hens nor pullets in the house, and yet 
 he would have me to have eggs ! Think on something else, I bepeech 
 you, and let us talk no more of that." " Come, come," cried San- 
 cho, " let us have something ; tell me what thou hast, Mr. Iiandlord 
 and do not put me to trouble my brains any longer." " Whv *hfp 
 33 25 
 
386 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 do you see," quoth the host, " to deal plainly with you, I have a deli' 
 oate pair of cow-heels, that look like calves' feet, or a pair of calves' 
 feet that look like cow-heels, dressed with onions, peas, and bacon — 
 a dish for a prince ; they are just ready to be taken off, and by this 
 time they cry ' Come eat me, come eat me.' " " Cow-heels ! " cried 
 Sancho, " I sot my mark on them ; let nobody touch them : I will 
 give more for them than any other shall. There is nothing I love 
 better." " Nobody else shall have them," answered the host, " you 
 need not fear, for all the guests I have in the house, besides yourselves, 
 are persons of quality, that carry their steward, their cook, and their 
 provisions along with them." " As for quality," quoth Sancho, " my 
 master is a person of as good quality as the proudest of them all, 
 if you go to that, but his profession allows of no larders nor butteries." 
 This was the discourse that passed betwixt Sancho and the innkeeper ; 
 for, as to the host's interrogatories concerning his master's profession, 
 ■Sancho was not then at leisure to make him any answer. 
 
 In short, supper-time came, Don Quixote went to his room, the 
 host brought the dish of cow-heels, such as it was, and set him down 
 fairly to supper. But at the same time, in the next room, which was 
 divided from that where they were by a slender partition, the knight 
 overheard somebody talking. " Dear Don Jeronimo," said the un- 
 seen person, " I beseech you, till supper is brought in, let us read 
 another chapter of the Second Part of Don Quixote." The cham- 
 pion no sooner heard himself named, than up he started, and listen- 
 ed, with attentive ears, to what was said of him ; and then he heard 
 that Don Jeronimo answer, " Why would you have us read nonsense. 
 Signer Don John ? Methinks any one that has read the First Part of 
 Don Quixote should take but little delight in reading the second." 
 " That may be," replied Don John ; " however, it may not be amiss 
 to read it ; for there is no book so bad as not to have something that 
 ' is good in it. What displeases me most in this part is, that it repre- 
 sents Don Quixote as no longer in love with Dulcinea del Toboso." 
 Upon these words, Don Quixote, burning with anger and indignation, 
 cried out, " Whoever says that Don Quixote de la Mancha has forgot- 
 ten, or can forget, Dulcinea del Toboso, I will make him know, with 
 equal arms, that he departs wholly from the truth ; for the peerless 
 Dulcinea del Toboso cannot be forgotten, nor can Don Quixote be 
 guilty of forgetfuiness. Constancy is his motto ; and, to preserve His 
 fidelity voluntarily, and without the least restraint, is his profes- 
 sion." " Who is he that answers us .' " cries one of those in the next 
 room. " Who should it be } " quoth Sancho, " but Don Quixote de 
 la Mancha his own self, the same that will make good all he has said, 
 and all he has to say, take my word for it ; for a good paymaster never 
 grudges to give security." 
 
 Sancho Had no sooner made the answer than in came the two gen- 
 
CH, LXXXVIII.J DON QUIXOTE. 3^ 
 
 tleinen (for they appeared to be no less), and one of them, throwing 
 his arms about Don Quixote's neck, " Your presence, sir knight," 
 said he, " does not belie your reputation, nor can your reputation fail 
 to raise a respect for your presence. You are certainly the true Don 
 Quixote do la Mancha, the polar-star and luminary of chivalry-errant, 
 in despite of him that has attempted to usurp your name as the author 
 of this book,* which I here deliver into your hands, has presumed to 
 do." With that he took the book from his friend and gave it to Don 
 Quixote. The knight took it, and, without saying a word, began to 
 turn over the leaves ; then, returning it a while after, " In the little I 
 have seen," said he, " I have found three things in this author deserv- 
 ing reprehension. First, I find fault with some words in his preface ; 
 in the second place, his language is Arragonian, for sometimes he 
 writes without articles ; and the third thing I have observed, which 
 betrays most his ignorance, is, he is out of the way in one of the 
 principal parts of the history ; for there he says that the wife of my 
 squire, Sancho Panza, is called Mary Gutierrez, which ;s not tr-'C, for 
 her name is Teresa Panza ; and he that errs in so considerable f pass- 
 age, may well be suspected to have committed many gros? errors 
 through the whole history." " A pretty impudent fellow "s this 
 same history-writer ! " cried Sancho ; " sure he knows mu'^h what 
 belongs 1o our concerns, to call my wife Teresa Panza, Mary (Gutier- 
 rez ! Pray take the book again, if it like your worship, a,nd see 
 whether he says anything of me, and whether he has not changed my 
 name too." " Sure, by what you have said, honest man," said Don 
 Jeronimo, " you should be Sancho Panza, squire to Signer Don Quix- 
 ote ? " " So I am," quoth Sancho, " and I am proud of the office." 
 " Well," said the gentleman, " to tell you the truth, the last author 
 does not treat you so civilly as you seem to deserve. He represents 
 you as a glutton and a fool, without the least grain of wit or humour, 
 and very different from the Sancho we have in the first part of your 
 master's history." " Heaven forgive him," quoth Sancho ; " he 
 might have left me where I was, without offering to meddle with me. 
 Every man's nose will not make a shoeing horn. Let us leave the 
 world as it is. St. Peter is very well at Rome." Presently the two 
 gentlemen invited Don Quixote to sup with them in their chamber, 
 for they knew there was nothing to be got in the inn fit for his enter- 
 tainment. Don Quixote, who was always very complaisant, could 
 not deny their request, and went with them. Sancho staid behind 
 with the flesh-pot ; he placed himself at the upper end of the table, 
 with the innkeeper for his messmate : for he was no less a lover ol 
 cow-heels than the squire. 
 
 • Some one had published a book which he cs'led the Saond Part of Dm Q,uii!iU, before am 
 ftotbor had printed this 
 
388 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 While Don Quixote was at supper with the gentlemer, Don John 
 asked him when he heard of the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, ana 
 whether she still retained a grateful sense of the love and constancy 
 of Signer Don Quixote. " She does," answered Don Quixote, 
 ' and my thoughts are more fixed upon her than ever ; our correspon- 
 dence is after the old fashion, not frequent ; and, alas, her beauty is 
 transformed into the homely appearance of a female rustic." And 
 with that he repeated the story of her enchantment, with what 
 had befallen him in the cavern of Montesinos, and the means that the 
 sage Merlin had prescribed to free her from enchantment. The gen- 
 tlemen were extremely pleased to hear from Don Quixote's own 
 mouth the strange passages of his history ; equally wondering at the 
 nature of his extravagances and his elegant manner of relating them. 
 One minute they looked upon him to be in his senses, and the next 
 they thought he had lost them all ; so that they could not resolve 
 what degree to assign him between madness and sound judgment. 
 
 'They then asked him which way 'he was travelling .' He told 
 them he was for Saragosa, to make one at the tournaments held in 
 that city once a year for the prize of armour. Don John acquainted 
 him, that the pretended second part of his history gave an account 
 how Don Quixote, whoever he was, had been at Saragosa, at a public 
 running at the ring, the description of which was wretched and de- 
 fective in the contrivance, mean and low in the style and expression, 
 and miserably poor in devices, all made up of foolish idle stuff. 
 " For that reason," said Don Quixote, " I will not set a foot in Sara- 
 gosa ; and so the world shall see what a notorious lie this new histo- 
 rian is guilty of, and all mankind shall perceive I am not the Don 
 Quixote he speaks of." " You do very well," said Don Jeronimo ; 
 " besides, there is another tournament at Barcelona, where you may 
 signalize your valour." " I design to do so," replied Don Quixote ; 
 " and so, gentlemen, give me leave to bid you good night, and per- 
 mit me to go to bed, for it is time ; and pray place me in the number 
 of your best friends and most faithful servants." 
 
 Having taken leave of one another, Don Quixote and Sancho retired 
 to their chamber, leaving the two strangers in admiration to think what 
 a medley the knight had made of good sense and extravagance ; but 
 fully satisfied, however, that these two persons were the true Don 
 Quixote and Sancho, and not those obtruded upon the public by the 
 Arragonian author. 
 
 Early in the morning Don Quixote got up, and knockmg at a thm 
 wall that parted his chamber from that of the gentlemen he took hia 
 leave of them. Sancho paid the host nobly, but advised /lira either to 
 keep better provisions in his inn or to commend it less. 
 
OH, LXXXIX.j' DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 CHAPTER LXXXIX. 
 
 What happened to Don Quixote going to Barcelona. 
 
 The morning was cool, and seemed to promise a temperate day, when 
 Don Quixote left the inn, having first informed himself which was 
 the readiest way to Barcelona ; for he was resolved he would not so 
 much as see Saragosa, that he might prove that new author a liar, 
 who, as he was told, had so much misrepresented him in the pretend- 
 ed second part of his history. For the space of six days they 
 travelled without meeting any adventure worthy of memory ; but the 
 seventh, having lost their way, and being overtaken by the night, 
 they were obliged to stop in a thicket of oaks or cork-trees. There 
 both dismounted ; and laying themselves down at the foot of the trees, 
 Sancho, who had eaten heartily that day, easily resigned hTmself into 
 the arms of sleep. But Don Quixote, whom his chimeras kept awake 
 much more than hunger, could not so much as close his eyes ; his 
 working thoughts being hurried to a thousand several places. This 
 time he fancied himself in • Montesinos' cave ; fancied he saw his 
 Dulcinea, perverted as shewas into a country hoyden, jump at a sin- 
 gle leap upon her ass colt. ' The next moment he thought he heard 
 the sage Merlin's voice in awful words relate the means required to 
 effect her disenchantment. Presently a fit of despair seized him ; he 
 was enraged to think of Sancho's remissness and want of charity, — 
 the squire having not given himself above five lashes, a small and 
 inconsiderable number in proportion to the number still behind. This 
 reflection so aggravated his vexation, that he could not forbear think- 
 ing on some extraordinary methods. If Alexander the Great, thought 
 he, when he could not untie the Gordian knot, said, it is the same 
 thing to cut or to undo, and so slashed it asunder, and yet became the 
 sovereign of the world, why may not I free Dulcinea from enchant'- 
 ment by lashing Sancho myself, whether he will or no ? For. if the 
 condition of this remedy consists in Sancho's receiving three thousand 
 and odd lashes, what does it signify to me whether he gives himself 
 those blows, or another gives them him, since the stress lies upon his 
 receiving them, by what means soever they are given ? Full of that 
 conceit, he came up to Sancho, having first taken the reins of Eozi- ' 
 nante's bridle, and fitted them to his purpose of lashing him with 
 them. Sancho, however, soon started out of his sleep, and was 
 thoroughly awake in an instant. " What is here .? " cried he. " It is 
 I," answered Don Quixote, " I am come to repair thy negligence, and 
 to seek the remedy of my torments. I am come to whip thee, San- 
 cho, and to discharge, in part at least, that debt for which thou stand- 
 est enaaged. Dulcinea perishes, while thou livest careless of hel 
 33* 
 
390 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 fate ; and therefore I am resolved, while we are here alone in this 
 recess, to give thee at least two thousand stripes." " Hold you there," 
 quoth Sancho ; " pray be quiet, will you .? — let me alone, or I protest 
 deaf men shall hear us ! The strokes I am to give myself are t^ be 
 voluntary, not forced ; and at this time I have no mind to be whipped 
 at all : let it suffice that I promise you to do so when the humour takes 
 me." " No, Sancho," said Don Quixote ; " there is no trusting to 
 thy courtesy, for thou art hard-hearted, and, though a peasant, of 
 very tender flesh." He then struggled with Sancho ; upon which he 
 jumped up, threw his arms about the Don, tripped up his heels, and 
 laid him flat on his back, whereupon he held his hands down so fasi 
 that he could not stir, and scarcely could breathe. " How, traitor," 
 exclaimed the knight, " dost thou rebel against thy natural lord ? — 
 dost thou raise thy hand against him who feeds thee ? " " I 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 mo 
 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 Utile fur- 
 ther, 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 guess- 
 ed the cause ; he said, " Be not afraid, Sancho ; doubtless these are 
 the legs of robbers and banditti, who have been punished for their 
 crimes : for here the officers of justice 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 
 diieves. 
 
