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PREFATORY MEMOIR.

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Miguel de Cervaj^tes Saavedra was born at Alcala de Henares, a town of New Castile, famous for its Tniversity, founded by Cardinal Ximenes. He was of gentle birth, b ,h. on his father's and motherV side. Rodrigo de Cervantes, his father, was descended from, an ancient family of Galicia, of which several branches were settled in some of the principal cities of Spain. His mother's name was Leonora de Cortenas. We find by the parish register of Santa Maria la Mayor, at Alcara de Henares, that Miguel was baptized in that church on Sunday, the 9th of October, 1547 ; in which year we may conclude, therefore, that he was born. The discovery of this baptismal register set at rest a dispute which had for some time been going on between seven difi'erent cities, each of which claimed the honour of being the native place of our author: these were, besides the one already mentioned, Seville, Madrid, Esquivias, Toledo, Lucena, and Alcazar de San Juan. In this respect we cannot avoid drawing a comparison between the fame of Cervantes and the prince of poets, Homer.

From a child he discovered a great liking for books, which no doubt determined his parents, whose fortune, notwithstanding their good family, was anything but affluent, to educate him for one of tha learned professions, by which alone at that time there was any chance of getting wealth. Miguel, however, did not take to the strict studies proposed to him: not that he was idle; his days were spent in reading books of amusement, such as novels, romances and nocms It was

PREFATORY MEMOIR.

of the materials afforded by such a pursuit that his fame was after-(vards built.

Cervantes continued at Madrid till he was in his twenty-first year, during which time he remained with his learned tutor, Juan Lopez de lloyos. He seems to have been a great favourite with him j for in a collection of " Luctus," published by Juan on the death of the Queen, we find an elegy and a ballad contributed by the editor's " dear and beloved disciple, Miguel de Cervantes," Under the same editorial care Cervantes himself tells us, in his Yiage de Pamasso, that he published a pastoral poem of some length called " Filena," besides several ballads, sonnets, canzonets, and other small poems.

Notwithstanding the comparative insignificance of these productions, they probably excited some little attention; for it appears not unlikely that it was to them that Cervantes owed his appointment to an office which we find him holding, in 1569^ at Komeâ€"that of cham berlain to his eminence the Cardinal Julio Aquaviva, an ecclesiastic of considerable learning. Such an appointment, however, did not suit the active disposition and romantic turn of one so deeply read in the adventures of the old knights, the glory of which he longed to share; from which hope, however, the inactivity and monotony of a court life could not but exclude him.

In 1671 there was concluded a famous league between Pope Pius V., Philip IL of Spain, and the Venetian Republic, against Selim, the Grand Turk, who was attacking Cyprus, then belonging to Venice. John of Austria, natural son of the celebrated Emperor Charles V. and brother of the King of Spain, was made commander-in-chief of the allied forces, both naval and military; and under him, as general of the Papal forces, was appointed Mario Antonio Colonna, Duke of Paliano. It became fashionable for the young men of the time to -enlist in this expedition; and Cervantes, then about twenty-four years of age, soon enrolled himself under the standard of the Roman general. After various success on both sides, in which the operations of the Christians were not a little hindered by the dissensions of their commanders, to which the taking of Nicosia by the Turks may be imputed, the first year's cruise ended with the famous battle of Lepanto; after which the allied forces retired and wintered at Mes8iu£\

Cervantes was present at this famous victory, where he was wounded In the left hand by a blow from a scimitar, or, as some assert, by a gunshot, so severely that he was obliged to have it amputated at tho wrist whilst in the hospital at Messina; but the operation was so unskilfully performed that he lost the use of the entire arm ever afterwards. He was not discouraged by this wound, nor induced to give up his profession as a soldier. Indeed, he seems, from his own words, to be very proud of the honour which his loss conferred upon him, "My wound," he says, "was received on the most glorious occasion that any age, past or present, ever saw, or that the future can ever hope to see. To those who barely behold them, indeed, my wounds may not seem honourable; it is by those who know how I came by them that they will be rightly esteemed. Better is it for a soldier to die in battle than to save his life by running away. For my part, I had rather be again present, were it possible, in that famous battle than whole and sound without sharing in the glory of it. The scars which a soldier exhibits in his breast and face are stars to guide others to the haven of honour and the love of just praise."

The year following the victory of Lepanto Cervantes still continued with the same fleet, and took part in several attacks on the coast of the Morea. At the end of 1572, when the allied forces were disbanded, Colonna returned to Kome, whither our author probably accompanied him, since he tells us that he followed his " conquering banners." He afterwards enlisted in the Neapolitan army of the King of Spain, in which he remained for three years, though without rising bove the rank of a private soldier; but it must be remembered that, at the time of which we are now speaking, such was the condition of some of the noblest men of their country, it was accounted no disgrace for even a scion of the nobility to fight as a simple halberdier, or musqueteer, in the service of his prince.

On the 26th of September, 1575, Cervantes embarked on board a galley, called the Sun^ and was sailing from Naples to Spain, when his ship was attacked by some Moorish corsairs, and both he and aU the rest of the crew were taken prisoners and carried off to Algiers. When the Christians were divided amongst their captors, he fell to

the lot of the captain, the famous Arnaut^ Mami, an Albanian rene-

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gade, whose atrocious cruelties are too disgusting to be mentioned. He seems to have treated his captive with peculiar harshness, perhaps hoping that by so doing he might render him the more impatient of his servitude, and so induce him to pay a higher ransom, which the rank and condition of his friends in Europe appeared to promise. In this state Cervantes continued five years. Some have thought that in "the captive's" tale related in Don Quixote, we may collect the particulars of his own fortunes whilst in Africa; but, even granting that some of the incidents ruay be the same, it is now generally supposed that we shall be deceived if we regard them as any detailed account of his captivity. A man of Cervantes' enterprise and abilities was not likely to endure tamely the hardships of slavery, and we accordingly find that he was constantly forming schemes for escape. The last of these, which was the most bold and best contrived of all, failed because he had admitted a traitor to a share in his project.

There was at Algiers a Venetian renegade named Hassan Aga, a friend of ArnautI Mami; he had risen high in the king's favour, and occupied an important post in the government of Algiers. We have a description of this man's ferocious character in Don Quixote, given us by the Captain de Viedraa. Cervantes was often sent by his master as messenger to this man's house, situated on the seashore, at a short distance from Algiers. One of Hassan's slaves, a native of Navarre, and a Christian, had the management of the gardens of the villa, and with him Cervantes soon formed an acquaintance, and succeeded in persuading him to allow the making of a secret cave under the garden, which would form a place of concealment for himself and fifteen of his fellow-captives on whom he could rely. When the cavern was fiLi.slied the adventurers made their escape by night from Algiers, and took up their quarters in it. Of course an alarm was raised when they were missing; but although a most strict search after the fugitives was made, both by their masters and by Ochali, then despot of Algiers, here they lay hid for several months, being supplied with food by the gardener and anoth^ 'Christian slavt, named El Dorador.

One of their companions, named Viana, a gentleman of Minorca^ ba/l been left behind them, so that he might bear a more active part

PREFATORY MEMOIR. «

in the escape of the whole party. A sum of money was to be raised for his ransom, and then he was to go to Europe and return with a ship in which Cervantes and his friends, including the gardener and tl Dorador, were to embark on an appointed night, and so get back to their country. Viana obtained his liberty in September, 1577, and having reached Minorca in safety, he easily procured a ship and came off the coast of Barbary, according to the preconcerted plan; but before he could land he was seen by the Moorish sentry, who raised an alarm and obhged him to put out to sea again, lest he should by coming too close attract attention to the cavern. This was a sore disappointment to Cervantes and his companions, who witnessed it all from their retreat. Still, knowing Viana's courage and constancy, they had yet hopes of his returning and again endeavouring to get them off; and this he most probably would have done had it not been for the treachery at which we hinted above. El Dorador just at this time thought fit to turn renegade; and of course he could not begin his infidel career better than by infamously betraying his former friends. In consequence of this information Hassan Aga surrounded the entrance to the cave with a suflScient force to make any attempt at resistance utterly unavailing, and the sixteen poor prisoners were dragged out and conveyed in chains to Algiers. The former attempts which he had made to escape caused Cervantes to be instantly fixed on as the contriver and ringleader of this plot; and therefore, whilst the other fifteen were sent back to their masters to be punished as they thought fit, he was detained by the king himself, who hoped through him to obtain further information, and so implicate the ether Christians, and perhaps also some of the renegades. Even had he possessed any such information, which most likely he did not, Cervantes was certainly the very last man to give it: notwithstanding various examinations and threats, he still persisted in asserting that he was the sole contriver of the plot, till at length, by his firmness, he fairly exhausted the patience of Ochali. Had Hassan had his way, Cervant^ would have been strangled as an example to all Christians whb should hereafter try to run away from their captivity, and the king himself was not unwilling to please him in this matter; but then he was not their property, and Mami, to whom he belonged, would not consent to lose a slave whom he considered to be worth at least two

PRE FA TOR Y MEMOIR.

hundred crowns. Thus did the avarice of a renegade save the futurt nuthor of Don Quixote from being strangled with the bowstring. Some of the particulars of this affair are given us by Cervantes himself ; but others are collected from Father Haedo, the contemporary author of a history of Barbary. " Most wonderful thing," says the worthy priest, " that some of these gentlemen remained shut up in the cavern for five, six, even for seven months, without even so much as seeing the light of day; and all the time they were sustained only by Miguel de Cervantes, and that too at the great and continual risk of his own life. No less than four times did he incur the nearest danger of being burnt alive, impaled, or strangled, on account of the bold thinj^a which he dared in hopes of bestowing liberty upon many. Had Ms fortune corresponded to his spirit, skill, and industry, Algiers might at this day have been in the possession of the Christians, for his designs aspired to no less lofty a consummation. In the end, the whole affair was treacherously discovered; and the gardener, after being tortured and picketed, perished miserably. But, in truth, of the things which happened in that cave during the seven months that it was inhabited by these Christians, and altogether of the captivity and various enterprises of Miguel de Cervantes, a particular history might easily be formed. Hassan Aga was wont to say that' coidd lie hut be sure of that handless Spaniard, he should consider captives, barks, and the whole city of Algiers in perfect safety.'"

And Ochali seems to have been of the same opinion; for he did not consider it safe to leave so dangerous a character as Cervantes in private hands, and so we accordingly find that he himself bought him of Mami, and then kept him closely confined in a dungeon in his own palace, with the utmost cruelty. It is probable, however, that the extreme hardship of Cervantes' case did really contribute to his liberation. He found means of applying to Spain for his redemption; and in consequence his mother and sister (the former of whom had now become a widow, and the latter, Donna Andrea de Cervantes, was married to a Florentine gentleman named Ambrosio) raised the sum of two hundred and fifty crowns, to which a friend of the family, one Francisco Caramambel, contributed fifty more. The sum was ffliil into the hands of Father Juan Gil and Father Antonio de la Vella Trinitarios, brcUireu of the " Society for the Redemption of

Slaves,"* who immediately set to work to ransom Cervantes. Hia rawe was, however, a hard one; for the king asked a thousand crowns for his freedom; and the negotiation on this head caused a long delay, but was at last brought to an issue by the abatement of the ransom to the sum of five hundred crowns; the two hundred still wanting were made up by the good fathers, the king threatening that if the bargain were not concluded, Cervantes should be carried off to Constantinople; and he was actually on board the galley for that purpose. So by borrowing some part of the required amount, aniii. by taking the remainder from what was originally entrusted for th(» ransoming of other slaves, these worthy men procured our author his liberty, and restored him to Spain in the spring of 1581.

On his return to his native land the prospects of Cervantes were not very flattering. He was now thirty-four years of age, and had spent the best portion of his life without making any approach t(r wards eminence, or even towards acquiring the means of subsistence. his adventures, enterprises, and sufferings had, indeed, furnished him with a stock from which in after years his powerful mind drew largely in his writings ; but since he did not at first devote himself to literary pursuits, at least not to those of an author, they could not afford him much consolation ; and as to a military career, his wound and long captivity seemed to exclude him from all hope in that quarter. His family was poor, their scanty means having suffered from the sum raised for his ransom ; and his connexions and friends were powerless to procure him any appointment at the Court. He went to live at Madrid, where his mother and sister then resided, and there once more betook himseK to the pursuit of his younger days. He shut himself up, and eagerly employed his time in reading every kind of books; Latin, Spanish, and Italian authorsâ€"aU served to contribute to his various erudition.

Three whole years were thus spent; till at length he turned his

* Societies of this description, tliougli not so common as in Spain, existed also in other countries. In England, since the Keformation, money bequeathed for this purpose was placed in the hands of some of the large London companies or guilds. Since the destruction of Algiers, by Lord Exmouth, and still later since the abohtion of that piratical kingdom by the French, such charitable bequests, having become useless for their original purpose, have in some instances been devoted to the promo« tion of education by a decree of Chancery. This is the case with a large sum, usually known as " Bctlon'e gift," in the trusteeship of the Ironmonger's CcnivttA.

reading to some account, by publisliiiig, in 1584, a pastoral novel entitled Galatea. Some authors, amongst whom is Pellicer, are inclined to think that dramatic composition was the first in which he appeared before the public ; but such an opinion has, by competent judges, been now abandoned. Galatea, which is interspersed with songs and verses, is a work of considerable merit, quite suflBcicnt, indeed, though of course inferior to Don Quixote, to have gained for its author a high standing amongst Spanish writers ; though in it we discern nothing of that peculiar style which has made Cervantes one of the most remarkable writers that ever livedâ€"that insight into human character, and that vein of humour with which he exposes and satirizes its failings. It being so full of short metrical effusions â– would almost incline us to believe that it was written for the purpose of embodying the varied contents of a sort of poetical commonplace book ; some of which had, perhaps, been written when he was a youth under the tmtion of his learned preceptor, Juan Lopez de Hoyos ; others may have been the pencillings of the weary hours of liis long captivity in Africa. As a specimen of his power in the Spanish language it is quite worthy of him who in after years immortalized that tongue by the romance of Don Quixote. It had been better for Cervantes had he gone on in this sort of fictitious composition, instead of betaking himself to the drama, in which he had very formidable rivals, and for which, as was afterwards proved, his talents were less adapted.

On the 12th of December in the same year that his Galatea was published, Cervantes married, at Esquivias, a young lady who was of one of the first families of that place, and whose charms had furnished the chief subject of his amatory poems ; she was named Donna Catalina de Salazar y Palacios y Vozmediano. Her fortune was but small, and only served to keep Cervantes for some few months in idleness; when his diflRculties began to harass him again, and found him as a married man less able to meet them. He then betook himself to the drama, at which he laboured for several years, though with very indifferent success. He wrote in all, it is said, thirty comedies ; but of these only eight remain, judging from the merits of which, we do not seem to have sustained any great loss in the others not having reached us.

PRE FA TOR y MEMOIR. riii

It may appear strange at first that one who possessed such a wonderful power of description and delineation of character as did Cervantes, should not have been more successful in dramatic writing; but, whatever may be the cause, certain it is that his case does not stand alone. Men who have manifested the very highest abilities as romance-writers, have, if not entirely failed, at least not been remarkably successful, as composers of the drama; of very recent times, who so great a delineator of character, or so happy in his incidents, or so stirring in his plots, as the immortal Author of Waverley % Yet the few specimens of dramatic composition which he lias left us, only serve to show that, when Waverley, Guy Manner-ing, Ivanlioe, and the rest of his romances are the delight of succeeding generations, Halidon Hill and the House of Aspen will, with tlie Numancia Vengada of the author of Don Quixote, be buried in comparative oblivion.

In 1588 Cervantes left Madrid, and settled at Seville, where, as he himself tells us, " he found something better to do than writing comedies," This " something better" was probably an appointment in some mercantile business; for we know that some of the principal branches of his family were very opulent merchants at Seville at that time, and through them he might obtain some means of subsistence less precarious than that which depended upon selling his comedies for a few " reals," Besides, two of the Cervantes-Saavedra of Seville were themselves amateur poets, and hkely therefore to regard the more favourably their poor relation, Miguel of Alcala de Henares, to whom they would gladly entrust the management of some part of their mercantile aflPairs. The change of life, however, did not prevent Cervantes from still cultivating his old passion for literature ; and we accordingly find his name as one of the prize-bearers for a series of poems which the Dominicans of Saragossa, in 1595, proposed to be written in praise of St, Hyacinthus; one of the prizes was adjudged to ** Miguel Cervantes Saavedra of Seville."

In 1596 we find two short poetical pieces of Cervantes written upon the occasion of the gentlemen of Seville having taken arms, and prepared to deliver themselves and the city of Cadiz from the power of the EngUsh, who, under the famous Earl of Essex, had made a descent upon the Spanish coast, and destroyed the ship-

ping intended for a second armada for the invasion of England- In 1598 Philip II. died; and Cervantes wrote a sonnet, which he then considered the best of his literary productions, upon a majestic tomb, of enormous height, to celebrate the funeral of that monarch- On tlie day that Philip was buried, a serious quarrel happened between the civil and ecclesiastical authorities of Seville; and Cervantes was mixed up in it, and was in some trouble for having dared to manifest his disapprobation by hissing at some part of their proceedings, but we are not told what.

In 1599 Cervantes went to Toledo, which is remarkable as being the place where he pretended to discover the original manuscript of Don Quixote, by the Arabian Cid Hamet Benengeli. It was about this time, too, that he resided in La Mancha, where he projected and executed part, at least, of his immortal romance of Don Quixote, and where he also laid the scene of that "ingenious gentleman's" adventures. It seems likely that, whatever may have been Cervantes' employment at Seville; it involved frequent travelling; and this may account for the very accurate knowledge which he displays of the different districts which he describes in his tale; for it is certain that the earlier part of his life could have afforded him no means of acquiring such information. Some have thought also that he was occasionally employed on Government business, and that it was whilst on some commission of this sort that he was ill-treated by the people of La Mancha, and thrown into prison by them at Argasa-miUa. Whatever may have been the cause of his imprisonment, he himself tells us in the prologue to Don Quixote, that the First Part of tliat work was composed in a jail.

But for fifteen years of Cervantes' life, from 1588 to 1603, we know but very little of his pursuits; the notices we have of him during that time are very few and unsatisfactory; and this is the more to be regretted because it certainly was then that his great work was conceived, and in part executed. Soon after the accession of Philip the Third, he removed from Seville to Valladolid, probably for the sake of being near the Court of that monarch, who, though remarkable for his indolence, yet professed himself the patron of letters. It was whilst living here that the First Part of Don Quixote was published,

PRE FA TOR V MEMOIR. jtv

but not at Valladolid; it appeared at Madrid, either at the end of 1604, or, at the latest, in 1605.

The records of the magistracy of Valladolid afford us some curious particulars of our author's mode of life about the time of the publication of Don Quixote. He was brought before the court of justice, on suspicion of having been concerned in a nightly brawl and murder, though he really had no share in it. A Spanish gentleman, named Don Caspar Garibay, was stabbed about midnight near the house of Cervantes. When the alarm was raised, he was amongst the first to run out and proffer every assistance in his power to the wounded man. The neighbourhood was not very respectable, and this gave rise to our author's subsequent trouble in the matter : for it was suspected that the ladies of his household were, from the place where they lived, persons of bad reputation, and that he himself had. in some shameful affray, dealt the murderous blow with his own hand. He and all his family were, in consequence, directly arrested, and were only set at liberty after undergoing a very minute and rigid examination. The records of the court teD us that Cervantes asserted that be was residing at Valladolid for purposes of business; that, by reason of his literary pursuits and reputation, he was frequently honoured by visits from gentlemen of the royal household and learned men of the university; and, moreover, that he was living in great poverty; for we are told that he, his wife, and his two sisters, one of whom was a nun, and his niece, were living' in a scanty and mean lodging on the fourth floor of a poor-looking house, and amongst them all had only one maid-servant. He stated his age to be upwards of fifty, though we know that, if bom in 1547, he must in fact have nearly, or quite completed his fifty-seventh year at this time. In such obscurity, then, was the immortal author of Don Quixote living at the time of its publication.

The First Part of this famous romance was dedicated to Don Alonzo Lopez de Zuniga, Duke of Bexar or Bejar, who at this time affected the character of a Meceenas; whose conduct, however, towards Cervantes was not marked by a generosity suited to his rank, nor according to his profession, nor at aU corresponding to the merits and wants of the author. But the book needed no patron; it must

jtvi PREFATORY MEMOIR,

make its own way, and it did so. It was read immediately in Court and city, by old and young, learned and unlearned, and by all with equal delight; "it went forth with the universal applause of all nations." Four editions (and in the seventeenth century, when so few persons comparatively could read, that was equivalent to more than double the number at the present time)â€"four editions were pub-Jished and sold in one year.

The profits from the sale of Don Quixote must have been verj considerable; and they, together with the remains of his paternal estates, and the pensions from the count and the cardinal, enabled Cervantes to live in ease and comfort. Ten years elapsed before he sent any new work to the press ; which time was passed in study, and i» attending to his pecuniary affairs. Though Madrid was now his fixed abode, we often find him at Esquivias, where he probably went to enjoy the quiet and repose of the village, and to look after the property which he there possessed as his wife's dowry.

In 1613 he published his twelve Novelets Exemplares, or " Exemplary Novels," with a dedication to his patron the Count de Lemos. He called them "exemplary," because, as he tells us, his other novels had been censured as more satirical than exemplary; which fault he determined to amend in these; and therefore each of them contains interwoven in it some error to be avoided, or some virtue to be practised. He asserts that they were entirely his own invention, not borrowed or copied from any other works of the same sort, nor translated from any other language, as was the case with most of the novels which his countrymen had published hitherto. But, notwithstanding this, we cannot fail to remark a strong resemblance in them to the tales of Boccaccio; still they are most excellent in their Avay, and have always been favourites with the Spanish youth for their interest and pure morality, and their ease and manliness of style. The titles of these novels are, Tlie Liill". Gipsy, Tlie Generous Lover, Rinconete and Coriadillo, The Spanish-English Lady, The Glass Doctor, The. Force of Blood, The Jealous Estremadura, T/ie Illustrious Servant-Maid, The Two Damsels, The Lady Cornelia Bentivoglio, The Deceitful Marriage, and Tlie Dialogue of tlie Dogs. They have all been translated into English, and arit probably not unknown to some of our readers.

The next year Cervantes published another small work, entitled the Viage de Famasso, or "A Journey to Parnassus," which is a playful satire upon the Spanish poets, after the manner of Cassar Caporali's upon the Italian poets under a similar title. It is a good picture of the Spanish literature of his day, and one of the most powerful of his poetical works. It is fuU of satire, though not ill-natured, and there was no man of genius of the time who woidd complain of being too harshly treated in it. Cervantes introduces bimself as the oldest and poorest of all the poetical fraternity, " the naked Adam of Spanish poets." The plot of the poem is as follows:â€" Apollo wishes to rid Parnassus of the bad poets, and to that end he calls together all the others by a message through Mercury. When all are assembled, he leads them into a rich garden of Parnassus, and assigns to each the place which corresponds to his merits. Poor Cervantes alone does not obtain this distinction, and remains without being noticed in the presence of the rest, before whom all the works he has ever published are displayed. In vain does he urge his love for literature, and the troubles which he had endured for its sake; no seat can he get. At last ApoUo, in compassion upon him, advises him to fold up his cloak, and to make that his seat; but, alas, so poor is he that he does not possess such a thing, and so he is obliged to remain standing, in spite of his age, his talents, and the opinion of many who know and confess the honour and position which are his due. The vessel in which this " Journey to Parnassus" is performed is described in a way quite worthy of Cervantes : " From topmast to keel it was all of verse; not one foot of prose was there in it. The airy railings which fenced the deck were all of double-rhymes. Ballads, an impudent but necessary race, occupied the rowing benches; and rightly, for there is nothing to which they may not be turned. The poop was grand and gay, but somewhat strange in its style, being stuck all over with sonnets of the richest workmanship. The stroke-oars on either side were pulled by two vigorous triplets, which regulated the motion of the vessel in a way both easy and powerful. The gangway was one long and most melancholy elegy, from which tears were continually dropping."

The publication of a shameful imitation, pretending to be a Second Part of the Adventures of Don Quixote, accelerated the production of

Cervantes' own Second Part; which accordingly made its appearance at the beginning of 1615. Contrary to common experience, this Second Part was received, and deservedly, with as great applause as Avas the First Part ten years before.

Cervantes had now but a few more months to live; and it must, in his declining years, have been a great consolation to find that the efforts of his genius were still appreciated by his countrymen; not to mention the relief from pecuniary embarrassments vi'hich the profits of the sale must have afibrded him. Cervantes was now at the height to which his ambition had all along aimed; he had no rival; for Lope de Vega was dead, and the literary kingdom of Spain was all his own. He was courted by the great; no strangers came to Madrid without making the writer of Don Quixote the first object of their inquiry; he reposed in honour, free from all calumny, in the bosom of his family.

This same year he published eight comedies, and the same number of interludes; two only in verse, the rest in prose. It does not seem likely that these were written at this time; they must have been the works of his earlier years ; but, like his novels, corrected and given to the public when his judgment was more mature. Several of them had, no doubt, been performed on the stage many years before, and remained with Cervantes in manuscript. The dissertation which he prefixed to them is full of interest, and is very curious and valuable, since it contains the only account we have of the early history of the Spanish drama.

In 1616 he completed and prepared for the press a romance entitled Fcrsiles and Sigismunda, of a grave character, written in imitation of the Ulhiopics of Heliodorus: it was the work of many years, and is accounted by the Spaniards one of the purest specimens of Castilian writing. He finislied it jubt before his death, but never lived to see it published. The dedication and prologue of Fersiles and Sigismunda are very afi'ecting; they are the voice of a dying man speaking to us of his approaching dissolution.

From the nature of his complaint, Cervantes retained his mental faculties to the very last, and so was able to be the historian of his iatter days. At the end of the preface to Fersiles he tells us that he had '^one for a few days to Esquivias, in hopes that country tin might

be beneficial to him. On his return to Madrid he was accompanied by his friends, when a young student on horseback overtook them, riding very hard to do so, and complaining in consequence of the rapid pace at which they were going. One of the three made answer that it was no fault of theirs, but that the horse of Miguel de Cervantes was to be blamed, whose trot was none of the slowest. Scarcely had the name been pronounced, when the young man dismounted; and touching the border of Cervantes' left sleeve, exclaimed, ''Yes, yes, it is indeed the maimed perfection, the all-famous, the delightful writer, the joy and darling of the Muses." This salutation was returned with Cervantes' natural modesty, and the worthy student performed the rest of the journey with him and his friends. " We drew up a little," says Cervantes, " and rode on at a measured pace; and whilst we rode, we happened to talk of my illness. The good student soon knocked away all my hopes, and let me know my doom, by telling me that it was a dropsy that I had got: the thirst attending which, not all the waters of the ocean, though it were not salt, could suffice to quench. ' Therefore, Signor Cervantes,' said he, ' you must drink nothing at all, but forget not to eat, and to eat plentifully; that alone will recover you without any physic' ' Others have told me the same,' answered I j ' but I can no more forbear drinking, than if I had been born to nothing else. My life is fast drawing to a close; and from the state of my pulse, I think I can scarcely outlive Bunday next at the utmost; so that I hardly think I shall profit by the acquaintance so fortunately made. But adieu, my merry friends all; for I am going to die; and I hope to see you again ere long in the next world as happy as hearts can desire.' With that, we found ourselves at the bridge of Toledo, by which we entered the city; and the student took leave of us, having to go round by the bridge of Segovia."

This is all that we know of the last sickness of Cervantes : it was dropsy, and this dropsy, according to his own prediction to tha student, increased so mpidly, that a few days after, on the 18th of April, 1613, he was conddered to be past recovery, and it was thought advisable for him to receive the last sacrament of extreme unction, which he accordingly did with all the devotion of a pious CaLhcIio.

He died on the 23rd day of April, 1616, in the sixty-ninth year of his age; and was buried in the habit of the Franciscans, whose order he had entered some time previous to his decease. It is a coincidence worth remembering, that Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra terminated his mortal course in Spain on the very same day that William, Sliakspeare died in England.

As regards style of composition, Cervantes is without a rival in the Spanish language. For the purity of his writing, he is even to this day acknowledged, not only to be first, but to have no one who can come near enough to be called second to him. But this is not his greatest praise. He must ever be remembered as the originator of a kind of writing which the greatest of men since his time have thought it an honour, of whatever country they may have been, to imitate. All modern romance-writers and novel-writers (and what a mighty host are they!) must be content to be accounted the followers of Miguel de Cervantes. '^

With regard to Don Quixote, it need bardly be said that its object is satire upon the books of knight-errantry, which were so much used in the time of Cervantes, and especially by the Spanish. He conceived that tiiese books were likely to give his countrymen false ideas of the world; to fill them all, but especially the young, with fanciful notions of life, and so make them unfit to meet its real difli-culties and hardships. In order to exhibit the absurdity of such works (it must be remembered too, that the more famous books of knighthood had given rise to a host of spurious imitations, with all their faidts and none of their beauties), the author of Don Quixote represents a worthy gentleman with his head turned by such reading, and then sallying forth and endeavouring to act in this plain matter-of-fact world (where there are windmills, and not giantsâ€"inns, and not castlesâ€"good honest hosts and hostesses, and not lords and ladiesâ€"chambermaids, and not peerless beautiesâ€"estates to be got by hard labour,'and not islands to be given away to one's dependents as if by enchantment), endeavouring to act, we say, as if all that was said io Aw.'Mj.i/' <Je Gaul, and Palmer'H qf England, and OlivarUe de

Laura, were really true. The absurdities into which the poor gentleman's madness constantly hurries him, the stem and bitter satire which is conveyed in these agaiust the books which caused them all, did more towards putting down the extravagances of knight-errantry than many volumes of the bitterest invective.

We of this present day cannot be really alive to all the great genius «iisplayed in Don Quixote. The books which it satirizes are now almost unknown ; many who have heard of Aniadis de Gaid have never read it, and stiU less have they read all the lineage of the Amadis. Besides, in some of the first of the chivalrous romances, such as Falmerm of England, the Iforte d'Arthw, and others, there was undoubtedly very much talent and beauty of sentiment: and it was as such that Southey thought it right to translate them and present them to the English public. Deeply indebted are we aU to him for his labours, which reviftrd among us somewhat of the taste for the old and stately prose of the ancient romancesâ€"a taste which has given rise to those beautiful editions in English of the tales of De la Motte Fouqu6. But we must ever remember that it was not for the purpose of ridiculing those and similar books that Cervantes wrote Iiis " History"â€"one so keenly alive to the beauty of the poetry of tht; mediaeval writing as he was, never could have intended such a thing : it was to exterminate the race of miserable imitators, who, at his time, deluged Europe with sickening cancatures of the old romance. It has even been thought that he had intended another course in order to cure the diseaseâ€"namely, that of himself composing a model ronance in the style of Amadis, which, from its excellence, would make manifest tlie follies of men who haa endeavoured to imitate that almost inimitable work. But the disease was past cure; the limb was obliged to be amputated ; books of knight-errantry could not be reformed, he thought; and so rather than let them continue their mischief in their present shape, they must be quite destroyed; and this the satire of Don Quixote was by its author considered th« most proper means of efiecting.

This as xUdeed a daring remedy; and, as may be supposed, by pme it has been thought that Cervantes, in lopping oflf an excrescence, did also destroy a healthy limbâ€"that, in destroying knight'

errantry, he destroyed also the holy spirit of telf-devotion and heroism. The Count Segur, we are told by an ingenious writer of the present time,* who joins the count in his opinion, laments that the fine spirit of chivalry should have lost its empire, and that the romance of Don Quixote, by its success and its philosophy, concealed under an attractive fiction, should have completed the ruin by fixing ridicule even upon its memoryâ€"a sentence indeed full of error; for real philosophy needs not to be concealed to be attractive. And Sir William Temple quotes the saying of a worthy {Spaniard, who told him "that the History of Don Quixote had ruined the Spanish monarchy; for since that time men had grown ashamed of honour and love, and only thought of pursuing their fortune and satisfyin n their lust."

But surely such censure is misdirectedâ€"surely the downfall of Spain may be traced to other causes. It is not the spirit of heroism or of Christian self-devotion, which Cervantes would put down. His manly writing can never be accused of that: njisfortune had taught him too well in his own earlier days how to appreciate such a virtue. In nothing is his consummate skill perceived more than in the way in which he prevents us from confounding the follies of the knights-errant, and of the debased books of romance, with the generous heart and actions of the true Christian gentleman. In spite of all his hallucination, who can help respecting Don Quixote himself 1 We laugh, indeed, at the ludicrous situations into which his madness is for ever getting him; but we must reverence the good Christian cavalier who, amidst all, never thinks less of anything than of himself and of his own interest. What is his character? It is that of one possessing virtue, imagination, genius, kind feelingâ€"all that can distinguish an elevated soul, and an affectionate heart. He is brave, faithful, loyal, always keeping his word; he contends only for virtue and glory. Does he wish for kingdoms 1 it is only that he may give them to his good squire Sancho Panza. He is a constant lover, a humane warrior, an aflfectionate master, an accomplished gentleman. It is not, then, by describing such a man that Cervantes desired to

• Kenelm Digby, Esq., in his beautiful book entitled Qodefrid^, one of lUe roliunes of the Broad Stone of Honour.

ridicule real heroism; surely not: lie would only show that, even with all these good qualities, if they were misdirected or spoiled by vain imaginations, the most noble could only become ridiculous.

He would teach us, that this is a world of action, and not oifancy ; that it will not do for us to go out of ourselves and out of the world, and lead an ideal life : our duties are around us and within us : and we need not leave our own homes in order to seek adventures wherein those duties may be acceptably performed. He perceived that by knight-errantry and romances some of the holiest aspirations of the human heart were, according to the adage which affirms that " there is but one step from the sublime to the ridiculous," by over-description and fulsome language, in danger of being exposed to ridicule, and so of being crushed ; and he resolved, by excess of satire, to put a stop at once to such a dangerâ€"to crush those books which were daily destroying that which he held most dearâ€"the true spirit of chivalry, the true devotion of the Christian gentleman. "When the light of chivalry was expiring, Cervantes put his extinguisher upon it, and drove away the moths that alone still fluttered around it. He loved chivalry too well to be patient when he saw it parodied and burlesqued; and he perceived that the best way of preserving it from shame was to throw over it the sanctity of ieath."*

• Vide Guesses at Truth.

y





THE LIFE AND ACHIEVEMENTS

OF

DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANOHA.

PART THE FIRST,

CHAPTER L

The quality and way of living of Don Quixote.

In a certain village in La Mancha,* of which I cannot remember the name, there lived not long ago one of tho;se 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 beeft than mutton ; and, with minced meat on most nights, lentiles on Fridays, and a pigeon extraordinary on Sundays, he consumed three-quarters of liis revenue ; the rest was laid out in 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 himself for working-days. His whole family was a housekeeper something turned of forty, a niece not twenty, and a man that served 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 surname was Quixada, or Quesada (for authors diflfer iu this particular) ; however, we may reasonably conjectm-e, 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 do (wliich was almost all the year round), he passed his time in reading books of knight-errantry, which he did with such application and delight, that at last he in a manner whoUy left off his country sports, and even the care of his estate ; nay, he grew so strangely enamoured

* Partly in Arragon, partly in Castile.

f A mai-k of loverty. Beef was cheaper in Spain than muttoe.

B



DON QUIXOTE.

of tlicse amusements, that he sold many acres of land to purchase books of that kind, by which means he coUected as many of them as he could ; but none pleased him like the works of the famous Feliciauo de Sylva; for the brilliancy of his prose, and those intricate expres. sions with which it is interlaced seemed to him so many pearls of eloquence, especially when he came to read the 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 Aristotle himself could never Lave 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 higlily commended the author for concluding 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 hini-self; whicli he had certainly done, and doubtless with good success, had not his thoughts been wholly engrossed in much more important designs.

He would often dispute with the curate of the parish, a man of learning, that had taken his degrees at Giguenza, as to which was the better knight, Palmerin of England, or Amadis de Gaul; but Master Nicholas, the bai'ber of the same town, would say, that none of them could compare with the Knight of the Sun ; and that if any one came near him, it was certainly Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis de Gaul; for he was a man of a most commodious temper, neither was he so finical, nor such a whining lover, asTusT)rother; and as for courage he was not a jot behind him.

In fine, he gave himself up so wholly to the reading of romances, that 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, qiiarrels, 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 histories. He would say that the Cid Ruydiaz was a very brave knight, but not worthy to stand in competition with the Knight of the Burning-sword, wlio, with a single back-stroke, had cut in sunder two fierce and mighty giants. He liked yet better Bernardo del Carpio, who, at Roncesvalles, deprived of life the enchanted Orlando, having lifted him from the ground, and choked him in the air, as Hercules did Antaeus, the son of the Earth.

As for the ginnt M5£2fliS*'?, he alwajra scoke very civil things of



him; for aaiong 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 Einaldo of Montalban, and particularly his carrying away the idol of Mahomet, which was al] massive gold, as the history says; while he so hated that traitor Galalon, that for the pleasure of lacking 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^acpie, and mounted on his steed, in quest of adventures ; that thus imitating those knights-errant of whom he had read, and following their course of life, redressing all manner of grievances, and exposing himself to danger on all occasions, at last, after a happy conclusion of his enterprises, he might purchase everlasting 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 ic as well as he could, he perceived there was a material piece wanting ; for, instead of a complete helmet, there was only a single headpiece. 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; out 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 suflicient helmet.

The next moment he went to view his horse, whose bones stuck ouj like the corners of a Spanish real,* being a worse jade than Gonela'^ qui tantum pellis etossafuit; however, his master thought that neithei Alexander's Bucephalus, nor the Cid's Babieca, could be compared with him. He was four days considering what name to give him j for, as he argued with himself, there was no reason that a horse bestrid by so famous a knight, and withal so excellent in himself, should not be 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 Eozinante.t

Having thus given his horse a name, he thought of choosing one 'jr himself; and having seriously pondered on the matter eight

* A piece of money irregularly shaped.

f From Bos in, a common drudge horse, and â– ante. bafoM,

B 2



DON QUIXOTE.

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 appellatio n of Amadis, added to it the name of his country, that it might grow more famous by his exploits, and so styled himself Amadis de Gaul; so he, like a true lover of his native soil, resolved to call himself Don Quixote de la Mancha; which addition, to his thinking, denoted very plainly his parentage and country, and consequently 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 mistress 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 himself at her feet, he may thus make his humble submission : ' Lady, I am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island cf Malindrania, vanquished in single combat by fliat 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 good-looking 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 addition of del Toboso, from the place wliere she was born ; a name, in his opinion, sweet, harmonious, and dignified, like the others which be had devised.

CHAPTER n.

Which treats of Don Quixote's first sally.

These preparations being made, he found his designs ripe for action, and thought it now a crime to deny 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 remove, what abuses to correct, and what duties to discharge. So one morning before day, in the greatest heat of July, without acquainting Any od«



with Lis design, with all the secrecy imaginable, he armed himst\f cap-a-pie, laced on his ill-contiived helmet, braced on his target, gi isped his lance, mounted Eozinante, and at the private door of his back- yard sallied out into the fields, wonderfully pleased to see with how n. uch ease he had succeeded in the beginning of his enterprise. But he iHad not gone far ere a terrible thought alarmed him ; a thought that Lad like to have made him renounce his great undertaking; for now it came into his mind, that the honour of knighthood had not yet beei 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 difficulty about wearing white armour, he proposed to overcome it, by scouring his own at leisure until it should look white j.than ermin e. And having thus dismissed these scruples, he rode~calnily oii^ 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 the golden tresses of 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 welcomes in soft melodious strains to the beautiful Aurora, displaying her rosy graces to mortal eyes from the gates and balconies of the Manchegan horizon,â€"when the renowned knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, disdaining soft repose, forsook the voluptuous down, anc? mounting his famous steed Eozinante, entered the ancient and celebrated plains of Montiel.'" This was indeed the very road he took ; and then proceeding, " 0 happy age ! O fortunate times !" cried he, " decreed to usher into the world my famous achievements : achievements worthy to be engraven on brass, carved on marble, and delineated in some masterpiece of painting, as monuments of my glory, and examples for posterity ! And thou, venerable sage, wise enchanter, whatever be thy name ; thou whom fate has ordained to be the compiler of this rare history, forget not, I beseech thee, my trusty Eozinante, the eternal companion of all my adventures." After this, as if he had been really in love : " O Princess Dulcinea," cried he, " lady of this captive heart, much sorrow and woe you have doomed me to in banishing me thus, and imposing on me your rigorous commands^ never to appear before your beauteous face ! Eemember, 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



DON QUIXOTE.

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

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

Towards the evening, he and his horse being heartUy tired and almost 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 happened to take up their lodging there that very evening ; and as whatever our knight-errant saw, thought, or imagined, was all of a romantic cast, and appeared to him altogether after the manner of his favourite 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, together with a deep moat, drawbridge, and all those other appurtenances peculiar to such kind of places.

vVEeiTTie'came near it, he stopped awhile at"a distance from the gate, expecting that some dwarf would appear on the battlements, and sound his trumpet to give notice of the arrival of a knight; but finding that nobody came, and that Rozinante was for making the best of his way to the stable, he advanced to the inn-door, saw there the two country girls, who appeared to him to be beautiful damsels, or lovely dames, taking their pleasure at the castle-gate.

It happened just at this time, that a swineherd, who in a stubble hard by was tending a drove of hogs, blew his horn, as was his custom, to call them together ; and instantly Don Quixote's imagination represented to him that a dwarf gave the signal of his arrival. Witlx great satisfaction, therefore, he rode up to the inn. The women, perceiving a man armed with lance and buckler, were frightened, and about to retreat into the house. But Don Quixote, guessing at their fear by their flight, lifted up his pasteboard vizor, and discovering his withered and dusty visage, with gentle voice and respectful demeanour thua ajccpsted them.

"Fly not, ladies, nor fear any discourtesy; for the order of knighthood, which I profess, forbids my offering injury to any one, much less to damsels of such exalted rank as your presence denotes you to be." The women stared at him with all their eyes, endeavouring to find out his face, which the sorry beaver almost covered, and could not help laughing so loudly that Don Quixote was ofiended, and said to them : " Modesty is becoming in beauty, and excessive laughter, proceeding from a slight cause, is folly. This I mention not as a reproach, by which I may incur your resentment: on the contrary, I have no wish but to do you service."



DON QUIXOTE'S FIRST SALLY.

This language, which they did not understand, and the extraordi-rary appearance of the knight, increased their laughter, which also increased his displeasure, and he would probably have shown it in a less civil way, but for the timely arrival of the innkeeper. 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 siipplied to your mind."

Don Quixote observing the humility of the governor of the castle (for such the innkeeper and inn seemed to him), " iSignor Castel-lano," said he, " the least thing in the world suffices me ; for arms are the only things I value, and combat is my bed of repose." The host thought from Don Quixote calling him Castellano* that he took him for an honest Castilian, while he was really an Andalusian of the coast of Saint Lucar, as great a thief as Cacus, and as full of fun and mischief as a schoolboy or a page. He answered :

" At this rate. Sir Knight, you may safely alight, and ]. dare assure you, you can hardly miss being kept awake all the year long in this iiouse, much less one single niglit."

With that he went and held Don Quixote's stirrup, who having ate nothing all that day, dismounted with no small trouble and difficulty. He immediately desired the governor (that is, the innkeeper) to have special care of his steed, assuring him that there was not a better in the universe ; upon which the innkeeper viewed him narrowly, but could not think him to be half so good as Don Quixote said. However, having piit him in the stable, he came back to tlie knight to see if he wanted anything.

He found the damsels, already reconciled to his guest, unarming him. They had disencumbered him of the back and breast-pieces of his armour, but could not find out how to unlace his gorget, or take off the counterfeit beaver, which he had fastened with ribbons, in such a manner, that, as there was no possibihty of untying them, they must of necessity be cut. To this, however, the knight would by no means consent, and he therefore remained all night with his helmet on ; the strangest and most ridiculous figure imaginable.

While the women, whom he still imagined to be of the first quality and ladies of the castle, were thus aiding him, he addressed them, with much self-satisfaction and perfect courtesy.

" Never was knight so nobly served as Don Quixote, after his departure from his vUlage. Damsels waited upon him ; princesses cared for his steed. 0 Rozinante ! That, dear ladies, is my horse's name, and Don Quixote de la Mancha my own ; though I had no intention to discover myself, till deeds achieved for your service and benefit should have proclaimed me ; but the necessity of accommodating the

* Castellau) in Spanish means both the governor of a castle and a natire of Castilsi



old romance of Sir Launcelot to my present situation has occasioned your knowing my name before the proper season. The time, however, will come when your highnesses shall command and I obey, and the valour of my arm shall make manifest the desire I have to be your slave."

The girls, unaccustomed to such rhetoiicaLflbMirishes, made no reply to them, but simply asked the knight whether he would he pleased to eat anything.

" Must willingly," answered he ; " anything eatable I feel would come very seasonably."

The day happened to be Friday, and there was nothing to be had at the inn but some pieces of fish, which they call truchuda ; 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 w^as the same thing to him, tliey would serve him as well as a great one ; " f jr," continued he, " it is all one to me w^hether I am paid a piece of eight in one single piece, or in eight small reals, which are worth as mucli. 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 if be what it will, so it comes quickly ; for the weight of armour and the fatigue of travel are not to be supported witliout recruiting food." -^

Thereupon they laid the cloth at the inn-door for the benefit of the fresh air, and the landlord biought him a piece of the salt fish, but ill-watered and as ill-dressed : and as for the bread, it was as mouldy and brown as the knight's armour.

It was a source of great mirth to see him eat; for his hands being occupied in keeping his helmet on and the beaver up, he had no means of feeding himself, and the oflfice was performed by one of the ladies. To give him drink would have been utterly impossible, had not the innkeeper bored a reed, and, putting one end to the knight's mouth, poured in the wine leisurely at the other; but all this Don Quixote patiently endured, rather than cut the lacings of his helmet.

"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, that the country girls were great ladies, and the innkeeper the governor of the castle, which made him applaud himself for his resolution, and l)is setting out on such an account. The only thing that vexed him was, that he was not yet dubbed a knight; for he fancied he could not lawfully undertake any adventure till he had received the ordei ol knighthood.



DON QUIXOTE DUBBED A KNIGHT.

CHAPTER IIL

An account of the pleasant method taken hy Don Quixote to he dubbed a knight.

Don Quixote's mind being disturbed with that thought, he abridged even his short supper; and as soon as he had done, he called his host; then shut him and himself up in the stable, and falling at his feet, " I will never rise from this place," cried he, " most valorous kniglit, till you have graciously vouchsafed to grant me a boon, which I will now beg of you, and which will redauiid to your honour and the good of mankind."

The innkeeper, 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," re-

Elied Don Quixote; " and therefore I make bold to tell you, that the oon which I beg, and you generously condescend to grant me, is, that to-morrow you will be pleased to bestow the honour of knight-nood upon me. This night I will watch my armour in the cbapel 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 universe, to relieve the distressed, according to the laws of chivalry and the inclinations of knights-errant like myself."

The innkeeper, who, as I said, was an arch 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, telling him he was much to be commended for his choice of such an employment, which Avas altogether worthy a knight of the first order, such as his gallant deportment discovered hii^- to be : that he himself had in his youth followed that profession, r'Aiging through many parts of the world in search of adventures, till ^t length he retired to this castle, where he lived on his own estate and those of others^ entertaining all knights-errant of what quality or condition soever, purely for the great 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 might lawfully be watched in any other place in a case of necessity, and therefore he might do it that night in the courtyard 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 1

" 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 necessary as money and clean shirts, yet there is no reason to believe the knights went without either : and you may rest assured, that all the knights-errant, of whom so many histories are full, had their purses well lined to supply themselves with necessaries, and carried also with them some sliirts, 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. ]3ut when they wanted such a friend in former ages, the knights thought themselves obliged to take care that their sqmres should be

Erovided with money and other necessaries ; and if those knights ever appened 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 time forwards to ride without money, nor without the other necessaries of which I spoke to you, which you will find very beneficial when you least expect it."

Don Quixote promised to perform all his injunctions; and so they disposed everything in order to his watching his arms in the great yard. To which purpose the knight, having'^ot 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 meanwhile, tlie innkeeper acquainted all those that were in the house with the extravagances of his guest, his watching his arms, and his hopes of being made a knight. They all 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, ;?,ud sometimes lean on his lance, with his eyes all the while fixed up ^ his arms. It was now undoubted night, but yet the moon did shin with such a brightness, as might almost have vied with that of the luminary which lent it her ; so that the knight was wholly exposed to the spectators' view. While he was thus employed, one of the carriers who lodged in the inn came out to water his mules, which he could not do without removing the arms out of the trough. With that, Don Quixote, who saw him make towards 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 witli a touch, lest instant death be the too sure reward of thy teme-rity." But the carrier regarded not these threats ; and laying hoTJ of the armour without any more ado, threw it a good way from him; though it had been better for him to have let it alone; for Don Quixote no sooner saw this, but lifting up his eyes to heaveUj and tliu.s addressing his thoughts^ as it seemed, to his lady Dulcmea: " Assist me, lady,' cried be, " m the first opportunity that ofifers itself



DON QUIXOTE DUBBED A KNIGHT. ti

to your faithful slave: nor let your favour and protection be denied me in this first trial of my valour!"

Eepeating such-like ejaculations, he let slip his target, and lifting up his lance with both his hands, he gave the carrier such a terrible knock on his inconsiderate head with his lance, that he laid 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 surgeon. This done, Don Quixote took up his armour, laid it again 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 adventure !"

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 would undoubtedly have faced them all. On the other side, the carriers, enraged to see their comrades thus used, though they were afraid to come near, gave the knight such a volley of stones, that he was forced to shelter himself as well as he could under the 5ais£rt of his target, without daring to go far from the horse-trough, lest he should seem to abandon his arms. The innkeeper called to the carriers as loud as he could to let him alone; that he had told them already he was mad, and consequently the law would acquit him, though he should kill them. Don Quixote also made yet more noise, calling them false and treacherous villains, and the lord of the castle base and inhospitable, and a discourteous knight, for sufiering a knight-errant to be so abused.

" I would make thee know," cried he, " what a perfidious wretch thou art, had I but received the order of knighthood; but for you, base, ignominious rabble, fling on, do your worst; 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 hi;j side, permitted the enemy to carry oS their wounded, and then returned to the guard of his arms as calm and composed as before.

The innkeeper, who began somewhat to disrelish these mad tricka



of his guest, resolved to despatch him forthwith, and bestow on hini that unlucky kniglithood, to prevent further mischief; 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 sufficiently 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 aa anywhere else : that he had already fulfilled the obligation of watching his arms, which required no more than two hours' watch, whereas he had been four hours upon the guard. Don Quixote, who easily believed him, told him he was ready to obey him, and desired him to make an end of the business as soon as possible; for if he were but knighted, and should see himself once attacked, he believed he should not leave a man alive in the castle, except those whom he should desire him to spare for his sake.

Upon this, the innkeeper, lest the knight should proceed to such extremities, fetched the book in which he used to set down the carriers' accounts for straw and barley; and having brought with him the two kind females already mentioned, and a boy that held a piece of lighted candle in his hand, he ordered Don Quixote to kneel: then reading in his manual, as if he had been repeating some pious oration, in the midst of his devotion he lifted up his hand, and gave him a good blow on the neck, and then a gentle slap on the back with the flat of his sword, still mumbling some words between his teeth in the tone of a prayer. After this he ordered one of the ladies to gird the sword about the knight's waist: which she did with much solemnity, and, I may add, discretion, considering how hard a thing it was to forbear laughing at every circumstance of the ceremony: 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 was 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 Sanchobinaya at Toledo; and that whenever he pleased to command her, she would be his humble servant. Don Quixote begged of Her to do him the favour to add hereafter the title of lady to her name, and for his sake to be called from that time Donna Tolosa; which she promised to do. Her companion having buckled on his spurs, occasioned a like conference between them ; and when he had asked her 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 Donna Molivera, making her new offers of service. These extroardinary ceremonies (the like



never seen before) being tbus hurried over in a kind of post-baste, Don Quixote could not rest till be bad taken tbe field in quest of adventures ] therefore having immediately saddled his Kozinante, 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 hefd the Knight after he had left the inn.

Atjkoea began to usher in the morn, -^'hen Don Quixote sallied out of tbe inn, so overjoyed to find himself knighted, that he infused the same satisfaction into his horse, -who seemed ready to bursUiisgirths f££-ioy. But calling to mind the admonitions which theinhkeeper had given him, concerning the provision of necessary accommodation in 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 ofiice. With this resolution he took the road which led to his own village. The knight had not travelled far, when he fancied he lieard a weak effeminate voice complaining in a thicket on his right hand. "I t^iiink Heaven," said he, when he heard the cries, " for 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 w^ants 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 be 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'll take more care of your goods."

Don Quixote seeing this, cried in an angry tone, "Discourteous knight, 'tis an imworthy act to strike a person who is not able to defend himself; come, bestride thy steed, and take thy lance, then I'll make thee know thou hast acted the part of a coward."

The country-fellow, who gave himself up for lost at the sight of an apparition in armour brandishing his lance at his face, answered hinn in mild and submissive words :

" Sir Knight," cried he, " this boy, whom I am chastising, is my iervant; and because I correct him for his carelessness or hia



,4 DON QUIXOTE.

knavery, he says I do it out of covetousiiess, to defraud liim of his wages ; but, upon my life and soul, lie belies me."

" Sayest thou this in my presence, ^ejrustic," cried Don Quixote ; " for thy insolent speech, I have a good min^ 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'll 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 wUl swear by the order of knightliood which has been conferred upon him, that he wiU duly observe this regulation, I will freely let him go, and then thou art secure of thy money."

" Good sir, take heed what you say," cried the boy : " for my master is no knight, nor ever was of any order in his life: he s John Haldudo, the rich farmer of Quintinar."

"This signifies Uttle," answered Don Quixote, "for there may be knights among the Haldudos; besides, the brave man carves out his fortune, and 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 faU, 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 injunctions on you, that you may understand how highly it concerns you to oh:^rve them, know I am Don Quixote de la Maucha, the righter of wrongs, the revenger and redresser of grievances ; and so farewell: but remember what you have promised and sworn, as you \\'ill answer for it at your peril."

This said, he clapped spurs to Kozinante, and quickly left them behind. The countryman, who followed him with both his eyes, no sooner

* A real is sixpence English.



Eerceived that he was passed the woods, and quite out of sight, than e went back to his boy Andres,

" Come, child," said he, " I will pay thee what I owe thee, as that fighter 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 me, he will come back and make his words good."

" I dare swear as much," answered the master; "and to show 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."

However, 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 manner was this wrong redressed by the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha.

In the meantime the knight, being highly pleased with 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 often used to put knights-errant to a stand, to consult with themselves which way they should take. That he miglit follow their example, he stopped awhile, and after he had seriously reflected on the matter, gave Kozi-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 jMurcia. They were six in all, every one screened with an umbrella, besides four servants on horseback, and three muleteers on foot. The knight no sooner perceived them but he imagined this to be some new adventure ; 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 the universe a more beautiful damsel than the empress of La ^lancha, the peerless Dukinea del Toboso."

At those words the merchants made a halt, to view the unaccount-



able 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 then 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 shown you that beauty," replied Don Quixote, "what wonder would it be to acknowledge so notorious a truth? the importance of the thing lies in obliging you to believe it, confess it, 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 ; here I expect you all my single self, and will stand the encounter, confiding in the justice of my cause."

" Sir Knight," replied the merchant, " I beseech you, that for the discharge of our consciences, which will not permit us to affirm a thing we never heard or saw, and which, besides, tends so much to the dishonour of the empresses and queens of Alcaria and Estra-madura, 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, Ave 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 distUs 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

Eay for the blasphemy which thou hast uttered against the transcendent eauty 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 Kozinante should stumble and fall in the midst of his career, the audacious trifler had paid dear for his raillery: but as Piozinante 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 hia

* Verj straight perpendicular rocks near Quadarama, called the Spindleo.



OUR KNfGHT'S MISFORTUNES. t?

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 therefore coming up to him as he lay wallowing, 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 vigorously, 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 lie 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 limbs, how should he do it now, bruised and battered as he was ? But yet for all this, he esteemed himself a happy man, being still persuaded that his misfortune was one of those accidents common in knight-errantry, and such a one as he could wholly attribute to the falling of his horse.

CHAPTER V.

A furtlier 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 j\Iantua, 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 rolUng and tumbling up and down, expressing the greatest pain and resentment, and breathing outj with a languishing voice, the same complaints which the wounded Kmght of the Wood is said to have made :

" Ala3 ! where are you, lady dear,

That for my woe you do not moan ? You little know what ails me here, Or are to me disloyal grown."

Thus he went on with the lamentations in that romance, till h« came to these verses :â€"

" 0 thou, my uncle and my prince, Marquis of Mantua, noble lord!" C



When kind fortune so ordered it that a ploughman, who lived in the same village, and near his house, happened to pass by, as he came from the mill with a sack of wheat. The fellow, seeing a man lie at his full length on the ground, asked him who he was, and why ne made such a sad complaint. Don Quixote, whose distempered brain presently represented to him the countryman as 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, iDroken 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 called, when he had the right use of his senses, and had not yet from a sober gentleman transformed himself into a wandering knight); " how came you in this condition T

But the other continued his romance, and made no answers to all the questions the countryman put to him, but what followed in course in the book: which the good man perceiving, he took off the battered adventurer's armour as well 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 leavhig 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 extravagances winch he heard Don Quixote utter. Nor was the 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 i)ierce 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 llodrigo de Narvaez, Alcade of Antequera, 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 anyAvhere 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 meantime thus went on; "You must know, Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, that this beautiful Xerifa, of whom I gave you an account, is at present the most lovely Dulcinea del Toboso, for whose sake I have done, still do, and wdll achieve the most famous deeds of chivalry that ever were, are, or ever shall be seen in the universe."

" Good sir," replied the husbandman, "I am not Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, nor the Marquis of Mantua, but Pedro Alonzo by name,



jrour 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; but the countryman stayed at some distance till it was dark, that the distressed gentleman might not be seen so scurvUy 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 tbem Don Quixote's intimate 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, wTi'etcli that I am? I dare lay my life, and it is as sure as I am a living creature, tliat those cursed books of errantry, which he used to be always poring upon, have set him beside his senses ; for now I remember 1 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 knov/, 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 big as any steeples ; and the sweat which he put himself into, he would say was the blood of the wounds he had received in the fight: then would he swallow 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 of my uncle's raving, that you might have put a stop to it, ere it was too late, and have burnt all these excommunicated books ; for there are 1 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 con^ demned them to the flames, that they may not minister occasion to such as would read them, to be perverted after the example of my good friend."

* The barber was always a surgeon, and consequently a country doctor; and a person of no small importance, since he had the ordering and adjusting of the mu8> tachioS; those enemies of the Spanish dignity and gravi^i.'.

C «



The countryman, who, -with Don Quixote, stood without, listening to all this discourse, now perfectly understood the cause of his neighbour'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 Abindarac-3, whom the valorous Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, Alcade of Antequera, brings prisoner."

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

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

" Now," 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, I 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 coiild 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-^nd audacious upon the face of the earth.

"Ho, ho!" cried the curate, "are there giants too in the dance 1 nay, then, we will have them all burnt by to-morrow night."

Then they asked the Don a thousand questions, but to every ijne 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 fuU 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 ijicreased the curate's desire of effecting what he had resolved to do next morning : at which time he called upon his friend, Mr. Nicholas the K^-iber, and went with him to Don Quixote's house.

CHAPTER VI.

Of ike pleasant and curious scrutiny which the Curate and the Barber made of the library of our ingenious gentleman.

The knight was yet asleep, when the curate came, attended by the barber, and desired his niece to let him have the key of the room where her uncle kept his books, the authors of his woes : she readily consented ; and so in they went, and the housekeeper with them. There they found above a hundred large volumes neatly bound, and a ^ood number of small ones. As soon as the housekeeper had spied



thera 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 one, that he might peruse the title-pages, for perhaps he might find some among them that might not deserve this fate.

" Oil, by no means," cried the niece; " spare none of them ; they aU 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 deGaul, 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 tliat was ever 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 1 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 tlje want of it in the son. Here, good mistress housekeeper, open that window, and throw it into the yard, and let it serve as a foundation to that pile we are to set a-blazing presently."

She was not slack in her obedience; and thus poor Don Esplandian was sent headlong into the yard, there patiently to wait the time ot 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," rephed the curate.

They were delivered to the housekeeper accordingly, and many they were; and to save herself the labour of carrying them dcwur ^tairs, she fairly sent them fijdng out at the window.



"What overgrown piece of lumber have we hereT 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 boots has most truth in it, or, to speak more properly, less lies: but this 1 know for certain, that he shall march into the back-yard, like a nonsensical arrogant blockhead as he is."

" The next," cried the barber, " is Florismart of Hyrcania."

" How! my Lord Florismart, is he here V 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 Platir," cried the barber.

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

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

" The holy title," cried the curate, " might in some measure atone for the badness of the book ; but then, as the saying is, The devil lurh behind the cross/ To the flames with him."

Then opening another volume, he found it tcrbe 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 excellences; 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 Mira-guarda 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

have in my hands is the famous Don Bellianis."

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

"Content," crievi' the barber; and to suve himself the labour of



lOoking on any more books of that kind, he bid the housekeeper take all the great volumes, and tlirow them into the yard. This was not spoken to one stupid or deaf, but to one who had a greater mind to be burning them, than weaving the finest and largest web : so that laying hold 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 books that are left V said the barber.

" Certainly," 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 Slontemayor; 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 worse yet, turn poet, which they say is a catching and incurable disease."

" The gentlewoman is in the right," said the curate • " and it will not be amiss to remove that stumbling-block out of our friend's way; and since we began with the Diana of JMonteraayor, 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; nnd let the work escape with its prose, and the honour of being the first of that kind."

" Here," quoth the barber, " I have 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 whimsical 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 published ; and he that never read it Znay safely think he never in his life read anything 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," replied 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 Bome 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 conversant with misfortunes than with poetry. His book, indeed, has I don't know what, that looks like a good design; he aims at something, but concludes nothing : therefore we must stay for the second part, which he has promised us; perhaps he may make us amends, and obtain a full pardon, which is denied him for the present; till that time keep him close prisoner at your house."

" I will," quoth the barber: " but see, I have here three more for you, the Araucana of Don Alonso de Ercilla; the Austirada of Juan Kuffo, a magistrate of Cordova; and the Monserrato of Christopher de Virves, a Valentian poet."

"These," cried the curate, " are the best heroic poems we have in Spanish, and may vie with the most 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, that he ordered all the rest to be burnt at a venture. But the barber showed him one which he had opened by chance ere the dreadful sentence was passed.

" 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 whol^ world, and translated some of Ovid's fables with extraordinary success."

CHAPTER VIL

Bern Quixotes second sally in quest of adventures.

At the instant of the last decision, Don Quixote was heard calling out aloud, " Tliis way! this way! valorous knights! here it is you must exert the force of your invincible arms, for the courtiers begin to get the better of the tournament!"

This outcry, to which the whole party ran, put a stop to all farther scrutiny of the books that remained; and therefore it is beUeved, that to the fire, without being seen or heard, went the Carolea, and Leon of Spain, with the Acts of the Emperor, composed by Don Louis de Avila, which, without doubt, must have been among those that were left: and, perhaps, had the priest seen them, they had not undergone so rigorous a sentence.

When they entered the chamber, they found Don Quixote continuing his ravings, and with his drawn sword laying furiously about him, back-stroke and fore-stroke, being as broad awake as if he had never been asleep. Closing in with him, they laid him upon his bed by main force ; when, after being a little composed, he turned himself to the priest, and said, "Certainly, my lord archbishop Tiirpin, it is a great disgrace to us, who call ourselves the twelve peers, to let



the knights-courtitTs carry off the victory, without more opposition, after we the adventurers, had gained the prize in the three preceding days."

" Say no more, my worthy friend," said the priest; " it may be God's will to change our fortune, and what is lost to-day may be won to-morrow • for the present, mind your health ; for you must needs be extremely fatigued, if not sorely wounded,"

" Wounded ! no," said Don Quixote; " but bruised and battered I most certainly am ; for Don Roldan, with the trunk of an oak, has pounded me to a mummy, and all out of sheer envy, because he sees that I am the sole rival of his prowess. But may I never more be called Rinaldo of Montauban, if, as soon as I am able to rise from this bed, 1 do not make him pay dearly for it, in spite of his enchantments : and now bring me some breakfast, for I feel as if nothing would do me so much good, and let me alone to revenge my wrongs,"

They did so; and having taken refreshment, he fell fast asleep again, leaving them more astonished than before at his madness.

The night was no sooner set in, than the housekeeper kindled a fire, and burned all the books that were either in the yard, or the house ; and some must have perished that deserved to be treasured up in perpetual archives; but their fate, and the laziness of the scrutineers, would not permit it: and in them was fulfilled the saying, " that a saint may sometimes suffer for a sinner."

Another remedy, which the priest and barber prescribed for their friend's malady, was, to alter his apartment, and wall up the closet in which the books had been kept, in the hope that upon his getting up, and not finding them, the cause being removed, the effect might cease ; and it was agreed they should pretend, that an enchanter had carried them away, room and all; w^hich things were done accordingly within the two days that Don Quixote was confined to his bed. When he rose, the first thing he did ^'as to visit, as had been supposed, his study; and, not finding the r )'->m where he left it, he went up and down looking for it: coming to the place where the door used to be, he felt with his hands, and stared aLout in every direction, without speaking a word ; at last he asked the housekeeper w*here the room stood, in which his books were. She, who was already well tutored what to answer, said to himâ€"

" ^Vhat room, or what nothing, does your worship look for ? there is neither room nor books in this house ; for the devil himself has carried all away,"

" It was not the devil," said the niece, " but an enchanter, who came one night, after your departure hence, upon a cloud, and, alighting from a serpent on which he rode, entered into the room, I know not what he did there, but after a short time out he came, flying through the roof, and left the house full of smoke; and when we went to see what he had been doing, we could find neither books nor room ; only we very well remember, both I and mistress housekeeper here, ^bat when the old thief went away, h© paid with a gruff voice, that fof



a secret enmity he bore to the owner of those books and of the room, he had done a mischief, wliich would soon be manifest. He told ua also, that he was the sage Munniaton."

" Freston, he meant to say," quoth Don Quixote.

" I know not," answered the housekeeper, " whether his name be Freston or Friton ; all I know is, that it ended in ton."

" It doth so," replied Don Quixote; " he is a wise enchanter, a great enemy of mine, and bears me a grudge, because by the mystery of his art he knows, that, in process of time, I shall engage in single combat with a knight whom he favours, and shall vanquish him, without his being able to prevent it: and for this reason he endeavours to do me all the discourtesy he can : but let him know from me, it will be difficult for him to withstand or avoid what is decreed by Heaven,"

" Who doubts that 1" said the niece. " But, dear uncle, what have you to do with these quarrels ? Would it not be better to stay quietly at home, than to ramble about the world seeking for better bread than wheat en, not considering, that many go for wool and return shorn themselves,"

" My dear niece," answered Don Quixote, " how little dost thou know of the matter? Before they shall shear me, I wUl pluck and tear off the beards of all those who shall dare think of touching a single hair of my moustache." Neither of -the women would make farther reply; for they saw his choler beginning to kindle.

He stayed after this fifteen days at home, very composed, without discovering any symptom of relapse, or inclination to repeat his late frolics; in which time there passed many very pleasant discourses between him and his two gossiping friends, the priest and the barber; ne affirming, that the world stood in need of nothing so much as Knights-errant, and the revival of chivalry; and the priest sometimes contradicting him, and at other times acquiescing; for without this artifice, there would have been no means left to bring him to reason.

In the meantime, Don Quixote tampered with a neighbouring labourer, an honest man, but of a very shallow brain; to whom he said so much, used so many arguments, and made so many fair promises, that at last the poor silly clown consented to go with him, and be his squire. Among other inducements to entice him to do it willingly, Don Quixote failed not to tell him, that it was likely such an adventure would present itself, as might secure him the conquest of some island in the time that he might be picking up a straw or two, and then the squire might promise himself to be made governor of the place. Allured with these large promises, and many others, Sancho Panza (for that was the name of the fellow) forsook his wife and cliildren to be his neighbour's squire.

Tliis 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 Ins squire notice



of tiic day and liour wlien he intended to set out, that he also might furnish himself with what he thought necessary; but, above all, he charged him to provide himself with a w^allet; which Sancho promised to do, telling him he would also take his ass along with him, which being a very good one, might be a great ease to him, for he waa not used to travel much a-foot. The mentioning of the ass made the noble knight pause awhile; he mused and pondered whether he had ever read of any knight-errant, whose sqxiire 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, witliout 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 so much as suspected by anybody, and made such haste, that by break of day they thought themselves out of reach, should they happen to be pursued. As for Sancho Panza, he rode like a patriarch, with his canvas 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 daresay 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 of 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 khig by some such miracle as your worship says, then Mary Gutierez would be at least a queen, and my children infantas and princes, an't like your worship."

" Who doubts of that T cried Don Quixote.

"I doubt of it," replied Sancho Panza; "for I cannot help believing, that though it should rain kingdoms down upon the face of the earth, not one of them would sit well upon Mary Gutierez's head : for I must needs tell you, she's not worth two brass jacks to make a



DON QUIXOTE.

queen of: no, countess would be better for her \ and that, too, will be as much as she can handsomely manage,"

" Kecommend the matter to providence," returned Don Quixote; " 'twill be sure to give what is mf)st expedient for tliee."

'A Vvf;i|j^A





CHAPTER VIII.

Of the good success which the vahrotis Don Quixote had in tJie most tern-flling and incredible adventure of the Windmilh,t(.'ith other transactions worthy to he transmitted to 2)oste7'it>/.

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 affiiirs better than we could have wished; look yonder, Sancho, there are at least thirty outrageous giants, whom 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 extirpation of that cursed brood will be an acceptable service to heaven."

" What giants V quoth Sancha Panza.

"Those whom thou seest yonder," answered Don Quixote, "with their long extended arms; some of that detested race have arms of go immeuse a size that sometimes they reach two leagues iu length."



" Pray look better, sir," quoth Sancho : " those things yonder are not giants, but windmills, and the arms are their sails, which being whirled about by the wind, make the mill go."

"'Tis a 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 combat with them all."

This said, he clapped spurs to his horse, without giving ear to his squire, who bawled out to him, and assured liim that they were windmills, and no giants. But he was so fully possessed witli a. strong conceit of the contrary, that he did not so much as hear his squire, nor was he sensible of what they were, although 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 all."

At the same time the wind rising, the mill-sails began to move, wliich, when Don Quixote spied, " Base miscreants," cried he, " though you move more arms than the giant Briareus, you shall pay for your arrogance."

He most devoutly recommended himself to his Lady Dulcinea, imploring her assistance in this perilous adventure; and so covering himself with his shield, and couching his lance, he rushed with Rozinante's utmost speed upon the first windmill he could come at, and running his lance into the sail, the wind whirled it about with such swiftness, that the rapidity of the motion presently broke the lance into shivers, and hurled away both knight and horse along witli it, till down he fell, rolling a good way oft" 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 stir.

" Did not I give your worship fair warning?' cried he ; " did not I tell you they were windmills, and that nobody could think otherwise, unless he had also windmills in his iiead?'

" 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 iny 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 stratagems shall prove inefi"ectual 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 Rozinante, 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. Sancho



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 aU that night, keeping hia thoughts intent on his dear Dulcinea, in imitation of what he had read in books of chivalry, where the knights pass their time, without sleep, in forests and deserts, wholly taken up with 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 that which we call adventures. But let me give thee one necessary caution ; know, that though thou shouldst see me in the greatest extremity of danger, thou must not offer to draw thy sword in my defence, unless thou findest me assaulted by base plebeians and vile scoundrels; for in such a case thou mayest assist thy master; but if those with whom I am fighting are knights, thou must not do it; for the laws of chivahy do not allow thee to encounter a "knight till thou art one thyself."

" Never fear," quoth Sancho; " I'll 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 Biscayan lady, who was going to Se-ville to meet her husband, that was there in order to embark for the Indies, to take possession of a considerable 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 the 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 tiiis will prove a wor.se job than the windmills," quoth Sancho. " These are Benedictine monks, and the coach must belong to some traveller. 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 matters of adventures: what I say is true, and thou shalt find it so presently."

This said, he sLiurre4 oo his horse, and posted himself iust in th«



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 instant death, as the just punishment of your deeds."

The monks stopped, no less astonished at the figure than at the expressions of the speaker. " Sir Knight," cried they, " we are no such persons as you are pleased to term us, but religious men of the order of St. Benedict, that travel about our affairs, and, are wholly ignorant whether or no there are any princesses carried away by force in that coach."

" I am not to be deceived," replied Don Quixote ; " I know you Avell enough, perfidious caitiffs:" and immediately, without waiting their reply, he set spurs to Eozinante, and ran so furiously, with his lance couched, against the first monk, that if he had not prudently flung hiraseK to the ground, the knight would certainly have laid him either dead, or grievously wounded. The other observing this, clapped his heels to his mule's flanks, and scoured over the plain as if he had been running a race with the wind. Sancho 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 fellows, 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 meanwhile the monk, scared out of his wits and as pale as a ghost, got upon his mule again as fast as he could, and spurred after his friend, who stayed for him at a distance, expecting the issue of this strange adventure ; 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 kdy in the coach.

" Lady," cried he, " your discretion is now at liberty to dispose of your beautiful seK 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 recompense for the service I have done you, but that you return to Toboso to present yourself to that lady, and let her know what I have done to purchase your deliverance."

All that Don Quixote said was overheard by a certain squire, who accompanied the coach, a Biscayner, who, finding he would not let it go on, but insisted ui)on its immediately returning to Toboso, flew at



ji DON QUIXOTE.

Don Quixote, and, taking hold of his lance, addressed him, in bad Castilian, and worse Biscayan, after this manner :

" Get thee gone, cavalier ; I swear if thou dost not quit the coach, thou shalt forfeit thy life, as I am a Biscayner."

Our knight, who understood him very well, with great calmness answered, " Wert thou a gentleman, as thou art not, I would before now have chastised thy folly and presumption, thou pitiful slave."

To which the Biscayner replied, " I no gentleman ! I swear thou liest, as I am a Christian; if thou wilt tlirow away thy lance, and draw thy sword, thou shalt see I will make no more of thee than a cat does of a mouse : Biscayner by land, gentleman by sea, gentleman for the devil, and thou liest: look then if thou hast anything else to say."

"Tliou shalt see that presently, as said Agrages," answered Don Quixote ; and throwing down his lance, he drew his sword, and grasping his buckler, set upon the Biscayner, with a determined reso-lutit)n to put him to death. The Biscayner, seeing him come on in that manner, would fain have alighted from his mule, which, being but a sorry hack, was not to be depended upon, but had only time to draw : it, however, fortunately happened that he was close to the coach, out of which he snatched a cushion, to serve him for a shield : and immediately they began to fight, as if they had been mortal enemies. The rest of the company would fain have made peace between them, but could not succeed; for the^.Biscayner swore in hia gibberish, that, if they would not let him finish the combat, he would kill his mistress, and everybody that offered to oppose it. The lady, amazed and terrified at what she saw, ordered the coachman to drive a little out of the way, and she sat at a distance, beholding the conflict ; in the progress of which, the Biscayner bestowed on one of the shoulders of Don Quixote, and above his buckler, so mighty a stroke, that had it not been for his coat of mail, he would have been cleft to the very girdle, Don Quixote, feeling the weight of this terrific blow, ejaculated in a loud and pious tone, " O Dulcinea, lady of my soul, flower of all beauty, now aid thy knight, who for the satisfaction of thy great goodness, exposes himself to this great peril."

The ejaculation, the drawing the sword, the covering himself with his buckler, and attacking the Biscayner, were the business of a moment, for he resolved to venture all on the fortune of a single eflbrt. The Biscayner, who saw him coming thus upon him, and perceived Ms bravery by his resolution, resolved to imitate his example, and accordingly waited for him, shielding himself with his cushion ; but he was not able to turn his mule either to the right or the left, for she was already so jaded, and so little used to such sport, that she would not stir a step.

Don Quixote, then, as we have said, advanced against the wary Biscayner, with his lifted sword, fully determined to cleave him asunder ; and the Biscayner expected him, with his sword also lifted up, and guarded by his cushion. All the bystanders trembled, and were in breathless suspense, at what might be the event of the prodigious blows with which they threatened each other ; and the lady in the coach, and her waiting-women, put up a thousand prayers t^



heaven, and vowed an oflfering to every image and place of devotion in Spain, if God would deliver them and their squire from the great peril they were in. But the misfortune is, that in this very critical minute, the author of the history leaves the battle unfinished, excusing himself, that he could find no farther account of these exploits of Don Quixote than what he has already related. It is true, indeed, that the second undertaker of this work would not believe that so curious a history could be lost in oblivion, or that the wits of La Mancha should have so little curiosity, as not to preserve in their archives, or their cabinets, some papers relating to this famous knight; and upon that presumption he did not despair to find the conclusion of this delectable history; in which, Heaven favouring his search, he at last succeeded, as shall faithfully be recounted.

CHAPTER IX.

Wherein is concluded the stupendous battle between the vigorous Biscayner and the valiant Manchegan.

We left the valiant Biscayner and the renowned Don Quixote, with their naked swords lifted up, ready to discharge two such furious strokes, as must, if they had lighted full, at least have divided the combatants from head to heel, splitting them asunder like a pomegranate ; but in that critical instant this pleasant history stopped short, and was left imperfect, without the author giving us any clue by which to find what remained of it. This grieved me extremely ; and the pleasure of having read so little was turned into mortification, to think what smaU probability there was of discovering the much tliat, in my opinion, was wanting to such a treat. It seemed to me impossible, and contrary to all laudable custom, that so accomplished a knight should have no sage to undertake the penning of his unparalleled exploits: a circumstance that never before failed, as to any of those knights-errant who travelled in quest of adventures; every one of whom had one or two sages, made as it were on purpose, who not only recorded their actions, but described likewise their most minute and trifling thoughts, though never 80 secret. Surely then so worthy a knight could not be so unfortu ^ nate as to want what Platir,* and others like him, abounded with. For this reason, I could not be induced to believe, that so delightful a history could be left maimed and imperfect; and I laid the blame npon the malignity of time, the devourer and consumer of all things, which either kept it concealed, or had destroyed it. On the other hand, I considered, that, since among the knight's books some were found of so modern a date as the " Cures of Jealousy," and the "Nymphs and Shepherds of Henares," his history also must be modern ; and if not yet written, might, at least, still be in the memory of the people of his village, and those of the neighbouring places.

* A secondary character in the romance " Palmerin of England." D



This thought held me in suspense, and made me desirous to learn, really and truly, the whole life and wonderful actions of our renowned Spaniard, Don Quixote de la !Mancha, the light and mirror of Man-cliegan chivalry, and the first, who, in our age, and in these calamitous times, took upon him the toil and exercise of anns-errant; to redress wrongs, succour widows, and relieve that sort of damsels, who, with â– whip ajid palfrey, rambled up and down from mountain to mountain, and from valley to valley. 1 say, therefore, that upon these, and many other accounts, our gallant Don Quixote is worthy of immortal memory and praise; nor ought some share to be denied even to me, for the labour and pains I have taken to discover the end of this delectable history; though I am very sensible, that, if heaven and fortune had not befriended me, the world would have still been without that pastime and pleasure, which an attentive reader of it may enjoy for nearly two hours together. Now the manuer of finding it was this:â€"

As I was walking one day on the exchange of Toledo, a boy offered for sale some bundles of old papers to a mercer; and as I am fond of reading, though it be torn scraps thrown about the streets, led by this my natural inclination, I took a parcel of those which the boy was selling, and perceived that the characters in which they were written were Arabic. As I could not read the language, though I knew the letters, I looked about for some iloorish sage, to read them for me : and it was not very difficult to find^such an interpreter; for had I sought one even for a better and more ancient language, Toledo would have supplied me. In short, I met witli one j and acquainting him with my desire, I put the book into his hands, and he opened it towards the middle, and, having read a little, began to laugh. I asked him what he laughed at: and he replied, at something which he found written in the margin, by way of annotation. I desired him to tell me what it was; and, still laughing, he said, there was written in the margin of one of the leaves as follows: " This Dulcinea del Toboso, so often mentioned in this history, is said to have the best hand at salting pork of any woman in all La Mancha." When I heard the name of Dulcinea del Toboso, I stood amazed and confounded : for I instantly fancied to myself, that the bundles of paper contained the whole history of Don Quixote.