 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 distance, — ii 
 short, being defenceless, he thought it best to cross his hands, hang 
 down his head, and raserve himself for better occasions. The rob 
 oers, however, were not idle, but immediately fell to work upon 
 
EH. LXXXIX.] DON QUIXOTE. 391 
 
 Dapple, and, ia a trice, emptied both wallet and cloak-bag. Fortu- 
 nately 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 ; never- 
 theless 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 by the arrival of their captain. His age 
 seemed to be about four-and-thirty, his body was robust, his stature 
 tall, his visage austere, and his complexion swarthy ; he was mounted 
 upon a powerful steed, clad in a coat of steel, and his belt was stuck 
 round with pistols. 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 mel- 
 ancholy countenance that sadness itself could frame. Going up to 
 the knight, he said, " Be not so dejected, good sir, for you are not 
 fallen into the hands of a cruel Osiris, but into those of Roque Guinart, 
 who has more of compassion in his nature than.cruelty." " My dejec- 
 tion," answered Don Quixote, " is not on account of having fallen in- 
 to your hands, O valorous Roque, whose fame extends over the whole 
 earth, but for my negligence in having sufiered 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 esisy task to make me yield. Know, sir, I am 
 Don Quixote de la Mancha, he with whose exploits the whole globe 
 resounds." Roque Guinart presently perceived Don Quixote's infirmi- 
 ty, and that it had in it more of madness than valour ; and, though 
 he had sometimes heard his name mentioned, he always thought that 
 what had been said of him was a fiction ; conceiving that such a 
 character could not exist : he was therefore delighted with this meet- 
 mg, as he might now know, from his own observation, what degree 
 of credit was really due to the reports in circulation. " Be not con- 
 cerned," said Roque, addressing himself to Don Quixote, " nor tax 
 fortune with unkindness ; by thus stumbling, you may chance to stand 
 more firmly than ever : for Heaven, by strange and circuitous ways, 
 incomprehensible to men, is wont to raise the fallen, and enrich the 
 needy." 
 
 Don Quixote was about to return his thanks for this courteous re- 
 ception, when suddenly a noise was heard near them, like the tramp- 
 ling 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 coclced in the Walloon fashion, with boots, spurs, dagger, and 
 
992 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 gold-hilte(? sword ;• a small carabine in his hand, and a brace of pis- 
 tols by his side. Eoque, hearing the noise of a horse, turned his 
 nead and observed this handsome youth advancing tovifards him ; 
 "Valiant Eoque," said the cavalier, " you are the person I have been 
 seeking ; for vt^ith you I hope to find some comfort, though not a 
 remedy, in my afflictions. Not to keep you in suspense, because 1 
 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 Clauquel 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, un- 
 known 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 engagement to me, he 
 was going to be married to another, and that this morning the cere- 
 mony was to be performed. The news confounded me, and I lost 
 all patience. My father being out of town, I took the opportunity of 
 equipping myself as you now see me, and by the speed of this horse, 
 I overtook Don Vincente about a league hence, and without stopping 
 to reproach him, or hear his excuses, 1 fired at him not only with this 
 piece, but with both my pistols, and lodged, 1 believe, not a few balls 
 in his body; thus washing away with blood the stains 'of my honour. 
 I left him to his servants, 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." 
 
 So, after commanding 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 ofi" immediately with Claudia at full 
 speed, in quest of the wounded or dead Don Vincfente. They pres- 
 ently arrived at the place where Claudia had overtaken him, and found 
 nothing there except the blood which had been newly spilt ; but, look- 
 ing round, at a considerable distance they saw some persons as- 
 cending a hill, and concluded (as indeed it proved) that it was Don 
 Vincente, being conveyed by his servants, either to a doctor or to his 
 grave. They instantly pushed forward to overtake them, which they 
 soon effected, and found Don Vincente in the arms of his servants, 
 
bH. LXXAIX.] DON QUIXOTE. 393 
 
 «Htreating them, in a low and feeble voice, to let him di* 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 ser- 
 vants were startled at the appearance of Roque, and Claudia was 
 troubled at the sight of Don Vincente ; when, divided between ten- 
 derness and resentment, she approached him, and, taking hold of his 
 hand, said, " Had you but given me this hand, according to our con^ 
 tract, you would not have been reduced to this extremity." The 
 wounded cavalier opened his almost closed eyes, and, recognising 
 Claudia, he said, " I perceive, fair and mistaken lady, that it is to 
 your hand I owe my death ; — a punishment unmerited by me, for 
 neither in thought nor deed could 1 offend you." " Is it not true, 
 then," said Claudia, " that, this very morning, you were going to be 
 married to Leonora, daughter of the rich Balvastro ? " " No, cer- 
 tainly," 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, I 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, with every other demonstration 
 of grief, distraction, and despair. " O rash and cruel woman ! " she 
 exclaimed, " with what facility wert thou moved to this evil deed ! 
 O maddening sting of jealousy, how deadly thy effects ! O my 
 dear husband, whose love for me hath given thee 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 recov- 
 ered 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 her determination to 
 retire to a nunnery, of which her aunt was abbess ; there to spentH 
 what remained of her wretched life, looking to heavenly nuptials and 
 an eteraal spouse. Roque applauded her good design, offering to 
 
894 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 conduct hei fv'nerever it was her desire to go, and to defend her father 
 against the relatives of Don Vincente, or any other who should offer 
 violence to him. Claudia expressed her thanks in the best manner 
 she could, but declined his company : and overwhelmed with afflic- 
 tion, took her leave of hira. At the same time, Don Vincente's ser- 
 vants carried off his dead tody ; and Roque returned to his compan- 
 ions. Thus ended the amour of Claudia Jeronima ; and no wonder 
 that it was so calamitous, since it was brought about by the cruel and 
 irresistilJe power of jealousy. 
 
 Koque Guinart found his band of.desperadoesinthe place he had 
 appointed to meet them, and Don Quixote in the midst of them, en- 
 deavouring, 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 upion them. Eoque having asked 
 Sancho Panza whether they had restored to him all the property which 
 had been taken from Dapple, he said they had returned all but three 
 night-caps, which were worth three cities. " What does the fellow 
 say .? " quoth one of the party ; " I have got them, and they are not 
 worth three reals." " That is true," quoth Don Quixote ; " but my 
 squire justly values the gift for the sake of the giver." Eoque Gui- 
 nart insisted upon their being immediately restored ; then, after com- 
 manding his men to draw up in a line before him, he caused all the 
 clothes, jewels, and money, and in short, all they had plundered since 
 the last division to be brought out and spread before them ; which 
 being done, he made a short appraisement, reducing what could not be 
 divided into money, and shared the whole among his company with 
 the utmost exactness and impartiality. After sharing the booty, in 
 this manner, by which all were satisfied, Eoque 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 of the squires raised the butt-end of his piece, 
 and would surely have split poor Sancho's head, if Eoque 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 Eoque, " whether they 
 are such as we look for, or such as look for us .? " " Such as we 
 look for, sir." " Away, then," said Eoque, " and bring them hither 
 straight ; and see that none escape." The command was instantly 
 obeyed ; the band sallied forth, while Don Quixote and Sancho re- 
 mained with the chief, anxious to see what would follow. In the 
 meantime Eoque conversed with the knight on his own way of liV" 
 
3H. LXXXIX.] DON QUIXOTE. 395 
 
 ing. " This life of ours must appear strange to jou, Signer Don 
 Quixote, — new accidents, new adventures, in constant succession, 
 and all full of danger and disquiet : it is a state, I confess, in which 
 there is no repose either foj body or mind. Injuries which 1 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 disgrace 
 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 mischief, 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 Provi- 
 dence can snatch me out of this entangled maze. Nevertheless, I 
 despair not of coming, at last, into a safe and quiet harbour." 
 
 Don Quixote was surprised at these sober reflections, so different 
 from what he should have expected from a banditti chief, whose oc- 
 cupation was robbery and murder. " Signer 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 entire recove- 
 ry. 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 Quix- 
 ote's counsel ; but, changing the discourse, he related to him the tragi- 
 cal adventure of Claudia Jerbnima, which grieved Sancho to the heart ; 
 for he had been much captivated by the beauty, grace, and sprightli- 
 ness 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 ser- 
 vants, some on foot, and some on horseback, and also two muleteers 
 belonging to the gentlemen. They were surrounded by the victors, 
 who, as well as the vanquished, waited in profound silence till the 
 great Roque should declare his will. He first asked the 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 go- 
 ing 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 if our cash, and with that sum we accounted our« 
 
396 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 •elves rich, considering that we are soldiers, whc se purses are seidsm 
 overladen." The pilgrims, being que'stioned in the same manner, 
 said, their intention was to embark for Rome, and that they had 
 about them some threescore reals. The coach now came under ex- 
 amination ; 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 young daughter, a wait- 
 ing-maid, and a duenna ; that six servants 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 accountant." 
 
 His armed ruffians, on hearing this, cried out, " Long live Roque 
 Guinart, in spite of the dogs that seek his ruin ! " But the officers 
 looked chop-fallen, the lady-regent much dejected, and the pilgrims 
 nothing pleased at witnessing this confiscation of their effects. Roque 
 held th^m awhile in suspense, and, 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 with- 
 out molestation ; being secured by a pass which I will give you, in 
 case of your meeting with any other of my people, who are dispers- 
 ed 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 w^re 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 fiis evil fortune had imposed on him. The lady then ordered 
 the fourscore crowns to be immediately paid to him, as her share of 
 the assessment ; the captains had already disbursed their quota, and 
 the pilgrims were proceeding to offer their little all, when Roque told 
 them to wait ; then, turning to his men, he said, " Of these crowns 
 two fall to each man's share, and twenty remain : let ten be given to 
 these pilgrims, and the other ten to this honest squire, that, in relating 
 his travels, he may have cause to speak well of us." Then, produc- 
 ing 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 
 au Alexander the Great than a notorious robber. 
 
CB. XC] DON QUIXOTE. 397 
 
 On the depa."ture of the travellers, one of Roque's men seemed 
 disposed to murmur, saying, in his Catalonian dialect, " This captain 
 oi ours is wondrous charitable, and would do better among friars than 
 with those of our trade ; but, if he must be giving, let it be with his 
 own." The wretch spoke not so low but that Roque overheard him ; 
 and drawing his sword, he almost cleft his head in two, say, " Thus 
 I ciuistise 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 had 
 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 
 he sure to see him there on the approaching festival of St. John the 
 Baptist, parading the strand, armed at all points, mounted on his steed 
 Rozinante, and attended by his squire, Sancho Panza, upon an ass , 
 adding that he had found him wonderfully sagacious and entertaining. 
 He also desired him to give notice of this to his friends the Niarra, 
 that they might be diverted with the knight, and enjoy a pleasure 
 which he 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 voca- 
 tion for that of a peasant, entered the city, and delivered it as direct 
 ed. 
 