With this thought, I pressed him to turn to the beginning; which he did, and, rendering extempore the Arabic into Castilian, said thaj it began thus : " The history of Don Quixote de la !Mancha, written by Cid Hamete Benengeli, Arabian historiographer." Much dis-cretion was necessary to dissemble the joy I felt at hearing the title of the book ; and snatching what was in the hands of the mercer, I bought the whole bundle of papers from the boy for half a real; whereas, if he had been cunning, and had perceived how eager I waa for the purchase, he might very well have promised himself, and have really had, more than twelve times the sum for the bargain. I posted away immediately with the Morisco, through the cloister of the great church, .and desired him to translate for mo, into the Castilian toimue. all the papers that treated of Don Quixote, withou*;



^

STUPENDOUS BATTLE. 35

taking away or adding a syllable, offering to pay him for his trouble whatever he should demand. He was satisfied with fifty pounds of raisins, and two bushels of wheat; and promised to execute the task faithfully and expeditiously. But I, to make the business more sure, and not let so valuable a prize slip through my fingers, took him home to my own house, where, in Little more than six weeks, he translated the whole, in the manner you have it here related.

In the first sheet was drawn, in a most lively manner, Don Quixote's combat with the Biscayner, in the very attitude in which the history sets it forth ; their swords lifted up, the one covered with his buckler, the other with his cushion; and the Biscayner's mule so nicely to the life, that you might discover it to be a hackney-jade a bow-shot off. The Biscayner had a label at his feet, on wMch was written, Don Sancho d.e Azpetia : which, without doubt, must have been his name: and at the feet of Rozinante was another, on which Don Quixote was written. Eozinante was most wonderfully delineated; 80 long and lank, so lean and feeble, with so sharp a backbone, and 80 perfectly like one in a galloping consumption, that you might plainly see with what exact propriety the name of Rozinante had been given him. Close by him stood Sancho Panza, holding his ass by the halter; at whose feet was another scroll, whereon was inscribed, Sancho Zancas : and not without reason, if, as the painting expressed, he was paunch-bellied, short of stature, and spindle-shanked : which, doubtless, gave him the name of Panza and Zancas ; for the history sometimes calls him by the one, and sometimes by the other of these surnames. There were other more minute particulars observable : but they are of little importance, and contribute nothing to the faithful narration of the history; though none are to be despised, if true. And against the truth of this history, there can be but one objection, that the author was an Arab, writers of that nation being not a httle addicted to fiction : though, as they are so much our enemies, it may be supposed that the writer, in this instance, would fall short of, rather than exceed, the bounds of truth. And so, in fact, he seems to have done: for when he might, and ought to have launched out, in celebrating the praises of so excellent a knight, it looks as if he industriously passed them over in silence : a thing bad in itself, and worse intended; for historians ought to be precise, faithful, and unprejudiced ; and neither interest nor fear, hatred nor affection, should induce them to swerve from the way of truth, whose mother is history, the rival of time, the depository of great actions, witness of the past, example and pattern of the present, and monitor of future generations. In this you will certainly find whatever can be expected in the most pleasant performance ; and, if any perfection be wanted to it, it must, without question, be the fault of the infidel, its author, and not owing to any defect in the subject. In short, the second part, according to the translation, began in this manner:â€"

The trenchant blades of the two valorous and enraged combatants, being brandished aloft, seemed to threaten heaven, earth, and the deep abyss ; such was the courage and gallantry of tiiose who wielded

D 2



tliem. The first who discharged his blow was the choleric Biscayner, and it fell with such force and fury, that, if the edge of ttie weapon Lad not turned aslant by the way, that single blow had bedn enough to have put an end to this cruel conflict, and to all the adventunSo of our knight: but good fortune, that preserved him for greater things, HO twisted his adversary's sword, that, though it alighted on the left shoulder, it did him no other hurt than to disarm that side, carrying off by the way a great part of his helmet, with half an ear; all which, with hideous ruin, fell to the ground, leaving him in a piteous plight.

Who is he that can worthily recount the rage that entered into the breast of our Manchegan, at seeing himself so roughly handled? Let it suffice to say, it was such, that he raised himself afresh in his stirrups, and grasping his sword faster in both hands, struck with such fury at the Biscayner, taking him full upon tlie cushion, and upon the head, which he could nut defend, that, as if a mountain had fallen upon him, the blood began to gush out at his nostrils, his mouth, and his ears ; and he seemed as if he was just falling from his mule, which doubtless he must have done, had he not laid fast hold of her neck ; but presently, losing his stirrups, he let go his hold ; and the mule, frightened by the terrible stroke, galloped about the field, and, after two or three plunges, laid her master flat upon the ground. Don Quixote had looked on with great calmness, but when he saw him fall, he leaped from his horse, an^ with much agility ran up to him, and, directing the point of his sword to his eyes, bid him yield, on pain of having his head cut off. The Biscayner was so stunned, that he could not answer a word : and it had gone hard with him, so blinded with rage was Don Quixote, if the ladies of the coach, who had hitherto in great dismay beheld the conflict, had not approached, and earnestly besought that he would do them the great kindness and favour to spare the hfe of their squire. Don Quixote answered with solemn gravity, " Assuredly, fair ladies, I am very willing to grant your request, but it must be upon a certain condition and compact; which is, that this knight shall promise to repair to the town of Toboso, and present himself, as from me, before the peerless Dulcinea, tliat she may dispose of him according to her good pleasure."

The terrified and disconsolate lady, without considering what was demanded, and without inquiring who Dulcinea was, promised that her squire should perform everything he enjoined him. " Upon tlie faith of your word then," said Don Quixote, " I will do him no farther hurt, though he has richly deserved it at my hands."

CHAPTER X.

Of the discourse Don Quixote had with his good squire Sancho Panza.

Sancho Panza had before this gotten upon his legs, and, roughly handled as he had been by the monks' lacqueys, stood beholding very attentively the combat of his master, beseeching God in his heart that he would be pleased to give him the victory, that he might



thereby win some island, of which to make him governor, as he had promised. Seeing the conflict at an end, and that his master was ready to mount again upon Rozinante, he came to hold his stirrup ; but first fell upon his knees before him, and taking hold of his hand, kissed it, and said to him :

" Be pleased, my lord Don Quixote, to bestow upon me the government of that island, which you have won in this terrible combat; for, be it never so big, I find in myself ability sufficient to govern it, as well as the best he that ever governed island in the world." To which Don Quixote answered:

" Consider, brother Sancho, that this adventure, and others of a 4ike nature, are not adventures of islands, but of crossways, in which nothing is to be gotten but a broken head, or the loss of an ear. Have patience; for adventures will offer, whereby I may not only make thee a governor, but something still better."

Sancho returned him abundance of thanks, and, kissing his hand again, and the skirt of his coat of mail, he helped him to get upon Hozinante, and then mounted his ass to follow his master ; who, going off at a round rate, without bidding adieu, or speaking a word to those in the coach, entered a wood that was at a short distance.

Sancho followed as fast as his beast would let him ; but Hozinante made such speed, that, seeing himself likely to be left behind, he was obliged to call aloud to his master to stop for him. Don Quixote did so, checking Eozinante by the bridle, till his weary squire overtook him ; who, as soon as he came near, said, " Methinks, sir, it would not be amiss to retire to some church ; for, considering in what condition you have left your adversary, it is possible that they may give notice of the affair to the holy brotherhood,* who would then take us into custody ; and faith, if they do, before we get out of their clutchos we may chance to sweat for it."

" Peace," quoth Don Quixote; " for where hast thou ever seen or read of a knight-errant's being brought before a court of justice, whatever homicides he may have committed T

"I know nothing of your omecils," answered Sancho, "nor in my life have I ever concerned myself about them : only this I know, that the holy brotherhood have something to say to those who fight in the fields."

'' Set thy heart at rest, friend," answered Don Quixote; " for I would deliver thee out of the hands of the Chaldeans; how much more then out of those of the holy brotheihood â– ? But tell me, on thy life, hast thou ever seen a more valorous knight than thy master upon the face of the known earth? Hast thou read in story of any one, who has, or ever had, more bravery in assailing, more breath in holding out, more dexterity in wounding, or more address in giving a falir

" The truth is," answered Sancho, " that I never read any history at all: for 1 can neither read nor write: but I will make bold to affirm

* Not the Inquisition, but an institution in Spain for the ftpprehending of 1 obbers, ftnd making the roads safe for travellere.



that T never served a more daring master than your worship, in all the days of my life; and I pray God we be not called to an account for these darings, in the quarter I just how hinted at. But I beg of your worship, that you would let your wound be dressed, for there comes a great deal of blood from that ear; and I have some lint, and a little white ointment, here in my wallet, for the purpose."

" All this would have been needless," answered Don Quixote, " if 1 had bethought myself of making a vial of the balsam of Fierabras ; for, with one single drop of that, we might have saved both time and medicines."

" What vial, and what balsam is that ?" said Sancho Panza.

" It is a balsam," answered Don Quixote, " of which I have the receipt by heart; and he that possesses it need not fear death, nor so much as think of dying by any wound. And therefore, when I shall have made it, and given it thee, all thou wilt have to do, when thou seest me in some battle cleft asunder, which may frequently happen, will bv to take up, fair and softly, that part of my body which shall fall to the ground, and with the greatest nicety, before the blood is congealed, place it upon the other half that shall remain in the saddle, using especial care to make them fit exactly. Then give me to drink only two drauglits of the balsam aforesaid, and immediately thou wilt see me become sounder than any apple."

" If that be the case," said Sancho, " I renounce from henceforward the government of the promised island, and^desire no other reward, in payment of my many and faithful services, but that your worship would give me the receipt of this extraordinary liquor; for I daresay it will anywhere fetch more than two reals an ounce, and I want no more to pass this life in credit and comfort. But I should be giai to know whether it will cost much the making T

" For less than three reals I can make nine pints," answered Don Quixote.

" Sinner that I am," replied Sancho, " why then does your worship delay to make it, and to teach it me T

'' Peace, friend," answered Don Quixote; " for I intend to teach thee greater secrets, and to do thee greater kindnesses: but at present, let us set about the cure of my ear, which pains me more than I could wish."

Sancho took the lint and ointment out of his wallet: but, when Don Quixote perceived that his helmet was broken, he had almost ran mad ; and, laying his hand on his sword, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, he said, " I swear, by the Creator of all things, and by all that is contained in the four holy evangelists, to lead the life that the great Marquis of Mantua led, when he vowed to revenge the death of his nephew Valdovinos, which was, not to eat bread on a table-cloth, with other things, which, though I do not now remember, I consider as here expressed, until I am fully revenged on him who hatli done me this outrage."

Sancho, hearing this invocation, said to him, " Pray reflect, SigiioT Don Quixote, that if the knight has performed what was enjoined him, namely, to go and present himself before my lady Dulcinea dtJ



Toboso, he will then have clone his duty, and deserves no new punishment, unless he commit a new crime."

" Thou hast spoken and remarked very justly," answered Don Quixote, " and I annul the oath, so far as concerns my revenge ; but I make and confirm it anew, as to leading the life I have mentioned, until I shall take by force such another helmet, or one as good, from some other knight. And think not, Sancho, I undertake this lightly, or make a smoke of straw : I know what example I am following ; for the same thing happened literally with regard to Mambrino's helmet, which cost Sacripante so dear."

" Good sir," replied Sancho, " give all such oaths to the Evil One, for they are very injurious to health and to the conscience. Besides, pray tell me, if perchance we should not for many days light upon a man armed with a helmet, what are we to do then % must the vow be kept, in spite of so many difficulties and inconveniences, such as sleeping in your clothes, and not sleeping in any inhabited place, and a thousand other penances, contained in the oath of that mad old fellow the Marquis of Mantua, which your worship would now revive % Consider well, that these roads are not frequented by armed men, but solely by carriers and carters, who, so far from wearing helmets,

{)erhap3 never heard of such a thing in the whole course of their ives."

" Thou art mistaken in this," said Don Quixote ; " for we shall not be two hours in these crossways, before we shall see more armed men than came to the siege of Albraca,* to carry off Angelica the Fair."

"Be it so, then," quoth Sancho; "and God grant us good success, and that we may speedily gain that island, which costs me so dear; and then no matter how soon I die."

" I have already told thee, Sancho, to be in no pain upon that account; for, if an island cannot be won, there is the kingdom of Denmark, or that of Sobradisa, which will suit thee as well as ever a ring fitted a finger; and moreover, being upon terra firma, should give thee more joy. But let us leave this to its own time, and see if thou hast anything for us to eat in thy wallet; and we will presently go in quest of some castle, where we may lodge for the night, and make the balsam that I told thee of; for, I vow to God, my ear pains mo much."

" I have here in my bag an onion, a piece of cheese, and a few crusts of bread," said Sancho; " but these are not eatables fit for so valiant a knight as your worship."

" How little dost thou understand of this matter !" answered Don Quixote: " know, friend Sancho, that it is an honour to knights-errant not to eat for a whole month together \ and, if they do eat, they must be contented with what is nearest at hand. Hadst thou read as many histories as I have, thou wouldst have known tliis: yet, in the many I have perused, I never found any account of knights-orrant ever eating, unless by chance, or at some sumptuous banquet

♦ See Ariooto'a "Orlando,"



made on purpose for tliem; the rest of their days they lived, as it were, upf^m their sense of smelling. And though it is to be presumed, they could not subsist without eating, and without satisfying every other want to which human nature is subject, yet, it must likewise be supposed, as they passed the greater part of their lives in wandering through forests and deserts, and without a cook, that their most usual diet must have consisted of rustic viands, such as those thou hast now offered me. So that, friend Sancho, let not that trouble thee, which gives me pleasure ; nor endeavour to make a new world, or to throw knight-errantry off its hinges."

" Pardon me, sir," said Sancho ; " for, as I can neither read nor write, as I told you before, I am entirely unacquainted with the rules of the knightly profession ; but henceforward I will furnish my wallet Avith all sorts of dried fruits for your worship, who are a knight; and for myself, who am none, I will supply it with poultry, and things of more substance."

"I do not say, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, " that knights-errant are obliged to eat nothing but dried fruits, as thou supposest; but that their most usual sustenance was of that kind, and of certain herbs, they found here and there in the fields, which they were well acquainted with ; as also am I."

" It is a great happiness to know these same herbs," answered Sancho; " for I am inclined to think we shajl one day have occasion to make use of the knowledge."

And so saying, he took out what he had provided, and they eat together in a very peaceable and friendly manner. Desirous, however, to seek out some jjlace in which to pass the night, they soon finished their poor and dry commons, and being mounted again, made what haste they could to get to some village : but both the sun, and their better hopes, failing them near the huts of certain goatherds, they determined to take up their lodging there : and in the same proportion as Sancho was grieved, did his master rejoice, at being obliged to lie in the open air, believing that, every time this befel him, he was performing such an act as gave fresh evidence of his title to chivalry.

CHAPTER XI.

Of li'hat hefel Don Quixote uiih certain goatherdt.

He was kindly received by the goatherds; and Sancho, having accommodated Kozinante and his ass in the best manner he could, followed the scent of certain pieces of goat's flesh, that were boiling in a kettle ; and though he would willingly, at that instant, have tried whether they were fit to be translated from the kettle to the stomach, he forbore doing it; for the goatherds themselves took them off the fire, and, spreading some sheep-skins on the ground, very speedily served up their rural mess, and invited them both, with show of much goodwill, to share what they had. Six of them, that belonged to the cot, «at down round the skins, having first, with rustic compliments, de-



•ired Don Quixote to seat himself upon a trough with the bottom upwards, placed on purpose for him. The knight sat down, and Sancho remained standing to serve the cup, which was of horn. His master, seeing him thus stationed, said to him: " That you may see, Sancho, the intrinsic worth of kniglit-errantry, and how fair a prospect its meanest retainers have of speedily gaining the respect and esteem of the world, my will is, that you sit here by my side, and in company with these good folks, and that you be equal with me, who am your master and natural lord ; that you eat from off my plate, and drink of the same cup in which I drink: for the same may be said of knight-errantry that is said of love, it makes all things equal."

"I give you my most hearty thanks, sir," said Sancho ; "but let me tell your worship, that, provided I have victuals enough, I can eat as well or better standing, and by myself, than if I were seated close by an emperor. And to tell you the truth, what 1 eat in my corner, without compliments or ceremonies, though it be nothing but bread and an onion, relishes better than turkeys at other men's tables, where I am obliged to eat leisurely, drink little, wipe my mouth often, and neither sneeze nor cough when I have a mind. So that, good sir, as to these honours your worship is pleased to confer upon me, as a menial servant, and hanger-on of knight-errantry (being squire to your worship), be pleased to convert into something of more use and profit to me ; for, though I place them to account, as received in full, I renounce them from this time forward to the end of the world."

" Notwithstanding all this," said Don Quixote, " thou shalt sit down ; for whosoever humbleth himself, God doth exalt;" and, pulling him by the arm, he forced him to sit down next to him. The goatherds, who did not understand this jargon of squires and knights-errant, did nothing but eat, and listen, and stare at their guests, Avho, with keen appetite, solaced themselves by swallowing pieces as large as their fist. The service of flesh being finished, they spread upon tha skins a great quantity of acorns, together with half a cheese, harder tlian if it had been made of plaster of Paris, The horn did not stand idle all this while; for it went round so often, now full, now empty, like the bucket of a well, that one of the two Avine-bags that hung in view was presently emptied. After Don Quixote had satisfied his hunger, he took up a handful of the acorns, and, looking on them attentively, gave utterance to the following harangue :â€"

" Happy times, and happy ages were those, to which the ancients gave the name of golden; not because gold, which, in this our iron age, is so much esteemed, was to be had, in that fortunate period, without toil and labour; but because the mortals who then lived were ignorant of the two words, Meum and Tuum. In that period of innocence, all things were in common; no one needed to take any other pains for his ordinary sustenance, than to lift up his hand and take it from the sturdy oaks, which stood inviting him liberally to taste of their sweet and relishing fruit. The limpid fountains and running streams offered, in magnificent abundance, their salutary



and transparent waters. In the clefts of rocks, and in the hnllow of trees, did the industrious and provident bees form their commonwealths, presenting to every hand, without usury, the fertile produce of their most delicious toil. The stately cork-trees, induced by their courtesy alone, divested themselves of their light and expanded bark, with which men began to cover their houses, supported by rough poles, only for a defence against the inclemency of the seasons. All then was peace, all amity, all concord. As yet the heavy coulter of the crooked plough had not dared to force open, and search into, the tender bowels of our first mother, who, unconstrained, offered from every part of her fertile and spacious bosom, whatever might feed, sustain, and delight those her children, whom her possession blessed. Then did the simy)le and beauteous young shepherdesses trip it from hill to hill, and from dale to dale, their tresse^ sometimes plaited, sometimes loosely flowing: nor were their ornaments like those now in fashion, to which the Tyrian purple and the so-many-ways martyred silk give a value ; but composed of green-dock leaves and ivy interwoven : with which, perhaps, they were as splendidly and elegantly decked as the court-ladies of the present day, with all the rare and foreign inventions which idle curiosity hath taught them. Then were the conceptions of the soul clothed in simple and sincere expressions, in the same manner in which they were conceived, without seeking artificial phrases to set them off. -Nor as yet were fraud, deceit, and malice intermixed with truth and plain-dealing. Justice kept within her proper bounds; favour and interest, which now con-foiuid and persecute her, not daring then to show their heads. As yet the judge did not make his own will the measure of equity ; for then there was neither cause nor person to be judged. But at last when wickedness increased, the order of knight-errantry was instituted to defend helpless maidens, protect widows, and relieve orphans and persons distressed. Of this order am I, brother goatherds, and I take in friendly part the good cheer and civil reception you have given me and my squire : for, though by the law of nature, every one living is obliged to favour knights-errant, yet seeing that, without being acquainted with this obligation, you have entertained and regaled me, it is but reason that, with all possible goodwill towards you, I should acknowledge yours towards me."

This tedious discourse, which might well have been spared, our knight was induced to make because the acorns had put him in mind of the golden age, and inspired him with an eager desire to harangue, in no very pertinent strain, to the goatherds \ who stood in amaze, gaping and listening, without answering him a word. Sancho himself was silent, stuffing himself with the fruit of the oak, and often visiting the second wine-bag, which, that the wine might be cool, was kept hung upon a cork-tree.

Don Quixote spent more time in talking than in eating; and supper being over, one of the goatherds said, " That your worship, Signor Knight-errant, may the more truly say that we entertain you with a ready goodwill, we will give you some diversion and amusement, by making one of our comrades, who will soon be here, sing : he is ft



very intelligent lad, and deeply enamoured ; and, above all, can read and write, and plays upon the rebeck* to one's heart's content."

The goatherd had scarcely said this, when the sound of the instrument reached their ears, and presently the person that played on it appeared. He was a youth of about two-and-twenty, of a very pleasing countenance. His comrades asked him if he had supped ; and he answering in the affirmative, " Then, Antonio," said he who had asked the question, " you must give us the pleasure of heaiing you sing a little, that this gentleman, our guest, may see we have here, among the mountains and woods, some that understand music. We have told him of your talents, and would have you show them, to make good what we have said ; and therefore I entreat you to sit down, and sing the ditty of your love, which your uncle the prebendary composed for you, and which was so well liked in our village."

" With all my heart," replied the youth ; and without farther entreaty he sat down upon the trunk of an old oak, and, after tuning his instrument, sang with singular good grace a pretty ballad.

Don Quixote desired him to favour them with another, but Sancho Panza was of a different mind, being more disposed to sleep than to hear ballads; and therefore he said to his master, " Sir, you had better consider where you are to lodge; for the pains these honest men take all day will not suffer them to pass their nights in singing."

"I understand thee, Sancho," answered Don Quixote; "for I see plainly that the visits to the wine-bag require to be paid rather with sleep than music."

" It relished well wdth us all, blessed be God," answered Sancho.

" I do not deny it," replied Don Quixote ; " but bestow thyself where thou canst; it better becomes those of my profession to watch than to sleep. However, it would not be amiss, Sancho, to dress this ear again; for it pains me more than I could wish."

Sancho did as he was desired; and one of the goatherds, seeing the hurt, bid him give himself no more trouble about it, for he would apply a remedy that should quickly heal it. And taking some rosemary leaves, of which there was plenty about the huts, he chewed them, and mixed them wdth a little salt, and, laying them to the ear, bound them on fast, assuring the knight he would want no other Balve, as the effect proved.

CHAPTER XII.

What a certain goatherd related to those that toere with Don Quixote.

When this was done, there came another lad, who brought them provisions, and said, as he entered :

" Comrades, do you know what is passing in the village ?'

" How should we know]" answered one of them.

** Let me tell you then," continued the youth, " that this morning

• A kind of violin with three Btringa.



that famous shepherd and scholar, Chrysostome, died ; and it is whispered that it was for love of Marcella, daughter of William the Ricl) ; she who rambles .ibout the woods and fields, in the dress of a shei>-berdess."

'' For Marcella! eay you," quoth one.

"For her, I say," answered the goatherd : "and what is more, it is reported that he has ordered by his will that they should bury him in the fields, as if he had been a Moor, and at the foot of the rock 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 other scholar, who likewise apparelled himself like a shepherd, is resolved to have his friend Chrysostome's will fulfilled in everything, 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 wUl 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 out of kindness to you neither, or want of curiosity, as because of the thorn in my toe, that will not let me^o."

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 deceased 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 ashei> herd, and keep him company, which we all did not a little marvel 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 iiis 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 was 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 yet 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 excellent housewife, and did a good deal of good among the poor : for which, I believe, slie is at this very time in paradise. Alas, uer death broke old William's heart; lie soon followed her, jioor man, and left all to his little daughter, that Marcella by name, giving charge of her to her uncje,



the parson of our parish. When she came to be fourteen or fifteen years of age, no man set his eyes on her that did not bless heaven for having made her so handsome ; so that most men fell in love with her, and were ready to run mad for her. All this while her uncle kept her very close : yet the report of her great beauty and wealth spread far and near, insomuch that 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 begged, and sued, and teazed 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 BDoken, he has been mainly commended for it more than once, when the people of our parish meet together. For I would have you know, Sir Errant, that here in the country, and in our little towns, tliere 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 most to the purpose. But for our parson, as I told you before, though he took care to let her know of all those proposals, yet would she never answer otherwise, but that 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; and 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 follow^ed 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 Llarcella does more harm in this country than the plague would do; for her courteousness and fair looks draw on everybody 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, and call her cruel, unkind, ungrateful, and a world of such names, whereby they plainly show what a sad condition they are in: were you but to stay here some time, you would hear these hills and valleys ring again with the doleful moans of those she has denied, who yet have not courage to give over following her. Here sighs one shepherd, there another moans; here is one singing doleful ditties, there another is wringing his hands and making woeful complaints. And all this whUe the hard-hearted Marcella never minds any one 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 b«» the happy



man tliat shall at last succeed in taming her. Now, because there ie iiotliing more certain than all this, I am the more apt to give credit to what our comrade has told us, as to the occasion of Chrysostome's death ; and therefore I would needs have you go and see him laid in his grave to-morrow; which I believe will be worth your while, for he had many friends, and it is not half a league to the place where it was his will to be buried."

" I intend to be there," answered Don Quixote ; " and in the meantime I return thee many thanks for the extraordinary satififaction this story has afforded me."

CHAPTER XIII.

The conclusion of the story of the Shepherdess Marcdla with other

matters.

Scarce had day begun to appear from the balconies of the east, when five of the goatherds got up, and having waked Don Quixote, asked him if he held 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 questionâ€""Which way do you travel T they found they were all going the same way, to see the funeral; and so they all joined company.

" I fancy, Signor Vivaldo," said one of the gentlemen, addressing himself to the other, " we shall not think our time niisspent in 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 shepherdess."

" 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?

" My profession," answered the 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 foUy, Vivaldo asked him what he meant by a knight-errant t

" Have you not read, then," cried Don Quixote, " the Annals^uid 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 1 For which reason, since that time, the people of Great Britain dara 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 surprised than were all those who had hitherto discovered so unaccountable a distraction in one who seemed a rational creature. Hosv-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.

" Metliinks, 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 procure those benefits to mankind, by the strength of our arms, and at the hazard of our lives, for which they only intercede. ISTor 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 I would insinuate as if the profession of a knight-errant was a state of perfection equal to that of a holy recluse : I would only infer from what I have said, and what I myself endure, that ours without question is more laborious, more 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-errant have at last 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 strangely disappointed of their mighty expectations."

" I am of the same opinion," replied Vivaldo. " But one thing 1 would ask, sir, since I understand it is so much the being of knight-errantry to be in love, I presume you, who are of that profession, cannot be without a mistress. And, therefore, if you do not set up for secrecy, 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. For, without doubt, she cannot but esteem herself fortunate in being known to all the world to be the 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 enemy of my repose is the least affected with the world's being informed of her power over my heart; all I dare say, in compliance with your request is, that her name is Dulcinea, her country La Mancha, and Toboso the happy place which she



honours with her residence. As for her quality, it cannot be les3 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."

^3 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 cjT)ress; 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 do~'ible their pace, that they might get thither iu 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 condoled their mutual loss ; and then Don Quixote, with those who came with him, went to view the bier ; where they saw the dead body of a young man in shepherd's weeds all strewed, over with flowers. The deceased 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-makers and the mourning shepherds, remained a long time silent; tUl at last one of 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 T

" This is the very place," answered the other ; " there it was tLat my unhappy friend many times told me the sad story of his cruel fortune; and there it was that he first saw that mortal enemy of mankind ; there it was that he made the first discovery of his passion, no less innocent than violent; there it was that the relentless Mar-cella 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 travellers, "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 courteousness. incomparable in gracefulness, a phoenix in friendship, generous and magniticent without ostentation, prudent and grave without pride, modest without affectation, pleasant and complaisant without meanness ; in a word, the first in everything good, though second to none in misfortune: he loved well, and was hated ; he adored, and was disdained ; he begged pity of cruelty itself; he strove to move obdurate marble ; pursued the wind; made his moans to solitary deserts ; was constant to ingratitude; and, for the recompense of his fidelity, became a prey to death in the flower of his age, through the barbarity of a shepherdess, whom he strove to immortalize by his verse; as these papers which are here deposited might testify, had he not commanded me to sacrifice them to the flames, at the same time that his body was committed to the earth."





" Should you do so," cried Vivaldo, " you would appear more cruel to them than their unliappy author. Consider, sir, 'tis not consistent with discretion, nor even with justice, so nicely to perform the request of the dead, when it is repugnant to reason. Augustus Csesar himself would have forfeited his title to wisdom, had he permitted that to have been eftected which the divine Virgil had ordered by his will. Therefore, 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'•>. resentment, you ought not indiscreetly to be their executioner; but rather reprieve and redeem them from eternal silence, that they may live, and, flying through the world, transmit to all ages the dismal story of your friend's virtue and Marcella's ingratitude, as a warning to others, that they may avoid such tempting snares and enchanting destructions; for not only to me, but to all here present, is well known the history of your enamoured and desperate friend: we are 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, moved not so much by curiosity as pity, we are come to behold with our eyes that which gave us so much trouble to hear. Therefore, iu the name of all the companyâ€"deeply afi'ected like me, with a sense of Ciirysostome's extraordinary merit, and his unhappy fate, and desirous to prevent such deplorable disasters for the futureâ€"I beg that you will permit me to save some of these papers, whatever you resolve to do with the rest."

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

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

Vivaldo said no more; but being impatient to see what those papers were wliich he had rescued from the flames, he opened one of them immediately, and read the title of it, which was, " The despairing Lover." "That," said Ambrose, "was the last piece my dear



friend ever wrote ; and therefore, that you may all hear to what a sad condition his unhappy passion had reduced him, read it aloud, I beseech you, sir, wliile the grave is making."

" With all my heart," replied Vivaldo ; and so the company, having the same desire, presently gathered round about him while he read the lines.

The verses were well approved by all tlie company; and Vivaldo was about to read another paper, when they were unexpectedly pre vented 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 di.c'ging the grave; but so beautiful, that fame seemed rather to have lessened than to have magnified her charms: those who had never seen her before gazed on her with silent wonder and delight; nay, those who used to see her every day seemed no less lost in admiration than the rest. But scarce had Ambrose spied her, when, witli 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 afresli at thy presence ? or comest thou to glory in the fatal effects of thy inhumanity, like another Nero at the sight of flaming Kome T

" I come not here to any of those ungrateful ends, Ambrose," replied Marcella ; " but only to clear my innocence, and show the injustice of all those who lay their misfcrtunes and Chrysostome'3 death to my charge: therefore, I entreat you all who are here at thia 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 beautiful, and that to such a degree that you are forced, 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 beautiful is lovely, I cannot conceive that what is loved for being handsome should be bound to love that by which it is loved merely because it is loved. He that loves a beautiful object may happen to be ugly ; and as what is ugly deserves not to be loved, it would be ridiculous to say, I love you because you are handsome, and therefore you must love me again though I am ugly. But suppose two persons of difierent sexes are equally handsome, it does not follow that their desires should be alike and reciprocal; for all beauties do not kindle love ; some only recreate the sight, and never reach 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 desires 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, why would you have me force my inclinations for no other reason but that you say you love me 1 Tell me, I beseech you, had Heaven formed 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



t^n-,- -.

bestowed on me by Heaven : and as the viper is not to be blatoed for the poison with which she kills, seeing it was assigned her by nature^ 80 1 ou^ht not to be censured for that be&cty which I derive from the same cause; for beauty in a virtuous woman is but like a distant flame, or a sharp-edged sword, and only bums 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 esteemed beautiful, though it be naturally so. If, then, honour be one of those endowments which most adorn the body, why should she that is beloved 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 the means imaginable to make her lose it 1 I was born free, and, that I might continue so, I retired to these solitary hills and plains, where trees are my companions, and clear fountains my looking-glasses. With the trees and with the waters I communicate my thoughts and my beauty. I am a distant flame, and a sword far off: those whom I have attracted with my siglit 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 teU me that his intentions were honest, and therefore ought to have been complied with, I answer, that when, at the very place where his grave is making, he discovered his passion, I told him I was resolved to live and die single, and that the earth alone should reap the fruit of my reservedness and enjoy the spoils of my beauty; and if, after all the admonitions I gave him, he would persist in his obstinate pursuit, and sail against the Avind, what wonder is it he should perish in the waves of his indiscretion] Had I ever encouraged him, or amused him with ambiguous words, then I had been false; and had I gratified his wishes, 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 sufferings. If I have deceived any one, let him complain ; if I have broke 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 no man call me cruel nor murderer until I either deceive, break my promise, encourage, or entertain him. Let him that calls me a tigress and a basilisk avoid me as a dangerous thing ; and let him that calls me ungrateful give over serving me : I assure them I will never seek nor pursue them. Therefore let none hereafter make it their business to disturb my ease, nor strive to make me hazard among men the peace I now enjoy, which I am persuaded is not to be found with them. I have wealth enough ; I neither love nor hate any one ; the innocent conversation of the 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 ^0 raise my soul towards her original dwelling." Aa soon as she had said this, without waiting for any answer, sh*

s 2



left th.e.«'lace, and ran into the thickest of the adjoining wood, leaving aVi 'ti^ftt o.9ap4 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 protestations which they had heard her make that very moment. But Don Quixote perceiving their design, and believing he had now a fit opportunity to exert his knight-errantry :

" Let no man," cried he, " of what quality or condition soever, presume to follow the fair Marcella, under the penalty of incurring my displeasure. Slie has made it appear, by undeniable reasons, that she was not guilty of Chrysostome's death ; and has positively declared her firm resolution never to condescend to the desires of any of her admirers : for which reason, instead of being importuned and persecuted, she ought to be esteemed and honoured by all good men, as being one of the few women in the world who have lived with such a virtuous reservedness."

Now, whether it were that Don Quixote's threats terrified them, or that Ambrose's persuasion prevailed with them to stay and see their friend interred, none of the shepherds left tlie place, till the grave being made, and the papers burnt, the body was deposited in the bosom of tlie earth, not without many tears from all the assistants. They covered the grave with a great stone, and strewed upon it many flowers and boughs; and every one having condoled awhile W'itli his friend Ambrose, they took their leave of him, and departed. Vivaldo and his companion did the like; as did also Don Quixote, who was not a person to forget himself on such occasions; he likewise bid adieu to the kind goatlierds 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 beard very much infested all those parts." Thereupon the travellers, being unwilling to divert him from so good a design, took their leaves of him once more, and pursued their journey, sufliciently supplied with matter to discourse on from the story of Marcella and Chrysostome, and the follies of Don Quixote. The knight, on his part, resolved to go in quest of the shepherdess Marcella, to make her an offer of hia services; but things took a different course, as will be related in the progress of this true history.



CHAPTER XIV.

Wlverein is related the unfortunate adventure which bejel Dun Quixote^ in meeting with certain Yanguesians*

The sage Cid Hamet Benengeli relates, that, when Don Quixote had taken leave of his hosts, and of all those who were present at Chrysostome's funeral, he and his squire entered the same wood, into which they had seen the shepherdess Marcella previously retreat: and having ranged through it more than two hours, looking everywhere, without being able to find her, they stopped in a meadow full of fresh grass, near which ran a pleasant and refreshing brook ; insomuch that it invited and compelled them to pass there the suitry hours of the noon-day heat, which began to be very oppressive. Don Quixote and Sancho alighted, and, leaving the ass and Eozinante at large, to feed upon the abundance of grass that sprung up in the place, they ransacked the wallet j and, without any ceremony, in friendly and social wise, master and man regaled together on what it contained, Sancho had taken no care to fetter Rozinante, being well assured he was so quiet he was sure not to run away. But fortune so ordered it that there were grazing in that valley a number of Galician mares, belonging to certain Yanguesian carriers, whose custom it is to pass the mid-day, with their drove, in places where there is grass and water: and that where Don Quixote chanced to be was very fit for the purpose. Now Rozinante, without asking his master's leave, started oif at a smart trot, and ran amongst the mares. The strangers received him with their heels and their teeth in such a manner that his girths broke, and he lost his saddle. But what must have more sensibly afi"ected him was that the carriers, seeing the intruder on their horses' pasturage, ran at him with their pack-staves, and so belaboured him, that he was laid at his length on the ground in wretched plight.

By this time Don Quixote and Sancho, who had seen the drubbing of Rozinante, came, out of breath, to his rescue ; and the knight said to the squire, " By what I see, friend Sancho, these are no knights, but rascally people, of a scoundrel race. I tell thee this, because thou mayest now assist me to take ample revenge for the outrage they have dune to Rcjzinante before our eyes."

"What revenge can we take," answered Sancho, "they being above twenty, and we no more than two, and perhaps but one and a half T

*•! am as good as a hundred of such vagabonds," replied Don Quixote, and, without saying a word more, he laid his hand on his Bword, and flew at the Yanguesians; and Sancho did the same, incited and moved thereto by the example of his master.

At the first blow, Don Quixote eave one of them a terrible wound on the shoulder, through a leainem doublet wliich he wore. The Vaniruesians, seeing themselves assaulted in this manner by two men

• Curriers of Galicia, commonlv thus called.



only, they being so many, betook themselves to their staves, and hemming in the enemy, began the combat with great vehemence and animosity. In the conflict, the second blow brought Sancho to the ground; and the same shortly was the lot of Don Quixote, neither his dexterity nor courage standing him in any stead. lie fell just at tlie feet of Rozinante, who was not yet able to rise : whence we may learn how unmercifully pack-staves will bruise, when put into rustic and wrathful hands. The Yanguesians, perceiving the mischief they had done, loaded their beasts with all speed, and pursued their journey, leaving the two adventurers in as woeful a plight as the steed.

The first who came to himself was Sancho Panza; who, finding himself close to his master, with a feeble and plaintive voice, cried, " Signer Don Quixote ! ah, Signor Don Quixote !"

" What wouldst thou have, brother Sancho ?" answered the knight, in the same feeble and lamentable tone.

" I could wish, if it were possible," replied Sancho, " that your worship would give me two gulps of that drink of Feo Blass, if you have it here at hand; perhaps it may do as well for broken bones, as it does for wounds."

" Unhappy I, that we have it not!" answered Don Quixote. " But I swear to thee, Sancho Panza, on the faith of a knight-errant, that, before two days pass, if fortune does noti)rder it otherwise, I will have it in my power, or my hand shall be very much out."

" But in how many days do you think, sir, we shall recover the use of our feet?" replied Sancho Panza.

"With regard to myself,"said the battered Don Quixote, "I cannot fix any limited number: but this I know that it is all my own fault \ for I ought not to have laid hand on my sword against men who were not dubbed knights like myself; and therefore, I believe, the god of battles has permitted this chastisement to fall upon me, as a punishment for having transgressed the laws of chivalry. For wliich reason, brother Sancho, it is requisite I should forewarn thee of what I am now going to tell; for it highly concerns the good of us both : which is, that when thou seest we are insulted by such rascally rabble, thou art not to wait till I lay hand on my sword against them, for I will in no wise do it; but do thou draw thy sword, and chastise them thyself to thy own heart's content. K any knights shall come to their assistance, then shall I know how to defend thee, and offend them, with all my might: for thou hast already seen, by a thousand token* and experiments, how far the valour of this strong arm of mine extends."

So arrogant was the poor gentleman become by his victory over the valiant Biscayner.

But Sancho Panza did not so thoroughly relish his master's instructions, as to forbear saying in reply, " Sir, I am a meek, peaceable, qui-et man, and can dissemble any injury whatsoever; for I have a wife and children to maintain and bring up : so that give me leave to tell your worship, by way of hint, since it is not my part to command.



that I will upon no account draw my sword, either against peasant or against knight; and that, from tliis time forward, I forgive all injuries any one has done, or shall do me, or is now doing, or may here* after do me, whether he be high or low, rich or poor, gentle or simple, without excepting any state or condition whatever,"

His master answered, " I wish I had breath to talk a little at my ease, and the pain I feel in tliis rib would cease for awhile, that 1 might convince thee, Panza, of the error thou art in. Hark ye, sinner : should the gale of fortune, hitherto so contrary, come about in our favour, filling the sails of our desires, so that we may safely, and without any hindrance, make the port of some one of those islands I have promised thee, what would become of thee, if, when I had gained it, and made thee lord thereof, thou shouldst render aU iuefiectual by not being a knight, nor desiring to be one, and by having neither valour nor intention to revenge the injuries done thee, or to defend tliy dominions 1 For I would have thee know, that, in kingdoms and provinces newly conquered, the minds of the natives are never so quiet, nor so much in the interest of their new master, but there is still ground to fear, that they wiU endeavour to bring about a change of things, and once more, as they call it, try their fortune. Therefore the new possessor ought to know how to conduct himself, and have courage enough, to act offensively and defensively, whatever accident may happen."

"I wish, in that which, hath now befallen us,'' answered Sancho, " I had been furnished with the understandinj; and valour your worship speaks of; but I swear, on the faith of a poor man, I am at this time fitter for plasters than discourses. Trj, sir, whether you are able to rise, and we will help up Rozinante, though he does not deserve it, for he was the principal cause of all this; suffering. I never could have believed such, a thing of Rozinante. But it is a true saying, that 'we must keep company with a man along time before we know him thoroughly;' and that ' we are sure of nothing in this life.' Who could have thought, that, after such swinging slashes as you gave that unfortunate adventurer, there should come in pursuit of you, this vast tempest of pack-staves, which has been discharged upon our shoulders ]"

" Thine, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, " should, one would think, be used to such storms; but mine, that were brought up between muslins and cambrics, must needs be more sensible of the grief of this mishap. And if I did not imagine ; imagine, did I say? if I did not know for certain, that all these inconveniences are inseparably annexed to the profession of arms, I would suffer myself to clie here out of pure vexation."

To this the squire replied, " Since these mishaps are the genuine fmits and harvests of chivalry, pray tell me, sir, whether they fall out often, or whether they have their set times in which to happen ; for, to my thinking, two more such harvests will disable us from ever reaping a third, if God of his infinite mercy does not succour us."

" Learn, friend >Sanclio," answered Don Quixote, " that the life of



knigbts-errant is subject to a thousand perils and misfortunes: but then are they every whit as near becoming kings and emperors ; as experience hath shown us in many and divers knights, whose histories I am perfectly acquainted with. I could tell tliee of some, if the pain would give me leave, who, by the strength of their arm alone, have mounted to the high degrees I have mentioned ; yet these very men were, before and after, involved in sundry calamities and afflictions. Witness the valorous Amadis de Gaul, who saw himself in the power of his mortal enemy, Archelaus the enchanter, of whom it is positively affirmed, that, when he had taken liim prisoner, he gave him above two hundred lashes with his horse's bridle, having tied him to a pillar in his courtyard for tlie purpose. And moreover there is a private author, of no small credit, who tells us, that the 'knight of the .sun, being caught by a trap-door, which sunk under his feet, in a certain castle, found himself at the bottom of a deep dungeon under ground, bound hand and foot; and if he had not been .succoured in that great distress by a certain sage, his special friend, it had gone very hard with the poor knight.' So that I may very well suffer among so many worthy persons who experienced much greater affronts than those we now undergo: for I would have thee know, Sancho, that wounds, whicli are given with instruments that are accidentally in a man's hand, are no affront. And thus it is expressly written in the law of combat, that if a shoemaker strike a person-^ith the last with which ho is at w^ork, though it be really of wood, it will not therefore be said, til at the person thus beaten with it was cudgelled. I say this, that thou mayest not think, though we are beaten in this scuffle, we are disgraced : for the arms those men carried, wherewith they struck us, were no other than their pack-staves; and none of them, as I remember, had either sword or dagger."

" They gave me no leisure," answered Sancho, " to observe so narrowly ; for scarcely had I laid hand on my dagger, when they crossed my shoulders with their saplings, in such a manner that they deprived my eyes of sight, and my feet of strength, laying me where I now lie, and where I am not so much concerned about whether the business of the beating be an affront or not, as I am troubled at the pain of the blows, which will leave as deep an impression in my memory as on my shoulders."

"All this, notwithstanding, I tell thee, brother Panza," replied Don Quixote, " there is no remembrance which time does not obliterate, nor any pain which death does not put an end to."

"And what greater misfortune can there be," replied Panza, "than that, which remains till time effaces, or death relieves it? If this mischance of ours were of that sort, which is cured with a couple of plasters, itw^ould not be altogether so bad : but for aught I see, all the phisters of an hospital will not be sufficient to set us to rights again."

" Have done with these murmurings, and gather strength out ol weakness, Sancho," answered Don Quixote ; " for so I purpose to do: and let us examine Rozinante's case ; for, by what I perceive, not the least part of this misfortune has fallen to the poor beast's share."



"Thatis not at all strange," answered Sancho, "since he also appertains to a kniglit-errant. But what I wonder at is, that my ass should come oflF scot-free, where we have paid so dear."

" Fortune always leaves some door open in disasters, whereby to come at a remedy," said Don Quixote. " I say this, because this poor beast may now supply the want of Rozinante, by carrying me hence to some castle, where I may be cured of my wouuds. Nor do I take the being mounted in this fashion to be dishonourable; for I remember to have read, that the good old Silenus, governor and tutor of the merry god of laughter, when he made his entry into the city of the hundred gates, went riding, much to his satisfaction, on a most beautiful ass."

" It is likely he rode as your worship says," answered Sancho; " but there is a difference between riding, and lying athwart, like a sack of rubbish,"

To which Don Quixote replied, " The wounds received in battle rather give honour than take it away; so do as I bid thee, friend Panza, answer me no more, but raise me up as well as thou canst, and place me upon Dapple in whatever manner may seem best to thee, that we may get hence before night overtakes us in this uninhabited place."

" Yet I have heard your worship say," quoth Panza, " that it is usual for knights-errant to sleep on heaths and deserts the greatest part of the year, and that they looked upon it as fortunate they were not worse off."

" That is," said Don Quixote, " when they cannot help it, or are in love: and this is so true, that there have been knights who, unknown to their mistresses, have exposed themselves, for two years together, upon rocks, to the sun and the shade, and to tlie inclemencies of heaven. One of these was Amadis, when, calling himself Beltenebros,* he took up his lodging on the bare rock, whether for eight years or eiglit months I know not, for I am not perfect in his history. It is sufficient that there he was, doing penance for some distaste or other shown him by the Lady Oriana. But let us have done with this, Sancho, and despatch, before such another misfortune happens to thy beast, as hath befallen Rozinante."

Sancho sending forth thirty alases, and sixty sighs, and a hundred and twenty curses on him whosoever he was that had brouglit him to that pass, endeavoured to raise himself up, but remained half way, bent like a Turkish bow, being wholly unable to stand upright. He managed, however, with much labour, to saddle his ass, which had also taken advantage of that day's excessive liberty, to go a little astray. He then lifted up Rozinante, who, could he have found a tongue to complain with, most certainly would not have been outdone either by Sancho or his master. In short, Sancho at length settled Don Quixote upon Dapple, and tying Rozinante to his tail, led them both by the halter, proceeding now faster, now slower, toward the place where he thought the high road might lie: but he had scarcely gone a shrrt

• The lovely obsciire.



league, when fortune, who was conducting his affairs from good to better, discovered to liim not the road only, but an inn ; which, to his sorrow and Don Quixote's joy, must needs be a castle. _ Sancho positively maintained it was an inn, and his master that it was a castle ; and the dispute was so obstinate, and lasted so long, that they had time to arrive there before it ended; and without more ado, Sancho entered it, with his string of cattle.

CHAPTER XV.

Of what happened at the inn.

The innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote laid across the ass, inquired of Sanclio what ailed him. Sanclio answered him that it was nothing but a fall from a rock, by which his ribs were somewhat bruised. The innkeeper had a wife of a different disposition from those who are usually found in that occupation; for she was naturally charitable, and touched with the misfortunes of her neighbours : so that she presently offered her humane services to Don Quixote, and made her daughter, a very comely young maiden, assist her in the cure of her guest.

With the assistance of their servant Maritornes, the damsel made Don Quixote a very sorry bed in a garret, that gave evident tokens of having formerly served as a hayh)ft; and immediately the hostess and her daughter plastered him from head to foot, Maritornes holding the light. And, as the hostess was thus employed, perceiving Don Quixote to be mauled in every part, she said that his bruises seemed the effect of hard drubbing, rather than of a fall.

" Not a drubbing," said Sancho ; " but the knobs and sharp points of the rock, every one of which has left its mark: and, now I think of it," added he, " pray, contrive to spare a morsel of that tow, as somebody else may find it usefulâ€"indeed, I suspect that my sides would be glad of a little of it."

" What, you have had a fall too, have you ?" said the hostess.

" No," replied Sancho, " not a fall, but a fright, on seeing my master tumble, which so affected my whole body that I feel as If I had received a thousand blows myself."

" That may very well be," said the damsel; " for I have often dreamed that I was falling down from some high tower, and could never come to the ground; and, when I awoke, I have found myself as much bruised and battered as if I had really fallen.

" But here is the point, mistress," answered Sancho Panza, " that L without dreaming at all, and more awake than I am now, find myself witli almost as many bruises as my master Don Quixote."

"What do you say is the name of this gentleman f quoth the Asturian.

" Don Quixote de la Mancha," answered Sancho Panza: " he is a knight-errant, and one of the best and most valiant that has been seen iox tliis long time in the world."



* What is a knight-errant T said the wench.

" Are you such a novice as not to know that ?" answered Sancho Panza. '' You must know, then, that a knight-errant is a thing that, in two words, is cudgelled and made an emperor; to-day he is the most unfortunate wretch in the world : and to-morrow will have two or tliree crowns of kingdoms to give to his squire."

" How comes it then to pass that you, being squire to this worthy gentleman," said the hostess, " have not yet, as it seems, got so much as an earldom?"

" It is early days yet," answered Sancho; " for it is but a month since we set out in quest of adventures, and hitherto we have met with none that deserve the name. And sometimes we look for one thing, and find another. But the truth is, if my master Don Quixote recovers of this wound or fall, and I am not disabled thereby, 1 would not truck my hopes for the best title in Spain."

To all this conversation Don Quixote had listened very attentively: and now, raising himself up in the bed as well as he could, and taking the hand of his hostess, he said to her : " Believe me, beauteous lady, you may esteem yourself fortunate in having entertained me in this your castle ; if I say little of myself, it is because, as the proverb declares, self-praise depreciates : but my squire will inform you who I am. I only say that I shall retain the service you have done me eternally engraven on my meniory, and be grateful to you as long as my life shall endure. And, had it pleased the high heavens that Love had not held me so enthralled and subject to his laws, and to tlie eyes of that beautiful ingrate whose name I silently pronounce, those of this lovely virgin had become enslavers of my liberty."

The hostess, her daughter, and the good Maritornes, stood confounded at this harangue of our knight-errant, which they miderstood just as much as if he had spoken Greek, although they guessed that it all tended to compliments and offers of service ; and not being accustomed to such kind of language, they gazed at him with surprise, and thought him another sort of man than those now in fashion ; and, after thaidiing him, in their inn-like phrase for his oft'ers, they left him. The Asturian Maritornes had doctored Sancho, who stood in no less need of plasters than his master.

"Bise, Sancho," said Don Quixote, towards morning, "if thou canst, and caU the governor of this castle, and procure me some oil, wine, salt, and rosemary, to make the healing balsam ; for in truth J require it much at this time."

Sancho got up with aching bones, and proceeded in the dark towards the landlord's chamber. The innkeeper furnished him with what he desired, and Sancho carried them to Don Quixote, who took his simples, and made a compound of them, mixing them together, and boiling them some time, until he thought the mixture had arrived at the exact point. He then asked for a vial to hold it; but, as there was no such thing in the inn, he resolved to put it in a cruse, or tin oil-flask, of which the host made him a present. This being done, he pronounced over the crnse above four-score paternosters, and as many ave-marias, salves, and credos, accompanying every word



with a cross, by way of benedicti(jii; all wliich was performed in the presence of Sancho and the innkeeper. Having completed the operation, Don Quixote resolved to make trial immediately of the virtue of that precious balsam ; and therefore drank about a pint and a half of what remained in the pot wherein it was boiled, after the cruse was filled; and scarcely had he swallowed the potion when it was rejected and followed by a violent sickness. To the pain and exertion of which a copious perspiration succeeding, he desired to be covered up warm, and left alone. They did so, and he continued asleep above three hours, when he woke and found himself greatly relieved in his body, and his battered and bruised members so much restored that he considered himself as perfectly recovered, and was thoroughly persuaded that he was in possession of the true balsam of Fierabras \ and that consequently, with such a remedy, he might tlienceforward encounter, without fear, all dangers, battles, and conflicts, however hazardous.

Sancho Panza, who likewise took his master's amendment for a miracle, desired he would give him what remained in the pot, which was no small quantity. This request being granted, he took it in both hands, and, with good faith and better will, swallowed down very little less than his master had done. Now the case was, that poor Sancho's stomach was not so delicate as that of his master; and, therefore, before he could reject it, he endured such pangs and such faintings, that he verily thought his last hour was come ; and finding himself so afliicted and tormented, he cursed the balsam, and the thief that had given it him.

Don Quixote, seeing him in that condition, said: "I believe, Sancho, that all this mischief hath befallen thee because thou art not dubbea a knight: for 1 am of opinion this liquor can do good only to those who are of that order."

" If your worship knew that," replied Sancho, "evil betide me and all my generation ! why did you sutfer me to drink it T

Sancho's illness lasted near two hours • and left him so exhausted and shattered that he was unable to stand. Don Quixote, feeling, as we said before, quite renovated, determined to take his departure immediately in quest of adventures, thinking that by every moment's delay he was de])riving the world of his aid and i)rotection ; and more especially as he felt secure and confident in the virtues of his balsam. Thus stimulated, he saddled Rozinante with his own hands, and pannelled the ass of his squire, whom he also helped to dress, and afterwards to mount. He then mounted himself, and, having observed a pike in a corner of the inn-yard, he took possession of it to serve him for a lance.

Being now both mounted, and at the door of the inn, he called to the host, and, in a grave and solemn tone of voice, said to him: " Many and great are the favours, signor governor, which in this your castle I have received, and I am bound to be grateful to you aU the days of my life. If I can make you some compensation, by taking vengeance on any proud miscreant who hath insiilted you, know that the duty of my profession is no other than to strengthen the weak, to



revenge the injured, and to chastise the perfidious. Consider, and if your memory recalls anything of this nature to recommend to me, vou need only declare it; for I promise you, by the order of knighthood I have received, to procure you satisfaction and amends to your heart's desire!"

The host answered with the same gravity : " Sir Knight, I have no need of your worship's avenging any wrong for" me; I know how to take the proper revenge, when any injury is done me : all I desire of your worship is to pay me for what you have had in the inn, as well for the straw and barley for your two beasts, as for your supper and lodging."

" What! is this an inn ?" exclaimed Don Quixote. " Ay, and a very creditable one," answered the host. •* Hitherto, then, I have been in an error," answered Don Quixote; " for in truth I took it for a castle; but since it is indeed no castle, but an inn, all that you have now to do is to excuse the payment; for I cannot act contrary to the law of knights-errant, of whom I certainly know (having hitherto read nothing to the contrary) that they never paid for lodging or anything else in the inns where they reposed ; because every accommodation is legally 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, witli 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 innkeeper," answered Don Quixote: so clapping spurs to Rozinante, and brandishing his lance, he sallied out of the inn without opposition, and, never turning to see whether his squire followed him, was soon a good way off.

The host, seeing him 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 innkeeper, irritated on hearing this, threatened, that if he did not pay him, he should repent his obstinacy.

Poor Sancho's ill-luck would have it that, among the people in the inn, there were four clothworkers of Segovia, three needlemukers from the fountain of Cordova, and two neighbours from the marketplace of Sevilleâ€"frolicksome fellows, who, instigated and moved by the self-same spirit, came up to Sancho, and, having dismounted hira^ one of them produced a blanket from the landlord's bed, into which he was immerliutely thrown ; but, perceiving that the ceiling was too low, they determined to execute their purpose in the yard, which waa bounded above only by the sky. Thither Sancho was carried ; and, being placed in tlie middle of the blanket, they began to toss hitn aloft, and divert themselves with him as with a dog at Shrovetide. The cries which the poor blanketed squire sent forth were so many



an 1 rfu 1. uJ that tliey reached his master's ears ; who, stopping to listen attentively, believed that some new adventure was at hand, until lie plainly recognised the voice of Sancho; then turning the reins, he perceived the wicked sport they were making with his squire. He saw him ascend and descend through the air with ao much grace and agility, that, if his indignation would have suflered 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 entreaties; yet all were of no avail, and they desisted at last only from pure fatigue. They then brought him his ass, and, wrapping him in his cloak, mounted him thereon. The compassionate 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 tlie 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 tliat, altliough in that station, she had some faint traces of a Christian. ^Vhen 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 â– hrue, retained his wallets in payment of what was due to him ; but Sancho never missed them in the hurry of his departure. The innkeeper would have fastened the door well after him, as soon as he saw him out: but the blanketeers would not let him, being persons of that sort that, though Don Quixote had really been one of the knights of the round table, they would not have cared two farthings for him.

Sancho came up to his master so faint and dispirited that he was not able to urge his ass forward. Don Quixote, perceiving him in that condition, said : " Honest Sancho, that castle, or inn, I am now convinced, is enchanted ; for they who so cruelly sported with thee, what could they be but phantoms and inhabitants of another world ? And I am confirmed in this from having found that, when I stood at the pales of the 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 liave often told thee, they do not allow a knight to lay hand on his sword against any one Avho is not so, unless it be in defence of his own life and person, and in cases of urgent and extreme necessity."

" And I too," quoth Sancho, " would have revenged myself if I had been able, knight or no knight, but I could not; though, in my opinion, they who diverted themselves at my expense were no hobgoblins, but men of flesh and bones, as we are ; and each of them, as I heard while they were tossing me, had his proper name; 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 enchantment, but in something else. And what I 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 ia to follow this profession. For tell me what greater satisfaction can the world afford, or what pleasure can be compared with that of winning a battle, and triumphing over an adversary 1 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 riglit 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 that by persons enchanted, on whom I 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; und perhaps fortune may put me m possession of that of Amadis, when he called himself ' Knight of the Burning Sword,' which was one of the best weapons that ever was worn by knight; for, beside the virtue aforesaid, it cut like a razor ; and no armour, however strong or enchanted, could withstand it."

" Such is my luck," quoth Sancho, " that though this were so, and your worship should find such a sword, it would be of service only 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 great and thick cloud of d.ust 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 ray arm • and on which I shall perform exploits that will be recorded ana written in the book of fame, there to remain tf> all succeeding ages. Secst thou that cloud of dust, Sancho? It is raised by a prodigious army of divers nations, who are on the march this way."

" If so, there must be two armies," said Sancho; " for here, on thia tide, 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 amies coming to engage in the midst of that sjiacious plain: for at all hours and moments his imagination was full of the battles, encliantments, adventures, extravagances, combats, and challenges detailed in hia favourite books : and in every thought, word, and action he reverted to them. Now tlie cloud of dust he saw was raised by two great flocks of sheep going the same road from different parts, and as the dust concealed them until they came near, and Don Quixote affirmed so positively that they were armies, Sancho began to believe it, and said, " Sir, what then must we do 1"

'' What," replied Don Quix(jte, " but favour and assist the weaker side ? Thou must know, Sancho, that the army which marches towards us in front is led and commanded by the great Emperor Alifanfaron, lord of the great island of Taprobana : this other, which marches behind us, is that of his enemy, the king of the Garamantes, Pentapolin of the Naked Armâ€"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, wlio is most beautiful, and also a Cliristian ; but her fatiier \\'ill not give her in marriage to the pagan king unless he will first renounce the religion of his false prophet Mahomet, and turn Christian."

" By my beard," said Sancho, " Pentapolin is in the right; and I am resolved to assist him to the utmost of my power."

" Therein wilt thou do thy duty, Sancho," said Don Quixote ; " but listen with attention whilst I give thee an account of the principal knights in the two approaching armies ; and, that thou mayest observe them the better, let us retire to that rising ground, whence both armies may be distinctly seen." Seeing, however, in his imagination, what did not exist, he began, with a loud voice, to say : " The knight thou seest yonder with the gilded armour, who bears on his shield a lion crowned, couchaut at a damsel's feet, is the valorous Laurcalco, Lord of the Silver Bridge. The other, with the armour flowered with gold, who bears tliree crowns argent, in a field azure, is the formidable Micocolembo, Grand Duke of Quiracia. The third, with gigantic limbs, who marches on his right, is the undaunted Brandabarbaran of Boliche, Lord of .the three Arabias. He is armed with a serpent's skin, and bears, instead of a shield, a gate, which fame says is one of those belonging to the temple which Samson pulled down 'when with his death he avenged himself upon his enemies."

In this manner he went on naming sundry knights of each squadron, as his fancy dictated, and giving to each their arms, colours, devices, and mottoes, extempore; and, without pausing, he continued thus '• That squadron in the front is formed and composed of people of diflcrent nations. Here stand those who drink the sweet waters of the famous Xanthus; the mountaineers who tread the Massilian fields; those who sift tiie pure and fine gold-dust of Arabia FeUx ; those



OF WHAT HAPPENED AT THE INN. ^^

ttIio dwell along the famous and refresking banks of the clear Ther-iiiodon ; those who drain, by divers and sundry ways, the golden veins of Tactolus; the Numidians, unfaithful in their promises; the Persians, famous for bows and arrows; the Partliians 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 1 cannot recollect their names."

How many provinces did he name! how many nations did he enumerate, giving to each, witli wonderful readiness, its peculiar attributes! Sancho Panza stood confounded at his discourse, without Bjteaking a word ; and now and then he turned his head about, to see whether he could discover the knights and giants his master named. But seeing none, he said, " Sir, not a man, or giant, or knight, of all you have named, can I see anywhere."

"How sayest thou, Sancho?" answered Don Quixote; "hearest thou not the neighing of the steeds, the sound of the trumpets, and the rattling of the drums'?"

" I hear nothing," answered Sancho, " but the bleating of sheep and lambs ;" and so it was; for now the two flocks had 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 nut to appear what they really are: and if thou art so much afraid, retire and leave me alone; for with my single arm I shall ensure victory to that side which I favour with my assistance:" tlien, clapping spurs to Eozinante, and setting his lance in his rest, he darted down the hillock like lightning.

Sancho cried out to him : " Hold, Signor 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 kiiight, 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 liis enemy Alifanfaron of Taprobana."

With these words he rushed into the midst of the squadron of sheep, as courageously and intrepidly as if in good earnest he was engaging his mortal enemies. The shepherds and herdsmen who came with the flocks called out to him to desist; but seeing it was to no purpose, they unbuckled their slings, and began to salute his ears with a shower of stones. Don Quixote cared not for the stones, but, galloping about on all sides, cried out: " Where art thou, proud Alifanfaron ] Present thyself before me; I am a single knight, desirous to firove thv valour hand to hand, and to punish thee with the loss of ifo for the wrong thou dost to the valiant Pentapolin Garamanta."

At that instant a large stone struck him with such violence that he bk-licved himself either slain or sorely wounded; and remembering



Sfy DON QUIXOTE. .

some balsam which he had, he pulled out the cruse, and applyinc: it to his mouth, began to swallow some of the liquor • but before he could take what he thought sufficient, another hit nim full on the hand, and dashed the cruse to pieces: carrying off three or four of his teeth by the way, and grievously bruising two of his fingers. Such was the first blow, and such the second, that the poor knight fell from his horse to the ground. The shepherds ran to him, and verily believed they had killed him ; whereupon in all haste they collected their flock, took up their dead, which were about seven, and marched off without farther inquiry.

All this while'Sanchc stood upon the hillock, beholding his master'8 actionsâ€"tearing his beard, and cursing the unfortunate hour and moment that ever he knew him. But seeing him fallen to the ground and the shepherds gone oflf, he descended from the hillock, and, running to him, found him in a very ill plight, though not quite bereaved of sense ; and said to him, " Did I not beg you. Signer 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 follow 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 jirevent 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 }\is squire, who stood leaning with his breast upon the ass, and his cheek reclining upon his hand, in the posture of a man overwhelmed with thoughts Don Quixote, seeing him thus, and to all appearance so melancholy, said to him, " Know, Sancho, that one man is no more than another, only inasmuch as he does more than another. So do not afflict thyself for the mischances that befall me, since thou hast no share in them."

"How? no share in them !" answered Sancho* " peradventure he they tossed in a blanket yesterday was not my father's son, and the wallets I have lost to-day, with all my moveables, belong to somebody else?"

" What! are the wallets lost T quoth Don Quixote.

" Yes, they are," answered Sancho.

"Then we have nothing to eat to-dayf 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 wliich unlucky knights-errant like your worship are used to supply such wants."

" Nevertheless," said Don Quixote, " at this time T would rathei



have a slice of bread and a couple of heads 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 degreea in the university of Paris; whence it may be inferred that the lance never blunted the pen, nor the pen the lance,"

" Well, be it as your worship says," answered Sancho ; " but let us begone hence, and endeavour to get a lodging to-night; and pray God it be where there are neither blanket uor blanket-heavers, hobgoblins nor enchanted Moors."

CHAPTER XVI.

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 befel 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 unmoved. The one checked his ass, and the other his horse, and both stood looking before them with eager attention. They perceived that the lights were advancing towards them, and that as they approached nearer they appeared larger.

" I beseech thee, Sancho, to be of good courage; for experience shall give thee sufficient proof of mine."

" I win, if it please God," answered San-cho; and, retiring a little on one side of the road, and again endeavouring to discover what those walking lights might be, they soon after perceived a great many persons clothed in white ; this dreadful spectacle completely annihilated the courage of Sancho, whose teeth began to chatter, as if seized with quartan ague. But it was otherwise mtli his master, whose lively imagination instantly suggested to him that this must be truly a chivalrous adventure. He conceived that the litter was a bier, whereon was carried some knight sorely wounded or slain, whose revenge was reserved for him alone. He therefore, without delay, couched hia •pear, seated himself firm in his saddle, and. with «race and spirit

P 2



advanced into the middle of the road by wliich the i)roces.sion must pass : and when they were near, he raised his voice, and said : " Ho I knignts, 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, highly resenting this answer, laid hold of his bridle, and said, "Stand, and with more civility give me the account I demand; otherwise I challenge ye all to battle."

The mule w-as timid, and started so much upon his toucliing 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 couched his spear, and immediately attacking one of the mourners, laid him on the ground grievously wounded; then turning about to the rest, it was worth seeing with what agility he attacked and defeated them ; it seemed as if wings at that instant had sprung on Rozinanteâ€"so lightly and swiftly he moved ! All the white-robed people, being timorous and unarmed, soon quitted the skirmish, and ran over the plain with their lighted torches, looking like so many masqueraders on a carnival or 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 in the litter.

All this Sancho beheld, with admiration at his master's intrepidity, and said to himself, " This master of mine is certainly as valiant and magnanimous as he pretends to be."

A burning torch lay on the ground, near the first whom the mule had overthrown ; by the light of which Don Quixote espied hira, and going up to him, placed tlie point of his siiear to his throat, commanding him to surrender, on pain of death. To which the fallen man answered, " I am surrendered enough already, since I cannot stir, for one of my legs is broken. I beseech you, sir, if you are a Christian gentleman, do not kill me : you would commit a great sacrilege ; fur I am a licentiate, and have taken the lesser orders."

" What, then, I pray you," said Don Quixote, " brought you hither, being an ecclesiastic?"

" What, sir T replied the fallen man, " but my evil fortune."

"A worse fate now threatens you," said Don Quixote, " unless yon reply satisfactorily to all my first questions."

" Your worship shall soon be satisfied," answered the licentiate " and therefor© you must know, sir, that, though I told you before tha



I was a licentiate, I am, in fact, only a bachelor of arts, and my name is Alonzo 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 Htter 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," rejilied 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 office 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, ha\dng broken my leg, which will never be right again whilst I live. But since my fate ordained it so, I beseech j'ou, Signor Knight-errant, who have done me such arrant mischief, to help me to get from under this mule J for my leg is held fast between the stirrup and the saddle."

" I might have continued talking until to-morrow," said Don Quixote; " why did you delay acquainting me with your embarrassment T

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 foUow the track of his companions, and beg their pardon, in his name, for the injury which he could not avoid doing tliem. Sancho likewise said, " If perchance those gentlemen would know who is the champion that routed them, tell them it ia the famous Don Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the Rueful Countenance."

The bachelor being gone, Don Quixote asked Sancho what induced him to call him the Knight of the Rueful Countenance at that time more than any other %

" I will tell you," answered Sancho; " it is because I have been vie\ving you by the light of the torch, which that unfortunate man carried: and, in truth, your worship at present makes the most woeful figure I have ever seen; which must be owing, I suppose, either to the fatigue of this combat, or the want of your teeth."

" It is owing to neither," replied Don Quixote ; " but the sage who has the charge of writing the history of my achievements has deemed



it proper for me to assume an appellation, like the knights of old; one of whom called himself the Knight of the Burning Sword; another of the Unicorn ; this, of the Damsels ; that, of the Phcenix ; 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 nov/ mentioned has put it into thy thoughts and into thy mouth to call me the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, as I purpose to call myself from this day forward; and that this name may ht me the better, I determine, when an opportunity offers, to have a most rueful figure painted on my shield."

" You need not spend time and money in getting this figure niade," said Sancho ; " your worship need only show your own, and, without any other image or shield, they will immediately call you him of the Rueful Countenance; and be assured I tell you the truth: for I promise you, sir (mind, I speak in jest), that hunger and the loss of your teeth make you look so ruefully that, as I said before, the rueful picture may very well be spared."

Don Quixote smiled at Sanclio's pleasantry; nevertheless, he resolved to call himself by that name, and to have his shield or buckler painted accordingly ; and he said, " I conceive, Sancho, that I am liable to excommunication for having laid violent hands on holy things, ' Juxta illud, Siquis suadente-^iabolo,' &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 phantojus and spectres of the other world. And even were it otherwise, I perfectly remember vvhat befel the Cid Ruy Diaz, when he broke the chair of that king's ambassador in the presence of his hohness the Pope, for which he was excommunicated ; yet honest Roderigo de Vivar passed that day for an honourable and courageous knight."

They had not gone far between two hills, when they found themselves in a retired and spacious valley, where they alighted. Sancho disburdened his beast \ and, extended on the green grass, with hunger for sauce, they despatched their breakfast, dinner, afternoon's luncheon, and supper all at once: regaling their palates with more than one cold mess, which the ecclesiastics who attended the deceased had brought with them on the sumpter-mule. But there was another misfortune, which Sancho accounted the Avorst of all; namely, they had no wine, nor even water, to diink, and were, moreover, parched with thirst.

But they had not gone two hundred paces when a great noise of water reached their ears, like that of some mighty cascade pouring down from a vast and steep rock. The sound rejoiced them exceedingly, and stopping to listen whence it came, they heard on a sudden another dreadful noise, which abated the pleasure occasioned by that of the water ; especially in Sancho, who was naturally faint-hearted. I say they heard a dreadful din of irons and rattling chains, accompanied with mighty stupes, repeated in regular time and measuro



which, together with the furious noise of the water, would have struck terror into any other heart but that of Don Quixote. The night, as we have before said, was dark ; and they chanced to enter a grove of tall trees, whose leaves, agitated by the breeze, caused a kind of rustling noise, not loud, though fearful; so that the solitude, the situation, the darkness, and the sound of rushing water, with the agitated leaves, all concurred to produce surprise and horror, especially when they found that neither the blows ceased, nor the wind slept, nor the morning approached; and in addition to all this was theii total ignorance of the place where they were in. But Don Quixote, supported by his intrepid heart, leaped upon Eozinante, and, bracing on his buclder, brandished his spear, and said, "Friend Sancho, know that, by the will of Heaven, I v^'as born in this age of iron, to revive in it that of gold, or, as it is usually termed, ' the golden age. I am he for whom dangers, great exploits, and valorous achievements, are reserved; I am he, I say again, who am destined to revive the order of the round table ; that of the twelve peers of France, and the nine worthies; and to obliterate the memory of the Platirs, the Tablantes, Olivantes, and Tirautes, Knights of the Sun, and the Belianises, with the whole tribe of the famous knights-errant of times past. Stay for me here three days, and no more : if I return not in that time, thou mayest go back to our village ; and thence, to oblige me, repair to Toboso, and inform my incomparable lady Dulcinea that her enthralled knight died in attempting things that might have made him worthy to be styled hers."

When Sancho heard these words of his master, he dissolved into tears, and said, " Sir, I cannot think why your worship should encounter this fearful adventure. It is now night, and nobody sees us. We may easily turn aside, and get out of danger, though we should not drink these three days ; and, being unseen, we cannot be taxed with cowardice. Besides, I have heard the curate of our village, whom your worship knows very well, say in the pulpit that ' he who seeketh danger porisheth 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 cliildren to follow and serve your worship; but as covetous-ness bursts the bag, so hath it rent my hopes ; for when they wero most aHve, 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 everything human. Dear sir, do me not such an uukindness ; or, if your worship will not wholly desist from this enterprise, at least wait till daybreak, to which, according to the little skill I learned when a shepherd, it cannot be above three hours; for tlie muzzle of tho north-bear is at the top of the head, and makes midnight in the line of the left arm."

' How," said Don Quixote, " canst thou see wheie this line is made, or where the muzzle, or top of the head thou talk<^st of is. when the niglit is so dark, that not a star aiipcars in the \vht,le skyf

" Tnie," said Sancho, " but fear has many eyes, and sees things



â– ji DON QUIXOTE.

beneath the earth, how much more above in the sky; besides, it ia reasonable to think it does not want much of daybreak."

"Want what it will," answered Don Quixote, "it shall never be said of me, either now or at any other time, that tears or entreaties could dissuade me from doing the duty of a knight: therefore, I pray thee, Sancho, hold thy tongue; for God, who has put it into my heart to attempt this unparalleled and fearful adventure, will take care to watch over my safety, and to comfort thee in thy sadness. What thou hast to do is to girt Kozinante well, and to stay here; for I will quickly return, alive or dead."

Sancho, seeing his master's final resolution, and how little his tears, prayers, and counsels prevailed with him, determined to have recourse to a stratagem, and oblige him, if he could, to wait till day ; and with this view, pretending to be straitening the girths, softly, and without being perceived, he tied Eozinante's two hinder feet together vdth Dapple's halter; so that, when Don Quixote would have departed, he was not able ; for the horse could not move but by jumps. Sancho, seeing the success of his contrivance, said, "Ah, sir! behold how Heaven, moved by my tears and prayers, has ordained that Fiozinante cannot stir; and if you will obstinately persist to spur him, you will but provoke fortune, and, as the saying is, kick against the pricks."

This made Don Quixote quite desperate, and the more he spurred his horse, the less he could move him; and, without suspecting the ligature, he thought it best to be quiet, and either stay till day appeared, or till Kozinante should recover the use of his legs : believing it proceeded from some other cause, and not from Sancho'a cunning; to whom he said, " Since it is so, Sancho, that Rozinante cannot move, I am contented to stay till the dawn smUes, though I weep all the time she delays her coming."

" You need not weep," answered Sancho, " for I will entertain you with telling you stories, if you had not rather alight and compose yourself to sleep a little upon the soft grass, as knights-errant are Avont to do, and so be the less weary when the day and hour come for attemxjting the unparalleled 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 1 Sleep thou, who wert born to sleep, or do what thou wilt; I will do what I think best befits my profession."

" Pray, good sir. be not angry," answered Sancho, "I did not say it with that design:' and, coming close to him, he put one hand on the pummel of the saddle before, and the other on the pique behind, and stood embracing his master's left thigh, without daring to stir from him a finger's breadth, so much was he afraid of the blows which still sounded alternately in his ears. Don Quixote claimed his promise of telling him some story to entertain him ; and Sancho replied, " that he would, if the dread of what he heard would permit him : notwithstanding, said he, " I will force myself to tell one, which, it I can hit upon it, and it slips not through my fingers, is the best of all stories; and I beg your worship to be attentive, for now I begin.



" What hatli been, hath been ; the good that shall befal bo 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 evU."

" Proceed with thy tale, Sancho," said Don Quixote, " and leave to my care the road we are to follow."

" I say then," continued Sancho, " that in a village of Estremadura, there was a shepherd, I mean a goatherd; which shepherd, or goatherd, as my story says, was called Lope Euiz; and this Lope Ruiz 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, 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 â– 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 «ras 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 disdained by Lope, then began to love him better than ever she had loved him before."

"It is a disposition natural in women," said Don Quixote, "to slight those who love them, and love those who hate them : go on, Sancho."

" It fell out," proceeded Sancho, " that the shepherd put his design into execution ; and, coUecting^pgether his goats, went over the plains of Estremadura, in order to passvtver into the kingdom of Portugal. Upon which, Torralva followed him at a distance, on foot and barelegged, with a pilgrim's staff in her hand, and a waUet about her neck. Presently, the shepherd came Triuh his flock to pass the river Guadiana, which at that time was swollen, and had almost overflowed its banks; and on the side he came to there was neither boat nor anybody to ferry him or his flock over to the other side; whicli grieved him mightily : for he saw that Torralva was at his heels, and would give liim 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 account of the goats that the fisherman is carrying over ; for if you lose count of a single goat, the story ends, and it will be 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 fishep man was a great while in coming and going. However, he returned for another goat, and another, and another."

" Suppose them all carried over," said Don Quixote, " and do not be going and coming in this manner ; or thou wilt not have finished carrying them over in a twelvemonth."

"Tell me, how many have passed already?" said Sancho.

" How should I know V answered Don Quixote.

" See there, now ! did I not tell thee to keep an exact account I There is now an end of the story ; I can go no farther."

" How can this be T 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 worsliip to tell me how many goats had passed, 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 T

*' 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 no less from thy good sense : however, I do not wonder at it, for this incessant din may have disturbed thy understanding."

" AU that may be," answered Sancho ^ " but as to my story, I know there's no more to be told ; fo^ it ends just where the error begins in the account of carrying over the f^'oats."

" 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 wf.s he fettered.

Thus passed the night; and when Sancho perceived the dawn of morning, with much caution he unbound Rozinante, who being at liberty, though naturally not over-mettlesome, seemed to feel himself alive, and began to paw tlic -ground ; but as for curveting (begging his pardon) he knew nothing about it. Don Quixote, perceiving that Bozinante began to be active, took it for a good omen, 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 taU 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 Rozinante feel the spur, and again taking leave of Sancho, commaiuled hiiu 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



WcOS the wiU of Heaven tliat he should end his days in that periloua adventure. He again also repeated the embassy and message he was to carry to his lady Dulcinea ; and told him that as to the reward of his service hp need be in no pain, for he had made his will before he left his village, and in it he would find himself gratified as to his wages, in proportion to the time he had served; but, if God should bring him off safe and sound from the impending danger, he might reckon himself infallibly secure of the promised island. Sancho wept afresh at hearing again the moving exj^ressions of his good master, and resolved not to leave him to the last moment and end of this business. From the tears, and this honourable resolution of Saucho Panza's, the author of this history gathers, that he must have been well born, and at least an old Christian. His tender concern somewhat softened his master, but not so much as to make him discover any weakness ; on the contrary, dissembling as well as he could, he pressed on toward the place, whence the noise of the water and of the strokes appeared to proceed, Sancho followed him on foot, leading, as usual, his ass, that constant companion 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 tlie 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 j^roceeded. Eozinante was startled at the noise : but Don Quixote, after quieting him, went slowly on towards the huts, recommending himself devoutly to his lady, and beseeching her to favour him in so terrific an enterprise. 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 u',most confusion. Sancho looked at him, and saw he hung down his head upon his breast, with manifest indications of being abashed. Don Quixote looked also at Sancho, and seeing his cheeks swollen, and his mouth full of laughter, betraying evident signs of being ready to explode, notwithstanding 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 to apply both hands to his sides, to secure himself from bursting. Don Quixote, perceiving that Sancho made a jest of him, was so enraged that he lifted Up his lance, and discharged two such blows on him that, had ho 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^ and fearing lest his master snould proceed farther, with much humilitj Biud, " Pray, sir, be pacified ; as ^rnly as I live I did but jest."



"Tbouj^h tliou mayest jest, I do not," answered Don Quixota " Come hither, merry sir; what thinkest tliou? Supijose these mill-hammers had really been some perilous adventure, nave I not given proof of tlie couraf^e requisite to undertake and achieve it? Ami obliged, being a knight as I am, to distinguish sounds, and know which are, or are not, those of a fulling-mill, more es})ecially if (which is indeed the truth) I had never seen any fulling-miUs in my life, aa thou hastâ€"a pitiful rustic as thou art, who wert born and Vjred amongst them ? But let these six fulliug-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 tlieir heads, then make what jest thou ^ilt of mc."

" 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, Avas it not a thing to be laughed at, and worth telling, what a fearful taking we were in last nightâ€"I mean, that I was inâ€"for I know that your worship is a stranger to fear."

" I do not deny," answered Don Quixote, " that what has befallen ns may be risible, but it is not proper to be repeated ; for all persons have not the sense to see things in their 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 loves thee well who makes thee weep :' and, besides, your people of condition, when they have given a servant a hard word, presently give him some old hose, though what is usually given after a beating I cannot tell, unless it be that your knights-errant, after bastinados, bestow islands, or kingdoms on terra firma."

" The die may so run," quoth Don Quixote, "that all thou hast said may come to pass ; excuse what is done, since thou art considerate ; for know that first impulses are not under a man's control: and that thou mayest ?ibstain 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 faidt 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 fiishion. What shall we say of Gasabel, squire to Don Galaor, who was so silent that, to illustrate the excellence of his marvelloiia taciturnity, his name is mentioned but once in all that great and faithful history 1 From what I have said, thou mayest infer, Sancho^ that there ought to be a difierence between master and man, between lord and lacquey, and between knight and squire; so that, from this day forward, we must be treated with more respect: for iiowsoever thou mayest excite my anger, ' it will go ill w ith the pitcher.' The favours and benefits I promised thee wiD come in due time; au«' ii they do not come, the wages, at least, thou wilt not lose."