 CHAPTER XC. 
 
 Of what hefeU Don Quixote at his entrance into Barcelona ; vUh 
 other events more true than ingenious. 
 
 Theee 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 11% he might still have found new matter for observation 
 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 lia- 
 ble to be roused. Roque passed the nights apart from his followers, 
 making no man privy to his lodgings : for the numerous proclama- 
 tions which the viceroy of Barcelona had published against him, set' 
 tii,g 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 
 fo' Barcelona ; and taking the most secret and unfrequented ways, 
 34 
 
398 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 at night reached the strand on the eve of St. John. Eoque now em. 
 braced the knight and the 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. 
 
 Eoque 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 fields, while, at the same time, the ears were regaled with the 
 sound of numerous kettle-drums and jingling morrice-bells, mixed 
 with the noise of horsemen coming out of the city. Aurora now re- 
 tired, and the glorious sun gradually rising, at length appeared broad 
 as an ample shield on the verge of the horizon. Don Quixote and 
 Sancho now beheld the sea, which, to them, was a wondrous novelty, 
 and seemed so boundless and so vast that the lakes of Euydera, 
 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, on 
 removing 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 harmo- 
 ny. 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 movements 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 helart. 
 
 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 gallopping up towards him, shouting in the 
 Moorish manner ; and one of them, the person to whom Eoque had 
 written, came forward and said, " Welcome to our city, the mirror 
 the beacon, and polar star of knight-errantry ! Welcome, I say, 
 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 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 Quix< 
 
CH. XCI.] DON QUIXOTE. 399 
 
 ote, 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 gentleman answered in expressions no less polite ; and enclosing 
 him in the midst of them, they all proceeded to the sound of martial 
 music towards the city, until they reached their conductor's house, 
 which was large emd handsome, declaring the owner to be a man of 
 wealth and consideration 
 
 CHAPTER XCr. 
 
 Of the adventure of the enchanted head; loith other trifling matters 
 that must not he omitted. 
 
 The name of Don Quixote's present host was Don Antonio Moreno ; 
 tie was rich, sensible, and good-humoured ; and being cheerfully dis- 
 posed, with such an inmate he soon began to consider how he might 
 extract amusement from his whimsical infirmity, but without ofiencc 
 to his guest : for the jest that gives pain is no jest, nor is that lawful 
 pastime which inflicts an injury. Having prevailed upon the knight 
 to take off his armour,- he led him to a balcony at the front of his 
 house, and there in his straight chamois doublet (which has already 
 been mentioned) exposed him to the populace, who stood gazing at 
 him as if he had been some strange baboon. The gay cavaliers 
 again appeared and paraded before him, as in compliment to him 
 alone, and not in honour of that day's festival. Sancho was highly 
 'delighted to find so unexpectedly what he fancied to be another Ca- 
 iiiacho's wedding, another bouse like that of Don Diego de Miranda, 
 and another duke's castle. 
 
 On that day several of Don Antonio's friends dined with him, all 
 paying homage and respect to Don Quixote as a knight-errant ; with 
 which his vanity was so flattered that he could scarcely conceal 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 ; I am not so filthy, nor am 
 1 a 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 to- 
 gether, upon a handful of acorns oi hazel nuts. It is true, I own, 
 34 
 
400 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 that if th3y give me a heifer, I make haste with a aalter ; my way is, 
 to take things as I find them, and eat what comes to hand ; and who- 
 ever has said that I am given to greediness, take niy word for it, ho 
 is very much out ; and I would tell my mind in another manner, bu 
 for the respect due to the honourable beards here at the table." " In 
 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, eat- 
 ing fast and chewipg on both sides of' his mouth ; but as for cleanli- 
 ness, 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 
 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 cir- 
 cumstances of Sancho's government ; to the great entertainment of 
 the hearers. 
 
 The dinner being ended, Don Quixote was led by his host into a 
 distant apartment, in which there was no other furniture than a small 
 table, apparently of jasper, supported by a pillar of the same ; and 
 »pon it was placed a bust seemingly of bronze, the effigy of some 
 nigh personage. After taking a turn or two in the room, Don Anto- 
 nio said, " Signer Don Quixote, now that we are alone, I will make 
 known to you one of the most extraordinary circumstances, or rather 
 I should say, one of the greatest wonders imaginable, upon condition 
 that what I shall communicate be deposited in the utmost 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, Signer 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 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 disburden my own breast cf 
 a secret which I have long borne with pain, from the want of some 
 person worthy to be made a confidant in matters which are not to be 
 revealed to every body." Thus having, by his long preamble, strong- 
 ly 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 
 
3H. XCI.] DON QUIXOTE. 40) 
 
 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 re- 
 lated. He was here in my house, and for the reward of a thousand 
 crowns fabricated this head for me, which has the virtue and property 
 of answering to every question that is put to it. After' much study 
 and labour, drawing figures, erecting schemes, and frequent observa- 
 tion of the stars, he completed his work. To-day being Friday, it is 
 mute ; but to-morrow. Signer, you shall surely witness its marvellous 
 powers. In the mean time, 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 expressed his acknowledgments to Don An- 
 tonio for so great a proof of his favour. Then leaving the chamber, 
 and carefully locking the door, they both returned to the saloon, where 
 the rest of the company were diverting themselves with Sancho's ac- 
 count of his master's adventures. 
 
 The same evening they carried .Don Quixote abroad to take the 
 air, mounted on a large, easy-paced mule, with handsome furniture, 
 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, oA 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 passen- 
 gers ; 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, Signer Don Antonio ; even the very boys of this city 
 know me, although they never could have seen me before ! " " It 
 is very true, Signer 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 pro- 
 fession of arms. " 
 
 As Don Quixote thus rode along amidst the applause of the people, 
 a Castilian, who had read the label on his back, exclaimed, " What ! 
 Don Quixote de la Mancha ! 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 conipany — witness these gentlemen here, thy pre- 
 sent associates. Get home, blockhead, to thy wife and children ; lopjt 
 34* «6 
 
402 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 after thy house, and leave these foolenes that eat into thy braiu 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 
 'un 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 any body, asked qf 
 not asked, though I were to live to the age of Methuselah. " So say- 
 ing, 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. 
 
 The next day, Don Antonio determined to make experiment of the 
 enchanted head ; and for that purpose the knight and squire, the two 
 mischievous ladies (who had been invited by Don Antonio's lady to 
 sleep there that night), and two other friends, were conducted to the 
 , chamber in which the head was placed. After locking the door, Don 
 Antonio proceeded to explain to them the properties of the miraculous 
 bust, of which, he said, he should 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 
 Dy all : " Tell me, " said he, " thou wondrous head, by the virtue in- 
 herent in thee, what are my present thoughts." The head, in a dis- 
 tinct and intelligible voice, though without moving the lips, answered, 
 " I am no judge of thoughts." They were all astonished at the 
 voice, being sensible nobody was in the room to answer. " How 
 many of us are there in the room ?" said Don Antonio again. The 
 voice answered, in the same key, " Thou, and thy wife, two of thy 
 friends, and two of hers ; a famous knight, called Don Quixote de la 
 Mancha, and his squire Sancho Panza. " Now their astonishment was 
 greater than before ; and the hair of some of them stood on end with 
 amazement. " It is enough, " said Don Antonio, stepping aside, " 1 
 am convinced it was no impostor sold thee to me, sage, miraculous 
 head ! Now, let somebody else try their fortunes. " As women are 
 generally most curious and inquisitive, one of the dancing ladies, 
 venturing up to it, " Tell me, head, " said she, « what shall I do to be 
 truly beautiful ! " " Be honest, " answered the head. " I have 
 done, " replied the lady. Her companion then came on, and wish 
 
CH. XCI.j DON QUIXOTE. 40S 
 
 the same curiosity, " I would know, " said she, " whether my hus- 
 band loves me or no. " The head answered, " Observe his usage, 
 and that will tell thee. " " Truly, " said the married lady to herself, 
 as she withdrew, " that question was needless ; for, indeed, a man's 
 actions are the surest tokens of the dispositions of his mind." 
 
 Don ^tonio's lady asked the next question. " I do not well know 
 what to ask thee," said she ; " only tell me whether I shall long en- 
 joy the company of my dear husband." " Thou shalt," answered 
 the head ; " for his healthy constitution and temperance promise 
 length of .days, while those who live too fast are not like to live long." 
 Next came Don Quixote. " Tell me, thou oracle," said he, " was 
 what I reported of my adventures in Montesinos' cave a dream or 
 reality ? will Sancho my squire fulfil his promise, and scourge him- 
 self effectually .' and shall Dulcinea be disenchanted ? " " As for 
 the adventures in. the cave," answered the head, " there is much to 
 be said — they have something of both ; Sancho's whipping shall 
 go on but leisurely ;"however, Dulcinea shall at last be really freed from 
 enchantment." " That is all I desire to know," said Don Quixote ; 
 " for the whole stress of my good fortune depends on Dulcinea's dis- 
 enchantment." Then Sancho made the last application. " If it 
 please you, Mr. Head," quoth he, " shall I chance to have another 
 government ? shall I ever get clear of this starving squire-erranting ? 
 and shall I ever see my own fireside again ? " The head answered 
 " Thou shalt be a governor in thine own house ; if thou goeSt home 
 thou mayest see thy own fireside again ; and if thou lea vest off thy 
 service, thou shalt get clear of thy squireship." " That is a very 
 good one," cried Sancho; " a horse-head, I vow, might have told all 
 this; I could have prophesied thus much myself." "How now!" 
 said Don Quixote ; " what answers wouldst thou have but what are 
 pertinent to thy questions .' " " Nay," quoth Sancho, " since you 
 will have it so, it shall be so ; I only wish Mr. Head would have told 
 me a little more concerning the matter." 
 
 Thus the questions proposed, and the answers returned, were 
 brought to a period; but the amazement continued among all tho 
 company, except Don Antonio's two friends, who understood the 
 device. 
 
 The manner of it was thus : the table, and the frame on which it 
 stood, the feet of which resembled four eagles' claws, were of wood, 
 painted and varnished like jasper. The head, which looked like the 
 bust of a Roman emperor, and of a brass colour, was all hollow, and 
 so were the feet of the table, which answered exactly to the neck 
 and breast of the head ; the whole so artificially fixed, that it seemed 
 to be all of a piece; through this cavity ran a tin. pipe, conveyed 
 into it by a passage through the ceiling of the room under the table. 
 He that was to answer, set his ear to the end of the pipp in thecham- 
 
404 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ber underneath, and by the hoUowness of the trunk, received their 
 questions, and delivered his answers in clear and articulate words ; 
 so that the imposture could scarcely be discovered. The oracle was 
 managed by a young, ingenious gentleman, Don Antonio's nephew ; 
 who having his instructions beforehand from his uncle, was able to 
 answer, readily and directly, to the first questions ; and by conjec- 
 tures or evasions make a return handsomely to the rest, with the 
 help of his ingenuity. 
 
 CHAPTER XCII. 
 
 Of an unlucky adventure which Don Quixote laid most to heart of 
 any that had yet hefallen him. 
 