ADVENTURE CF MAMBRINO'S HELME1\

79

•• Your worsliip says very well," quoth Sanclio; " but I woiilu iust know (if perchance the time of the favours should not come, and ^ should be necessary to have recourse to the article of the wages) how much might the squire of a knight-errant get in those times ? and whether they agreed by the month, or by the day, like labourers T

" 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 liave 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 hear\ of so valorous a knight as your worship."

CHAPTER XVn.

Which treats of the grand adventure of Mamhrino's helmet, mth other things which befel our invincible Knight.

About this time it began to rain, and Sancho proposed entering the fulling-mill; but Don Quixote had conceived such an abliorrence 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 fuUijig-mdls, it now opens another, for a better and more certain adventure, 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 nigiit. 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 Den Quixote.

" I know not," answered Sancho ; " but if I might talk as much as I used to do, perhaps I could give such reasons that your worship would see you are mistaken in what you say."

"How can I be mistaken?" said Don Quixote. "Seest thou not yon knight coming towards ua on a dapple-grey steed, with a helmet of gold on his head T

" What I see and perceive," answered Sancho, " is only a man on 3 grey ass like mine, with something on bis head that glitters."



"Ti/liy, that is Mambrino's helmet," said Don Quixote; "retire, '.'i/cl leave me alone to deal with him, and thou shalt see how, in order to save time, I shall conclude this adventure without speaking a word, and the helmet I have so much desired remain my own."

" I shall take care to get out of the way," replied Sancho ; *' 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 ; " if thou dost, I say no more, but I vow to mill thy soul out of thy body."

Sancho held his peace, fearing lest his master should perform his vow.

Now, the truth of the matter, concerning the helmet, the steed, and the knight which Don Quixote saw, was this. There were two villages in that neighbourhood, one of them so small that it had neither shop nor barber, but the other adjoining to it had both; therefore the barber of the larger served also the lesser, wherein one customer now wanted to be let blood, and another to be shaved : to perform which the barber was now on his way, carrying with him his brass basin ; and it so happened that, while upon the road, it began to rain, and to save his hat, which was a new one, he clapped the basin on his head, which being lately scoured, was seen ghttering at the distance of half a league. He rode on a grey ass, as Sancho said, and this was the reason why Don Quixote took the barber for a knight, his ass for a dapple-grey steed, and his basin for a golden helmet, for he readily adapted all he saw to his delusions with regard to knight-errantry. And when he saw the poor cavalier draw near, he advanced at Rozinante's best speed, and couched his lance low, intending to run him through and through; but when close upon him, without checking the fury of his career, he cried out, " Defend thyself, caitiff, or instantly surrender what is justly my due !"

The barber, seeing this phantom coming upon him, had no other way to avoid the thrust of the lance than to sUp down from the ass ; and no sooner had he touched the ground, than 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, with which Don Quixote was satisfied, saying that the miscreant had acted discreetly in imitating the beaver, which when closely pursued by the hunters, tears off with its teeth that for which it knows, by instinct, they hunt him. 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 hia head, turning it round in search of the vizor: and, not finding it, he said," Doubtless the pagan for whom this famous helmet was originally forged must have had a prodigious headâ€"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 hia master's late choler.

" What dost thou laugh at, Sancho T said Don Quixote.

•*I am laughinft^" answered he, "to think what a huge head the



f»agan had who owned that helmet, which is for all the world just ike a barber's basin."

"Knowest thou, Sancho, what I conceive to be the case? Tliia famous piece, this enchanted helmet, by some strange accident must have fallen into the possession of one, who, ignorant of its true value as a helmet, and seeing it to be of the purest gold, hath inconsiderately melted down the one half for lucre's sake, and of the other half made this, which, as thou sayest, doth indeed look like a barber's basin; but to me, who know what it really is, its transformation is of no importance, for I wlU have it so repaired, in the first town where there is a smith, that it shall not be surpassed, nor even equalled. In the meantime I will wear it as I can: for something is better than nothing; and it will be sufficient to defend me from stones." ,

" It will so," said Sancho, " if they do not throw them with slings, as they did in the battle of the two armies, when they crossed your worship's chops, and broke the cruse which contained the precious balsam."

" I do not care for having lost it," said Don Quixote, " for, as thou knowest, Sancho, I have the receipt by heart."

" So have I, too," answered Sancho, " but if ever I make or try it again may I never stir from this place. Besides, I do not intend to run the risk of wanting it, for I intend to keep myseK, with aU my five senses, from being wounded, or from wounding anybody. As to being tossed again in a blanket, I say nothing ; for it is difficult to prevent such mishaps, and if they do come, there is nothing to be done but to wink, hold one's breath, and submit to go whither fortune and the blanket shall please."

" Thou art no good Christian, Sancho," said Don Quixote, " since thou dost not forget an injury once done thee ; but know it is inherent in generous and noble minds to disregard trifles. What leg of thine is lamed, or what rib or head broken, that thou canst not forget that jest? for, properly considered, it was a mere jest and pastime ; otlier-wise I should long ago have returned thither, and done more mischief in revenging thy quarrel than the Greeks did for the rape of Helen ; who, had she lived in these times, or my Dulcinea in those, would never have been so famous for beauty as she is 1" And here he heaved a sigh towards heaven.

" Let it pass, then, for a jest," said Sancho, " since it is not likely to be revenged in earnest: but I know of what kind the jests and the earnests were; and I know also they will no more slip out of my memory than off my shoulders. But, setting this aside, tell me, sir, what shall we do with this dapple-grey steed, which looks so like a grey ass, and which that caitiff whom your worship overthrew has left behind here, to shift for itself; for, by his scouring oft' so hastily, he does not think of ever returning for him; and, by my beard, the beast is a special one."

" It is not my custom," said Don Quixote, " to plunder those whom I overcome, nor is it the usage of chivalry to take from the vanquished their horses, and leave them on foot, unless the victor hath lost his own in ifie 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 tliou wilt have it to be ; for, when we are gone, his owner will return for liim."

" I should like to carry him off," replied Sancho, " or at least to change mine for him, which is something the worst of the two. Tnily the laws of chivalry are very strict, since they do not extend to the swapping one ass for another. I would fain know whether 1 might exchange furniture, if I were so inclined."

"lam not very clear as to that point," answered Don Quixote; " and as it is a case of doubt, till better information can be ootained, I think thou mayest exchange the furniture, if the necessity be extreme."

" It is so extreme," replied Sancho, " that I could not want them more, if they were for my own proper person."

And so saying, he proceeded without further licence, to the transposition, and made his own beast three parts in four the better for the exchange.

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 themâ€"such was the abhorrence in which they were held. Being thus refreshed and comforted, :oth in body and mind, they mounted, an^ without determining upon what road to follow, according to the custom of knights-errant, they went on as Rozinante's will directed, which was a guide to his master and also to Dapple, who always followed, in love and good fellowship, wherever he led the way. They soon, however, turned into the great road, which they followed ai a venture, without forming any plan.

As they were 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 anything should miscarry."

" Speak, then," said Don Quixote, "and be brief in thy discourse ; for what is prolix cannot be pleasing."

" I say, then, sir," answered Sancho, " that for some days past I have been considering how little is gained by wandering about in quest of those adventures your worship is seeking through these deserts and crossways, where, though you should overcome and achieve the most perilous, there is nobody to see or know anything of them; so that they must remain in perpetual oblivion, to the prejudice of your worship's intention and their deserts. And therefore E 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 oy the lord we serve, he must of course reward each of us according to his merit, nor can you there fail of meeting with somebody to put your worship's exploits in writing, for a perpetual remembrance of them 1 say uothing of my owa, because they must not exceed t) hcSPJ^^eiy



ADVENTURE OF MAMBRINO'S HELMET, Si

limits; though I daresay, if it be the custom in chivalry to pen the deeds of squires, mine will not be forgotten."

"Thou art not much out, Sancho," answered Don Quixote: "but, before it comes to that, it is necessary for a knight-errant to wander about the world, seeking adventures, by way of probation ; that, by repeated achievements, he may acquire sufficient fame and renown, Avhen he comes to the court of some great monarch, to be known by his achievements before his appearance there. So that as soon as the boys see him enter the gates of the city, they shall aU follow and surround him, crying aloud, 'This is the Knight of the Sun, or of the Serpent' (or of any other device, under which he may have performed his exploits); ' this is he who overthrew the huge giant Brocabruno of mighty force, in single combat; he who delivered the great Mameluco of Persia from the long enchantment, which had held him confined almost nine hundred years.' Thus, from mouth to mouth, shall they go on blazoning his deeds; until, surprised at the noise of the populace, the king of the country shall appear at the windows of his royal palace; and, as soon as he espies the knight, knowing him by his armour, or by the de\dce on his shield, he will say, ' Ho, go forth, my knights, all that are at court, to receive the flower of chivalry, who is coming yonder.' At which command they will all go Tortb, and the king himself, descending half way dowm the stairs, will receive him with a close embrace, saluting and kissing him; and then, taking him by the hand, will conduct him to the apartment of the queen, where the knight will find her with her daughter the infanta, who is so beautiful and accomplished a damsel that lier equal cannot easily be found in any part of the known world. In this interview, the princess will immediately fix her eyes on the knight, and he his eyes upon her, and each will, appear to the other something rather divine than human ; and without knowing how they will be entangled in the inextricable net of love, and be in great perplexity of mind, through not knowing how to converse, and discover their passion to each other. After this audience, he will, no doubt, be conducted to some quarter of the palace richly furnished, where, having taken oflf his armour, they will bring him a superb scarlet mantle to put on ; and, if he looked well in armour, he must needs make a much more graceful figure in ermine. The night being come, he will sup at the same table with the king, queen, and infanta, upon whom he will fix his eyes, viewing her by stealth, and she gazing on him, with the same wariness; for, as I have said, she is a very discreet damsel. The tables being removed, there will enter, unexpectedly, at the hall-door, a little ill-favoured dwarf, followed by a beautiful matron between two giants, with the offer of a certain adventure, so contrived by a most ancient sage, that he who shall accomplish it shall be esteemed the best knight in the world. The king shall immediately command aU who are present to try it, and none shall be able to finish it, but the itranger knight, to the great advantage of his fame. At which the Infanta will be highly delighted, and consider herself overpaid for having placed her thoughts on so exalted an object. Better still, this lung, or prince, or whatever he be, is carrying on a bloody war with

a



DON QUIXOTE.

another monarch as powerful as himself; and the stranger knight, after having been a few days at his court, asks leave to serve hia majesty in tlie war. The king shall readily grant his request, and the knight sliall most courteously kiss liis royal hands for the great favour he has done him. And that night, he shall take leave of his lady the infanta at the iron rails of a garden, adjoining to her apartment, through which he had already conversed with her several times, by the mediation of a certain female confidante, in wliom the Infanta greatly trusted. He sighs, she swoons; the damsel runs for cold water ; he is very uneasy at the approach of the morning light, and would by no means they should be discovered, for the sake of bis lady's honour. Tlie infanta at length comes to herself, and gives hex snowy hands to the knight to kiss through the rails, and he kisses them a thousand and a thousand times over, and bedews them with his tears. Tlicn is concerted between them some method by which to communicate to each other their good or ill fortune ; and the princess desires him to be absent as short a time as possible. He promises with many oaths; he kisses her hands again, and takes leave with so much concern, that it almost deprives him of hfe. From thence he repairs to his chamber, throws himself on his bed, and cannot sleep for grief at the parting. He rises early \x\ the morning, and goes to take leave of the king, the queen, and the infanta: their majesties having bidden him farewell, he is told by them that the princess is indisposed, and cannot admit of a visit. The knight thinks it is for grief at his departure ; his heart is pierced, and he is very near giving manifest indications of his passion. The damsel confidante is all this while present, and observing what passes, communicates it to her lady, who receives the account with tears, and tells her that her chief concern is, that she does not know who her knight is, and whether he be of royal descent or not; the damsel assures her he is, since so much courtesy, politeness, and valour, as her knight is endowed with, cannot exist but in a royal and dignified subject. The afflicted princess is comforted hereby, and endeavours to compose herself, that she may not give her parents Ccause to suspect anything amiss, and two days after she appears in public. The knight is now gone to the war; he fights, and overcomes the king's enemy ; takes many towns ; wins several battles ; returns to court, sees his lady at the usual place of interview; and it is agreed he shall demand her in marriage of her father, in recompense for his services ; but the khig does not consent to give her to him, not knoA\ing who he is; notwithstanding which, either by carrying her otT, or by some other means, the infanta becomes his spouse, and her father at last is overjoyed at his good fortune, being assured that the knight is son to a valorous king, of I kpow not what kingdom, for I believe it is not in the map. The father dies; the infanta inherits ; and in two words, the knight becomes a king. Then is the time for rewarding his squire, and all those who assisted him in mounting to so exalted a state. The squir« is accordingly married to one of tlie infanta's maids of honour, who is, doubtless, the very confidante of this amour, aJid daughter to one of the chief dukea."



ADVENTURE OF MAMBRTNO'S HELMET. Sj

" This is what I would be at, and a clear stage," quoth Sancho; " for every tittle of this must happen precisely to your worship, your honour being the Knight of the Rueful Countenance."

" Doubt it not, Sancho," replied Don Quixote \ " for by those very means, and those very steps, which I have recounted, knights-errant do rise, and have risen, to be 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, as I have told thee, we must procure renown elsewhere, before we repair to court. Besides, there is yet another difficulty; for, if a king were found who is at war and has a handsome daughter, and I had acquired incredible fame throughout the whole universe, I do not see how it can be made appear that I am of the lineage of kings, or even second cousin to an emperor; for the king will not give me his daughter to wife until he is first very well assured that I am such, however my renowned actions might deserve it. For thou must know, Sancho, that there are two kinds of lineages in the world. Some there are who derive their pedigree from

Erinces and monarchs, whom time has gradually reduced until they ave ended in a point, like a pyramid; others have had a low origin, and have risen by degrees, until they have become great lords. So that the difference is, that some have been what now they are not, and others are now what they were not before ; and who knows but I may be one of the former, and that, upon examination, my origin may be found to have been great and glorious, with which the king, my future father-in-law, ought to be satisfied % And if he should not be satisfied, the infanta is to be so in love with me that, in spite of her father, she is to receive me for her lord and husband, even though she knew me to be the son of a water-carrier; and in case she should not, 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 her parents."

" Here," said Sancho, " comes in properly what some naughty people say, ' Never stand begging for that which you have the power to take;' though this other is nearer to the purpose : ' A leaj) from a hedge is better than a himdred petitions.' 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 nu more to be done, as your worship says, but to steal and carry her off. But the iiii::c^'iff is, that while peace is making, and before you can enjoy the kingdom quietly, the poor squi/" may go whistle fo» his reward, unless the damsel confidante accompany the infanta, and he shares his misfortune with her until it shall please Heaven to better their fate. For I believe his master may immediately give her to him as his law^l wife."

" That thou mayest depend upon," said Don Quixote.

*' Since that is the case," answered Sancho, " we have nothing to do but to commend ouriselves to Heaven, and let fortune take ita course."

"Heaven conduct it," aaswered Dan Quixote, "as I desire, and thou needest, and let him be wretched who thinks himself so."

a «



" Let liim," said Saiiclio, " for I am an old Christian,* and tliat i« enough to qualify me to be an earh"

" Ay, and more than enough," said Don Quixote; " but it matters not "whether thou art qualified or not; for I being a king, can easily bestow nobility on thee, -without thy buying it, or doing me the least service; and, in creating thee an earl, I make thee a gentleman of course ; and, let people say what they -will, in good faith, they must style thee your lordship, however ill it may sit upon their stomachs."

" Do you think," quoth Sancho, " I should know how to give authority to the indignity ?"

" Dignity, thou shouldst say, and not indignity," said his master.

" So let it be," answered Sancho Panza : " I daresay, I should do well enough with it • for I assure your worship I was once beadle of a compjiny, and the beadle's gown became me so well, that everybody said ' had a presence fit to be warden. Then what will it be when I am arrayed in a duke's robe, all shining with gold and pearls like a foreign count % I am of opinion folks will come a hundred leagues to see me."

" 'Ihou wilt make a goodly appearance indeed," said Don Quixote ; " but it will be necessary to trim thy beard a little ofteuer, 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 liim a salary; and, if there be occasion, I w^ill make him follow me like a gentleman of the horse to a grandee."

"How camest thou to know," demanded Quixote, "that grandees have their gentlemen of the horse to follow them T

" 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, turning about as he turned, so that one would have thought he had been his tail. I asked why that man did not ride by the side of the other, but kept always behind him % They answ^ered me that it was his gentleman of the horse, and that it was the custom for noblemen to be followed by them; and from that day to this I have never forgotten it."

" Thou art in the right," said Don Quixote, " and in the same manner thou mayoct carry about thy barber; for all customs do not arisfttogether, nor were they invented at once ; and thou mayest be the first earl who carried about his barber after bmi : and, indeed, it is a higher trust to dress the beard than tO'.~^*idle a horse."

" Leave the business of the barber to my care," said Sancho, " and lot it be your worship's to make yourseli a king, and me an earl."

" So it shall be," answered Don Qulxove; and, lifting up his eyes, he saw what will be told in the foUoWing chapter.

* " I am an old Christian," means I am a fjpaniaid of pure Hrth, without Jewish •• *-'oorish blood in my veins. On such onij-, nobiljij could be conferred in Spain.



CHAPTEE XVIII.

IIoiu Don Quixote set at liberty several unfortunate persons, tvho were going, much against their wills, to a place tJiey did not like.

CiD Hamet Benejs'geli, the Arabian and Manchegan author, relates, in this most grave, loftj'-, accurate, delightful, and ingenious history, that, presently after those discourses, which passed between the famous Don Quixote de la Mancha and Sancho Panza his squire, as they are related at the end of the foregoing chajiter, Don Quixote lifted up his eyes, and saw coming towards him, in the same road, about a dozen men on foot, strung, like beads in a row, by the necks, in a great iron chain, and all handcuffed. There came also withtliem two men on horseback, and two on foot; those on horseback armed with firelocks, and those on foot -with pikes and swords. Sancho Panza, espying them also, said, "This is a chain of galley-slaves, persons forced by the king to the galleys."

" How ! forced, do you say !" quoth Don Quixote ; "is it possible the king should force anybody ?"

"I mean not so," answered Sancho, "but that they are persons who, for their crimes, are condemned by law to the gai^cys, where they are forced to serve the king."

"In truth, then," replied Don Quixote, "these people are conveyed by force, and not voluntarily T

" So it is," said Sancho.

" Then," said his master, " here the execution of my office takes place, which is to defeat violence, and to succuur and relieve the wretched."

" Consider, sir," quoth Sancho, " that justiceâ€"which is the king himselfâ€"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 very courteously desired the guard to inform him of the cause or causes for which they conducted those persons in that manner. One of the guards on horseback 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 iniiividually, of the cause of his misfortune."

To these he ad- 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 themselves ; they may inform you, if they please, and no doubt they will: for they are such as take a pleasure in acting and relating rogueries."

With this Dun Quixote went up to them, and demanded of the first for what offence he marched in such evil plight ? He answered, that it was for being in love,



"For tliat alone?" replied tue Don; "if people are sent to the galleys for being in love, I migLt long since have been rowing in them myself."

" It was not such love as your worship imagines," said the galley-slave ; " mine was a strong affection for a basket of fine linen. 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 tne first answered for him, and said, " This gentleman goes for being a canary-birdâ€"I mean, for being a musician and a singer."

" How so T replied Don Quixote; "are men sent to the galleys for being musicians and singers V

" Yes, sir," replied the slave j "for there is nothing worse than to sing in an agony."

" Nay," said Don Quixote, " I have heard say, ' Who sings in grie^ procures relief.'"

" This is the very reverse," said the slave; " for here he who singa once weeps all his life after,"

" I do not understand that," said Don Quixote.

One of the guards said to him, " Siguor Cavalier, to sing in an agony means, in the cant of these rogues, to confess upon the rack. This offender was put to the torture, and confessed his crime, which was that of a stealer of cattle j 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, w] en 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 indifference, " I am also going for five years, merely for want of ten ducats."

"I will give twenty, with all my heart," 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 tluit I should have been this day upon the marketplace of Toledo, and not upon this road, coupled and dragged like a hound: but God is great; patience andâ€"that is enough."

Behind all these came a man about thirty years of age, of a goodly aspect, only that his eyes looked at each other. He was bound somewhat differently from the rest; for he had a chain to his leg, so long, that it was fastened round his middle, and two collars about his neck, to one of which the chain was fastened, and the other, called a keep-friend, or friend's foot, had two straight irons, which descended from \%



to his waist, having at the ends two manacles, in wliich his handa were secured with a huge padlock ; so that he could neither lift hia liands to his mouth, nor bend down his head to his hands. Don Quixote inquired why this man was fettered and shackled so much more than the rest. The guard answered, because he had committed more iniquities than all the rest put together; and was so bold and desperate a villain, that, though they confined him in that maunei', they were not sure of him, but were still afraid he would make hia escape.

" What kind of iniquities has he committed," said Don Quixote, " that they have deserved no greater punishment than being sent to the galleys?"

" He goes for ten years," said the guard, " whifeh is a kind of civil death. You need only be told that this honest gentleman is the famous Gines de Passamonte, alias Ginesillo de Parapilla."

" Fair and softly, Signor Commissary," interrupted the slave. " Let us not now be spinning out names and surnames. Gines is my name, and not Ginesillo; and Passamonte is the name of my family, and not Parapilla, as yon say T

"Are you not so called, lying rascal" said the guard.

" Yes," answered Gines ; " but I wiU make them cease calling me so, or I will flay them where I care not at present to say. Signor Cavalier," continued he, " if you have anything to give us, let us have it now, and 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 T 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 entertaining that no fiction can equal them."

" What is the title of your book T demanded Don Quixote.

" The Life of Gines de Passamonte," replied Gines himself.

*' And is it finishedT' 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."

" llather, the villanous," said the commissary.

" I have already desired you, Signor Commissary," answered Passamonte, "to go on fairly and softly; for your superiors did not give you that staflf to misuse us poor wretches here, but to conduct and

carry us whither his majesty commands you: now by the life of

I say no more; but the spots, which were contracted in the inn, may



Eerhaps one day come out in the bucking ; and let every one hol\ is tongue, and live well, and speak better; and let us march on, fur this has held us long enough."

The commissary lifted up his stafiF to strike Passamonte, in return Tor his threats; but Don Quixote interposed, and desired he would not ill-treat him, since it was but fair that he who had his hands so tied u)) 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 sufier, and that you go to it with ill-will, and much agains^- vour grain and your good liking ; and, perhaps, the pusillanimity of lum who was put to the torture, this man's want of money, and the other's want of friends, and, in short, the judge's wresting of the law, may have been the cause of your ruin, and that you were not acquitted, as in justice you ought to have been. And so strong a persuasion have I, that this is the case, that my mind prompts, and even forces me, to show in your behalf the end, for which Heaven threw me into the world, and ordained me to profess the order of chivalry, which I do profess, and the vow I made in it to succour the needy, and those oppressed by the mighty. But, knowing that it is one part of prudence, not to do that by foul means, which may be done by fair, I will entreat these gentlemen your guard, and the commissary, that they will be pleased to loose your fetters and manacles, and let you go in peace, there being persons enough to serve the king for better reasons : for it seems to me a hard case to make slaves of those whom God and Nature made free. Besides, ger.tle-men guards," added Don Quixote, " these poor men have committed »A offence against you: let every one answer for his sius in the other y»orld ; there is a God in heaven, who does not neglect to chastise the wicked, nor to reward the good ; neither is it fitting that honest men should be the executioners of othei's, they having no interest in the matter. I request this of you, in this calm and gentle manner, that I may have some ground to thank you for your compliance: but if you do it not willingly, this lance, and this sword, with the vigour of my arm, shall compel you to do it."

" This is pleasant fooling," answered the commissary ; " an admirable conceit he has hit upon at last: he would have us let the king's prisoners go, as if we had authority to set them free, or he to command us to do it. Go on your way, signor, and adjust that basin on your noddle, and do not go feeling for three legs in a cat."

" You are a cat, and a rat, and a rascal to boot," answered Don Quixote ; and, with a word and a blow, he attacked hiai so suddenly, that, before he could stand upon his defence, he threw litm to the ground, much wounded with the thrust of the lance : and it happened luckily for Don Quixote, that this was one of the two who had firelocks. At the unexpected encounter, the rest of the guards were astonished and confounded: but recovering themselves, those on horseback drew their swords, and those on foot laid hold of their javelius, and fell upon our knight, who waited for them with much



FREEING THE CAPTIVES.

calmness; and doubtless it had gone ill with him, if the galley-slaves, perceiving the opportunity which presented itself of recovering their liberty, had not embraced it, by breaking the chain, with which they were linked together. The confusion was such, that the guards, between their endeavours to prevent the slaves from getting loose, and their efforts against Don Quixote, who attacked them, could do nothing to any purpose. Sancho, for his part, assisted in disengaging Gines de Passamonte, who was the first that leaped free and disembarrassed upon the phiin; and, setting upon the fallen commissary, he took away his sword and his gun, with which, levelling it, first at one, and then at another, without discharging it, he cleared the field of aU the guard, who fled no less from Passamonte's firelock than from the shower of stones which the slaves poured upon them.

Sancho was much grieved at what had happened ; for he imagined, tnat the fugitives would give notice of the affair to tlie holy brotherhood, who, upon ringing a bell, woidd sally out in quest of the delinquents \ and he hinted this to his master, and begged of him to depart forthwith, and take shelter among the tree» and rocks of the neighbouring mountain.

" It is weU," said Don Quixote; " but I know what is first expedient to be done."

Then, having called all the slaves before him, they gathered round to know his jjleasure; 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 experience, 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 Kniglit of the Rueful Countenance 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 impossibilities the most impossible to be complied with ; for we dare not be seen together on the road, but must go separate, each man by himself, and endeavour to hide ourselves in the very bowels of the earth from the holy brotherhood, who 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 expect pears from au 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 upon them both. Don Quixote could not screen himself sufficiently to avoid the stones, which came against him with such force that they brought him to the ground. Scarcely was he fallen, when the student set upon him, and, taking the basin from his head, applied it furiously three or four times to the knight's shoulders, and then struck it as often against the ground, by which he almost broke it to pieces. They stripped him of a jacket he wore over his armour, and would have robbed him of his trousers too, if the greaves had not been in the way. They took from Sancho his cloak, leaving him in his doublet, and sharing the spoils of the battle, they betook themselves each a different way, more anxious to escape the holy brotherhood they were in fear of, than to present themselves before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso.

The ass and Rozinante, Sancho and Don Quixote, remained by themselves; the ass hanging his head and pensive, and now and then shaking his ears, thinking that the storm of stones was not yet over, but still whizzing about him; Rozinante stretched along close by his master, he also being knocked down by the stones; Sancho in his doublet, terrified at the thoughts of the holy brotherhood ; and Don Quixote extremely out of humour, to find himself so ill-treated by those very persons whom he had served in so essential a manner.

CHAPTER XIX.

Of what hefel Don Quixote in the Sierra Morena, being one of the most extraordinary adventures related in this faithfnl 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 to throw water into the sea. Had I believed what you said to me, I might have prevented this trouble: but it is done, I must have patience, and henceforth take warning."

*' Your 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 prevented, believe me now, and you will avoid what is still worse; for, let me tell you, there is no putting off the holy brotherhood with chivalries ; they do not care two farthings for all the knights-errant in the world, and I fancy already that 1 hear their arrows whizzing about my ears."

" Thou art naturally a coward, Sancho," said Don Quixote; " but that thou mayest not say I am obstinate, and that I never do what thou advisest, I will for once take thy counsel, and retire from that fury of which thou art in so much fear; but upon this one condition â€"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 iiot 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 follow 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, leading the way upon his ass, they entered on one side of the Sierra Morena, which was near, and it was Sancho's intention to pass through it, and get out at Viso or Almodovar del Campo, and there hide themselves for some days among those craggy rocks, in case the holy brotherhood should come in search of them. He was encouraged to this, by finding that the provisions carried by his ass had escaped safe from the skirmish with the galley-slaves, which he looked upon as a miracle, considering what the slaves took away, and how narrowly they searched.

That night they got into the heart of the Sierra Morena, where Sancho thought it would be well to pass the remainder of the night, if not some days, or at least as long as their provisions lasted, and they chose their retreat between two rocks, amidst a grove of cork trees. But destiny so ordered it that Gines de Passamonte (whom the valour 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, and his fortune and his fear led him to the very place to which the same reasons had driven Don Quixote and Sancho, whom he perceived and recognised just as they had fallen asleep. 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 Eozinante, as a thing neither pawnable nor saleable. Sancho Panza slept; the varlet stole his ass j and before dawn of day, was so far off as to elude pursuit.

Aurora issued forth, giving joy to the earth, but grief to Sancho Panza, who, when he missed his Dapple, began to utter the most doleful lamentations, insomuch that Don Quixote awaked 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 maintenance ! For, with the six-and-twenty maravedis which I have earned every day by thy means have I half supported my family !"

Don Quixote, on learning the cause of these lamentations, comforted Sancho in the best manner he could, and desired him to have patience, promising to give him a bill of exchange for three asses out of five which he had left at home. Sancho, comforted by this promise, wiped away his tears, moderated his sighs, and thanked his master for the kindness he showed him. Don Quixote's heart gladdened upon entering among the mountains, being the kind of situation lie 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 \Yliat remained of the clerical spoils; and thus he jogged after his master, emptying the bag and stuffing his jjiuinch ; 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 master, 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 to take it up. His master ordered him to examine it. Sancho very readily obeyed, and although the portmanteau was secured with its chain and padlock, he could see through the chasm what it contained; which was four fine hoJland shirts, and other linen, no less curious than clean ; and in a handkerchief he found a quantity of gold crowns, which he no sooner esjjied than he exclaimed: " Blessed be Heaven, which has presented ua with one profitable adventure!"

And, searching further, he found a little pocket-book, richly bound; which Don Quixote desired to have, bidding him take the money and keep it for himself. Sancho kissed his hands for the favour; and, taking the linen out of the portmanteau, he put it iu 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, and fallen into the liands of robbers, who have killed him, and brought him to this remote part to bury him."

" It cannot be so," answered Sancho; " for had they been robbers they would not have left this money here."

"Thou art in the right," said Don Quixote, "and I cannot conjecture what it should be ; but stay, let us see whether this pocket-book has anything written in it that may lead to a discovery."

He opened it, and the first thing he found was a roug'i copy of verses, and, being legible, he read aloud, that Sancho might hear it, the following sonnet:â€"

I.

Love either cruel is or blind, Or still unequal to tbe cause

Is lliis distemper of the mind, That with infernal torture gnawa.

Of all my sufferings and my woe Is Chloe, then, the fatal source P

Sure ill from good can never llow. Or so much beauty gild a curse I*

*' From Smollett's translation^



•'From those verses," quoth Sancho, "nothing can be coUected, unless, from the Clue there given, you can come at the whole bottom."

" What clue is here T 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 tlie 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 ja letter to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso in verse ; for know, Sancho, that all or most of the knights-errant of times past were great poets and great musicians j these two accom])lishments, 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.

" Tlien, pray, sir, read it aloud," said Sancho ; " for I mightily relish tliese love-matters."

" With all my heart," said Don Quixote; and reading aloud, as Sancho desired, he found it to this eft'ect:

"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 complaint. Thou hast renounced me, O ungrateful maid, for one of larger possessions, but not of more worth than myselt 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 sliglited lover." Then, turning over other parts of the book, he found other verses and letters, but the purport was the same in allâ€"their sole contents being reproaches, lamentations, 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 scrutinise, nor seam which he did not rip, nor lock of wool which he did not carefully pickâ€"that noliiing might be lost through carelessnessâ€"such was the ciipidity excited in him by the discovery of this golden treasure, consisting of more than a hundred crowns ! And although he could find no more, he thought himself abundantly rewarded for the tossings in the blanket, the loss of the yrallet, 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 Eueful Countenance was extremely desirous to know who was the owner of the portmanteau; but as no information could be expected in that rugged place, he had only to proceed, taking 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. His body seemed to be naked, his beard black and bushy, his hair long and tangled, his legs and feet bare: on his thighs he wore a pair of breeches of sad-coloured velvet, but so ragged, that his skin appeared though several parts; and his head was without any sort of covering. Don Quixote immediately conceived that this must be the owner of the portmanteau, and resolved therefore to go in search of him, even though it should prove a twelvemonth's labour, in that wild region. He immediately commanded Saucho 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 vaniished 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 U3 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 Rozinante on, when, having gone round part of the mountain, they found a dead mule, saddled and bridled, which confirmed them in the opinion 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 his master hereabouts!"

"We have met with nothing," answered Don Quixote, "but a saddle-cushion and a small portmanteau, which we found not far hence."

"I found it too," answered the goatherd, "but would by no means take it up, nor come near it, for fear of some mischief, and of being charged with theft; for the devil is subtle, and lays stumbUug-blocks in our way, over v/hich we fall without knowing how."

" Tell me, honest man," said Don Quixote, " do you know who is tiie owner of these goods T

" What I know," said the goatherd, " is, that six months ago there came to a shepherd's hut, three leagues frum this place, a genteel and



comely youth, mounted 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 pleased 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, some days after, he issued out upon one of our shepherds, and, without saying a word, struck him, and immediately fell upon our sumpter-ass, which he plundered of our bread and cheese, and then fled again to the rocks with wonderful swiftness. _ Some of us 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, and his face so disfigured and scorched by the Bun 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 a few but civil words bid us not be surprised to see him in that condition, Avhich was necessary in order to perform a certain penance enjoined him for his sins. We entreated nim 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 violence, and promised to ask it for God's sake, without molesting anybody. As to the place of his abode, he said he had only that which chance presented him wherever the night overtook him : and he ended his discourse with so many tears, that we must have been very stones not to have wept -irith him, considering what he was when we first saw him \ for, as I before said, he was a very comely and graceful youth, and by his courteous behaviour showed himself to be well-born. Presently, ceasing to lament, he became silent, fixing his eyes, as it were, to the ground, for a considerable time, whilst we all looked on in suspense, waiting to see what this distraction would end in, with no small compassion at the sight; for, by his demeanour, his staring on the ground without moving his eyelids, then shutting them close, biting his lips, and arching his brows, we could easily perceive 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 called out, ' Ah, traitor Fernando! now shalt thou pay for the wrong thou hast done me; these hands shall tear out that heart, the dark dwelling of deceit and villany!' We disengaged him from our companion at last, with no small difficulty : upon which he suddenly left us, and plunged into a thicket BO entangled with bushes and briars that it was impossible to follow him. By this we guessed that his madness returned by fits, and that â– ome person, whose name is Fernando, must have done him aomo



injury of so grievous a nature as to reduce him to the wretched condition in whicli he appeared. And in tliat we have since been confirmed, as he has frequently come out into the road, sometimes begging food of the shepherds, and at otlier times taking it from them by force ; for when the mad fit is upon him, though the shepherds offer it freely, he will not take it without coming to blows; but when he is in his senses, he asks it Avith 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 and two my friends, resolved to go in search of him, and, having found him, eitlier by persuasion or force carry him to the town of Almodovar, which is eight leagues ofi^, there to get him cured, if his distemper be curable, or at least to learn who he is, and whether he has any relations to whom we may give notice of his misfortune. This, gentlemen, is all I can tell you, in answer to your inquiry \ by which you may understand that the owner of the goods you found is the same wretched person who passed you so quickly:" for Don Quixote had told him that he had seen a man leaping about the rocks.





Don Quixote was surprised at what he heard ; and being now still more desirous of knowing who the unfortunate madman was, he renewed his determination to search every part of the mountain until he should find him. But fortune managed^better for him than he expected ; 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 saluted 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 Quixote was of the Rueful, Countenance, having suffered himself to be embraced, drew back a little, and laying his hands on Don Quixote's shoulders, stood contemplating him, as if to ascertain whether he knew him ; and perhaps no less surprised at the aspect, demeanour, and haVdliments 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 XX.

A continuation of the adventure in Hie Sierra Moreno.

Don Quixote listened with profound attention to the Tattered Knight of the mountain, who thus addressed himself to him : " Assuredly, eignor, whoever you are, I am, obliged to j-^u for the courtesy yo"



Lave raanifesteJ towards rae ; and I wi-sb it were in my power to serve you with, more than my goodwill, which, is all that my fate allows me to offer in return for your civility."

" So great is my desire to do you service," answered Don Quixote, " that I had determined to learn from yourself w^bether your affliction, vrhich is evident by the strange life you lead, may admit of any remedy, and, if so, make every possible exertion 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 die like a brute beast amidst these sobtudes: 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, hearing 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, wherewith 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 liim ; 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'.

" My name is Cardenio ; the place of my birth one of the "best cities ol Andalusia ; my family noble ; my parents wealthy ; my w^etched-nes? so great that it must have been deplored by my parents, although not tc be alleviated by all their wealthâ€"for riclies 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 unacquainted with our attachment, nor was it displeasing to them. Our love increased with our years, insomuch that Luciuda's father thought it prudent to restrain my wonted freedom of access to his house; thus imitating the parents of the unfortunate Thisbe, so celebrai"-«d by the

H



poets. This restraint served only to increase the arJour of onr alfeO' tion; for though it was in their power to impose silence on our tongues, tliey could not do the same on our pens, which reveal the secrets of the soul more effectually than even the speech; for the presence of a beloved object often so bewilders and confounds its faculties that the tongue cannot perform its office. 0 heavens, how many billets-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 concurrence the act would appear secret and unworthy of his Lucinda. I went therefore 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 inclination Duke Eicardo has to do you service.' This Duke Eicardo, gentlemen, as you cannot but know, is a grandee of Spain, whose estate lies in the best part of Andalusia. I read the letter, wliich was so extremely kind that I thought it would be wrong in my father not to comy^ly with its request, which was, that I should be sent immediately to tlie duke, who was desirous of placing me as a companion to his eldest son, and engaged to procure mc a post Answerable to the opinion he entertained of me.

" The time fixed for my departure came. I conversed the night before with Lucinda, and told her all that had piissed ; and also entreated her father to wait a few days, and not to dispose of her until I knew what Duke Ricardo's pleasure was with me. He promised me all I desired, and she confirmed it with a thousand vows and a thousand faintings. I arrived at the residence of the duke, who treated me with so much kindness that envy soon became active, by possessing his servants with an opinion that every favour the duke conferred upon me was prejudicial to their interest. But the person most pleased at my arrival was a second son of tlie duke, called Fernando, a sprightly young gentleman, of a gallant, liberal, and loving disposition, 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 intimacy, he revealed to me all his thoughts, and particularly a love matter, 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 resolved to promise her marriage. Prompted by friendship, I employed the best arguments I could suggest to divert him from such a purpose; 6ut finding it was all in vain, I resolved to acquaint his father, the duke, with the affair Don Fernando, being artful and shrewd, sua-



pected and feared no less, knowing that I could not, as a faithful servant, conceal from my lord and master so important a matter; and therefore, to amuse and deceive me, he said that he knew no better remedy for efi'acing the remembrance of the beauty that had so captivated 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 made this proposal than, prompted by my own love, I expressed my approbation of it, as the best that possibly could be devised, and should have done so, even had it been less plausible, since it affordcc'i me so good an opportunity of returning to see 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 convenient season to divulge it with safety to himself, being afraid of w^hat the duke his father might do when he should hear of Iiis folly. Is'ow 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, Dju Fernando, having obtained possession of the country girl, his love grew faint, and his fondness abated ; so that, in reality, that absence which lie proposed 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 read 'id 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, unfortunately for me, I revealed it to Don Fernando; thinking that, by the law%s of friendship, nothing should be concealed from him. I expatiated so much on the beauty, grace, and discretion of Lucinda,. that my praises excited in him a desire of seeing a damsel endowed with such accomplishments. Unhappily I consented to gratify him, and sliowed 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 that time I began to fear and suspect him : for he was every moment talking of Lucinda, and would begin the subject himself, however abruptly, which awakened in me I know not what jealousy ; and though I feared no change in the goodness and fidelity of Lucinda, yet 1 could not but dread the very thing against which they seemed to secure me. He also constantly importuned me to show him the letters I wrote to Lucinda, as well as her answers, which I did, and he pretended to be extremely delighted with both.