 It happened one morning that Don duixote, going abroad to take the 
 air upon the sea-shore, armed at all points, according to his custom 
 — his arms, as he said, being his best attire — he spied a knight 
 riding towards him, armed like himself from head to foot, with a 
 bright moon blazoned on his shield, who, coming within hearing, call- 
 ed out to him, " Illustrious Don Quixote de la Mancha, I am the 
 Knight of the White Moon, whose incredible achievements perhaps 
 have reached thy ears. Lo ! I am come to enter into combat with 
 thee', and to compel thee, by dint of sword, to own and acknowledge 
 my mistress, by whatever name and dignity she be distinguished, to 
 be, without any degree of comparison, more beautiful than thy Dul- 
 cinea del Toboso. Now if thou wilt fairly confess this truth, thou 
 freest thyself from certain death, and me from the trouble of taking 
 or giving thee thy life. If not, the conditions of our combat are 
 these : If victory be on my side, thou shalt be obliged immediately 
 to forsake thy arms and the quest of adventures, and to return to thy 
 own house, where thou shalt engage to live quietly and peaceably for 
 the space of one whole year, without laying hand on thy sword, to 
 the improvement of thy estate, and the salvation of thy soul. But, 
 if thou comest off conqueror, my life is at thy, mercy, my horse and 
 arms shall be thy trophy, and the fame of all my former exploits, by 
 :he lineal descent of conquest, be vested m thee as victor. Consider 
 what thou hast to do, and let thy answer be quick, for my despatch is 
 amited to this very day." 
 
 Don Quixote was amazed and surprised, as much at the arrogance 
 jf the Knight of the White Moon's challenge, as at the subject of it ; 
 so, with a composed and solemn address; he replied, " Knight of the 
 White Moon, whose achievements have as yet been kept from my 
 knowledge, it is more than probable that you have never seen the 
 illustrious Duloinea ; for had you viewed her perfections, you had 
 
CH. XCII.] DON QUIXOTE. 405 
 
 found arguments enough to convince you, that no beauty, past, 
 present, or to come, can parallel hers ; and therefore I tell thee, 
 knight, thou art mistaken ; and this position I will maintain, by accept- 
 ing your challenge on your own conditions, except that article of 
 your exploits descending to me ; for, not knowing what character 
 your actions bear, I shall rest satisfied with the fame of my own, by' 
 which, such as they are, I am willing to abide. And since your 
 time is so limited, choose your ground, and begin your career as soon 
 as you will, and expect a fair field and no favour." 
 
 While the two knights were adjusting the preliminaries of com- 
 bat, the viceroy, who had been informed of the Knight of the White 
 Moon's appearance near the city walls, and his parleying with Don 
 Quixote, hastened to the scene of battle, not suspecting it to be any 
 thing but some new device of Don Antonio Moreno, or sorhebody 
 else. Several gentlemen, and Don Antonio among the rest, accom- 
 panied him thither. They arrived just as Don Q^uixote was wheeling 
 Kozinante to fetch his career, and seeing them both ready for the onset, 
 he interposed, desiring to know the cause of the sudden combat. The 
 Knight of the White Moon told him there was a lady in the case ; 
 and briefly repeated to his excellency what passed between him and 
 Don Quixote. The viceroy whispered Don Antonio, and asked him 
 whether he knew that Knight of the White Moon, and whether their 
 combat was not some jocular device to impose upon Don Quixote? 
 Don Antonio answered positively that he neither knew the knight, 
 nor whether the combat were in jest or earnest. This put the viceroy 
 to some doubt whether he should not prevent their engagement ; but 
 being at last persuaded that it must be a jest at the bottom, he with- 
 drew. " Valorous knights," said he, " if there be no medium be- 
 tween confession and death, but Don Quixote be still resolved to deny, 
 and you, the Knight of the White Moon, as obstinately to urge, I 
 have no more to say ; the field is free, and so proceed." 
 
 The knights made their compliments to the viceroy ; and Don Quix- 
 ote, making some short ejaculations to Heaven and his lady, as he al- 
 ways used upon these occasions, began his career, without either 
 sound of trumpet or any other signal. His adversary was no less 
 forward ; for setting spurs to his horse, which was much the swifter, 
 he met Don Quixote so forcibly, before he had run half his career, 
 that without making use of his lance, which it is thought he lifted up 
 on purpose, he overthrewthe Knight of La Mancha and Rozinailte, 
 both coming to the ground with a terrible fall. 
 
 The Knight of the White Moon got immediately upon him ; and 
 clapping the point of his lance to his face, " Knight," cried he, " you 
 are vanquished and a dead man, unless you immediately fulfil the 
 conditions of your combat." Don Quixote, bruised and stunned with 
 his fall, without lifting up his beaver, answered in a faint hollow voice 
 
408 DON QUIIOTB- 
 
 as if he had spoken out of a tomb, " Dulcinea del Toboso is £he 
 most beautiful woman in the world, and I the most unfortunate knight 
 upon the earth. It were unjust that such perfection should suffer 
 through my weakness. No, pierce my body with thy lance, knight, 
 and let my life expire with my honbur." " Not so rigorous neither," 
 replied the conqueror ; " let the fame of the lady Dulcinea remain 
 entire and unblemished ; provided the great Don Quixote return 
 home for a year, as we agreed before the combat, I am satisfied." 
 The viceroy and Don Antonio, *ith many other gentlemen, were wit- 
 nesses to all these passages, and particularly to this proposal ; to which 
 Don Quixote answered, that upon condition he should be enjoined 
 nothing to the prejudice of Dulcinea, he would, upon the faith of a 
 true knight, be punctual in the performance of every thing else. 
 This acknowledgment being made, the Knight of the White Moon 
 turned about his horse, and saluting the viceroy, rode at a hand-gal- 
 lop into the city, whither Don Antonio followed him, at the viceroy's 
 request, to find out who he was, if possible. 
 
 Don Quixote was lifted up, and, upon taking off his helmet, they 
 found him pale, and in a cold sweat. As for Eozinante, he was in 
 so sad a plight that he could not stir for the present. Then, as for 
 Sancho, he was in so heavy a taking, that he knew not what to do, 
 nor what to say : he was sometimes persuaded he was in a dream, 
 sometimes he fancied this rueful adventure was all witchcraft and en- 
 chantment. In short, he found his master discomfited in the face of 
 the world, and bound to good behaviour and to lay aside his arms for 
 a whole year. Now he thought his glory eclipsed, his hopes of 
 greatness vanished into smoke, and his master's promises, like his 
 bones, put out of joint by that terrible fall, which he was afraid had at 
 once crippled Kozinante and his master. At last, the vanquished 
 knight was put into a chair, which the viceroy had sent for that pur- 
 pose, and they carried him into town, accompanied likewise by the 
 viceroy, who had a great curiosity to knovi!' who 'lis Knight of the 
 White Moon was, that had left Don Quixote in so sad a condition. 
 
 CHAPTEE XCIII. 
 
 Wherein is given an account of the Knight of the White Moon , 
 with other matters. 
 
 Don Antonio Moreno followed the Knight of the White Moon to 
 his inn, whither he was attended by a ratble of boys. The knight 
 being got to his chamber, where his squire waited to take off his ar- 
 mour, Don Antonio came in, declaring he would not be shaken off 
 
CH. XCIII.] DON QUIXOTE. 407 
 
 till he had discovered who he was. The knight finding that the gen- 
 tleman would not leave him, " Sir," said he, " since I lie under no 
 obligation of concealing myself, if you please, while my man dis- 
 arms me, you shall hear the whole truth of the story. 
 
 " You must know, sir, I am called the Bachelor Carrasco : I live m 
 the same town with this Don Quixote, whose unaccountable phrenzy 
 has moved all his neighbours, and me among the rest, to endeavour 
 by some means to cure his madness ; in oi;der to which, believing 
 that rest and ease would prove the surest remedy, I bethought myself 
 of this present stratagem ; and, about three months ago, in the equip- 
 age of a knight-errant, under the title of the Knight of the Mirrors, 
 I met him on the road, fixed a quarrel upon him, and the conditions 
 of our combat were as you have heard already. But fortune then 
 declared for him, for he unhorsed and vanquished me ; and so I was 
 disappointed: he prosecuted his adventures, and I returned home 
 very much hurt with my fall. But willing to retrieve my credit, I 
 have made this second attempt, and now have succeeded ; for I know 
 him to be so nicely punctual in whatever his word and honour is en- 
 gaged for, that he will undoubtedly perform his promise. This, sir, 
 is the sum of the whole story ; and I beg the favour of you to con- 
 ceal me from Don Quixote, that my project may not be ruined a 
 second time, and that the honest gentleman, who is naturally a man 
 of good parts, may recover his understanding." " Oh, sir," replied 
 Don Antonio, " what have you to answer for, in robbing the world 
 of the most diverting folly that ever was exposed among mankind ! 
 Consider, sir, that his cure can never benefit the public half so much 
 as his distemper. But I am apt to believe, Sir Bachelor, that his mad- 
 ness is too firmly fixed for your art to remove ; and, indeed, I cannot 
 forbear wishing it may be so ; for by Don Quixote's cure, we not 
 only lose his good company, but the drolleries and comical humours 
 of Sancho Panza too, which are enough to cure melancholy itself of 
 the spleen. However, I promise to say nothing of the matter ; though 
 I confidently believe, sir, your pains will be to no purpose." Car- 
 rasco told him, that having succeeded so far, he was obliged to cher- 
 ish belter hopes ; and asking Don Antonio if he had any farther 
 service to commanfl him, he took his leave; and packing up his 
 armour on a carriage-mule, presently mounted his charging horse, 
 and leaving the city that very day, posted homewards, meeting no 
 adventure on the road worthy a place in this faithful history. 
 
 Don Antonio gave an account of the discourse he had had with 
 Carrasco to the viceroy, who was vexed to think that so much pleas- 
 ant diversion was like to be lost to all those that were acquainted 
 with the Don's exploits. 
 
 Six days did Don Quixote keep his bed, very dejected, and full of 
 severe and di?mal reflections on his fatal overthrow. Sancho was 
 
408 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 his comforter ; and among his other crumbs of comfort, " My dear 
 master," quoth he, " cheer up ; come, pluck up a good heart, and be 
 thankful for coming off no worse. Why, a man has broken his neck 
 with a less fall, and you have not so much as a broken rib. Con- 
 sider, sir, that they that game must sometimes lose ; we must not al- 
 ways look for bacon where we see the hooks. Come, sir, cry a fig 
 for the doctor, since you will not need him this bout ; let us jog home 
 fair and softly j without thinking any more of sauntering up and down, 
 nobody knows whither, in quest of adventures and bloody-noses. 
 Why, sir, I am the greatest loser, if you go to that, though it is you 
 that are in the worst pickle. It is true, I was weary of being a gov- 
 ernor, and gave over all thoughts that way ; but yet I never parted 
 with my inclination of being an earl ; and now, if you miss being a 
 king, by casting off your knight-errantry, poor I may go whistle for 
 my earldom." " No more of that, Sancho," said Don Quixote ; " I 
 shall only retire for a year, and then reassume my honourable pro- 
 fession, which will undoubtedly secure me a kingdom, and thee an 
 earldom." " Heaven grant it may," quoth Sancho, " and no mischief 
 betide us ; hope well and have well, says the proverb." 
 
 Two days after, Don Quixote, being somewhat recovered, took his 
 leave of Don Antonio, and having caused his armour to be laid on 
 Dapple, he set forward on his journey home, Sancho thus being forced 
 to trudge after him on foot. 
 
 Don Quixote, as he went out of Barcelona, cast his eyes on the 
 spot of ground where he was overthrown. " Here once Troy stood," 
 said he ; " here my unhappy fate, and not my cowardice, deprived 
 me of all the glories I had purchased. Here fortune, by an unex- 
 pected reverse, made me sensible of her inconstancy and fickleness. 
 Here my exploits suffered a total eclipse ; and in short, here fell ray 
 happiness, never to rise again." Sancho, hearing his master thus 
 dolefully paraphrasing on his misfortunes, " Good sir," quoth he, " it 
 is as much the part of great spirits to have patience when the world 
 frowns upon them, as to be joyful when all goes well ; and I judge of 
 it by myself ; for if when I was governor I was merry, now I am 
 but a poor squire a-foot I am not sad. And indeed I have heard say, 
 that this same lady they call fortune is a whimsical, freakish queen, 
 and blind into the bargain ; so that she neither sees what she does, 
 nor knows whom she raises nor whom she casts down." " Thou 
 art very much a philosopher, Sancho," said Don Quixote ; " thou 
 talkest very sensibly. I wonder how thou camest by all this ; but I 
 must tell thee there is no such thing as fortune in the world, nor does 
 any thing that happens here below of good or ill come by chance, 
 but by the appointment of Providence ; and this makes good the 
 proverb, that every man may thank himself for his own fortune, 
 For my part, I have been the maker of mine ; but for want of using 
 
OH. XCIII.] DON QUIXOTE. 409 
 
 the discretioti 1 ought to have used, all my presumptuous edifice sunk, 
 and tumbled down at once. I might well have considered that Rozi- 
 nante was too weak and feeble to withstand the Knight of the White 
 Moon's huge and strong-built horse. However, I would needs adven- 
 ture : I did the best I could, and was overcome. Yet though it has 
 cost me my honour, I have not lost, nor can I lose, my integrity to 
 perform my promise. Trudge on then, friend Sancho, and let us get 
 home, to pass the year of our probation. In that retirement we shall 
 recover new vigour, to return again to the never-to-be-forgotten pro- 
 fession of arms." 
 
 That night master and man took up their lodging in a field, under 
 the roof of the open sky ; and the next day, as they were on their 
 journey, they saw coming towards them a man on foot, with a wallet 
 about his neck, and a javelin or dart in his hand, just like a foot-post. 
 The man mended his pace when he came near Don Quixote, and, 
 almost running, came with a great deal of joy in his looks, and em- 
 braced Don Quixote's right thigh, for he could reach no higher. " My 
 Lord Don Quixote de la Mancha," cried he, *' oh, how heartily glad 
 my lord duke will be when he understands you are coming again to 
 his castle, for there he is still with my lady duchess." " I do not 
 know you, friend," answered Don Quixote ; " nor can I imagine who 
 you should be, unless you tell me yourself." " My name is Tosilos, 
 if it please your honour ; I am my lord duke's footman, the same who 
 would not fight with you about Donna Rodriguez's daughter." " Bless 
 me ! " cried Don Quixote, " is it possible you should be the man whom 
 those enemies of mine, the magicians, transformed into a lackey, to 
 deprive me of the honour of that combat .' " " Softly, good sir," 
 replied the footman ; " there was neither enchantment nor transforma- 
 tion in the case. I was as much a footman when 1 entered the lists 
 as when I came out ; and it was because I had a mind to marry the 
 young gentlewoman that I refused to fight. But I was sadly disap- 
 pointed; for, when you were gone, my lord duke had me soundly 
 banged for not doing as he ordered me in that matter ; and the up- 
 shot was this. Donna Rodriguez is packed away to seelc her fortune, 
 and the daughter is shut up in a nunnery. As for me, I am going to 
 Barcelona with a parcel of letters from my lord to the viceroy. 
 However, sir, if you please to take a sip, I have here a calabash full 
 of the best, with some excellent cheese, that will make it go down, I 
 warrant you." " I take you at your word," quoth Sancho ; " I am 
 no proud man ; and so let us drink, honest Tosilos, in spite of all the 
 enchanters in the Indies." " Well, Sancho," said Don Quixote, 
 ' thou art certainly the veriest glutton that ever was, and the silliest 
 blockhead in the world, else thou wouldst consider that, this man thou 
 seest here is enchanted, and a sham lackey. Stay with him, if thou 
 thinkest fit, and gratify thy voracious appetite ; for my part, I will 
 35 
 
410 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 ride softly on before." Tosilos smiled, and, laying his bottle and hii 
 cheese upon the grass, he and Sancho sat down there, and, like so- 
 ciable messmates, never stirred till they had quite cleared the wallet. 
 While they were thus employed, " jFriend Sancho," quoth Tosilos, 
 " I know not what to make of this master of yours ; doubtless he 
 ought to be reckoned a madman." " Why ought ? " replied Sancho; 
 " he owes nothing to any body, for he pays for every thing, especially 
 where madness is current ; there he might be the richest man in the 
 kingdom, he has such a stock of it. I see it full well, and full well 
 I tell him of it ; but what boots it, especially now that he is all in the 
 dumps, for having been worsted by the Knight of the White Moon ? " 
 Tosilos begged of Sancho to tell him that story ; but Sancho said it 
 would not be handsome to let his master stay for him, but that next 
 time they met he would tell him the whole matter. With that they 
 got up ; and, after the squire had brushed his clothes and put himself 
 to rights, he drove Dapple along, and with a good-by-to-ye, left Tosi- 
 los, in order to overtake his master, who stayed for him under the 
 cover of a tree. 
 
 CHAPTER XCIV. 
 
 How Don Quixote resolved to turn shepherd, and lead a rural life 
 for the year's time he was obliged not to bear arms ; with other 
 passages truly good and diverting. 
 
 They travelled on conversing together till they came near the place 
 where the bulls had run over them ; and Don Quixote knowing it 
 again, " Sancho," said he, "yonder is that meadow where we met 
 the fine shepherdesses, and the gallant shepherds, who had a mind to 
 renew or imitate the pastoral Arcadia. It was certainly a new and 
 ingenious conceit. If thou thinkest well of it, we will follow their 
 example, and turn shepherds too, at least for the time I am to lay 
 aside the profession of arms. I will buy a flock of sheep, and every 
 thing that is fit for a pastoral life ; and so calling myself the shepherd 
 Quixotis, and thee the shepherd Pansino, we will range the woods, 
 the hills, and meadows, singing and versifyipg. We will drink the 
 liquid crystal, sometimes out of the fountains, and sometimes from 
 the purling brooks and swift-gliding streams. The oaks, the cork- 
 trees, and chestnut-trees, will afford us both lodging and diet, the 
 willows will yield us their shade, the roses present us their inoffen- 
 sive sweets, and the spacious meads will be our carpets, diversified 
 with colours of all sorts ; blessed with the purest air, and uncon- 
 fined alike, we shall breathe that and freedom. The moon and stars 
 our tapers of the night, shall light our evening walks. Light heartu 
 
CH. XCIV.] DON QUIXOTE. 411 
 
 will make as merry, and mirth will make us sing. Love will inspire 
 us with a theme and with wit, and Apollo with harmonious lays. So 
 siiall we become famous, not only while we live, but we shall make 
 our loves eternal as our songs." 
 
 " Sure enough," quoth Sincho, " this sort of life suits me to a hair ; 
 and I fancy that, if the bachelor Samson Carrasco and Master Nich- 
 olas have but once a glimpse of it, they will even turn shepherds too ; 
 nay, it is well if the curate does not put in for one among the rest, 
 for he is a notable joker, and merrily inclined." " That was well 
 thought on," said Don Quixote ; " and then, if the bachelor will make 
 one among us, as I doubt not but he will, he may call himself the 
 shepherd Samsonino, or Carrascon ; and Master Nicholas, Nicoloso 
 For the curate, I do not well know what name we shall give him, un- 
 less we should call him the shepherd Curiambro. As for the shep- 
 herdesses with whom we must fall in love, we cannot be at a loss to 
 find them names, there are enough for us to pick and choose ; and, 
 since my lady's name is not improper for a shepherdess, any more 
 than for a princess, I will not trouble myself to get a better ; thou may- 
 est call thine as thou pleasest." " For my part," quoth Sancho, " I do 
 not think of any other name for mine than Teresona ; that will fit her 
 full well, and is taken from her Christian name too. So, when I 
 come to mention her in my verses, every body will know her to be 
 my wife, and commend my honesty as being contented with my own." 
 " Bless me," said Don Quixote, " whirt a life shall we lead ! What a 
 melody of oaten reeds and Zamora pipes shall we have resounding 
 in the air ! what intermixture of tabors, morrice-bells, and fiddles ! 
 And if to all the different instruments we add the albogues, we shall 
 have all manner of pastoral music." "What are the albogues.' " 
 quoth Sancho ; " for I do not remember to have seen or ever heard 
 of them in my life." 
 
 " They are," said Don Qiiixote, " a sort of instruments made of 
 brass plates, rounded like candlesticks : the one shutting into the oth- 
 er, there rises, through the holes or stops, and the trunk or hollow, an 
 odd sound, which, if not very grateful or harmonious, is, however, 
 not altogether disagreeable, but does well enough with the rusticity 
 of the bagpipe or tabor. You must know the word is Moorish, as in- 
 deed are all those in our Spanish that begin with al, as Almoasa, Ai- 
 morsar, Alhombra, Alguasil, Alucema, Almacen, Alcanzia, and the 
 like, which are not very many. And we have also but three Moorish 
 words in our tongue that end in i ; and they are, Borcequi, Zaquica- 
 mi, and, Maravedi ; for, as to Alheli and Alfaqui, they are as well 
 known to be Arabic by their beginning with al, as their ending in i. 
 I could not forbear telling thee so much by the by, thy query about al- 
 bogue having brought it into my head. There is one thing more that 
 will go a great way towards making us complete in our new kind of 
 
412 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 life, and that is poetry. Thou knowest I am somewhat given that 
 way, and the bachelor Carrasco is a most accomplished poet, to say 
 nothing of the curate, though I will hold a wager he is a dabbler in it 
 too ; and so is Master Nicholas, I dare say ; for all your barbers are 
 notable scrapers and songsters. For my part,I will complain of absence; 
 thou shall celebrate thy own loyalty and constancy ; the shepherd 
 Carrascon shall expostulate on his shepherdess's disdain ; and the 
 pastor Curiambro choose what subject he likes best ; and so all will be 
 managed to our heart's content. But no more at this time — it grows 
 late — let us leave the road a little, and take up our quarters yonder 
 in the fields ; to-morrow will be a nevif day." They did accordingly, 
 and made a slender meal, as little to Sancho's liking as his hard lodg- 
 ing ; which brought the hardships of knight-erranting fresh into his 
 thoughts, and made him wish for the better entertainment he had 
 sometimes found, as at Don Diego's, Camacho's, and Don Antonio's 
 houses. But he considered, after all, that it could not be always fair 
 weather, nor was it always foul ; so he betook himself to his rest till 
 morning, and his master to the usual exercise of his roving imagina- 
 tions. 
 
 Don Quixote, after his first sleep, thought nature sufficiently re- 
 freshed, and would not yield to the temptations of a second. Sancho, 
 indeed, did not enjoy a second, but from a different reason. For he 
 usually made but one nap of the whole night ; which was owing to 
 the soundness of his constitution, and his inexperience of cares, that 
 lay so heavy upon Don Quixote. 
 