" Now it happened that Lucinda, having desired me to lend he? a book of chivalry, of which she was very fond, entitled Amadis de Gaul "

Scarcely had Don Quixote heard him mention a book of chivalry, when he said, " Had you told me, sir, at the beginning of your story, that the Lady Lucinda was fond of reading books of chivalry, no more would have been necessary to convince me of the sublimity of

H %



her understanding. I pronounce her to be the most beautiful and the most ingenious woman in the world. Pardon me, sir, for Laving broken my promise by this interruption ; but when I hear of matters appertaining to knights-errant and chivalry, I can as well forbear talking of tliem 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 tliis, 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 bead nor answered a word. But after some time he raised it, and uttering some disloj^alty against Queen Madasima, one of the heroines of the Don's books of chivalry, " It is false, I swear," answered Don Quixote, in great wrath; "it is extreme malice, or ratlier villany, to say so ; and whoever asserts it lies like a very rascal, and I wtII 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 villain, with such other opprobrious names, did not like tlie jestj ana catcliing 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. fSancho Panza, seeing Ids master treated in :tbis manner, attacked the madman 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 tlie mountains. Sancho got up in a rage to find himself so roughly handled, and was proceeding to take revenge on the goatherd, telling him the fault was his, for not having given them warning that this man was subject to these mad fits ; fur 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 lus. Sancho Panza replied, the goatherd rejoined; and the replies and rejoinders ended in taking each other by the beard, and coming to such blows that, if Don Quixote had not interposed, they would have demolished each other. But Sancho still kept fast hold of the goatherd, and said, " Let me alone, Sir Knight, for this fellow being a bumpkin like myself, and not a knight, I may very safely revenge myself by fighting with him, hand to hand, like a man 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 inquired of the goatherd whether it were possible to find out Cardenio ; 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 meel him, either in or out of his senses.

Don Quixote took his leave of the goatherd, and, mounting Roz>



CONTINUATION OF THE ADVENTURE. loi

nante, commanded Sancho to follow him, which he did very unwillingly. They proceeded slowly on, making their way into the most difficult recesses of the mountain ; in the meantime Sancho was dying to converse with his master, but would fain have had him begin the discourse, that he might not disobey his orders. Being, however, unable to hold out any longer, he said to him, " Signor Don Quixote, be pleased to give me your worship's blessing, and my dismissal'. for I will get home to my wife and children, with whom I shall at least have the privilege of talking and speaking my mind; for it is very hard, and not to be borne with patience, for a man to ramble about all his life in quest of adventures, and to meet with nothing but kicks aud cufl's. tossings in a blanket, and bangs w'ith stones, and with all this, to have his mouth sewed up, not daring to utter what he has in his heart, as if he were dumb."

"I understand thee, Sancho," answered Don Quixote; "thou art impatient until I take off the embargo 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 licence, Ifask what had your worship to do with standing up so warmly for that same Queen Magimasa, or what's her name ? for had you let that pass, I verily believe the madman would have gone on wath 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 Madasima 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 in 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, Ave had been in a fine condition for standing up in defence of that dear lady; and Cardenio would have come oli' unpunished, being insane."

" Against the sane and insane," answered Don Quixote, "it is the duty of a knight-errant to defend the honour of women, particularly that of a queen of such exalted worth as Queen IMadasima, for whom I have a particular affection, on account of her excellent qualities; for, besides being extremely beautiful, she was very prudent, and very patient in her afflictions, which were numerous. I say again, they will lie two hundred times more, all who affirm, or think her wrong."

"I neither say nor think so," answered Sancho; "let those Avho Bay it eat the lie, and swallow it with their bread ; whether they were guilty or not, they have given an account to God before now : I come trt>m my vineyard; I know nothing; J am no friend to inquiring into



lOJ DON QUIXOTE.

other men's lives ; for he that buys and lies, shall find the lie left in his ynirse behind ; besides, naked was I born, and naked I remain; I ncitlier win nor lose; if they were guUty, what is that to me? Many think to find bacon, where there is not so much as a pin to hang it on; but who can hedge in the cuckoo V

" Prithee, Sancho, peace; and henceforth attend to our matters, and forbear any interference with what doth not concern thee. Be convinced, that whatever I have done, do, or shall do, is highly reasonable, and exactly conformable to the rules of chivalry, which I am better acquainted with than all the knights who ever professed it in the world."

" Sir," replied Sancho, "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 beganâ€"not his story, but the breaking of your worship's head and my ribs?'

" Peace, Sancho, I repeat," said Don Quixote; " for know that it is not only the desire of finding the madman that brings me to these parts, but an intention to perform in them an exploit whereby I ehall acquire perpetual fame and renown over the face of the whole earth; and it shall be such a one as shall set the seal to make an accomplished knight-errant."

" And is this exploit a very dangerous one"t" 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 wUl soon be over, and my glory forthwith commence; and that thou mayest no longer be in suspense with regard to the tendency of my words, I inform thee, Sancho, that the famous Amadis de Gaul was one of the most perfect of knights-errantâ€"I should not say one, for he was the sole, the principal, the uniqueâ€"in short, the prince of all his contemporaries. A fig for Don Belianis, and all those who say that he equalled Amadis m anything ; for I swear they are mistaken. I say, moreover, that if a painter would be famous in liis 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 commonwealth ; thus, whoever aspires to a reputation for prudence and patience must imitate Ulysses, in whose person and toils Homer draws a lively picture of those qualities; so also Virgil, in the character of J£neas, delineates filial piety, courage, and martial skill, being representations 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 under the banners of love and chivalry, ought to follow. This being the case, friend Sancho, that knight-errant who best imitates him will be most certain of arriving at pre-oniiueiice in



chivalry. And an occasion 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, changing 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 serpents, slaying dragons, routing armies, shattering fleets, and dissolving enchantments; and since this place is so well adapted for the purpose, I ought not to neglect the opportunity which is now so commodiously offered to me."

" What is it your worship really intends to do in so remote a place £8 this T 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 a 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 only Amadis, who, without committing any mischievous excesses, by tears and lamentations alone attained as much fame as all of them."

"It seems to me," quoth Sancho, "that the knights who acted in such manner were provoked to it, and had a reason for these follies and penances ; but 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 sa rare, so happy, and so unparalleled an imitation. Mad I am, and mad I must be, until tby 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; '-d otherwise, I shall be mad, and consequently insensible of my misfortune,"

While they were thus discoursing, they arrived at the foot of a high mountain, which stood separated from several others that surrounded 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 hues. This wa3 the spot in which the Knight of the Paieful Countenance chose to perform his penance; and while contemplating the scene, he thugr



broke fortli in a loud voice: " This is the place, 0 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. 0 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 perfection of human beauty ! And,

0 tliou my squire, agreeable companion in my pros])erous 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 Eozinante, and in an instant took off his bridle and saddle, and clapping hiui on the back, said to him, " O steed, as excellent for my performances as unfortunate in thy fate, he gives thee liberty who is himself deprived of it. Go whither thou wilt; for thou hast it written on thy forehead that neither Astolpho's Hippogriflf, nor the famous Frontino, which cost Bradamante so dear, could match thee in speed."

Sancho, observing all this, said, " Blessing's- 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 tlian I, who was once his master, when it so pleased God. And truly. Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, if it be so that my departure and your madness take place in earnest, it will be well to saddle Rozi-nante again, that he may supply the loss of my Dapple, and save me time in going and coming; for if I walk, I know not how 1 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 w'ithin three days, during which time 1 intend thee to bear witness of what I do and say â– for her, that thou mayest report it accordingly."

" What have I more to see," quoth Sancho, " than what I have already seen T

" So far thou art well prepared," answered Don Quixote; " but 1 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 you with admiration."

" Good master," said Sancho, " content yourself, I pray you, with running your head against some soft thing, such as cotton ; and leave it to me to tell my lady that you dashed your head against the point of a rock harder than a diamond."

" I thank thee for thy good intentions, friend Sancho," answered Don Quixote ; " but I would have thee to know, that all tluse 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, " I beseech you to reckon them as already passed ; for I take all for granted, and will tell wonders to my lady : do you write the letter, and despatch nie quickly, for I long to come back and release 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 1" 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 difiicult at present to meet with these as with paper. But, now I recollect, it may be as well, or indeed better, to write it in Cardenio's pocket-book, and you will take care to get it fairly transcribed upon paper in the first town you reach where there is a schoolmaster."

" But what must we do about the signing it with your own hand T said Sancho.

"The letters of Amadis 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 signed in the same pocket-book; and, at sight of it, my niece will make no difficulty in complying with it. As to the love-letter, let it be subscribed thus: ' Yours until death, the Knight of the Kueful Countenance.' 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 platonickind, 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 Lorenzo Corchuelo, and her mother Aldonza Nogales!"

"Ah!" quoth Sancho, "the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo! Is she the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, otherwise called Aldonza Lorenzo?"

" It is even she," said Don Quixote, " and she deserves to be mistress of the universe."

" I know her well," quoth Sancho; " and I can assure you she will pitch the bar with the lustiest swain in tlie 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 oli', 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 everybody. I say, then, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, that you not only may and ought to run mad for her, but also you may justly despair and hang yourself; and nobody that hears it but will say you did extremely ifelL However, I am anxious to see her \ for I have not met with



her this many a day, and by this time she nni.st needs be altered ; foT 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 Lorenzoâ€"I mean tlie Lady Dulcinea del obosoâ€"to have the vanquished whom your worship sends or may Bend falling upon their knees before her? For perhaps at the time they arrive she may be carding flax, or threshing in the barn, and they may be confounded at the sight of her, and she may laugh and c;ire 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. Be assured, Sancho, that Dulcinea del Toboso deserves aa highly as the greatest princer.s on earth. For of those poets who have celebrated the praises of ladies under fictitious names many had no such mistresses. Tbinkest thou that the Amaryllises, the Phyl-lises, 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 Aldonza Lorenzo is beautiful and modest; and as to her lineage, it matters not, for no inquiry concerning it is re [uisite; and to me it is unnecessary, as 1 regard her as the greatest princess in the world. For thou must know, Sancho, that two things, above all others, incite to love; namely, beauty and a good name. Now both these are to be found in perfection in Dulcinea ; for in beauty none can be compared to her, and for purity of reputation few can equal her. In fine, I conceive she is exactly what I have described, and everything that I can desire, both as to beauty and quality, unequalled by Helen, or by Lucretia, or any other ~' the famous women of antiquity, whether Grecian, Eoman, 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 Sancho, " is always in the right, and I am an assâ€"why do I mention an ass % â€"one should not talk of halters in the house of the hanged. But I am offâ€"give me the letter, sir, and peace be with you."

Don Quixote took out the pocket-book to write the letter; and having finished, he called Sancho, and said he would read to him, that he might have it by heart, lest he might perchance lose it by the way; for everything was to be feared from his evil destiny. To which Sancho answered: "Write it, sir, two or three times in the book, and give it me, and I will take good care of it; but to suppose that I can carry it in my memory is a folly: for mine is so bad that I often forget my own name. Your worship, however, may read it to me; I shall be glad to hear it, for it must needs be very much totlio purjidse."

" Li.'iten then," said Don Quixote, " this is what I have written:



Don Quixote's Letter' to Dulcinea del Toboso.

"High and sovereign lady,â€"He who is stabbed by the point of absence, and pierced by the arrows of love, O sweetest Dulcinea del Toboso, greets thee with wishes for that health which he enjoys not himself. If thy beauty despise me, if thy worth favour me not, and if thy disdain still pursue me, although inured to suffered, I shall ill support an affliction which is not only severe but lasting. My good squire Sancho will teU thee, 0 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; if not, do what seemeth good to thee: for by my death I shall at once appease thy cruelty and my own iiassioiL

" Until death thine,

"The Knight of the Rueful Countenanck"

" 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-

5tresses whatever you please ! and how well you close all with ' the Cnight of the Rueful Countenance!' Verily, there is nothing but what you know."

" The profession which I have embraced," answered Don Quixote, •' requires a knowledge of everything."

"Well, then," said Sancho, "pray put on the other side the order for the three ass-colts, and sign it very plain, that people may know your hand at first sight."

" With all my heart," said the knight; and having written it, he read as follows :â€"

•' Dear niece,â€"at sight of this, my first bill of ass-colts, give order that three out of the five I left at home in your custody be cleKvered to Sancho Panza, my squire; which three colts I order to be delivered and paid for tlie like number received of him here in tale ; and this, with his acquittance, shall be your discharge. Done in the heart of the Sierra Moreua, 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 Dun Quixote ; " I need only put my cipher to it, which is the same thing, and is sufficient, not only for three, but for thi'ce hundred asses."

" I rtly upijii yuur worship," answered Sancho; " let me go and saddle Ruzin<inte, 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 meantime, setting that aside, what has your worship to eat until my return ? Are you to go upon the highway, to rob the shepherds, like Cardenioi"

"Trouble not yourself about that," answered Don Quixote, "for were I otherwise provided, I should eat nothins but the herbs and



ro8 DON QUIXOTE.

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-jilace'?"

" Observe and mark well the spot, and I wiU endeavour to remain near it," said Don Quixote ; " and will, moreover, ascend some of the highest ridges to discover thee upon thy return. But the .surest way not to miss me, or lose thyself, will be to cut down some of the broom that abounds here, and scatter it here and there, on thy way to the l)lain, to serve as marks and tokens to guide thee on thy return, in imitation of Theseus's clue to tlie labyrinth."

Sancho Panza followed this counsel; and having provided himself with branches, he begged his master's blessing, and not witliout many tears on both sides, took his leave of him; and mounting upon llozi-nante, with an especial charge from Don Quixote to regard him as he would his own proper person, he rode towards the plain, strewing the boughs at intervals, as his master had directed him.

CHAPTER XXI.

Of what happened to Don Quixote's Squire, with the famous device of tlie Curate and the Barber.

The history recounting what the Knight of the Piueful Countenance 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 1 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 imitate him in his frenzy without a similar cause 1 I should do my Dulcinea manifest wrong if I should be seized with the same species of frenzy as that of Orlando Furioso. On the other side, I 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 succourcci 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 sufficient that I am absent from her. Now to the work ; come to my memory, ye dqeds of Amadis, and instruct me in the task of imitation ! One



DON QUIXOTE'S SQUIRE. to.)

thing I know he did, which was to pray; and so will I do." "Whereupon he strung some large galls of a cork; tree, which served hira for a rosary : but what greatly troubled liim, was his not having A hermit to hear his confession, and to comfort him: he therefore amused liimself in strolling about the meadow, writing and graving verses on the barks of trees, and in the fine sand, all of a plaintive kind or in praise of Dulcinea. Among those afterwards discovered, only the following were entire and legible:

Te lofty trees, with spreading arms,

The pride and shelter of the plain; Ye humbler shrubs and flowery charms,

AYhich here in springing glory reign I If my complaints may pity move, Hear the sad story of my love !

WhUe with me here you pass your hou7j| Should you grow faded with my cares,

I'll bribe you with refreshing showers ; Tou shall be watered with my tears.

Distant, though present in idea,

I mourn my absent Dulcinea

Del Tobosa

II.

While I through honour's thorny waya

In search of distant glory rove, MaHgnant fate my toil repays

With endless woes and nopeless love. Thus I on barren rocks despair, And curse my stars, yet bless my fair.

Love, armed with snakes, has left his dart^ And now does like a fury rave,

And scourge and sting on every part, And into madness lash his slave.

Distant, though present in idea,

I mourn my absent Dulcinea

Del Toboso.

Tlie whimsical addition at the end of each stanza occasioned no small amusement to those who found the verses ; for they concluded tliat Don Quixote had thought that, unless to the name of " Dulcinea" he added " Del Toboso," the object of his praise would not be known â€"and they were right, as he afterwards confessed. Here, how^ever, it will be proper to leave him, wrapped up in poetry and grief, to relate what happened to the squire during his embassy.

As soon as Sancho had gained the high road, he directed his course to Toboso, and the next day he came within sight of the inn where tlie misfortune of the blanket had befallen him; and fancying himseli ag;iin 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 w-hether or not to enter, two persons came out who recognised 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 T " Truly it is," said the licentiate; " and that is our Don Quixote'8

horse."

No wonder thoy 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 Sancho Panza and Rozinante, and hoping to hear some tidings of Don Quixote, tlie

Eriest went up to him. and calling him by his name, "Friend," said e, " 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 have murdered and robbed him, since you come thus upon his horse. Sec, then, that you produce the owner of that 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 the ears in love.

They were astonished at Sancho's report^^ and though they knew the nature of their friend's derangement, yet every fresh instance was a new source of wonder. They begged Sancho to show 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 he would show 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 deatli; he laid hold of his beard with both hands, and tore away half of it, bestowing at the same time sundry blows upon his nose and mouth. The priest and barber asked him wherefore he treated himself so roughly.

" Wherefore ?" answered Sancho, " but that I have let slip through my fingers three ass-colts, each of them a castle I"

" 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."

Tins 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 the letter, as he could almost say it by heart; so they might write it down, where and when they pleased.

" Picpcat 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 remembrance ; now he stood upon one foot, and then upon the other ; sometimes be looked down upon the ground, sometimes up to the sky; then, biting off half a nail, and keeping his hearers long in expectation, he said, " At the beginning I believe it said, ' High and fiubterrane lady.'"

" No," said the barber, ** not subterrane, but superhumane, sovereign lady."

" ^y, so it was," said Sancho. " Then, if I do not mistake, it went on, 'the stabbed, the waking, and the pierced, kisses your honour's hands, imgrateful and most regardless fair ;' and then it said I know not what of ' health and sickness that he sent;' and so he went on, until at last he ended with ' thine till death, the Knight of the Eueful Countenance.'"

They were both 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, and added to it fifty other extravagances ; relating to them also raany 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 Dulcitiea, was to set about endeavouring to become an emperor, or at least a king (for so it was concerted between them)â€"a thing that would be very easily done, considering the valour of his person, and the strength of his arm : and, when this was accomplished, his master was to marry him, for by that time he should, without doubt, be a widower, giving him to wife one of the empress's maids of honour, heiress to a large and rich territory on the main land, for, as to islands, he was quite out of conceit with them. Sancho said all this with so much gravity, from time to time wiping his nose, and with so firm belief, that they were struck at the powerful influence of Don Quixote's madness, which had carried away with it this poor fellow's understanding also. They would not give themselves the trouble to convince him of his error, thinking it better to let him continue in it, as it did not at all interfere with his conscience ; and it would afford them greater pleasure in hearing a recital of his follies: they therefore told him, he should pray for his lord's health, since it was very possible, and very feasible, that in process of time he might become an emperor, as he said, or at least an archbishop, or something else of equal dignity. To which Sancho answered, " Gentlemen, if fortune should so order it, that my master should take it into his head not to be an emperor, but an archbishop, I would fain know what archbishops-errant usually give to their squires]"

" They usually give them," answered the priest, " some benefice, or cure, or vergcrship, which brings them in a good penny-rent, besides the perquisites of the altar, usually valued at so much more."

"For this, it will be necessary," replied Sancho, "that the squire be not married, and that he should know, at least, the responses to the mass; and, if so, woe is me : for I am married, and at the same time ignorant of the first letter oi the A, B, C, What then will become



ni DON QUDCOTE.

of rac, slioukl my master choose to be an arclibisliop, and not an emperor^ as is the fashion and custom of knights-errant 1"

" Be not uneasy, friend Sancho," said the barber; " for we will entreat and advise your master, and even make it a case of conscience, that he be an emperor, and not an archbishop; and it will be better fur himself also, by reason he is more a soldier than a scholar."

" I have thought the same," answered Sancho, "though I can affirm he has ability for everything; so I will pray that he may choose that which is best for him, and which will enable him to bestow most favours upon me."

" You talk like a wise man," said the priest " and will act, by so doing, like a good Christian. But the thing of most importance now is to contrive how we may bring your master from the performance of that xinprofitable penance; and that we may concert the proper measures, and get something to eat likewise, for it is high time, let us go into the inn."

Sancho desired they would go in, but Faid he had rather stay without, for reasons he would afterwards tell them ; but begged them to bring him out something hot, and some barley for Rosinante. They accordingly went in, leaving him at the door; but the barber presently returned with a hot mess, in compliance with his wish.

The priest and barber having deliberated^together how to accomplish their design, the priest bethouglit himself of a device exactly fitted to Don Quixote's humour, and likely to effect that which they had in \iew. This was to dress himself as a damsel-errant, and to equip the barber so as to pass for his squire, and in this disguise to go to the place where Don Quixote was ; when the curate pretending to bo an afflicted and distressed damsel, should beg a boon of him, which he, as a valorous knight-errant, could not choose but vouchsafe : the boon he intended to beg, was, that he would go with her to a place to which she would conduct him, to redress an injury done her by a discourteous knight, entreating hiin, at the same time, that he would not desire to take off her mask, nor inquire anything farther concerning her, until he had done her justice on her abominable adversary : and he made no doubt, but that Don Quixote would, by these means, be brought to do whatever they desired of him, and so they should bring him away from the mountains, to his village, where they would endeavour to find some remedy for his unaccountable infirmity.

CHAPTER XXIL

How the Priest rnd the Barber proceeded in tJieir project; toith 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 heact dress of the landlady; and the barber made himself a huge beard oi the tail of a pied ox, in which the innkeeper 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 Quixote's insanity, and the necessity of that disguise to draw him from his present retreat. The host and hostess immediately conjectured that this was the same person who had once been their guest, and the master of the blanketed squire; and they related to the priest what had passed between thera, without omitting wliat Sancho had been so careful to conceal. In the meantime 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 priest would not consent to wear a woman's head-dress, but put on a little white quilted cup, which he used as a nightcap, and bound one of his garters of black taffeta 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 colnur between sorrel and white, being, as beforo 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 80 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, M being a less profanation of his dignity.

They now set forward on their journey; but first they told Sancho that their disguise was of the utmost importance towards disengaging his master from the miserable life he had chosen ; and that he must by no means tell him who they were; and if he should inquire, as no doubt he would, whether he had delivered the letter to 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 themselves, they should certainly reconcile him to a better mode of life, and put him in the way of soon becoming an emperor or a king ; as to an archbishop, he had nothing to fear on that subject. Sancho listened to all this, and imprinted it well 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 thera 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 sufiicient 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.

It was in the month of August, when the heat in the movr 'ains \a

I



excessive, and the hour was the sultry one of three in the afternoon; their sheltered situation therefore was an agreeable one, and, as it were, invited them to make it their abode till the return of the squire. While they reposed themselves in the shade, a voice reached their ears, which, though unaccompanied by any instrument, uttered sounds so harmonious and delightful, that tliey were astonished, it not being a place where they might expect to find a perr>on accomplished in the art of singing. For, though it is usually said that the woods and fields abound with shepherds who sing enchantingly, this is rather an exaggeration of the poets, than what is strictly true ; nor was tiieir astonishment diminished by observing that the verses they heard were not those of a rustic muse, but of refined and courtly invention, as will appear by the following stanzas;

I.

What makes me languish and complain P â– What yet more fiercely tortures me ? How have I my patience lost ?

O 'tis disdain I 'Tis jealousy.

-By absence crossed.

Then, hope, farewell, there's no relief; I sink beneath oppressing griefj Nor can a wretch, without despair, Scorn, jealousy, and absence bear.

II.

Where shall I find a speedy cure ? No milder means to set me free ? Can nothing else my pains assuage ?

Death is sure. Inconstancy.

Distracting rage. What, die or change ? Lueinda lose ? O rather let me madness choose! But judge what we endure, When death or madness are a cure!

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 sometime motionless, in expectation of hearing more ; but finding the silence continue, they resolved to see who it was who had sung so agreeably ; and ^^•ere again detained 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 thy shadow's left behind i



Bless'd genius, now resume thy seat! Destroy imposture and deceit; Harmonious peace and truth renew, Show 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 the ground. The priest, who was a well-spoken man, went up to him, 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 it in that inhospitable place. Cardenio was at this time perfectly tranquil, 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, unworthy as I am, sends to me in this solitude persons who, being sensible how irrational is my mode of life, would divert me from it j but by flying from this misery I shall be plunged into worse; for so overwhelming is the sense of my misery, I sometimes become like a etone, 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 himself, entreated him to indulge them, assuring him they would do nothing but what was agreeable to bim, 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 Quixote 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'a sane interval now enabled him to conclude it quietly. On coming to the circumstance of the love-letters, he repeated one which Don Fernando found between the leaves of Amadis de Gaul, which had been first lent to Lucinda, and afterwards to him. It was as follows:

"' Each day I discover in you qualities which raise you in my esteem ; 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 witli wliat-ever you can justly desire, if you really have that value for me which you profess, and which I trust you have.'

" This letter had made me resolve to demand Lucinda in marriage; but it wa.s this letter, also, which made Don Fernando djetermine

I 2



upon my ruin before my design could be efifectcrl. I told him that Lucinda's father expected that the proposal should come from mine, but that I durst not mention it to him, lest he should refuse his conr sent; not that he was ignorant of Lucinda's exalted merits, whick 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 Pdcardo 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 appreliensions and sad forebodings. In reply to all this, Don Fernando engaged to induce my father to propose me to the father of Lucinda

O ambitious Marius! cruel Catiline! wicked Sy 11a! 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 franklj' 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 complainâ€"miserable wretch that I am! For when the stars are adverse, what is human power? Wlio could have thought that Don Fernando, obliged by my services, and secure of success wherever his inclinations led him, should take such cruel pains to deprive me of my jewel ? But no more of these unavailing reflections; I will now resume the broken thread of my sad story.

" Don Fernando, thinking my presence an ^stacle to the execution 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 purpose. 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 witli Lucinda, and told her what had been agreed upon between Don Fernando and myself, assuring her of my hopes of a successful result, Slie, equally unsuspicious of Don Fernando, desired me to return speedily, since she believed the comi^letion of our wishes was only deferred until proposals should be 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. Nevertheless, I did obey, like a good servant, though I found it was likely to be at the expense of my health. But, four days after my arrival, a man came in quest of me with a letter, the superscription of which I knew to be the handwriting of Lucinda, I opened it with fear and trembling, believing it must be some very extraordinary occurrence that induced her to write o me, a thing she very seldom f'id, whether I were near or at a distance. Before I read it, I inquired Oi the messenger who gave it him, and how long he had been in



THINGS WORTHY OF BEING RELATED. Wj

C'iming. He told me that, passing accidentally tbrougli a street of the town about noon, a very beautiful lady called to him from a window, and said to him, with tears in her eyes, and in great agitation, 'i'riend, if you are a Christian, as yon seem to be, I beg of you, for the love of God, to carry this letter, with all expedition, to the place and person specified in the direction; for both are well known : and in so doing you will perform an act of charity acceptable to the Lord. And that you may not want what is necessary for the journey, take what is tied np in this handkerchief;'â€"and she threw a handkerchief out of the window, in which were a hundred reals, and this gold ring, with the letter I have given you; and, without staying for farther reply, when she saw me take up the letter and the handkerchief, and I assured her, by signs, that I would do what she commanded, she quitted the window ; and now finding myself well paid, and seeing, by the superscription, it was for you, sir (for I know j-ou very well), and obliged moreover by the tears of that beautiful lady, I resolved not to trust any other person, but to deliver the letter with my own hands. And, in sixteen hours, for it is no longer since it w^as given me, I have performed the journey, which as you know is eighteen leagues.' "While the friendly messenger was giving me this account, I hung upon his words; my legs trembling in such a manner that I could scarcely stand. At length I had the courage to open the letter, tnd found it contained these words:

"' The promise which Don Fernando gave you, that lie would desire your father to speak to mine, he has fulfilled, more for his own gratification than your interest. Know, sir, he has demanded me in marriage for himself; and my father, allured by the advantage he thinks Don Fernando possesses over you, as to rank and fortune, has accepted this proposal with so much eagerness, that the nuptials are to be solemnized two days hence, and with so much privacy, that the heavens alone, and a few of our own family, are to be witnesses. Picture to yourself the state I am in; and return, if you can, with all speed ; and whether I love you or not, the event of this business will show. God grant this may come to your hand, before I am reduced to the extremity of joining mine with his, who keeps so ill his promised faith.'

" Such were the contents of the letter, and it had the efiect 0/ making me set out immediately, without waiting for answer or money :_for now I plainly saw, it was not the business of the horses, but the indulging his own pleasure, that had moved Fernando to send me to his brother. The rage I conceived against Don Fernando, and the fear of losing the rich reward of my long service and affection, gave wings to my speed; and the next day I reached our town, at the moment favourable for an interview with Lu-cinda. 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 otherâ€"but Ixow \



tx8 DON QUIXOTE.

Who is there in the world that can boast of having fathomed and thoroughly penetrated the intricate and ever-changing nature of woman? Certainly none. As soon as Lucinda saw me she said, 'Cardenio, I am in my bridal habit; they are now waiting for me in the hallâ€"the treacherous Don Fernando and my covetnus father, with some others, who sliall 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 answered, with confusion and precipitation,'Let your actions, madam, prove the truth of your words. If you carry a dagger to secure your honour, I carry a sword to defend you, or kill myself if fortune proves adverse.'

" 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 ! I was irresolute whether to enter her house, and seemed bereaved of the power to move; but recollecting how important ray presence might be on that occasion, I exerted myself, and hastened thither. Being perfectly acquainted with all the avenues, I escaped observation, 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 Lucinda; and no other person was present, except the servants of the house. Soon after, from a dressing-room, came forth Lucinda, accompanied by her mother and two of her own maids, adorned in the extreme of courtly splendour. The agony and distraction I endured allowed me not to observe the 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 th» brilliance of her jewels and the blaze of the surrounding lights seemed to be lost. O memory, thou mortal enemy of my repose I Were it not better, thou cruel faculty, to represent to my imagination her conduct at that period, that, moved by so flagrant an injury, I may strive, if not to avenge it, at least to end this life of pain ?

"I say, then," continued Cardenio, "that, being all assembled in the hall, the priest entered, and having taken them both by the hand, in order to perform what is necessary on such occasions, when he came to these words, 'Will you, Signora Lucinda, take Signor Don Fernando, who is here present, for your lawful husband, as our holy motlier the Church commands?' I thrust out my head and nock through the tapestry, and with attentive ears and distracted soul awaited Lucinda's reply, as the sentence of my death, or the confirmation of my life. Oh, that I had then dared to venture forth.



and to have cried aloudâ€"' Ah, Lucinda, Lucinda ! Remember 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 then a coward and a fool; no wonder therefore if I now die ashamed, repentant, and mad.

"The priest stood expecting Lucinda's ar.swer, who paused for a long time ; and when I thought she would draw forth the dagger in defence of her honour, or make some declaration which niiglit redound to my advantage, I heard her say in a low and faint voice, ' I will.' Don Fernando said the same, and the ring being put on, they remained tied in an indissoluble band. The bridegroom approached to embrace his bride ; and she, laying her hand on her heart, fainted in the arms of her mother. Imagine my condition after that fatal Yes, by which my hopes were frustrated, Lucinda's vows and promises broken, and I for ever deprived of all chance of happiness. On Lucinda's fainting, aU were in confusion; and her mother, unlacing her bosom to give her air, discovered in it a folded paper, which Don Fernando instantly seized, and read it by 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 I was seen or not. I quitted the house, and returning to the place where I had left the mule, I mounted and rode oi;t 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, tlie silence inviting my lamentations, I gave vent to a thousand execrations on Lucinda'and Don Fernando, as if that, alas, could afford me satisfaction for the wrongs I had sustained. I called her cruel, false, and ungrateful; and above all, mercenary, since the wealth of my enemy had seduced her affections from me. But amidst all these reproaches I sought to find excuses for her submission to parents whom she had ever been accustomed implicitly to obey ; especially as they offered her a husband with such powerful attractions. Then again I considered that she need not have been ashamed of avowing her engagement to me, since, had it not been for Don Fernando's proposals, her parents could not have desired a more suitable connexion ; and I thought how easily she oould have declared herself mine, when on the point of giving her hand to my rival. In fine, I concluded that her love had been less than her ambition, and she had thus 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 wandered three days more, without road or path, until I came to a valley not far hence j and inquiring of some shepherds for the mo.st rude and



DON QUIXOTE.

solitary part, they directed me to this place : where I instantly came, determined to pass here tlie 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 relieved my wants : they told me of the condition in which they found me, and of many wild and extravagant things that I had uttered, clearly proving the derangement of my 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 weary and bruised that I can scarcely move. My usual abode is in the hollow of a cork-tree, large enough to enclose tliis wretched body. Thus I pass my miserable life, waiting until it shall please Heaven to bring it to a period, or erase from my memory the beauty and treachery of Lucinda and the perfidy of Don Fernando; otherwise, 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 j iist 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.





AGREE ABLE ADVENTURE.

121

V





CHAPTER XXni.

Which treats of the new and agreeable adventure that be/el the Priest and the Barber in the same mountain.

Happy, most fortunate and happy, was the age, in which the most daring knight Don Quixote de la Mancha was ushered into the world ; since, by his honourable resolution, to restore to the world the long-lost, and as it were buried, order of knight-errantry, we, in these oi;r times, so barren and unfruitful of amusing incidents, enjoy not_ only the sweets of his true and delightful adventures, but (ilso the intervening stories and episodes, scarcely less pleasing, less ingenious, or less true, than the history itself; whiich, resuming the broken thread of the narrative, goes on thus.

As the priest was preparing himself to advise and comfort Cardenio, he was prevented by a voice, which, in mournful strain, thus arrested his attention. " O Heavens ! is it possible, that I have at last found a place, that'can afford a secret grave for the irksome burden of this body, which I bear about so mucli against my will ] Yes, the favour is granted, if the solitude wliicli these rocks promise do not deceive me. Ah, woe is me! how much more agreeable shall I find the society



DON QVIXOTE.

of these crags and brakes, which will at least afford me leisure to communicate, in lamentations, my miseries to Heaven, than the conversation of men! since there is no one living, from whom I can expect counsel in doubts, ease in complaints, or remedy in afflictions!"

This was very distinctly heard by the priest and those that were with him, and, as the voice was near, they rose up to seek the speaker, and they had not gone twenty paces, when, behind the fragment of a rock, tliey perceived a youth, dressed like a peasant, sitting at the foot of an ash-trce; but whose face they could not tlien discern, as he was in a bending posture, being employed in washrn?; his feet in a rivulet that murmured by. They drew near so silently, that, intent upon what he was doing, he did not hear them ; and they stood in admiration at the whiteness and beauty of his feet, which appeared among the pebbles of the brook like pure crystal, and seemed not at all formed for breaking of clods, or following the plough, as they might have supposed, from his dress, was his employment. Finding they were not perceived, the priest, who went foremost, made signs to his two companions to crouch down, or hide themselves behind a rock; which they did, choosing a place from which they could observe the youth's motions. His dress was a double skirted grey jacket, girt about the middle with a piece of white linen ; with breeches and hose of grey cloth ; and a grey huntsman's cap. His hose were drawn up to the middle of his legs, which seemed of the purest alabaster. Having bathed his delicate feet, he wiped them â– with a handkerchief, which lie took from under his cap, and as he lifted up his face to do it, the lookers-on had an opportunity of beholding so exquisite a beauty, that Cardenio said in a low voice to the priest: " As this is not Lucinda, it must be some heavenly, for it can be no earthly creature."

The youth took off his cap, and, shaking his head, a profusion of lovely hair, that ApoUo himself might envy, fell over his shoulders, and betrayed, that the supposed peasant was a woman, and the most delicate and handsome that two of the party had ever beheld, or even Cardenio himself, had he never seen or known Lucinda, whose beauty alone, as he afterwards confessed, could stand in competition with her. Her long and golden tresses not only fell on her shoulders, but, her feet excepted, covered her whole body. Her fingers served instead of a comb, and, if her feet in the water resembled crystal, her hands in the tresses of her hair were like driven snow.

The desire of the bystanders to learn who she was, was increased by these circumstances, and they resolved to show themselves. At the rustling they made, the pretty creature started; and peeping through her hair, which she hastily removed from before her ej'ea 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 bo, j'ou have no



reason to fly ; we have no other design but to do you sendee." 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. I imagine it was no slight occasion that made you obscure your singular beauty under so unworthy a disguise. and venture into this desert, where it was the greatest chance in the world that ever you met with us. However, we hope it is not impossible to find a remedy for your misfortunes, since there are none which reason and time will not at last surmount; and therefore, madam, if you have not absolutely renounced all human comfort, I beseech you to tell us the cause of your afiiiction, 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, looking 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 herself, 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 make 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 more; it shocks my nature to think I must be forced to reveal to you some secrets which I had a design to have buried in my grave; but yet, considering the garb and the place you have found me in, I fancy it will be better for me to tell you all than to give occasion to doubt of my past conduct and my present designs by an affected reservedness." The disguised lady having made this answer with a modest blush and extraordinary discretion, the curate and his company, who now admired her the more for her sense, renewed their kind ofi'ers and pressing solicitations; and then they courteously let her retire a moment to some distance to put herself in decent order. Which done she returned, and, being all seated on the grass, after she had used no small effort to restrain her tears, she thus began her story.

" 1 was born 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 deceit. My father, who is one of his vassals, is but of low degree ; but so very rich, tliat had fortune equalled Ids birth to his estate, he



T24 DON QUIXOTE.

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 Christian Spaniards, and the antiquity of their family, together with their large possessions, raises them much above their profession, and has by little and little almost universally gained them the name of gentlemen, setting them, in a manner, equal to many such in the world's esteem. As I am their only child, they loved me with the utmost tenderness ; and their great affection made them esteem themselves happier in their daughter than in the peaceable enjoyment 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 were 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 em-Eloyed in the usual exercises of young women, sometimes making one-lace, or at my needle, and now and then reading some good book, or playing on the harpâ€"having experienced that music was very proper to recreate the wearied mind. While I thus lived the life of a recluse, unseen, as I thought, by anybody but our own family, and never leaving the house but to go to church, which was commonly betimes in the morning, and always with my mother, and so close liid 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 "

Scarce had Cardenio heard Don Fernando named but 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 steadfastly on the country maid, presently guessing who she was; while she continued her story, without taking 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 offers 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 disturbance 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 courtahip was so far from inclining my heart to a kind return, that it rather moved my indignation, insomuch that I looked upon Don



Fernando as my greatest enemy; not but that I was â– well enougli pleased with his gallantry, and took a secret delight in seeing myself courted by a person of his quality. Sucb demonstrations of love are never altogether displeasing to women, and the most disdainful, in spite of all their coyness, reserve a little complaisance in their hearts for their admirers. But the inequality between us was too great to suffer me to entertain any reasonable hopes, and his gallantry too singular not to offend 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 advantageous a match might still amuse me, told me that if I would marry, to rid me at once of his unjust pursuit, I should have liberty to make my own choice of a suitable match, either in our own town or the neighbourhood ; 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. Accordingly, 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 I 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 I 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 surprised me, that I was struck dumb, and fainted away with fear. I had not power to call for help, nor do I believe he Avould have given me time to have done it, had I attempted it; for he presently ran to me, and taking me in his arms, while I was sinking with the fright, he spoke to me in such endearing terms, and with so nmch 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 virtuous parents, and inexperienced in those affairs, in which even the most knowing are apt to be mistaken, my reluctauey abated by degrees, 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 luve, and give me such strange demonstraticms 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 by 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 reputation ; and unless you leave me this moment, I will so efiectually make you know how much you are mistaken in me, that if you have but the least sense of Jionour left, you will regret driving me to that extremity



as luRg as you live. I was bora your vassal, but not your slave ; nor does the greatness of your birth privilege you to injure your inferiors, or exact from me more than the duties which all vassals pay; that excepted, I do not esteem myself less in my low degree than you have reason to value yourself in your high rank. Do not, then, think to awe or dazzle me with your grandeur, or fright or force me into a base compliance j 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 wUl 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 hinder me, if you will but consent to bless me on those terms % I am yours this moment, beautiful Dorothea; I give you here my hand to De yours, and yours alone, for ever \ and let all-seeing Heaven, and this holy image here in your oratory, witness the solemn truth.'

" In short, urged by his solicitations, I became his wife by a secret marriage, 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 into the cause of my wretchedness; but suddenly my forbearance v,^as at an end, with all regard to delicacy and fame, upon the intelligence 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 proclaiming the baseness and treachery I had experienced; but I became more tranquil, after forming a project which I executed the same night. I borrowed this apparel of a shepherd swain in my father's service, whom I entrusted with my secret, and begged him to attend me in my pursuit of Don Fernando. He assured me it was a rash 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

Eerson to whom I addressed myself told me more than I desired to ear. 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 aflBrmed tliat she could not be wife to Don Fernando, because she was already be*

I



trothed to Cardenio (who, as the man told me, was a gentleman of the same town), and that she had pronounced her assent to Don Fernando merely in obedience to her parents. The paper alao revealed her intention to kill herself as soon as the ceremony was over, which was confirmed by a poniard they found concealed upon her. Don Fernando was so enraged to find himself thus mocked and slighted, that he seized hold of the same poniard, and would certainly have stabbed her, had he not been prevented by those present; whereupon he immediately quitted the place. When Lucinda revived, she confessed to her parents the engagement she had formed with Cardenio, who, it was suspected, had witnessed the ceremony, and had hastened from the city in despair ; for he left a paper expressing his sense of the wrong he had suffered, and declaring his resolution to fly from mankind for ever.