 " Sancho," said the knight, after he had pulled the squire till he 
 had waked him too, " I am amazed at the insensibility of thy temper. 
 Thou art certainly made of marble or brass, thou liest so wirtiout eith- 
 er motion or feeling. Thou sleepest while I wake ; thou singest 
 while I mourn ; and while I am ready to faint for want of sustenance, 
 thou art lazy and unwieldy with mere gluttony. It is the part of a 
 good servant to share in the afflictions of his master. Observe the 
 stillness of the night, and the solitary place we are in. It is a pity 
 such an opportunity should be lost in sloth and inactive rest ; rouse 
 for shame, step a little aside, and with '"a good grace and a cheerfui 
 heart, score me up some three or four hundred lashes upon thy back, 
 towards the disenchanting of Dulcinea. This I make my earnest re- 
 quest, being resolved never to be rough with thee again upon this ac- 
 count ; for I must confess thou canst lay a heavy hand on a man up- 
 on occasion. When that performance is over, we will pass the re- 
 mainder of the night in chanting, I of absence, and thou of constancy, 
 and so begin those pastoral exercises which are to be our employment 
 at home." 
 
 " Sir," answered Sancho, " do you take me for a monk or a friar, 
 that I should start up in the middle of the night, and discipline myself 
 
CH, XCIV. I DON QniXOT£. 413 
 
 at this rate ? Or do you think it such an easy matter to scourge my- 
 self one moment, and fall a-singing the next ? Look you, sir ; say 
 not a word more of this whipping ; if the bare brushing of my coat 
 would do you any good, you should not have it, much less the curry- 
 ing of my hide ; and so let me go to sleep again." " O obdurate 
 heart ! " cried Don Quixote ; " O nourishment and favours ill bestowed ! 
 Is this my reward for having got thee a government, and my good 
 intentions to get thee an earldom, or an equivalent at least, which I 
 dare engage to do when this year of our obscurity is elapsed ? for, in 
 short, post teneJrras spero lucem.'" " That I do not understand," quoth 
 Sancho ; " but this I very well know, that I have worst luck of any 
 physician under the cope of heaven ; other doctors kill their patients, 
 and are paid for it too, and yet they are at no further trouble than 
 scrawling two or three cramp words for some physical slip-slop, 
 which the apothecaries are at all the pains to make up. Now here 
 am I, that save people from the grave, at the expense of my own 
 hide, pinched, run through with pins, and whipped like a top, and yet 
 never a cross I get by the bargain. But if ever they catch me 
 a-curing anybody in this fashion, unless I have my fee beforehand, may 
 I be served as I have been, for nothing. No money, no cure, say I. 
 " You are right, Sancho," said Don Quixote ; " for my part, hao 
 you demanded your fees for disenchanting Dulcinea, you should have 
 received them already ; but I am afraid there can be no gratuity pro- 
 portionable to. the greatness of the cure; and therefore I would not 
 have the remedy depend upon a reward ; for who knows whether my 
 proffering it, or thy acceptance of it, might hinder the effect of the 
 penance'? However, since we have gone so far, we will put it to a 
 trial : come, Sancho, name your price, and begin. First scourge 
 yourself, then pay yourself out of the money of mine that you 
 have in your custody." Sancho, opening his eyes and ears 
 above a foot wide at this fair offer, leaped presently at the propo- 
 sal. " Ay, ay, sir, now, now you say something," quoth he ; "1 
 will do it with a jerk now, since you speak so feelingly : I have a 
 wife and children to maintain, sir, and I must mind the main chance. 
 Come, then, how much will you give me by the lash.?" "Were 
 your payment," said Don Quixote, " to be answerable to the great- 
 ness and merits of the cure, not all the wealth of Venice, nor the In- 
 dian mines, were sufficient to reward thee. But see what cash you 
 have of mine in your hands, and set what price you will on every 
 stripe." " The lashes," quoth Sancho, " are in all three thousand 
 three hundred and odd, of which I have had five ; the rest are 
 to come. Let these five go for the odd ones, and let us come to the 
 three thousand three hundred. At a quartillo, or three halfpence 
 B-piece (and I will not bate a farthing, if it were to my brother), they 
 will make three thousand three hundred three-halfpences. Three 
 35* 
 
414 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 thousand three-halfpences make fifteen hundred threepences, which 
 amounts to seven hundred and fifty reals or sixpences. Now the 
 three hundred remaining three-halfpenc6s make an hundred and fifty 
 threepences, and threescore and fifteen sixpences ; put that together, 
 and it comes just to eight hundred and twenty-five reals, or sixpences, 
 to a farthing. This money, sir, if you please, I will deduct from 
 yours that I have in my hands and then I will reckon myself well 
 paid for my jerking, and go home well pleased, though well whipped. 
 But that is nothing ; for he must not think to catch fish who is afraid 
 to wet his feet. I need say no more." " Now blessings on thy 
 heart, dearest Sancho ! " cried Don Quixote ; " O my friend, how 
 shall Dulcinea and I be bound to pray for thee and serve thee while 
 it shall please Heaven to continue us on earth ! If she recover her 
 former shape and beauty, as now she infallibly must, her misfortune 
 will turn to her felicity, and I shall triumph in my defeat. Speak, 
 dear Sancho ; when wilt thou enter upon thy task ? and a hundred 
 reals more shall be at thy service, as a gratuity for thy being expedi- 
 tious." " I will begin this very night," answered Sancho ; " do you 
 but order it so that we may lie in the fields, and you shall see ihow 
 1 will lay about me." 
 
 Don Quixote longed for night so impatiently, that, like all eager 
 expecting lovers, he fancied Phoebus had broken his chariot-wheels, 
 which made the day of so unusual a length ; but at last it grew dark, 
 and they went out of the road into a shady wood, where they both 
 alighted, and, being sat down upon the grass, they went to supper 
 upon such provisions as Sancho's wallet afibrded. 
 
 And now having satisfied himself, he thought it time to satisfy his 
 master, and earn his money. To which purpose he made himself a 
 whip of Dapple's halter ; and having stripped himself to the waist, 
 retired farther up into the wood at a small distance from his master. 
 Don Quixote, observing his readiness and resolution, could not for- 
 bear calling after him ; " Dear Sancho," cried he, " be not too cruel 
 to thyself neither ; have a care, do not hack thyself to pieces : make 
 no more haste than good speed ; go gently to work, soft and fair 
 goes farthest ; I mean, I would not have thee kill thyself before thou 
 gettest to the end of the tally ; and that the reckoning may be fair on 
 both sidss, I will stand at a distance and keep an account of the 
 strokes by the help of my beads ; and so Heaven prosper thy pious 
 undertaking ! " " He is an honest man," quoth Sancho, " who pays 
 to a farthing ; I only mean to give myself a handsome whipping ; for 
 do not think I need kill myself to work miracles." With that he be- 
 gan to exercise the instrument of punishment, and Don Quixote to 
 tell the strokes. But by the time Sancho had struck seven or eight 
 lashes, he felt the jest bite so smartly, that he began to repent him of - 
 his bargain. Whereupon, after a short pause, he called to his master. 
 
vH. XCIV.] DON QUIXOTE. 415 
 
 and told him that he would be off with him ; for such lashes as t. cso 
 were modestly worth threepence a-piece of any man's money ; and 
 truly he could not afford to go on at three-halfpence a lash. •' Go 
 on, friend Sanoho," answered Don Quixote ; " take courage and pro- 
 ceed ; I will double thy pay, if that be all." " Say you so ? " quoth 
 Sanoho ; " then have at all. I will lay it on thick and threefold. Dc 
 but listen." With that, slap went the scourge ; but the cunning 
 knave left persecuting his own skin, and fell foul of the trees, feteii- 
 ing such dismal groans every now and then, that one would have 
 thought he had been dying. Don Quixote, who was naturally tender- 
 hearted, fearing he might make an end of himself before he could 
 finish his penance, and so disappoint the happy effects of it : " Hold," 
 cried he, " hold, my friend ; as thou lovest thy life, hold, I conjure 
 thee: no more at this time. This seems to be a very sharp sort of 
 physic. Therefore, pray do not take it all at once, make two doses 
 of it. Come, corned, all in good time ; Rome was not built in a day. 
 If I have told right, thou hast given thyself above a thousand stripes ; 
 that is enough for one beating ; for, to use a homely phrase, the ass 
 will carry his load, but not a double load ; ride not a free horse to 
 death." " No, no," quoth Sancho, " it shall never be said of me, the 
 eaten bread is forgotten ; or that I thought it working for a dead horse 
 because! am paid beforehand. Therefore stand off, I beseech you ; 
 get out of the reach of my whip, and let me lay on tlie other thou- 
 sand, and then the back of the work will be broken : such another 
 flogging bout, and the job will be over." " Since thou art in the hu- 
 mour," replied Don Quixote, " I will withdraw, and Heaven strength- 
 en and reward thee ! " With that, Sancho fell to work afresh, and 
 beginning upon a new score, he lashed the trees at so unconscionable 
 a rate, that he fetched off their skins most unmercifully. At length, 
 raising his voice, seemingly resolved to give himself a settling blow, 
 he lets drive at a beech-tree with might and main : " There ! " cried 
 he, " down with thee Samson, and all that are about thee ! " This 
 dismal cry, with the sound of the dreadful strokes that attended it, 
 made Don Quixote run presently to his squire, and laying fast hold on 
 the halter, " Hold," cried he, " friend Sancho, stay the fury of thy 
 arm. Dost thou think I will have thy death, and the ruin of thy wife 
 and children to be laid at my door ? Forbid it. Fate ! Let Dulcinea 
 stay a while, till a better opportunity offer itself. I myself will be 
 contented to live in hopes, that when thou hast recovered new strength, 
 the business may be accomplished to every body's satisfaction." 
 " Well, sir," quoth Sancho, " if it be your worship's will and pleas- 
 ure it should be so, so let it be, quoth I. But, for goodness' sake, do 
 so much as throw your cloak over my shoulders, for I have no mind . 
 to catch cold : we novices are somewhat in danger of that when wa 
 tint undergo the discipline of flogging." With that Don Quixote 
 
6 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 took off his cloak from his own shoulders, and putting it over those 
 of Sancho, chose to remain in his doublet ; and the crafty squire, be- 
 ing lapped up warm, fell fast asleep, and never stirred till the sun 
 waked him. 
 