"All this was publicly known, and the general subject of conversation ; especially when it appeared that Lucinda also was missing from her father's houseâ€"a circumstance that overwhelmed her family with grief, 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 incessant sighs and tears, I implore Heaven to have pity on me, and either alleviate my misery or put an end to my life in this desert, that no traces may remain of so wretched a creature,"

CHAPTER XXIV.

Which treats of the beautiful Dorothea's discretion ; with (^her particulars.

" This, gentlemen," added Dorothea, " is my tragical story: think whether the sighs and tears which you have witnessed have not been more than justified. My misfortunes, as you will confess, are incapable of a remedy ; and all I desire of you is to advise me how to live without the continual dread of being discovered ; for although I am certain of a kind reception from my parents, so overwhelmed am I with shame, that I choose rather to banisli myself for ever from their sight than appear before them the object of such hateful suspicions." Here she was silent, while her blushes and confusion sufficiently



manifested the shame and agony of her soul. Her auditors were much affected by her ta,le, and the curate was just going to address her, when Cardenio interrupted him, saying, " You, madam, then, are the beautiful Dorothea, only daughter of the rich Clenardo." Dorothea stared at hearing her father named by such a miserable-looking object, and she asked him who he was, since he knew her father,

" I am that hapless Cardenio," he replied, " who suffer from the base author of your misfortunes, reduced, as you now behold, to nakedness and miseryâ€"deprived even of reason ! Yes, Dorothea, I heard that fatal Yes uttered by Luciuda, and, unable to bear my anguish, fled precipitately from her house. Amidst these mountains I thought to have terminated my wrctclied existence; but the account you have just given has inspired me with hope that Heaven may still have happiness in store for us. Lucindahas avowed herself to be mine, and therefore cannot wed another ; Don Fernando, being yours, cannot have Lucinda. Let us then, my dear lady, indulge the hope that we may both yet recover our own, siuce it is not absolutely lost. Indeed, I swear that, although I leave it to Heaven to avenge my own injuries, your claims I will assert; nor will I leave you until I have obliged Don Fernando, eitlier by argument or by my sword, to do you justice."

Dorothea would have thrown herself atHhe feet of Cardenio to express 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 barber, who had hitherto been silent, now joined in expressing his good wishes to them ; he also briefly related the circumstances which had brought them to that place ; and when he mentioned the extraordinary insanity of Don Quixote, Cardenio had an indistinct recollection of having had some altercation with the knight, though he could not remember whence it arose.

They were now interrupted by the voice of Sancho Panza, who, not finding them where he left them, began to call out loudly ; they went instantly to meet him, and were eager in their inquiries after Don Quixote. He told them that he had found him half dead with hunger, sighing for his Lady Dulcinea; and that though he had told him that it was her express command that he should repair to Toboso, where she impatiently expected him, his answer was that he positively would not appear before lier 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 a woman's ap-



DOROTHEA'S DISCRETIO.W

parel with which she could perform it to the life; and they might have reliance upon her, as she h;id read many books of chivalry, and â– 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, u necklace and other jewels, with which she quickly adorned herself in such a manner that she had all the appearance of a rich and nobla lady. They were charmed with her beauty, grace, and elegance ; and agreed that Don Fernando must be a man of little taste, since he could slight so much excellence. But her greatest admirer was Saucho Panza, w^ho thought that in all his life he had never seen so beautiful a creature; and he earnestly desired the priest to tell him â– who that handsome lady was, and what she was looking for in those parts ?

" This beautiful lady, friend Sancho," answered the priestj " is, to say the least of her, heiress in the direct male line of the great kingdom of Micomicon ; 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 encounters him, unless he be a goblin, for my master has no power at all over goblins. But one thing, among others, I would beg of your worship, Signer Licentiate, which is, that you would not let my master take it into his head to be an archbishop, which is what I fear, but that you would advise him to marry this princess out of hand, and then he will be disqualified to receive archiepiscopal orders ; and so he will come with ease to his kingdom, and I to the end of my wishes. For I have considered the matter well, and find it will not be convenient for me that my master should be an archbishop; for I am unfit for the church, as being a married man ; and for me to be now going about to procure dispensations for holding church-livings, having, as I have, a wife and children, would be an endless piece of work. So that, sir, the whole business rests upon my master's marrying this lady out of hand. I do not yet know , her grace, and therefore do not call her by her name."

" The Princess Micomicona is her title," replied the priest; " fo» her kingdom being called Micomicon, it is clear she must be called after it."

" There is no doubt of that," answered Sancho ; " for I have known many take their title and surname from the place of their birth, as Pedro de Alcala. John de Ubeda, Diego de Valladolid; and for aught I know, it may be the custom yonder in Guinea for queens to take the names of their kingdoms."

K



"It is certainly so," said the priest; "and as to your master a marrying, I will promote it to the utmost of my power.'

With which assurance Sancho rested as well satisfied as the priest was amazed at his simplicity, when he found how strongly the same absurdities were riveted in his fancy as in his master's, since he could so firmly persuade himself that Don Quixote would, one time or other, come to be an emperor.

Dorothea now having mounted the priest's mule, and the barber fitted on the ox-tail beard, they desired Sancho to conduct them to Don Quixote, cautioning him not to say that he knew the licentiate or the barber, since on that depended all his fortune. The priest would have instructed Dorothea in her part; but she woidd 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 discovered Don Quixote in a wild rocky recess, clothed, but 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 efforts to raise her, she remained kneeling, as she thus addressed him :

" I will never arise from this place, 0 valorous and redoubted knight, until your goodness and courtesy vouchsafe me a boon, which will redound to the honour and glory of your person, and to the lasting benefit of the most disconsolate and aggrieved damsel the sun has ever beheld. And if the valour of your puissant arm correspond with the report of your immortal fame, you are- bound to protect an unhappy wight, who, attracted by the odour of your renown, is come from distant regions to seek at your bauds a remedy for her misfortunes."

" It is impossible for me to answer you, fair lady," said Don Quixote, " while you remain in that posture."

"I will not arise, signor," answered the afflicted damsel," imtil your courtesy shall vouchsafe the boon I ask."

" I do vouchsafe and grant it you," answered Don 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 dictate, in conformity to the rules of my profession:" then addressing himself to the damsel, he said, "Fairest lady, arise; for I vouchsafe you whatever boon you ask."

" My request, then, is," said the damsel, " that your magnanimity will go whither I shall conduct you ; and that you will promise not to engage in any other adventure until you have avenged me on a traitor •vho, 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 aU the miscreants who would oppose it; and therefore we will instantly proceed to action, for there is always danger in delay."

The distressed damsel would fain have kissed his hands ; but Don Quixote, making her arise, embraced her with much politeness and respect, and ordered Sancho to look after Rozinante's girths, and to assist him to arm. Sancho took down the armour from a tree, where it hung, 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. Sancho remained on foot, which renewed his grief for the loss of his Dapple; but he bore it cheerfully, with the thought that his master was now in the ready road, and just upon the point of being an emperor : for he made no doubt that he would marry that princess, and be at least king of Micomicon; one thing, however, troubled him, which was that the kingdom was in the land of Negroes, and that the people, who would be his subjects, were all blacks: but he presently bethought himself of a special remedy for this, and said to himself, "What care I, if my subjects be blacks'] what have I to do, but to ship them off for Spain, where I may sell them for ready \noney; with which money I may buy some title or employment; and on which title and employment live at my ease all the days of my life I No! sleep on, dolt, and have neither sense nor capacity to manage matters, nor to sell thirty or ten thousand slaves in the turn of a hand. I will make them fly, little and big, or as I can ; and, let them be never so black, I will transform them into white and yellow : let me alone to lick my own fingers." With these conceits he went on, so busied, and so satisfied, that he forgot the pain of travelling on foot.

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, 0 thou mirror of chivalry, my noble countryman, Don Quixote de la Mancha! the flower and cream of courtesy, the protector of suffering mankind, the

K 2



quintessence of kniglit-errantry!" Having thus spoken, he embraced Don Quixote by the knee of bis left leg.

The knight was surprised at this address, but after attentively surveying the features of the speaker, he recognised 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 consent to your dismounting," replied the priest, " since on horseback you have achieved the greatest exploits this age hath witnessed. As for myself, an unworthy priest, I shall be satisfied if one of these gentlemen of your company will allow me to mount behind him: and I shall then fancy myself mounted ou Pegasus, 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 distant from the grand Compluto."

" I did not think of that, dear licentiate," said Don Quixote ; " and I know her highness the princess ^vill, 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 eccl^iastic to go ou foot when he may ride."

" Most certainly," answered the barber; and alighting in an instant, he complimented the priest with the saddle, which he accepted without Piuch entreaty. But it unluckily happened that as the barber was getting upon the mule, which was a vicious jade, she threw up 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 jawbone 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 1" The priest, seeing the danger of discovery, instantly seized the beard, and ran to JNIaster Nicholas, who was still on the ground moaning; and going close up to him, with one twitch replaced it; muttering over him some words, whicU he said were a specific charm for fixing on beards, as they should soon see ; and when it was adjusted, the squire remained as well bearded and as whole as before. Don Quixote was amazed at what he saw, and begged the priest to teach him that charm ; for he was of opinion that its virtue could not be confined to the refixing of beards, and since it wrought a perfect cure, it must be valuable upon other occasions. The priest said that his surmise was just, and promised to take the first opportunity of teaching him the art.

Dou Quixote, the princess, and the priest, being thus mountec^



attended by Cardenio, the barber, and Sanclio Panza on foot, Don Quixote said to the damselâ€"

" 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 1"

She, being aware that she was to answer in the affirmative, said, "Yes, signor, that kingdom is indeed the place of my destination."

" If so," said the priest, " we must pass through my native village ; and thence you must go straight to Carthagena, where you may embark; and if you have a fair wind, a smooth sea, and no storms, in somewhat less than nine years you wiU 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 seeâ€"Signor Don Quixote de la Manchaâ€"the fame of whose valour reached my ears the moment I set foot in Spain, and determined me upon seeking him, that I might appeal to his courtesy, and commit the justice of my cause to the valour of his invincible arm."

" Cease, I pray, these encomiums," said Don Quixote, "for I am an enemy to every species of flattery ; and even if this be not such, still are my chaste ears ofi'ended at this kind of discourse. All I can say, dear madam, is, that my powers, such as they are, shall be employed in your service, even at the forfeit of my life; but waiving these matters for the present, I beg the Signor Licentiate to tell me what has brought him into these parts alone, unattended, and so lightly apparelled."

" I can soon satisfy your worship," answered the priest: " our friend. Master Nicholas, and I were going to Seville, to receive f\ legacy left me by a relation in India, and no inconsiderable sum, being sixty thousand crowns; and on our road yesterday 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 t(^ 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 and natural lord by acting against his lawful authority. He has, I say, disabled the galleys of their hands, and disturbed the many years' repose of the holy brotherhood ; in a word, he has done a deed by which his body may suffer, and his soul be for ever lost."

Sancho had communicated the adventure of the galley-slaves, so



t^4 ^(^^ QUIXOTE,

gloriously achieved by his master; and the priest laid it on thus heavily to see what effect it would Lave upon Don Quixote; whose colour changed at every wordj and he dared not confess that he had been the deliverer of those worthy gentlemen.

CHAPTER XXV.

Of (lie. inrjerdous viethod pursued to withdraw our enamoured Knight froDi the rigoi-ous penance which he had imjwsed 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 warning, 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 fettered 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 profession required of me. As for the rest, I care not; and wlioever 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 chivalty; and this I will maintain with the edge of my sword !"

Dorothea was possessed of too much humour and sprightly 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 the 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 signor the licentiate known that the galley-slaves were freed by that invincible arm, he would sooner have sewed up his mouth with three stitches, and thrice have bitten his tongue, than he would have said a word that might redound to the disparagement of your worship."

" 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 indignation raised within my breast, and quietly proceed, until I have accomplished the promised boon. But, in requital, I beseech you to inform me of the particulars of your grievance, as well as the number and quaUty 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.''



OUR ENAMOURED KNIGHT.

135

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"â€"here she stopped short, and could not call to mind the name the curate 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 deprives us of memory, that sometimes we for awhile can scarce think on our very names: 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 endeavour to relate my story without further hesitation. Know, then, gentlemen, that the king my father, who was called Tinacrio the Sage, having great skill in the magic art, understood by his profound knowledge in that science, that Queen Xamarilla, 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 Pandafilando, surnamed of the Gloomy Sight; because, though his eyeballs are seated in their due place, yet he affects to squint and look askew on purpose to fright those on whom he stares. My father, I say, knew that this giant, hearing of his death, would one day invade my kingdom with a powerful army, and drive me out of my territories, without leaving me so much as a village for a retreat; thoxtgh he knew withal that I might avoid that extremity if I would but consent to marry him; but as he found out by his art, he had reason to think I never would incline to such a match. And indeed I never had any thoughts of marrying this giant, nor any other giant in the world, how unmeasurably great and mighty soever. My father therefore cliarged me patiently to bear my misfoitunes, and abandon my kingdom to Pandafilando for a time, without offering to keep him out by force of arms, since this would be the best means to prevent my own death and the ruin of my subjects, considering the impossibility of withstanding the terrible 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-erranti whose fame should at that time be spread over all the kingdom; and his name, my father said, should be, if I forgot not, Don Azote, of Don Gigote."



"And it please you, forsooth," quoth Sancho, "you would say Don Quixote, otherwise called the Knight of the Rueful Countenance."

" You are right," answered Dorotliea; " and doubtless I do 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 sooner 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 T

"Doubtless, sir," said the curate, before Dorothea could answer for herseljf, " the princess would say, that after she landed at Malaga, the tirst 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 aa to make me find the noble knight by whose valour I look upon myself as already restored 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 show him this Pandafilando of the Gloomy Sight, that he may slay him, and restore that to me of which he has so unjustly deprived me. For all this wiU certainly be done with the greatest ease in the world, since it was foretold by 'iinacrio the Sage, my good and royal father,"who has also left a prediction written either in Chaldean or Greek characters (for I cannot read them) which denotes that after the knight of the prophecy haa 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 I not tell thee as much before? See now whether we have not a kingdom which we may command and a queen whom we may espouse!"

" Ah, marry have you," replied Sancho.

And with that, to show his joy, he cut a couple of capers in the air; and turning to Dorothea, laid hold on her mule by the bridle, and flinging himself down on his knees, begged she would be graciously pleased to let him kiss her hand, in token of his owning her for his sovereign lady.

There was none of the beholders but was ready to burst for laughter, having a sight of the master's madness, and the servant's simplicity. In short, Dorothea was obliged to comply with his entreaties, and promised to make him a grandee, when fortune should favour her with the recovery of her lost kingdom. Whereupon Sancho gave her his thanks in such a manner as obliged the company to a fresh laughter. Then going on with her relation, "Gentlemen," said she, " this is my history ; and among all my 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



OUR ENAMOURED KNIGHT.

139

squire with the long beard: the rest ended their days in a great storm, which dashed our ship to pieces in the very sight of the 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 altogether miraculous, and agreeable to the whole series of my life, which seems, indeed, but one continued miracle. And if in any part of my relation I have been tedious, and not so exact as I should have been, you must impute it to what Master Curate observed to you in the beginning of my story, that continual troubles oppress the senses, and weaken the memory."

"Those pains and afflictions, be they ever so intense and difficult," said Don Quixote, " shall never deter me, most virtuous and highborn 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 find 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 ;â€"(a plague on Gines de Passamonte, who took away my own !)" This he si^oke 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 Phoenix."

The close of Don Quixote's speech, which related to his not marrying, touched Sancho so to the quick, that he could not forbear bawling out his resentments:

*' Sir Don Quixote," cried he, " you are certainly out of your wits; or how is it possible you should stick at striking a bargain with so great a lady as this ? Do you think fortune will put such dainty bits in your way at every corner ? Is my Lady Dulcinea handsomer, do you tliink % 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 myself with the hopes of, if you spend your time in fishing for mushrooms 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 blasphemies 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, bad not the knight desisted through the persuasions of Dorothea.



L^^ DON QUIXOTE.

"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 excommunication is the least punishment can fall upon thee after such profanations of the peerless Dulcinea'sname), and art thou not assured, vile slave and ignominious vagabond, that I should not have strength sufficient to kill a flea, did she not give strength to my nerves and infuse vigour into my sinews ? Speak, thou vUIain with the viper's tongue ; who dost thou imagine has restored the queen to her kingdom, cut off the head of a giant, and made thee a marquis (for I count all tliis as done already), but the power of Dulcinea, who makes use of my arm as the instrument of her act in me ? She fights and overcomes in me, and I live and breathe in her, holding life and being from her. Thou base-bora wretch ! art thou not possessed of the utmost 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 fijst 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 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 posture went and asked his master for his hand, which he held out to him with a grave countenance ; and after the squire had kissed the back of it, the knight gave liim his blessing, and told him he had a word or two with him, bidding him come nearer, that he might have the better convenience of speaking to him. Sancho did as his master commanded, and going a little from the company with him, they conversed awhile 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 T replied Don Quixote.

" Reason good enough, truly,'' said Sancho; " for the blows you gave me even now were rather given me on account of that quarrel \v hich was stirred up between your worship and me the other night,



tlian for your dislike of anything which was spoken against my Lady Dulcinea."

" Prithee, Sancho," cried Don Quixote, " be careful of falling again into such irreverent expressions; for they provoke me to anger, and are highly offensive. I pardoned thee then for being a delinquent ; but thou art sensible that a new offence must be attended with a new punishment."

As they were going on in such discourse as this, they saw at a distance a person riding up to them on an ass, who, as he came near enough to be distinguished, seemed to be a gipsy by his habit. But Siincho Panza, wlio, 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 tlie 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 himself like a gipsy ; the cant of that sort of people, as well as the language of other countries, being as natural and familiar to him as his 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 tongue would permit himâ€"

" Ah, thou thief Genesillo! leave my goods and chattels behind thee ; get off from the back of my own dear life; thou hast nothing to do with my poor beast, without whom I cannot enjoy a moment's ease; away from my Dapple, away from my comfort! take to thy heels, thou villain ! hence, tliou hedge-bird, leave what is none of thine !"

He had no occasion to use so many words, for Gines dismounted as soon as he heard him speak, and taking to his heels, got from them, and was out of sight in an instant. Sancho ran immediately to his ass, and embraced him.

" How hast thou done," cried he, " since I saw thee, my darling and treasure, my dear Dapple, the delight of my eyes, and my dearest companion T

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 congratulation to Sancho foi 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 together, and discoursing after thia 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 ill her brevity, and adapting her style to the particular terms made



use )f in books of knight-errantry. She returned for answer that she had frequently amused herself with such romances, but that she waf ignorant of the situation of the provinces and the sea-ports, wb ich occasioned the blunder she had made by saying that she landed at Ossuna.

' I perceived it," replied the curate, " and therefore I put iu what yc a heard, which brought matters to rights again. But is it not an ai aazing thing to see how ready this unfortunate gentleman is to give cj edit to these fictitious reports, only because they have the air of the e Ltravagaut stories in books of knight-errantry T

Cardenio said that he thought this so strange a madness that he did not 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 his unparalleled frenzy ; for take him but off his romantic humour, discourse with him of any other subject, you will find him to handle it with a great deal of reason, and show himself, by his conversation, to have very clear and entertaining conceptions; insomuch that if knight-errantry bears no relation to his discourse, there is no man but will esteem him for his vivacity of wit and strength of judgment."

While they were thus discoursing, Don Quixote, prosecuting his converse with his squire, " Sancho," said he, " let us lay aside all manner of animosity; let us forget and forgive injuries; and answer me as speedily as thou canst, without any remains of my last displeasure, how, when, and where didst thou find my Lady Dulcinea \ What was she doing when thou first paidst thy respects to herl How didst thou express thyself to her? What answer was she pleased to make thee? What countenance did she put on at the perusal of my letter? Who transcribed it fairly for thee? And everything else which has any relation to this affair, without addition, .ies, or flattery. On the other side, take care thou losest not a tittle of the whole matter, by abbreviating it, lest thou rob me of part of that delight which I propose to myself from it."

"Sir," answered Sancho, "if I must speak the truth, and nothing but the truth, nobody copied out 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 after thy 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 it to me, and helped me to say it over to a parish-clerk, who wrote it out to me word for word so purelj', 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 anything so well spoken as it wa.'"



"And dost thou still retain the memory of it, my dear Sanclio ?' cried Don Quixote.

" Not I," quoth Sancho ; " for as soon as I had given it her, and your turn was served, I was very willing to forget it. But if I remember anything, it is what was on the top; and it was thus, ' High and subterrene'â€"I would say sovereign lady; and at the bottom, ' yours until death, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance ;' and I put between these two things three hundred souls and lives,"

CHAPTER XXVI.

Tlte iMdiant dialogue hetween Don Quixote and his Squire continued; with other adventures.

"All this is mighty well," said Don Quixote; "proceed therefore: you arrived, and how was that queen of beauty then employed? On my conscience thou foundst her stringing of orient pearls, or embroidering some curious device in gold for me her captive isnight; was it not so, my Sancho V\

" 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 touching it with her divine hand. Didst thou observe the quality of the wlieat, was it not of the finest sort?"

" Very indifferent, I thought," said the squire.

" Well, this at least you must allow ; it must make the finest whitest bread, if sifted by her white bands. But go on ; when you delivered my letter, did she kiss it? Did she treasure it in her bosom 1 or what ceremony did she use worthy such a letter? How did she behave herself V

" Why truly, sir," answered Sancho, " when I offered her the letter she was very busy handling her sieve; 'and, prithee, 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 Quixote ; " she knew that a perusal required leisure, and therefore deferred it for her more pleasing and private hours. But oh, my squire, while she was thus employed, what conference passed 1 What did she ask about her knigut, and what did you reply I Say all, say all, my dearest Sancho, let not the smallest circumstance escape the tongue; speak all that thought can frame or pen describe."

" Her questions were easily answered, sir," 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 ; that 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 mi^ fortune, and always shall, while life aflbrds me breath, since I am thought to merit the esteem of so high a lady as Dulcinea del Toboso. But now," continued the knight, " supposing 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 sufferings was enough : to make short now, she gave her service to you, and said she had rather see you than hear from you \ and she prayed you, if ever you loved her, upon sight of me forthwith to leave your madness among the bushes here, and come straight to Toboso (if you be at leisure), for she has something to say to you, and has a huge mind to see you ; she had like to burst with laughing, when I called you the Knight of the Eueful Countenance. I asked her whether the Biscay en of the other day had been to her; she told me he had, and that he was a very honest fellow. I asked her also after the galley-slaves; but she told me she had not yet seen any of them."

" 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 a'trcient standing among knights and ladies errant, to bestow on squires, dwarfs, or damsels, who bring them good news of their ladies or servants, some precioua 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 good fashion, I take it; but all the jewels Sancho got was a luncheon of bread and a piece of cheese, which she handed to me over the wall, when I was taking my leave: by the same token (I hope there is no ill luck in it), the cheese was made of sheep's milk."

" It is strange," said Don Quixote, " for she is liberal even to pro-fuseness; 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 thirty leagues distant, thou must have ridden on the wind, Certainly the sagacious enchanter, who is my guardian and friend,â€" for doubtless such a one there is and ought to be, or I should not be a true knight-errant,â€"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. By this power knights-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 gigantic 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 perhapsâ€"^he sustains me, delivers me from death, and returns that night to his own lodging, where he sups with a very good appetite after his journey, having rid you two or three thousand leagues that day; and all this performed by the industry and wisdom of these knowing magicians, whose only business and charge is glorious knight-errantry. Some such expeditious power, I believe, Sancho, though hidden from you, has promoted so great a despatch in your lat« journey."

" I believe, indeed," answered Sancho," that there was witchcraft in the case; for Rozinante went without spur all the way, and was as mettlesome as though lie had been a gipsy's ass vsdth quicksilver in his ears."

" And what is thy advice as to my lady's commands to visit her 1 I know her power should regulate my will. But then my honour, Sancho; my solemn promise has engaged me to the princess's service that comes with us; and the law of arms confines me to my word. Love draws me one, and glory the other way; on this side Dulcinea's strict commands, on the other my promised faith ; butâ€"it is resolved, I will travel night and day, cut ofi" this giant's head, and, having settled the princess in her dominions, will presently return to see that sun which enlightens my senses. She will easily 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 ! oh sad !" said Sancho; " I doubt your worship's head is much the worse for wearing. Are you mad, sir, to take so long a voyage for nothing? why don't you catch at this preferment that now offers, where a fine kingdom is the portion, twenty thousand leagues round, they say ; nay, bigger than Portugal and Castile both together. Good your worship, hold your tongue, I wonder you are not ashamed. Take a fool's counsel for once, marry the princess by the first priest you meet: here is our own curate can do the job most curiously. Come, master, I have hair enough in my beard to make a counsellor, and my advice is as fit for you as your shoe for your footâ€"" a sparrow in the hand is worth a bustard on the wing," and

" He that 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 â– without marrying this lady ; for I shall make this the condition of entering into battle, that after my victory, without marrying the princess, she shall leave part of her kingdom at my disposal, to gratify whom I please; and who can claim any such gratuity but thyself?"

" That's plain," answered Sancho; " but pray, sir, take care that



you reserve some part near the sea-side for me : that if the air does not agree with me, I may transport my black 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 everybody you overcome packing to Madam Dulcinea, to fall down before her and tell her they came from you to pay their obedience, when this tells all the world that she is your mistress, as much as if they had it under your own hand V

" 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 Nicholas, seeing them so deep in discourse, called to them to stop and drink at a little fountain by the road. Don Quixote halted; and Sancho was very glad of the interruption, his stock of fiction being almost spent, and he stood in danger besides of being 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 mountains ; and though they made but an ordinary figure, they looked much better than those he had put oflF.* 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 1" With that the knight knew him ; and raising him up, turned to the company ; "That you may all know," said he, "of how great importance to the redressing of injuries, punishing vice, and the universal benefit of mankind, the business of knight-errantry may be, you must understand, that riding through a desert some days ago, I heard certain lamentable shrieks and outcries. Prompted by the misery of the afiiicted, 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; I am glad he is present, because he can attest the truth of





* These must be the ragged appaxel Cardenio wore before he waa dressed La th« " clo)"

priest's short cassock and cloak.



my relation. I found him, as I told you, bound to an oak ; naked from the waist upwards, and a bloody-minded peasant scourging his back unmercifully with the reins of a bridle. I presently demanded the cause of his severe chastisement. The rude fellow answered, that he had liberty to punish his own 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 master 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 may appear how necessary the vocation of knights-errant is up and down the high roads."

" All 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 T

" 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 horridly that I looked Hke St. Bartholomew flayed alive ; and at every blow he had some joke or another to laugh at you ; and had he not laid on me as he did, I fancy I could not have helped laughing myself. At last he left me, in so pitiful a case that I was forced to crawl to a hospital, where 1 have lain ever since to get cured, so wofully the tyrant had lashed me. And now I may thank you for this; for had you rode on your journey, and neither meddled nor made, seeing nobody sent for you, and it was none of your business my master, perhaps, had been satisfied with giving me ten or twenty lashes, and after that would have paid me what he owed me; but you were so huflFy, 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 my departure before I saw my orders executed; for I might by experience have remembered that the word of a peasant is regulated, not 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 there is no cure for my Bore shoulders."

" You shall be redressed," 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 ho 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 hia

I.



u'ages to tlie last maravedi,* in spite of all the peasants in the universe. She then desired him to remember his engagements to her, which withheld him from any new achievement till that was finished ; that he must therefore suspend his resentments till his return from her kingdom.

" It is but just and reasonable," said the knight; " and therefore Andres must wait with patience my return ; but when I do return, I do hereby ratify my former oath and promise, never to rest till he be fully satisfied and paid."

"I dare not trust to that," answered 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 ot 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 Andresâ€"

"There, friend," said he, "there is something for thee; on my word, we have all of us a share of thy mischance."

" What share V said Andres.

" Why, the cursed mischance of parting with this bread and cheese to thee ; for my head to a halfpenny, I may Jive to want it; for thou must know, friend of mine, that we, the squires of knights-errant, often pick our teeth 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 shoulder at Don Quixote, "Hark ye, you Sir Knight-errant," cried he, "if ever you meet me again in your travels, which I hope you never shall, though I were torn in pieces, do not trouble me with your foolish help, 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 laughter, lest they should raise his anger to a dangerous height.

CHAPTER XXVII.

What hefel Don Quixote and his company at ike inn.

When they had eaten plentifully they left that place, and travelled ail that day and the next without meeting anything worth notice, till they came to the inn, which was so frightful a sight to poor Sancho, that he would willingly not have gone in, but could by no meaua tvoid it. The innkeeper, the hostess, her daughter, and their servant

• Near Ui« ?»ltto o£ a fartbing.

t



Jtlaritornes, met Don Quixote and his squire with a very hearty "welcome. Tlie knight received them with a face of gravity and approbation, bidding them prepare him a bettter bed than their last entertainment afforded him.

"Sir," said the hostess, "pay us better than you did then, and you ehall have a bed for a prince."

And upon the knight's promise that he would, she promised him a tolerable bed in the large room where he lay before. He presently undressed, and being heartily crazed in body as well as in mind, he went to bed. He was scarcely got to his chamber, when the hostess flew suddenly at the barber, and catching him by the beardâ€"

" On my life," said she, *' you shall use my tail no longer for a beard; pray, sir, give me my tail; my husband wants it to stick his comb into ; and my tail I will have, sir."

The barber would not part mth it, for all her tugging, until the licentiate bid him comply; for there was no farther need of it for a disguise, as he might now appear in his own shape, and tell Don Quixote, that, being robbed by those thieves, the galley-slaves, he had fled to this inn ; and, if he should ask for the princess's squire, they would tell him that she had despatched him before, with advice to her subjects, that she was on the road, and bringing with her their common deliverer. The tail was accordingly surrendered willingly to th^ hostess, together with all the other ai^purtenances she had lent them with a view to Don Quixote's enlargement. They would not distmb the knight, who slept very soundly, for his distemper wanted rest more than meat; but they diverted themselves with the hostess's account of his encounter with the carriers, and of Sancho's being tossed 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 innkeeper took him up.

"Sir," said he, "you cannot make 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-time, a great many of the reapers come to drink here in the heat of the day, and he that can read best among us takes up one of these books, and all the rest of us, sometimes thirty or more, sit round about him and listen with such pleasure that we think neither of 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, husband," said the hostess; "for then we Bhould have some rest; for at all other times you are so out of humour and so snappish tbat we lead a sad life with you."

" And what think you of thia matter, young miss?" said the curate to the innkeeper's daughter.

" Alack-a-day, sir," said she, " I do not umlerstand those things, and yet I love to hear them; but I do not like that frightful ugly

T. 9



fighting that so pleases my father. Indeed, the sad lamentatious of the poor knights for the loss of their mistresses sometimes makes me cry like anything."

"I suppose, then, young gentlewoman," said Dorothea," you will je tender-hearted, and will never let a lover die for you."

'" I do not know what may hayjpen as to that," said the girl; " but this I know, that I will never give anybody reason to call me tigress and lioness, and I do not know how many other ugly names, as those ladies are often called ; and I think they deserve yet worse, so they do; for they can never have soul nor conscience to let such fine gentlemen die or run mad for a sight of them. What signifies al» their coyness] If they are civil women, why do not they marry them ; for that is all their knights would be at T

" Hold your prating, mistress," said the hostess," how came you to know all this % It is not for such as you to talk of these matters."

"The gentleman only asked me a question," said she, "and it would be uncivil not to answer him."

" It is mighty well," said the priest; " pray, landlord, bring me those books, for I have a mind to see them."

" With all my heart," answered the host; and going to his chamber he brought out a little old cloak-bag with a padlock and chain to it, and opening it, took out three large volumes, and some manuscript papers written in a fine character. The tifle of the first was Don Cirongilio of Thrace; the second Felixmarte of Hircania; and the third was the history of the great Captain GonQalo Hernaudes de Corduba, and the life of Diego Garcia de Paredes, bound together.* The curate, after reading the titles, turned to the barber, and told him they wanted now Don Quixote's housekeeper and his niece.

"I shall do as well," said the barber ; "for I can find the way to the backyard, or to the chimney; where there is a good fire that will do their business."

" Business!" said the innkeeper, " I hope you would not bum my booksf

" 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 phleg-matics."

" Schismatics, you mean," said the barber.

" I mean so," said the innkeeper; " and if you must bum any, let it be this of Gonsalo Hernandes and Diego Garcia ; for you should sooner burn one of my children than the others."

" These books, honest friend," said the curate, " that you appear so concerned for are senseless rhapsodies of falsehood and folly; and this which you so despise is a true history, and contains a true account of two celebrated men. The first by his bravery and courage purcliased immortal fame, and the name of the Great General, by

* These two last were not fabulous heroes, though romantic authors have added much of fable to their true histor?



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 defended the passage of a bridge against an immense army. Several other great actions aro 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 have eclipsed your Hectors, Acbilleses, and Orlandos, with all their heroic exploits."

" That's a fine jest, truly," said the innkeeper; " my father could have told you another tale, sir. Holding a mill-wheel! why, is that such a mighty matter 1 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-cods, of which the children make little puppet-friars ; and read how at another time he charged a most mighty and powerful army of above a million and six hundred thousand fighting 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 there, going by water one day, was assaulted by a fiery serpent in the middle of the river ; he presently leaped nimbly upon her back, and, hanging by her scaly neck, grasped her throat fast with both his arms, so that the serpent, finding herself almost strangled, was forced to dive into the water to save herself, and carried the knight, who would not quit his hold, to the very bottom, where he found a stately palace and such pleasant gardens that it was a wonder ; and straight the serpent turned into a very old man, and tuld him such things as were never heard nor spoken. A fig for your Great Captain and your Diego Garcia!"

Dorothea, hearing this, said softly to Cardenio, that the host was capable of making a second part to Don Quixote.

" I think soo too," cried Cardenio, " for it is plain he believes every tittle contained in those books ; nor can all the Carthusian friars ic the world persuade him otherwise,"

" I teU thee, friend," said the curate, " there were never any such persons as your books of chivalry mention upon the face of the earth ; your Felixmarte of Hircania and your Cirongilio of Thrace •re all but chimeras and fictions of idle and luxuriant wits, Avho wrote them for the same reason that you read theui, because they had nothing else to do."

"Sir," said the innkeeper, "you must angle with another 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, ta 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 1 licensed by authority from the privy council' 4pd do you think th?yt they would permit so many uutruUia to t



printed, and such a number of battles and enchantments, to set us all a-m adding 1"

" I have told you already, friend," replied the curate, "that this \& licensed for our amusement in our idle hours: for the same reason that tennis, billiards, chess, and other recreations are tolerated, that men may find a pastime for those hours they cannot find employment for. Neither could the Government foresee this inconvenience from such books that you urge, because they could not reasonably suppose any rational person would believe their absurdities. And were this a proper time, I could say a great deal in favour of such writings; and how, with some regulations, they might be made both instructive and diverting. But I design upon the first opportunity to communicate my thoughts on this head to some that may redress it. In the meantime, honest landlord, you may put up your books, and believe them true if you please, and much good may they do you. And I wish you may never halt 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 customs that supported the noble order are quite gone by."

Sancho came in about the middle of this conversation, and was much alarmed and very pensive at what he heard, that knights-errant were not now in fashion, and that all books of chivalry were mere lies and fooleries : and he resolved with himself to wait the event of this expedition oi his master's, and, if it did not succeed as happily as he expected, to leave him, and return home to his wife and children, and to his accustomed labour.

The innkeeper was carrying away the cloak-bag and the books ; but the priest said to him, " Pray stay, for I would fain see what papers those are that are written in so fair a character."

The host took them out, and having given them to the priest to read, he found about eight sheets in manuscript, entitled, in large letters, The Novel of tlie Curious Impertinent. The priest having .(«ad three or four lines to himself, said, " Really, I like the title and beginning of this novel so well, that I am disposed to read it ihrough."

To which the innkeeper answered, " Your reverence may well venture to read it; for I assure you that some of my guests who have read it liked it mightily, and begged it of me, with great earnestness; but I would not part with it, designing to restore it to the person who, through f orgetfulness, left behind him this cloak-bag, with these books and papers ; for perhaps their owner may come this way again some time or other; and though I shall miss them heavily, in faith, I will restore them; for, though 1 am an innkeeper, thank God I am a Christian."

" You are much in the right, friend," said the priest; " neverthe-iess, if the novel pleases me, you must give me leave to take a copy of it."

" With all my heart," answered the innkeeper.

While the landlord and priest were talking, Cardenio bad taken



up the novel, and being likewise pleased with it, he desired the priest to read it aloud, that they might all hear it.

" I will," said the priest, " if we had not better spend our time in sleeping than in reading."

" It will be as well for me," said Dorothea, " to pass the time in listening to some story; for my spirits are not yet so composed, as to permit me to sleep, though it were needful."

" Well then," said the priest, " I will read it, if only for curiosity; .vnd perhaps we may be requited by something that is entertaining."

Master Nicholas and even Sancho joined in the request; aud the priest, perceiving that he should give them all pleasure, and receive some himself, said. " Be ye all attentive then, for the novel begins thus."

CHAPTER XXVin.

In which is recited the Novel of the Curious Impertinent,

In Florence, a rich and celebrated city of Italy, in the province called Tuscany, lived Anselmo and Lothario, two gentlemen of fortune and quality, and so closely united in the bands of amity, that all who knew them styled them, by way of eminence and distinction, the Two Friends. They were both bachelors, young, of the same age, and of similar manners ; a foundation sufficient for reciprocal friendship. It is true, indeed, that Anselmo was more inclined to ladies' society than Lothario, who was fonder of country sports; but, upon occasion, Anselmo neglected his own pleasures, to pursue those of Lothario; and Lothario quitted his, to follow those of Anselmo : and thus their inclinations went hand in hand, with such harmony, that no clock kept more exact time. Anselmo fell desperately in love with a beautiful young lady of rank in the same city, called Camilla, daughter of such good parents, and herself so good, that he resolved, with the approbation of his friend Lothario, without whose advice he did nothing, to ask her of her father in marriage. It was Lothario who carried the message, and it was he who concluded the match, much to the advantage of his friend; and Camilla was so satisfied with having obtained Anselmo for her husband, that she ceased not to give thanks to Heaven, and to Lothario, by whose means such good fortune had befallen her.

For some days after the wedding, days usually dedicated to mirth, Lothario_ frequented his friend Anselrao's house as he was wont to do, striving to honour, please, and entertain him to the utmost of his power; but the nuptial season being over, and compliments of congratulation at an end, he began to remit the frequency of his visits, thinking, as all discreet men should, that to frequent the houses of friends, when married, in the same free manner as when they were single, was not decorous. For though true friendship neither can nor ought to be suspicious in anything, yet so nice is the honour of a married man, that it may suflfer even by the intimacy of a friend.



Anselmo took notice of Lothario's remissness, and complained of it greatly, telling liim, that, had he suspected that his marriage would have been the occasion of their not being as much together as before, it should never have taken place; and since, by the entire harmony between them, while both were bachelors, they Lad acquired the appellation of the Two Friends, he desired he would not suffer so honourable and pleasing a title to be lost, by over-acting the cautious part. Therefore he besought him to return, if such a term might be used between them, and be joint master of his house, and come and go as heretofore ; assuring him, that his wife Camilla had no other pleasure, or will, than what he desired slie should have; and that, knowing how sincerely and ardently they loved each other, she was surprised and mortified at his shyness.

To these, and many other reasons, which Anselmo urged to Lothario, to persuade him to visit his house as usual, Lothario replied with so much prudence, discretion, and judgment, that Anselmo rested satisfied with the good intention of his friend; and it was agreed, that he should dine with him two days in a week, besides holidays: but though this was concerted between them, Lothario resolved to act in the manner he should think most conducive to the honour of his friend, whose reputation was dearer to him than his own. He said, and he said justly, that a married man, on whom Heaven has bestowed a beautiful wife, should be as careful what male personages he admits to his house, as what female friends she converses with abroad. On many of the days agreed upon therefore he busied and employed himself about such things as he pretended were indispensable: and thus the time passed on, in complaints on the one hand, and excuses on the other.