 In the morning they went on their journey, and after three hours' 
 riding alighted at an inn ; for it was allowed by Don Quixote himself 
 to be an inn, and not a castle, with moats, towers, portcullises, and 
 drawbridges, as he commonly fancied ; for now the knight was might- 
 ily off the romantic pin to what he used to be, as shall be shewn 
 presently at large. He was lodged in a ground-room, which, instead 
 of tapestry, was hung with a coarse painted stuff, such as is often 
 seen in villages. One of the pieces had the story of Helen of Troy, 
 when Paris stole her away from her husband Menelaus ; but scrawl- 
 ed out after a bungling rate by some wretched dauber or other. 
 Another had the story of Dido and jEneas — the lady on the top of a 
 turret, waving a sheet to her fugitive guest, who was in a ship at sea, 
 crowding all the sail he could to get from her. Don Quixote made 
 this observation upon the two stories, that Helen was not at all dis- 
 pleased at the force put upon her, but rather smiled upon her lover ; 
 whereas, on the other side, the fair Dido shewed her grief by her 
 tears, which, because they should be seen, the painter had made as 
 big as walnuts. " How unfortunate," said Don Quixote, " were these 
 two ladies, that they lived not in this age ; or rather, how much more 
 unhappy am I, for not having lived in theirs ! I would have met and 
 stopped those gentlemen, and saved both Troy and Carthage from 
 destruction; nay, by the death of Paris alone, all these miseries -had 
 •been prevented." " I will lay you a wager," quoth Sancho, "that 
 before we be much older, there will not be an inn, a hedge-tavern, a 
 blind victualling-house, nor a barber's shop in the country, but w"ll 
 have the story of our lives and deeds pasted and painted along the 
 walls. But 1 could wish with all my heart, though, that they may be 
 done by a better hand than the bungling fellow that drew these." 
 " Thou art in the right, Sancho ; for the fellow that drew these puts 
 me in mind of Orbaneja, the painter of Uveda, who, as he sat at 
 work, being asked what he was about, made answer, any thing that 
 comes uppermost ; and if he chanced to draw a cock, he underwrote, 
 This is a cock, lest the people should take it for a fox. Just such a 
 one was he that painted, or that wrote (for they are much the same) the 
 history of this new Dpn Quixote that has lately peeped out, and ven- 
 tured to go a-£trolling ; for his painting or writing is all at random, 
 and any thing that comes uppermost. But to come to our own affairs. 
 Hast thou an inclination to have the other brush to-night ? what think 
 you of a warm house .' would it not do better for that service than the 
 open air ? " 
 
 " Why, truly," quoth Sancho, " a whipping is but a whipping, either 
 
CH.XCV.J DON QUIXOTE. 411 
 
 abroad or within doors ; and I could like a close warm place well 
 enough, so it were among trees ; for I love trees hugely, do. you see ; 
 raethinks they bear me company, and have a soh of fellow-feeling of 
 my sufferings." « Now I think on it," said Don Quixote, " it shall 
 not be to-night, honest Sancho ; you shall have more time to recover, 
 and we will let the rest alone till we get home ; it will not be above 
 two days at most." " Even as your worship pleases," answered 
 Sancho ; " but if I might have my will, it were best making an end 
 of the job,' now my hand is in and my blood up. There is nothing 
 like strikmg while the iron is hot ; for delay breeds danger. It is best 
 grinding at the mill before the water is past. Ever take while you 
 may have it. A bird in hand is worth two in the bush." " Now good 
 Sancho," cried Don Quixote, " let alone thy proverbs ; if once thou 
 beginnest, I must give thee over. Canst thou not speak as other 
 folks do, and not after such a tedious, round-about manner? How 
 often have I told thee of this ? Mind what I tell you ; I am sure you 
 will be the better for it." " It is an unlucky trick I have got," replied 
 Sancho ; " I cannot bring you in three words to the purpose without 
 a proverb, nor bnng you any proverb but what I think to the purpose ; 
 but I will mend, if I can." And so they went on direct towards their 
 own village. 
 
 CHAPTER XCV. 
 
 Of the ominous accidents that crossed Don Quixote as Tie entered hit 
 village ; with other transactions tJiat illustrate and adorn this me 
 morahle history. 
 
 When they were entering the village, Don Quixote observed two lit- 
 tle boys contesting together in an adjoining field ; and one said to the 
 other, " Never fret thy gizzard about it : for thou shalt never see her 
 whilst thou hast breath in thy body." Don Quixote overhearing this, 
 " Sancho," said he, " did you mind the boy's words. Thou shalt nev- 
 er see her while thou hast breath in thy body i " " Well," answered 
 Sancho, " and what is the great business, though the boy did say so } " 
 " How ! " replied Don Quixote, " dost thou not perceive that, apply- 
 ing the words to my affairs, they plainly imply that I shall never see 
 my Dulcinea .' " Sancho was about to answer again, but was hinder- 
 ed by a full cry of hounds and horsemen pursuing a hare, which was 
 put so hard to her shifts that she came and squatted down for shelter 
 just at Dapple's feet. Immediately Sancho laid hold of her without 
 difficulty, and presented her to Don Quixote ; but he, with a dejected 
 look, refusing the present, cried out aloud, " An ill omen — an ill 
 
 27 
 
418 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 omen ■ a hare runs away, hounds pursue her, and Dulchiea appears 
 not ! " " You are a strange man," quoth Sancho, " to regard such 
 trumperies ; nay, I have heard you yourself, my dear master, say 
 that all such Christians as troubled their heads with these fortune-tell- 
 ing follies were neither better nor worse than downright numskulls 
 so let us even leave these things as we found them, and get home as 
 fast as we can." 
 
 By this time the sportsmen were come up, and demanding their game 
 Don Quixote delivered them their hare. They passed on, and just at 
 their coming into the town they perceived the curate a^id the bache- 
 lor Carrasco, repeating their breviary in a small field adjoining. The 
 curate and the bachelor, presently knowing their old friends, ran to 
 meet them with open arms ; and while Don Quixote alighted and re- 
 turned their embraces, the boys, who are ever so quick-sighted that 
 nothing can escape their eyes, presently spying the ass, came run- 
 ning and flocking about them : " Oh ! " cried they to one another, 
 " look you here, boys ; here is Gaffer Sancho Panza's ass as fine as 
 a lady ; and Don Quixote's beast 'leaner than ever 1 " With that, 
 they ran whooping and hollowing about them through the town ; 
 while the two adventurers, attended by the curate and the bachelor, 
 moved towards Don Quixote's house, where they were received at 
 the door by his house-keeper and his niece, who had already got no- 
 tice of their arrival. The news having also reached Teresa Panza, 
 Sancho's wife, she camte running half naked, with her hair about her 
 ears, to see him ; leading by the hand all. the way her daughter San- 
 chica, who hardly wanted to be tugged along. But when she found 
 that her husband looked a little short of the state of a governor, 
 " Mercy on me ! " quoth she, " what is the meaning of this, husband ? 
 You look as though you had come all the way on foot, and tired off 
 your legs too ! Why, you come liker a shark than a governor." 
 " Mum, Teresa," quoth Sancho ; " it is not all gold that glisters ; and 
 eve.y man was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth. First let 
 us go home, and then I will tell thee wonders. I have taken care of 
 the main chance. Money I have, and I came honestly by it, without 
 wronging any body." " Hast got money, old boy ? Nay, then, it is 
 well enough, no matter which way ; let it come by hook or by crook, 
 it is but what your betters have done before you." At the same 
 time Sanchica, hugging her father, asked him what he had brought 
 her home ; for she had gaped for him as the flowers do for the dew 
 in May. Thus Sancho, leading Dapple by the halter on one side, his 
 wife taking him by the arm on the other, away they went together to 
 his cottage, leaving Don Quixote at his own house, under the care of 
 his niece and housekeeper, with the curate and bachelor to keep him 
 company. 
 
 Don Quixote took the two last aside at once, and, without mincing 
 
CH. XOV.] DON QUIXOTE. 419 
 
 the matter, gave them an account of his defeat, and the obligation he 
 lay under of being confined to his village for a year, which, like a 
 true knight-errant, he was resolved punctually to observe. He add- 
 ed, that he imended to pass that interval of time in the innocent 
 functions of a pastoral life ; and therefore he would immediately com- 
 mence shepherd, and entertain himself solitarily in fields and woods ; 
 nd begged, if business of greater importance were not an obstruc- 
 ion, that they would both please to be his companions, assuring them 
 le would furnish them with such a number of sheep as might entitle 
 them to such a profession. He also told them that he had already in 
 a manner fitted tliem for the undertaking ; for he had provided them 
 all with names the most pastoral in the world. 
 
 They were struck with amazement at this new strain of folly ; but 
 considering it might be a means of keeping him at home, and hopmg 
 Sit the same time that, within the year, he might be cured of his 
 knight-errantry, they came into his pastoral scheme, and, greatly an 
 plauding it, freely offered their company in the design. " We shaVi 
 live the most pleasant life imaginable," said Samson Carrasco ; " for, 
 as every body knows, I am a most celebrated poet, and I will write 
 pastorals in abundance. Sometimes, too, I may raise my strain, as 
 occasion offers, to divert us as we range the groves and plains. But 
 one thing, gentlemen, we must not forget : it is absolutely necessary 
 that each of us choose a name for the shepherdess he means to cele- 
 brate in his lays ; nor must we forget the ceremony used by the 
 shepherds, of writing, carving, notching, or engraving on every tree 
 the names of such shepherdesses, though the bark be ever so hard." 
 " You are very much in the right," replied Don Quixote ; " though, 
 for my part, I need not be at the trouble of devising a name for any 
 imaginary shepherdess, being already captivated by the peerless Dul- 
 cinea del Toboso — the nymph of these streams, the ornament of 
 these meads, the primrose of beauty, the cream of gentleness, and, 
 in short, the proper subject of all the praises that hyperbolical elo- 
 quence can bestow." " We grant all this," said the curate ; " but 
 we, who cannot pretend to such perfections, must make it our busi- 
 ness to find out some shepherdesses of a lower stamp, and be con- 
 tent." " We shall find enough, I will warrant you," replied Carras- 
 co ; " and though we meet with none, yet will we give those very 
 names we find in books — such as Phyllis, Amaryllis, Chloe, Diana, 
 Florinda, Chloris, Galatea, and a thousand more, which are to be dis- 
 posed of publicly in the open market : and when we have purchased 
 them, they are our own. Besides, if my shepherdess be called Anne, 
 I will name her in my verses Anarda ; if Frances, I will call her 
 Francenia ; and if Lucy be her name, then Lucinda shall be my 
 shepherdess ; and so forth. And, if Sancho Panza will make one 
 of our fraternity, he may celebrate his wife Teresa by the name of 
 
420 DON QUIXOTE 
 
 Teresania." Don Quixote could not forbear smiling at the turn giveu 
 to that name. The curate again applauded his laudable resolution, 
 and repeated his offer of bearing him company all the time that his 
 other employment would allow him ; and then they took their leave, 
 giving him all the good advice that they thought might conduce to 
 his health and welfare. 
 
 No sooner were the curate and the bachelor gone, than the 
 housekeeper and niece, who, according to custom, had been listening 
 to all their discourse, came both upon Don Quixote. " Bless me, 
 isncle," cried the niece, " what is here to do ! What new maggot is 
 got into your head ! When we thought you were come to stay at 
 home, and live like a sober, honest gentleman in your own house, are 
 you hankering after new inventions, and running a wool-gathering 
 after sheep, forsooth ? By my troth, sir, you are somewhat of the 
 latest. The corn is too old to make oaten pipes of." " Ah ! sir," 
 quoth the housekeeper, " how will your worship be able to endure the 
 summer's sun and the winter's frost in the open fields .' And then 
 the bowlings of the wolves. Heaven bless us ! Pray, good sir, do 
 not think of it ; it is a business fit for nobody but those that are bred 
 and born to it, and as strong as horses. Let the worst come to the 
 worst, better be a knight-errant still than a keeper of sheep. Be 
 ruled by me ; .stay at home, look after your concerns, go often to con- 
 fession, do good to the poor ; and, if aught goes ill with you, let it lie 
 at my door." " Good girls," said Don Quixote, " hold your prating : 
 I know best what I have to do. Do not trouble your heads ; whether 
 I be a knight-errant or an errant-shepherd, you shall always find thai 
 I will provide for you." 
 
 The niece and maid, who, without doubt, were good-natured crea 
 tures, made no answer, but brought him something to eat, and tended 
 bim with all imaginable care. 
 
 CHAPTER XCVI 
 
 How Don Quixote fell sick, made his last will, and died. 
 
 As all human things, especially the lives of men, are transitory, their 
 very beginnings being but steps to their dissolution ; so Don Quixote, 
 who was no way exempted from the common fate, was snatched 
 away by death when he least expected it. He was seized with a 
 violent fever that confined him to his bed for six days, during all 
 which time his good friends'^ the curate, bachelor, and barber, came 
 often to see him, and his trusty squire Sancho Panza never stirred 
 from his bed-side. 
 
CH. XCVI.] DON ^UIX&TE. 421 
 
 They conjectured that his elckness proceeded only from the regret 
 of his defeat, and his being disappointed of' Dulcinea's disenchant- 
 ment ; and accordingly they left nothing unessayed to divert him.— 
 The bachelor begged him to pluck up a good heart, and rise, that they 
 might begin their pastoral life ; telling him that he had already writ- 
 ten an eclogue to that purpose, not inferior to those of Sanazaro ; and 
 that he had bought, with his own money, of a shepherd of Quintanar, 
 two famous dogs to watch their flock, the one called Barcino, and the 
 other Butron ; but this had no effect on Don Quixote, for he still con- 
 tinued dejected. A physician was sent for, who, upon feeling his 
 pulse, did not very well like it ; and therefore desired him of all things 
 to provide for his soul's health, for that of his body was in a danger- 
 ous condition. Don Quixote heard this with much more temper than 
 those about him ; for his niece, his housekeeper, and his squire, fell a 
 weeping as bitterly as if he had been laid out already. The physi- 
 cian was of opinion that mere melancholy and vexation had brought 
 him to his approaching end. Don Quixote desired them to leave him 
 a little, because he found himself inclined to rest ; they retired, and 
 he had a hearty sleep of about six hours, which the maid and niece 
 were afraid had been his last. 
 
 At length he awaked, and, with a loud voice, " Praised be the Al- 
 mighty," cried he, " for this great benefit he has vouchsafed to me ! " 
 The niece, hearkening very attentively to these words of her uncle, 
 and finding more sense in them than there was in his usual 
 talk, at least since he had fallen ill ; " What do you say, sir.?" said 
 she ; " has any thing extraordinary happened ? What mercies are 
 these you mention .' " " Mercies," answered he, " that Heaven has 
 this moment vouchsafed to shew me, in spite of all my iniquities. — 
 My judgment is returned, clear and undisturbed, and that cloud of 
 ignorance is now removed which the Continual reading of those books 
 of knight-errantry had cast over my understanding. I am only sorry 
 the discovery happens so late, when I want time to make amends by 
 those studies that should enlighten my soul, and prepare me for futu- 
 rity. I find, niece, my end approaches; but I would have it such, 
 that though my life has got me the character of a madman, I may 
 deserve a better at my death. Dear child," continued he, " send for 
 my honest friend the curate, the bachelor Carrasco, and Master Nich- 
 olas the barber ; for I intend to make my confession and my will." 
 His niece was saved the trouble of sending, for presently they all 
 three came in ; which Don Quixote perceiving, " My good friends," 
 said he, " I have happy news to tell you ; I am no longer Don Quixote 
 de la Mancha, but Alonzo Quixano, the same whom the world, for his 
 fair behavior, has been formerly pleased to call the Good. I now 
 declare myself an enemy to Amadis de Gaul, and his whole genera- 
 tion ; nil foolish stories of knight-errantry I detest. I have a true 
 36 
 
422 SON quixot£. 
 
 sense of the danger of reading them, and of all my past follies ; and, 
 through Heaven's mercy and my own experience, I abhor them."^ 
 His three friends were not a little surprised to hear him talk at this 
 rate, and concluded some new frenzy had possessed him. " What 
 now ? " said Samson to him ; " what is all this to the purpose, Signor 
 Don Quixote ? We have just had the news that the Lady Dulcinea 
 is disenchanted ; and now we are upon the point of turning shepherds, 
 to sing, and live like princes, vou are dwindled down to a hermit ! " 
 
 " No more of that, I beseech you," replied Don Quixote ; " all the 
 use 1 shall make of these follies at present is to heighten my repent- 
 ance ; and though they have hitherto proved prejudicial, yet, by the 
 assistance of Heaven, they may turn to my advantage at my death : 
 I find it comes fast upon me ; therefore, pray, gentlemen, let us be 
 serious. I want a priest to receive my confession, and a scrivener to 
 draw up my will. There is no trifling at a time like this ; and there- 
 fore, pray let the scrivener be sent for, while Mr. Curate prepares me 
 by confession." 
 
 Don Quixote's words put them all into such wonder, that they stood 
 gazing upon one another ; they thought they had reason to doubt of 
 the return of his understanding, and yet they could not help believing 
 him. They were also apprehensive he was near the point of death, 
 considering the sudden recovery of his intellects ; and he delivered 
 himself after that with so much sense, discretion and piety, and shewed 
 himself so resigned to the will of Heaven, that they made no scruple 
 to believe him restored to his perfect judgment at last. The curate 
 thereupon cleared the room of all the company but himself and Don 
 Quixote, and then confessed him. In the meantime the bachelor ran 
 for the scrivener, and presently brought him with him ; and Sancho 
 Panza, being informed by the bachelor how ill his master was-, and 
 finding his niece and housekeeper all in tears, began to make a sad 
 face, and fall a-crying. The curate, having heard the sick man's con- 
 fession, came out and told them that the good Alonzo Quixano was 
 very near his end, and certainly in his senses ; and therefore they had 
 best go in that he might make his will. These dismal tidings opened 
 the sluices of the housekeeper's, the niece's, and the good squire's 
 swollen eyes, so that a whole inundation of tears burst out of those 
 flood-gates, and a thousand sighs from their hearts ; for,- indeed, 
 either as Alonzo Quixano, or as Don Quixote de la Mancha, as it has 
 been observed, the sick gentleman had always shewed himself such 
 a good-natured man, and of so agreeable a behaviour, that he was 
 not only beloved by his family, but by every one that knew him. 
 
 The scrivener, with the rest of the company, then went into the 
 chamber; and the preamble and former part of the will being drawn, 
 and *)ie testator having recommended his soul (o Heaven and be- 
 
CH. XCVI.] DON QUIXOTE. 423 
 
 queathed his body to the earth, according to custom, he came to the 
 legacies, as follows : 
 
 " Item, I give and bequeath to Sancho Panza, wKom in my mad- 
 ness I made my squire, whatever money he has or may have of mine 
 in his hands : and whereas there are reckonings and accounts to be 
 adjusted between us, for what he has received and disbursed, my will 
 and pleEisure is, that whatever may remain due to me, which can be 
 but small, be enjoyed by him as my free gift, without any let or mo- 
 lestation ; and much good may it do him. And as he was, through 
 my means, made governor of an island, I would now, in my right 
 senses, give him the government of a kingdom, were it in my power, in 
 consideration of his integrity and faithfulness. And now, my friend," 
 said he, turning to Sancho, " pardon me that I have brought upon 
 thee, as well as myself, the scandal of madness, by drawing thee in- 
 to my own errors, and persuading thee that there have been and still 
 are knights-errant in the world." " Woe's me, my dear master's wor- 
 ship ! " cried Sancho, all in tears, " do not die this time, but even 
 iake my counsel, and live on many years. For shame, sir, do not 
 give way to sluggishness, but get out erf your doleful dumps, and rise. 
 Is this a time to lie groaning a-bed, when we should be in the fields, 
 in our shepherds' clothing, as we had resolved } Ten to one but be- 
 hind some bush, or under some hedge, we may find the Lady Madam 
 Dulcinea, sfa-ipt of her enchanted rags, and as fine as a queen. May- 
 haps you take it to heart that you were unhorsed and a little crupper ■ 
 scratched the other day ; but if that be all, lay the blame upon me 
 and say it was my fault in not girting Rozinante tight enough. Yoi. 
 know, too, there is nothing more common in your errantry-books than 
 for the knights to be every foot jostled out of the saddle. There is 
 nothing but ups and downs in this world, and he that is down to-day 
 may be up to-morrow." " Even so," said Bamson, " honest Sancho 
 has a right notion of the matter." " Soft and fair, gentlemen," re- 
 plied Don Quixote ; " never look for birds of this year in the nests 
 of the last : I was mad, but now I am in my right senses ; 1 weis 
 once Don Quixote de la Mancha, but I am now (as I said before) the 
 plain Alonzo Quixano ; and I hope the sincerity of my words and 
 my repentance may restore me to the same esteem you have had for 
 me before ; and so, Mr. Scrivener, pray go on." 
 
 " Item, I constitute and appoint Antonia Quixano, my niece here 
 present, sole heiress of all my estate, real and personal, after all my 
 just debts and legacies, bequeathed by these presents, shall have been 
 paid, satisfied, and deducted, out of the best of my goods and chat- 
 tels ; and the first of that kind to be discharged shall be the salary 
 due to my housekeeper, together with twenty ducats over and above 
 her wages ; which said sum I leave and bequeath her to buy her 
 mourning. 
 
424 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 " Item. I appoint Mr. Curate and Mr. Samson Carrasco, tho bache* 
 lor, here present o be the executors of this my last will and testa- 
 ment. 
 
 " Item, It is my will, that if my niece Antonia Quixano be inclina 
 ble to marry, it be with none but a person who, upon strict inquiry, 
 shall be found never to have read a book of knight-errantry in his 
 life ; and in case it appears that he has been conversant in such books, 
 and that she persists in her resolution to marry him, she is then to for- 
 feit all right and title to my bequest, which, in such case, my executors 
 are hereby empowered to dispose of to pious uses, as they shall think 
 most proper." 
 
 Having finished the will, he fell into a swooning fit. All the com- 
 pany were troubled and alarmed, and ran to his assistance. However 
 he came to himself at last ; but relapsed into the like fits almost 
 every hour, for the space of three days that he lived after he had 
 made his will. 
 
 In short, Don Quixote's last day came, after he had made those 
 preparations for death which good Christians ought to do ; and, by 
 many fresh and weighty arguments, shewed his abhorrence of books 
 of knight-errantry. The scrivener, who was by, protested he had ^ 
 never read in any book of that kind of any knight-errant who evei 
 died in his bed so quietly, and like a good Christian, as Don Quixote 
 did. When the curate perceived that he was dead, he desired the 
 scrivener to give him a certificate how Alonzo Quixano, commonly, 
 called the Good, and sometimes known by the name of Don Quixote 
 de la Mancha, was departed out of this life into another, and died a 
 natural death. This he desired, lest any other author but Cid Hamet 
 Benengeli should take o'ccasipn to raise him from the dead, and pre- 
 sume to write endless histories of his pretended adventures. 
 
 Thus died that ingenious gentleman, Don Quixote de la Mancha, 
 whose native place Cid Hamet has not thought fit directly to mention, 
 with design that all the towns and villages in La Mancha should con- 
 tend for the honour of giving him birth, as the seven cities of Greece 
 did for Homer. We shall omit Sancho's lamentations, and those of 
 the niece and housekeeper, as also several epitaphs that were made 
 for his tomb, and will only give you this, which the bachelor Car- 
 rasco caused to be put over it : 
 
 The body of a knight lies here, 
 
 So brave, that, to his latest breath, 
 Immortal glory was his care, 
 
 And made him triumph over death. 
 
 Nor has his death the world deceived 
 
 Less than his wondrous life surprised ; 
 For if he like a madman lived, 
 
 At least he like a wise one died. 
 
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