One day, however, as the two friends were walking in a meadow in the suburbs of the city, Anselmo addressed Lothario in words to this efi"ect: " I am fully sensible, Lothario, that I can never be thankful enough to God for the blessings he has bestowed upon me ; first, in making me tiie son of such excellent parents, and giving me, with so liberal a hand, what men call the goods of nature and fortune, and especially in having bestowed upon me such a friend as yourself, and such a wife as Camilla; two jewels, which, if I value not as highly as 1 ought, I value, at least, as highly as I am able. Yet, notwithstanding all these advantages, which are usually sufficient to make men live contented, I am the most uneasy and dissatisfied man in the whole world; having been for some time past harassed and oppressed with a desire, so strange, and so much out of the common track of other men, that I wonder at myself, and blame and rebuke myself for it, when I am alone, endeavouring to stifle and conceal it even from my own thoughts; and yet I have succeeded no better in these endeavours at self-concealment, than if I had made it my business to publish it to all the world. And since, in short, it must one day be disclosed to some one or other, I would fain have it lodged in the archives of your breast; not doubting but that, through your secresy, and friendly application to relieve me. I shall soi^n be |i'ee4 from tlli^



vexation it gives me, and my joy will rise to as liigh a pitch by your diligence, as my discontent has done by my own folly."

Lothario was in anxious suspense at Anselmo's discourse, being wholly unable to guess at what he aimed, by so tedious a preparation md preamble ; and though he revolved in his imagination what desire it could be, that gave his friend so much disturbance, he still shot wide of the mark; and, to be rid of the perplexity into which tbis suspense threw him, he said to Anselmo, that it was doing a notorious injury to the warmth of his friendship, to seek for roundabout ways to acquaint him even with his most hidden thoughts, since he might depend upon him, either for advice to suppress, or assistance to support them.

" I have no doubt of it," answered Anselmo; " and in this confidence I will tell you, that the thing, which disquiets me, is a desire to know, whether my wife Camilla be as good and as perfect as I imagine her to be ; and I cannot be thoroughly informed of this truth, but by trying her in such a manner, that the proof may manifest the perfection of her goodness, as fire does that of gold. For it is my opinion, my friend, that a woman is honest only so far as she is, or is not, courted and solicited: and that she alone is really chaste, who has not yielded to the force of promises, presents, and tears, or the continual importunities of persevering lovers. For, what thanks are due to a woman for being virtuous, when nobody persuades her to be otherwise] or what mighty matter, if she be reserved and cautious, who has no opportunity given her of going astray, and knows she has a husband, who will be sure to take away her life, should he once catch her transgressing? The woman, therefore, who is honest out of fear, or for want of opportunity, I cannot hold in the same degree of esteem with her, who, after solicitation and importunity, comes off with the crown of victory. So that, for these reasons, and for many more I could assign in support of my opinion, my desire is, that my wife Camilla may pass through these trials, and be purified and refined by the ordeal of courtship and solicitation, and that by some person worthy of placing his affections on her : and if she prove under this conflict (as I believe she will) unsullied, I shall applaud my matchless fortune : I shall then have it to say, that I have attained the utmost bounds of my wishes, and may safely boast, that the virtuous woman is fallen to my lot, of whom the wise man says, ' Who can find her f And even if the reverse of all this should happen, the satisfaction of being confirmed in my opinion will enable me to bear, without regret, the trouble so costly an experiment may reasonably give me. And, as nothing you can urge against my design can be of any avail towards hindering me from carrying it in execution, I would have you, my friend, dispose yourself to be the instrument of performing this work of my fancy. I will give you every opportunity, and you shall want for no means, that I can thank necessary, towards gaining upon a modest, virtuous, reserved, and disinterested woman. Among otlier reasons, which induce nie to trust this nice affair to your management, one is, ray being certain^



tbat, if Camilla should be weak, you will not push the victory to the last extremity, but only account that as done, which, for good reasons, ought not to be done; and thus I shall be wronged only in the intention, and the injury will remain hidden in the virtua of your silence, which, in what concerns me, will, I am assured, be eternal as that of death. Therefore, if you would have me enjoy a life that deserves to be called such, you must immediately enter upon this trial, not languidly and lazily, but with all the fervour and diligence my design requires, and with the confidence of assured friendship."

This was what Anselmo addressed to Lothario; who was so attentive, that, excepting what he is already said to have uttered, he opened not his lips till his friend had done ; but now perceiving that he was silent, after he had gazed at him earnestly, as if he had been looking at something he had never seen before, and which occasioned in him wonder and amazement, he said to himâ€"

" I cannot persuade myself, friend Anselmo, but that what you have been saying to me is all in jest; for, had I thought you in earnest, I would not have suffered you to proceed so far ; and, by not listening to you, I should have prevented your long harangue. I cannot but think, either that you do not know me, or that I do not know j'ou. But, no : I well know that you are Anselmo,^and you know that I am Lothario : the mischief is, that I think you are not the Anselmo you used to be, and you must imagine 1 am not the Lothario I ought to be ; for neither is what you have said to me becoming that friend of mine, Anselmo • nor is what you require of me to be asked of that Lothario whom you know. For true frieiads ought to prove and use one another, as the poet expresses it, ' u.ique ad aras ;' meaning, that they ought not to employ their friendship in matters against the law of God. If a heathen had this notion of fidendship, how much more ought a Christian to have it, who knows, that the divine friendship ouglit not to be forfeited for any human friendship whatever. And when a friend goes so far as to set aside his duty to Heaven, in compliance with the interests of his friend, it must not be for light and trivial matters, but only when the honour and life of his friend are !*t stake. Tell me then, Anselmo, which of these two are in danger, that I should venture to compliment you by undertaking a task, so detestable as that you require of me? Neither, assuredly: on the contrary, if I understand you right, you would have me take pains to deprive you of honour and life, and, at the same time, myself too of both. For, if I must do that which will deprive you of your honour, it is plain I take away your life, since a man, without honour, is worse than if he were dead : and I being the instrument, as you would have me to be, of doing you so much harm, shall I not bring dishonour \ipon myself, and, by consequence, rob myself of life] Hear me, friend Anselmo, and have patience, and forbear answering, until I have done urging what I have to say, as to what your desire exacts of me; for there will be time enough for you to reply, and for me to hear you."

*' With all my heart," said Anselmo; " eay what you please."



Then Lothario went on, " Methinks, 0 Anselmo, you are at thia time in the same disposition as the Moors, whom you cannot convince of the error of their sect, by citations from Holy Scripture, or by arguments drawn from reason, or founded upon articles of faith; but you must produce examples that are plain, easy, intelligible, demonstrative, and undeniable, with such mathematical proofs as cannot be denied ; as ' If from equal parts we take equal parts, those that remain will also be equal.' And, when they do not comprehend this in words, as in reality they do not, you must sliow it to them with your hands, and set it before their very eyes; and, after all, nothing can convince them of the truths of our holy religion. In this very way and method must I deal with you; for this desire, which possesses you, is so extravagant and beyond the least shadow of reason, that I look upon it as misspending time, to endeavour to convince you of your folly; for, at present, I can give it no better name. Nay, I am even tempted to leave you to your indiscretion, as a punishment of your preposterous desire : but the friendship I have for you will not let me deal so rigorously, nor will it consent that I should desert you, when you are in such manifest danger of undoing yourself. And, that you may clearly see that this is the case, say, Anselmo, have you not told me, that I must solicit her that is reserved, persuade her that is virtuous, bribe her that is disinterested, and court her that is prudent % â€"yes, you have told me so. If then you know, that you have a reserved, virtuous, disinterested, and prudent wife, what is it you would have more ? And if you are of opinion she will come off victorious from aU my attacks, as doubtless she will, what better titles do you think to bestow on her afterwards, than those she has already] or what will she be more then, than she is now % Either you do not take her for what you pretend, or you do not know what it is you ask. If you do not take her for what you say you do, to what purpose would you try her, and not rather suppose her guilty, and treat her as such % But, if she be as good as you believe her to be, it is impertinent to try experiments upon truth itself, since, when that is done, it will remain but in the same degree of esteem it had before. And therefore we must conclude, that to attempt things, from which mischief is more likely to ensue, than any advantage, is the part of rashness and in-consideration; and especially when they are such as we are in no respect forced or obliged to attempt, and when it may be easily seen at a distance, that the enterprise itself is downright madness. Difficult things are undertaken for the sake of God, of the world, or of both together: the first are enterprised by the saints, who endeavour to live a life of angels in human bodies: the second by those who traverse boundless oceans, visiting various climates, and many foreign nations, to acquire what are usually called the goods of fortune : and lastly, those wliich are undertaken for the sake of God and the world together, are the actions of brave soldiers, who if they espy in the enemy's wall a breach, though no bigger than may be made by a single cannon-ball, laying aside all fear, without deliberating, or regarding the manifest danger that threatens them, and borne upon the wings of desire to act in defence of their aith, their country, and their



king, will throw themselves intrepidly into the midst of a thousand opposing deaths that await them. These are the difficulties which are commonly attempted; and it is honour, glory, and advantage, to attempt them, though so full of dangers and inconveniences. IjUt that, whicli you would have attempted and put in execution, will neither procure you the favour of Heaven, nor the goods of fortune, nor reputation among men. For, supposing the event to answer your desires, you will be neither happier, richer, nor more honoured than you are at present: and, if you should miscarry, you will find yourself in the most miserable condition that can be imagined; for then it will avail you nothing to think, that nobody knows the misfortune that has befallen you: it wiU sufficiently afflict and undo you, to know it yourself. And, as a farther confirmation of this truth, I will repeat a stanza from the famous poet Louis Tansilo, at the end of his first part of the " Tears of Saint Peter:"â€"

" When conscious Peter saw the blushing eaat| He felt redoubled anguish in his breast, And, though by privacy sccur'd from blame, Saw his own guilt, and seeing died with sbam>}. For generous minds, betray'd into a fault, No witness want, but self-condemning thought* To such the conscious earth alone and skies Supply the place of thousand prying eyes."

And therefore its being a secret will not prevent your sorrow, but rather make it perpetual, and be a continual subject for weeping, ii not tears from your eyes, tears of blood from your heart. But I have still something more to say upon this subject; which, I hope, will bringyou to a full conviction of the great error you are going to commit. "Tell me, Anselmo: if Heaven, or good fortune, had made you master and lawful possessor of a superlatively fine diamond, of the goodness and beauty of which all jewellers, who had seen it, were fully satisfied, and should unanimously declare, that, in weight, excellence, and beauty, it equalled whatever the nature of such a stone is capable of, and you yourself should believe as much, as knowing nothing to the contrary: would it be right that for some wild freak you should place the diamond between the anvil and the hammer, and, by mere dint of blows, try whether it was as hard, and as fine, as it was thought to be % And further, supposing this put in execution, and that the stone resist so foolish a trial, would it acquire thereby any additional value or reputation? and, if it should break, as it might, would not all be lost % yes, certainly, and its owner pass for a simple fellow in the opinion of everybody. Make account then, friend Anselmo, that Camilla is an exquisitely fine diamond, both in your own opinion, and in that of other people, and that it is unreasonable to put her to the hazard of being broken, since, though she should remain entire, "She cannot rise in her value ; and, should she fail, and not resist, consider in time what a condition you would be in without her, and how justly you might blame yourself, for having been the cause, both of her ruin and your own, There is no jewel in the ^orld



b'o valuable as a chaste and virtuous woman ; and all the honour of the sex consists in the good opinion the world has of them: and since that of your wife is unquestionably good, why will you bring this truth into doubt? Consider, friend, that woman is an imperfect creature, and that we should not lay stumbling-blocks in her path, to make her trip and fall, but rather remove them, and clear the w.iy before her, that she may, without hindrance, advance towards her proper perfection, which consists in being virtuous. Naturalists inform us, that the ermine is a little white creature with a tine fur, and that when the hunters are desirous of catching it, they make use of this artifice: knowing the way it usually takes, or the places it haunts, they spread those places with dirt, and then frighten the creature with noise, and drive it towards them ; and when the ermine comes to the dirt, it stands still, suffering itself rather to be taken, than, by passing through the mire, destroy and sully its whiteness, which it values more than liberty or life. The virtuous and modest woman is an ermine, and the vii-tue of chastity is whiter and cleaner than snow; and he who would not have her lose, but rather guard and preserve it, must take a quite different method from that which is used with the ermine : he must not lay in her way the mire of the courtship and assiduity of importunate lovers, since, perhaps, and without a perhaps, she may not have virtue and natural strength enough to enable her, of herself, to trample down and get clear of those impediments: bi;t must remove such things out of her way, and set before her eyes pure and unspotted virtue, and the charms of an unblemished reputation. A virtuous woman may also be compared to a mirror of crystal, shining and bright, but liable to be sullied and dimmed by every breath that comes near it. A virtuous woman is to be treated in the same manner as relics are treated, to be adored, but not handled ; or to be looked after and prized, like a fine garden full of roses and other flowers, the owner of which suffers nobody to valk among them, or touch them ; but only at a distance, and through iron rails, to enjoy their fragrancy and beauty.

" All that I have hitherto said, O Anselmo, relates only to you: it is now fit I should say something concerning myself ; and pardon me if I am prolix; for the labyrinth into which you have involved yourself, and from which you would have me extricate you, requires amplification. You look upon me as your friend, and yet, against all rules of friendship, would deprive me of my honour : nor is this all; you would have me take away yours. That you will rob me of mine is

flain ; for, when Camilla finds that I make love to her, as you desire should, it is certain she will look upon me as a man dishonourable and base, since I attempt, and do a thing so contrary to what I owe to myself, and to your friendship. That you would have me deprive you of yours there is no doubt: for Camilla, perceiving that I make addresses to her, must think I have discovered some mark of lightness in her character, which has emboldened me to declare to her my guilty

Eassion; and her looking upon herself as dishonoured, affects you as eing her husband. But I will teU the reason, why the husband of a vicious wife is justly dishonoured, though he does not know that he



is, nor has been at all in fault, or connived at, or given her occasion to become such: and be not weary of hearing me since the whole will redound to your own advantage.

" When God created our first parent in the terrestrial Paradise, as the Holy Scripture informs he, he infused a sleep into Adam; and, while he slept, he took a rib out of his left side, of which he formea our mother Eve : and, when Adam awaked, and beheld her, he said, ' This is flesh of my flesh, and bone of my bone.' And God said, ' For this cause shall a man leave father and mother, and they two shall be one flesh.' And at that time the holy sacrament of marriage was instituted, with such ties as death only can unbind. And tlu3 miraculous sacrament is of such force and virtue, that it makes two different persons to be but one flesh ; nay, it doth more in the properly married; for though they have two souls, they have but one will. And hence it is, that, as the flesh of the wife is the very same with that of the husband, the blemishes or defects thereof are participated by the flesh of the husband, though, as is already said, he was not the occasion of them. For, as the whole body feels the pain of the foot, or of any other member, because they are all one flesh; and the head feels the smart of the ankle, though it was not the cause of it: so the husband partakes of the wife's dishonour, by being the selfsame thing with her. And as the honours and dishonours of the world all proceed from flesh and blood, those of the vicious wife being of this kind, the husband must of necessity bear his part in them, and be reckoned dishonoured, though he may not know it. Behold, then,

0 Anselmo, the danger to which you expose yourself, in seeking to disturb the quiet your virtuous consort enjoys. Consider, through how vain and impertinent a curiosity, you would stir up the humours that now lie dormant in her chaste breast. Keflect, that what you adventure to gain is little, and what you may lose will be so great, that

1 will pass over in silence what I want words to express. But, if all I have said be not sufficient to dissuade you from your preposterous design, you must look out for some other instrument of your disgrace and misfortune, for I resolve not to act this part, though I should thereby lose your friendship, which is the greatest loss I am able to conceiva"

Here Lothario ceased, and Anselmo was so confounded and pensive, that, for some time, he could not answer him a word; but at last he said, " I have listened, friend Lothario, to all you have been saying to me, with the attention you may have observed; and in your arguments, examples, and comparisons, I plainly discover your great discretion, and the perfection of that friendship to which yon have attained: I see also and acknowledge, that, in rejecting your opinion, and adhering to my own, I fly the good and pursue the evil Tlie trial may be made with ease, only by your beginning, though but coldly and feignedly, to court Camilla, who cannot be so yielding and pliant, that her modesty should fall to the ground at the tirst onset; and with this faint beginning I shall rest satisfied, and you will have complied with what you owe to our friendship, not only by restoring me to life, but by persuading me not to be the cause of my own dishonour. And there is one reason especially, which obliges



you to undertake this business, wliichis, that, since I am determined to put this experiment in practice, it behoves you not to let me disclose my frenzy to another person, and so hazard tliat honour you are endeavouring to preserve: and though your own should lose

f[round in Camilla's opinion, while you are making love to her, it is of ittle or no consequence; since, in a short time, when we have experienced in her the integrity we expect, you may then discover to her the pure truth of our contrivance; upon which you will not fail to regain your former credit with her. And since you hazard so little, and may give me so much pleasure by the risk, do not decline the task, whatever inconveniences may appear to you in it, since, as I have already said, I shall give up the cause for determined, if you â– will but make a beginning attempt."

Lothario, perceiving Anselmo's fixed resolution, and not knowing what other examples to produce, nor what farther reasons to offer, to dissuade him from liis purpose, and finding he threatened to impart bis extravagant desire to some one else, resolved, in order to avoid a greater evil, to gratify him, and undertake what he desired ; but with a full purpose and intention so to order the matter, that, without giving Camilla any disturbance, Anselmo should rest satisfied. Therefore he returned for answer, that he should have 'vo occasion to communicate his design to any other person, for he would tako the business upon himself, and would begin it whenever he pleased. Anselmo embraced him with great tenderness and affection, thanki,)^ him for this offer, as if he had done him some great favour; and it vras agreed between them, that he should begin the very next day, when he would give him opportunity and leisure to talk with Camilla alone, and would also furnish him with money and jewels to present her with. He advised him to ply her with music, and to write verses in her praise, and, if he thought it too much trouble, he would himself make them for Lim. Lothario consented to everything, but with an intention very different from what Anselmo imagined. Things thus Bottled, they returned to Anselmo's house, where they found Camilla waiting with great uneasiness and anxiety for her husband, who had that day been absent longer than usual. Lothario, after awhile, retired to his own house, and Anselmo remained in his, as contented as Lotliario was pensive, reflecting what stratagem to invent to extricate himself out of this impertinent business : and at night he thought of a way by which to deceive Anselmo, without offending Camilla.

The next day Lothario went to dine with his friend, and was kindly received by Camilla, who always entertained and treated him with singular goodwill, knowing the affection her husband had for him. Dinner being ended, and the cloth taken away, Anselmo desired liim to stay with Camilla while he went upon an urgent affair, which he would despatch, and be back in about an hour and a half. Camilla entreated him not to go, and Lothario offered to bear him company : but Anselmo would listen to neither ; on the contrary, he importuned Lothario to wait his return ; for he had a matter of great importance to talk to him about, and desired Camilla to entertain his friend in the best way she could '5uring his absence. In fihort, he knew so



well how to counterfeit a necessity for leaving them, though that necessity proceeded only from his own folly, that no one could perceive it was feigned.

Anselmo went out, and Camilla and Lothario remained at table by themselves, the rest of tlie family being gone to dinner. Thus Lothario found himself fairly in the lists, as his friend had wished, with an enemy before him, able to conquer, by her beauty alone, a squadron of armed cavaliers : judge then, if he had no cause to fear. All he did, however, was to lean bis cheek on his hand, his elbow resting on the arm of his chair, and, begging pardon of Camilla for his ill manners, expressed a wish to be indulged with a little sleep. Camilla answered, that he would be more at ease on a couch than in a chair, and desired him to walk into an adjoining room, where he would find one: but he excused himself, and coritinued where he was till the return of Anselmo ; who, seeing him in the posture we have described, and Camilla retired to her chamber, believed, that, as he had stayed so long, they had found time sufficient both for conversation and repose, and he was impatient for Lothario to awake, that he might inquire into the nature of his success. Everything fell out to his wish. Lothario roused himself, they walked out together, and Anselmo having asked every question that suggested itself upon the subject of his curiosity, Lothario answered, that he had not thought it prudent, in the first opening scene, to -proceed too far, and had therefore contented herself with telling her how extremely handsome and fascinating she was, of which the whole town .seemed sensible, for it rung with the praises of her wit and beauty. This he thought a happy introduction, as it might serve to insinuate him into her good graces, and dispose her to listen favourably to him the next opportunity : audit was the same artifice which the devil employs, when he would seduce those who are on their guard, by transforming himself from an angel of darkness into an angel of light, and, setting plausible appearances before them, carries his point, if the cloven foot be not seen in the beginning. Anselmo was pleased and satisfied, and said, that he would give him a similar opportunity every day, without quitting his house, as he could easily contrive some employment, so that Camilla should never suspect his stratagem.

Many days passed, in which, though Lothario never addressed a word on the subject of love to Camilla, he told Anselmo, that he had made repeated attacks, without perceiving in her conduct the slightest tendency to weakness, or discovering a shadow of hope for himself: on the contrary, she threatened, if he did not relinquish his base design, to inform her husband of his perfidy.

" So far, it is well," said Anselmo : " she has withstood words; we must next see how she will withstand deeds : to-morrow I will give you two thousand crowns as a present for her, and as many more to purchase jewels as a lure : for women, however chaste, if they are handsome, love dress and decorations ; and if she resist this temptation, I shall be satisfied, and will give you no farther trouble." _

Lothario promised, that, as he had begun, he would go on Avith the enterprise, though he was sure he should come ofi" humilvxted and



repulsed. The next day he received the four thousand crowns, and with them four thousand confusions, not knowing what new lie to invent: however, he determined to tell his friend, that Camilla was as inflexible to presents as to words, and he need therefore weary himself no farther, for it was time wholly misspent. But fortune, which directed matters otherwise, so ordered it, that Anselmo, having left them together as usual, should shut himself up in an adjoining room, and by listening and looking through the keyhole, observe how they conducted themselves ; when he discovered, that for more than half an hour, Lothario never addressed a syllable to her, nor would he have done, apparently, had he listened for an age. Hence he concluded that all his friend had told him of Camilla's answers was mere fiction and falsehood: and to ascertain wliether it was so or not, he came out of the apartment, and, calling Lothario aside, asked, what news he had for him, and in what humour he found his wife. He replied, that he was resolved to pursue the business no farther, for she had treated him with such aspeiity and indignation, that he had not the courage to open his lips to her again upon the subject.

" Ah ! Lothario, Lothario!" cried Anselmo, " how treacherously you fulfil your engagement, and abuse the confidence I reposed in your affection ! I am just come from looking through the keyhole of that door, and have found that you have not spoken one word to Camilla; whence I infer that the preceding interviews have been the same, and that a first declaration is still to be made. If it be so, as 1 have no doubt, why thus deceive me ? Why industriously deprive me of the means I might otherwise find to compass my desire T

He said no more, but what he had said was suflBcient to abash and confound Lothario; who, thinking his honour concerned, by being detected in a falsehood, swore to his friend, that from that moment he would faithfully undertake to satisfy him, and would no longer

{irevaricate; which he would find, if he had the curiosity to watch lim ; but he might save himself the trouble of doing so, for he would enter on the task so earnestly, that there should be no room for suspicion.

Anselmo had faith in his protestations ; and that his opportunities might be secure, and less liable to surprise, he resolved to absent himself for a week, on a visit to a friend, who lived a few miles from the city, and who, as an excuse to Camilla, he contrived should give him a pressing invitation. Rash and unhappy Anselmo ! what is it you are doing ? what is it you are contriving 'i what is it you intend 1 Consider, you are acting against yourself, designing your own dishonour, contriving your own ruin.

The next day Anselmo went on his visit, having previously informed Camilla, that, during his absence, Lothario would take charge of tho house, and regularly dine with her, and he requested her to treat him with the same respect, as she would himself. Camilla, like a discreet ond virtuous woman, was troubled at this intelligence, and repre-eented to her husband how improper it was, that any one in his hbsence should take his place at his table ; and begged, u he were led to this step, from doubting her ability to manage the concerns of the

u



family, that lie would put her to the trial, and he should find that she •was equal to trusts of greater importance. Anselrno replied, that it was his pleasure it sliould be so, and she had nothing to do but to show a ready obedience. She accordingly acquiesced, though much against her inclination. Anselrno departed, and the next day Ldtliario came, and was received by Camilla with a kind and modest welcome. But she never exposed herself during the whole day to be left alone with him, being constantly attended by one or other of her servants, and especially by her own maid Leonela, to whom, as they had been brought up together from their infancy in her father's house, she was much attached, and who, upon her marriage with Anselrno, had been induced still to live with her.

During the first three days, Lothario never uttered a word to Camilla in furtherance of the project he had undertaken, though he had opportunities when the cloth was removed, and the servants were gone to make a hasty dinner; for so Camilla had directed; and Leonela was to dine every day before her mistress, that she might always be at her side: but she, having her thoughts intent upon other matters, and wanting to employ those hours, and every opportunity, to her own fjurposes and pleasures, did not always observe her mistress's injunctions, but often left them together, as if she had been expressly commanded to do so. NevertJieless the modest presence of Camilla, the gravity of her countenance, and her composed behaviour, awed Lothario, and bridled his tongue. But this influence of her virtues redounded to the greater prejudice of them both. For, if his tongue were still, his thoughts were in motion ; and he had leisure to contemplate, one by one, those manifold perfections of worth and beauty, of which Camilla was mistress, and which were sufficient to inspire love into a statue of marble, and how much more into a heart of flesh. Lothario gazed at her, when he might have talked to her. and considered how worthy she was to be beloved: and, by little and little, this consideration began to undermine the regard he had for Anselrno; and, a thousand times, he was on the point of withdrawing from the city, and going where his friend should never see him more, nor he see Camilla; but the pleasure he took in beholding her, had already thrown an obstacle in the way of his virtuous intention. He did violence to his feelings, however, and had frequent struggles with his heart to get the better of the pleasure he received in gazing on her charms. When alone, he blamed himself for his rashness; he called himself a perfidious friend and a bad Christian. But he also reasoned upon, and made comparisons between, his own conduct and that of Anselmo ; and the inference he drew was that Ansekno's folly and presumption were greater than his own infidelity; and if that which he had in his thoughts were but as excusable before God as it was before men, he should have no punishment to fear for his crime. In short, the beauty and accomplishments of Camilla, together with the opportunity which the thoughtless husband had put mto liis hands, quite overturned his integrity ; and without regarding anything but the gratification of his passion, at the expiration oi *hree days from the commencement of Anselmo's absence (during



which he had been in perpetual struggle with his desires) he commenced the plan of solicitation, and addressed such disordered, vehement, and passionate discourse to Camilla, that she was astonished, and could only rise from her seat and retire, being wholly incapable of uttering a word in reply. But Lothario's hope was not withered by this sudden blast, for hope being born with love, always lives with it. On the contrary, he was the more eager in the pursuit of his object; while she, discovering in him an evil she could never have imagined, was at a loss what conduct to adopt: but deeming it neither safe, nor decorous, to give him another opportunity, she resolved on writing to Anselmo, and that very night despatched a eervant to him with the following letter •,â€"

Camilla's Letter to Anselmo.

" It is commonly said, that an army makes but an ill appearance without its general, or a castle without its governor; but a young married woman, in my opinion, makes a stUI worse, without a husband, when there is no just cause for his absence. I am so uneasy without you, and so entirely unable to support this absence, that, if you do not return immediately, I must pass the remainder of the time at my father's house, though I leave yours without a guard; for the guard you left me, if you left him with that title, is, I suspect, more intent upon his own pleasure, than upon anything which concerns your interest: but, as you are wise, I shaU say no more, nor is it proper that I should."

Anselmo, on receiving this letter, inferred from it, that Lothario had begun the attack, and that Camilla must have received his addresses unfavourably, as he had wished; and, overjoyed at this good news, he sent her a verbal message, not to move from her house upon any account, for he should speedily return. Camilla was surprised at this answer, which increased the perplexity she was in : for now she durst neither stay in her ownhoiite, nor retire to her father's; since, in staying, she hazarded her honour, and in going, she would act contrary to her husband's positive command. At length, she resolved upon that, which proved the worst of all; namely, to remain, and not shun Lothario, lest it should give her servants occasion to talk ; and she was sorry for what she had written to Anselmo, fearing he might think his friend had observed signs of Lightness in her conduct, which had emboldened him to lay aside the respect he owed her. But, with conscious integrity, she trusted in God, and her own virtuous disposition, resolving to oppose silence to whatever Lothario should say to her, -vAdthout giving her husband any farther account, lest it should involve him in some quarrel or perplexity. She even began to consider how she might excuse him to Anselmo, when he eliould inquire into the cause of her wTiting such a letter.

With these thoughts, more honourable than prudent or beneficial, she sat the next day quietly listening to Lothario; who pleaded hia cause 80 warmly, that her firmness began to totter, and her vixtue

M 2



£64 I)ON QUIXOTE.

with difficulty gained access to her eyes, to prevent outward indica tions of a compassion, which liis tears and eloquence had awakened in her breast. All this Lothario observed, and it contributed to inflame him the more. In short, he thought it necessary, whilst he liad the time and opportunity, which Anselmo's absence afforded him, to shorten the siege of this fortress. He wept, entreated, flattered, and solicited with such earnestness and demonstrations ol sincerity, that all her reserve was quite overthrown, and he at last triumphed. Even Camil'a surrendered ; and what wonder, when even Lothario's friendship could not stand its ground! A striking example, showing us, that the passion of love is to be vanquished by flight alone, and that we must not pretend to grapple with so powerful an adversary, since, though the force be human, divine succours are necessary to subdue it. Leonela alone was privy to the frailty of her lady; for the two faithless friends, and new lovers, could not hide it from her. Lothario would not acquaint Camilla with Anselmo's project, nor with his having designedly given him the opportunity of arriving at the point he had gained, lest she should esteem his passion the les^ or should think he had made love to her by compulsion, rather tha| the more flattering one of choice.

In a few days, Anselmo returned. He went in search of Lothario, and found him at home. They embraced each other, and he eagerly inquired, " What news as to my life or death"*"

" The news I have for you, my friend," said Lothario, " is, that you have a wife worthy to be the pattern and crown of all good women. The words I addressed to her were given to the wind; my offers have been despised, my presents refused ; and of my feigned tears she made a jest and mockery. In short, as Camilla is the sum of all beauty, i>o is she the repository in which goodness, modesty, reserve, and eveiy virtue which can make a woman praiseworthy and happy, are treasured. Therefore, friend, take back your money, which I had no occasion to use; for Camilla's integrity is not to be shaken by things so mean as promises and presents. Be satisfied, Anselmo, and seek for no farther proof; and since you have safely passed the gulf of those doubts and suspicions men are apt to entertain of women, do not expose yourself again on the deep sea of new disquiets, nor make a fresh trial, with another pilot, of the soundness and strength of the vessel, which Heaven has allotted you for your passage throiigh the ocean of this world : but consider yourself arrived safe in port; and, secure with the anchor of serious consideration, lie by, until you are required to pay that duty, from which no human rank is exempted."

Anselmo was entirely satisfied with Lothario's account, and believed it as implicitly as if it had been delivered by an oracle. But he desired him nevertheless not to give over the chase, though he should continue it merely out of curiosity and amusement: adding, however, that, for the future, he need not ply the vessel so close. All he had now to wish was, that under the name of Chloris, he would write some verses in her praise, and he would give Camilla to understand that he was in love with a lady, to whom he liad given that •uame, tb^t heaaight celebrate her with the regard due to her modesty



and, if he was averse to the trouble of writing the verses himself, ha would do it for him.

" There will be no occasion for that," said Lothario, " for the Muses are not so unpropitious but that, now and then, they make me a visit. 'J'ell Camilla your thoughts of my counterfeit passion, and leave the verses to me; which, if they should not be as good as the subject deserves, shall, at least, be the best I can write,"

This agreement being settled between the impertinent husband and the treacherous friend, Anselmo returned to his house, and inquired of Camilla the occasion of her writing the letter she had sent him. Camilla answered, that she fancied Lothario looked at her with a little more licence than he was accustomed to do when Anselmo was at home ; but that now she was undeceived, and believed it to have been mere imagination; for, of late, he had avoided all opportunities of being alone with her. Anselmo replied, that she might be very secure upon the subject; for, to his knowledge, Lothario was in love with a young lady of condition in the city, whom his muse celebrated under the name of Chloris; and, though it were not so, she had nothing to fear, considering Lothario's virtue, and the close friendship that subsisted between them. Had not Camilla been advertised, beforehand by Lothario, that this story of his love for Chloris was a fiction, and that he had told it Anselmo, that he might have an opportunity, now and then, of employing himself in the praises of herself, she had doubtless fallen into the desperate snare of jealousy: but, thus prepared, it gave her no disturbance.

Meantime her confidential servant, when she found that her mistress's conduct was not distinguished by the same purity as it used to be, had the assurance to introduce and conceal her own lover in the house, presuming that her lady, should she discover it, would not dare to complain. And thus another inconvenience attends the failings of mistresses, that they become slaves to their very servants, and are obliged to conceal their dishonesty, as was the case with Camilla; for, though she saw, not once only, but often, that Leonela entertained her lover, a young gentleman of tlie city, in the house, so far was she from daring to reprimand her, that she gave her opportunities of concealing him, and did all she could to prevent his being observed by her husband. But all their caution could not screen him from the eyes of Lothario, who seeing him one morning at break of day, coming out of the house, and not knowing who he was, thought at first it must be some apparition: but when he saw him steal off, muffling himself up, and concealing himself with care, he changed one foolish opinion for another, which would have been tlie ruin of them all, if Camilla had not remedied it. Lothario was so far fiom thinking that the man, whom he had discovered hurrying uut of Anselmo's house, at so unseasonable an hour, had come thither upou Leonela's account, that he did not so much as remember there was Buch a person as Leonela in the world. What he thought, was, that Camilla, as she had been easy and complying to him, was so to auotlier person: for this additional mischief attends an indiscreet woman, that her credit is weakened even with the man to whose entreatiei



she has surrendered her honour; and he is ready to believe, upon the slightest grounds, that she yields to new lovers with still greater facility.

All Lothario's good sense, and prudent reasonings, seem to have failed him upon this occasion: for, without making one proper, or even rational reflection, impatient, blinded with a jealous rage, and dying to be revenged on Camilla, who had offended him in nothing, he posted, without farther examination, to Anselmo before he was up, and said to himâ€"

" Anselmo, for several days past, I have struggled with myself, to keep from you what it is no longer possible or just to conceal. Know, then, that the fort is surrendered. I have de]a,yed discovering to you this truth, that I might satisfy myself, wiiether it proceeded from any lightness in your wife, or that she had a mind to try, if in the love which, with your connivance, I made to her, I was in earnest. I waited also to ascertain, whether she would give you an account of my solicitations, which, had she been what she ought, and we believed her to be, she would have done ; that however not being the case, I conclude she intends to keep the promise she has made, of giving me a meeting, the next time you are from home. Since the crime however is not yet committed, except in thought, I would not have you run precipitately to your revenge ; for, perhaps, between this and the time of executing her promise, she may change her mind, and repent. And therefore, as you have hitherto followed my advice, in whole or in part, follow and observe what I shall now give you, that, witliout the possibility of being mistaken, you may satisfy yourself, and then determine, upon the maturest deliberation, what is best to be done. Pretend an absence of three or four days, as you have done before, and contrive to hide yourself in the wardrobe, where the tapestry and other moveables may serve to conceal you: and you will see with your own eyes, as I shall with mine, what are Camilla's intentions; and if they incline to wickedness, as is rather to be feared than hoped, you may, with secrecy and caution, be the avenger of your own injury."

Anselmo was confounded, astonished, thunderstruck at Lothario's declaration, which came upon him at a time when he least expected it. He stood silent for awhile, his eyes fixed motionless on the ground, and ?.t length said, " Lothario, you have executed faithfully what I expected from your friendship ; I shaU. follow your advice in everything; do what you please, but be as secret as so unlooked for an event requires."

Lothario promised him that he would ; but scarcely had he quitted the room, when he began to repent of everything he had said, and was convinced he had acted a most absurd part, since he might have revenged himself on Camilla by a less cruel and less dishonourable method. He cursed his want of sense, condemned his heedless resolution, and was at a loss how to undo what was done, or to get decently out of the scrape. At last he resolved to discover all to Camilla ; and, as he could not long want an opportunity of doing it, that very day he found her alone \ but, immediately, on his coraiug



In, before he could say a word to her, she thus accosted him : " My dear Lothario, I have an uneasiness at heart, which tortures me to such a degree, that I feel as if it were ready to break: and, indeed, I am surprised it does not; for Leonela's impudence is arrived to such a pitch, that she, every night, entertains her lover in the house, to the extreme prejudice of my reputation, which is thus exposed to the censure of whoever may see him go out at such an unseasonable hour, and what adds to my concern is, that I dare not chastise, or so much as reprimand her for her effrontery; for her being in the secret of our correspondence, puts a bridle into my mouth, and obliges me to conceal hers; from which I cannot help fearing some unlucky event wiU befaU us."

At first, when Camilla said this, Lothario believed it a stroke of cunning to deceive and persuade him, that the man ke saw going out was Leonela's gallant, and not hers ; but, perceiving that she wept, and afflicted herself, and begged his assistance in finding a remedy for the evil, he changed his opinion, and was filled with confusion and sorrow for what he had done. He desired however that she would make herself easy, for he would soon take an effectual course to restrain Leonela's insolence. He then informed her wliat the furious rage of jealousy had instigated him to do, and how it was agreed, that Anselmo should hide himself in the wardrobe, to be an eye-witness, from thence, of her disloyalty to him. He begged pardon for this madness, and requested her advice how to counteract what was done, and extricate, them out of the perplexed labyrinth in which his rashness had involved them. Camilla was astonished at what she heard, and rei)roached him for the ill thoughts he had entertained of her; at the same time setting before him, with many and discreet reasons, the folly and inconsiderateness of the step he had taken. Butj as women have naturally a more ready invention, be it for good or bad purposes, than men, though it often fails them in premeditated schemes, Camilla instantly hit upon a way to remedy an affair seemingly incapable of all remedy; and bid Lothario take care that Anselmo hid himself the next day in the place he had proposed : and, without letting him into the whole of her design, she only desired, when Anselmo was at his post, tliat he would be ready at Leonela's call, and take care to answer to whatever she should say to him, just as he would do, if he did not know that Anselmo was listening. Lothario pressed lier to explain herself further, that lie might, with the more safety and caution, be upon his guard in all that he might deem necessary. ''No other guard," said Camilla, " is necessary, but that you answer directly to what I shall ask you." For she was not willing to let him into the secret of what she intended to do, lest he should disapprove of the plan, which she thought 80 good, and devise some other, not likely to prove equally successful.

Lothario then left her; and, the next day, Anselmo, under pretence of going to his friend's villa, quitted the house, but turned j^resently back to conceal himself; which he might conveniently do, tor Camilla and Leonela were out of the way on purpose. When



assured of the fact that he was behind the hangings, they entered the room, and instantly Camilla, heaving a deep sigli, said, " Ah, my dear Leonela, would it not be better, before I carry into execution, that which I would keep secret from you, lest you should endeavour to prevent it, that you should take Anselmo's dagger, and plunge it into this infamous heart? But no ; it is not reasonable that I should bear the punishment of another's fault. I will first know, from his own hps, what the bold eyes of Lothario saw in me that could give him the assurance to disclose to me so wicked a passion, in contempt of his friend's honour and my own. Go to the window, Leonela, and call him; for doubtless he is waiting in the street, in the hope of succeeding in his villanous purpose. But first my cruel, but honourable intentions shall be executed."

"Ah, dear madam," answered the cunning and well-instructed Leonela, " what is it you intend to do Avith this dagger ? Is it to take away your own life, or Lothario's ? Wliichever of the two it be, it will redound alike to the ruin of your credit and fame. A mischief upon my master Anselmo, for giving this impudent fellow such an ascendant in his house. But pray, madam, if you kill him, as I imagine you intend, what shall we do with him after he is dead ]"

" Do with him T answered Camilla, " why, leave him here for Anselmo to bury; for it is but just he should have the agreeable trouble of interring his own infamy. Go, cail him, I say; for every moment I lose in delaying to take revenge for my wrong, methinks I ofTend against the loyalty I owe my husband."

All this Anselmo listened to, and, at every word Camilla spoke, his sentiments changed. But when he understood that she intended to use the dagger against Lothario's life, he was inclined to prevent it, by coming out and discovering himself; but was withheld by the strong desire he had to see what would be the end of so brave and virtuous a resolution : purposing, however, to appear time enough to prevent mischief. Camilla was now seized with a strong fainting fit; and throwing herself upon a couch, Leonela began to weep bitterly, bewailing, "All! woe is me! that I should be so unhappy as to see die here, between my arms, the flower of the human virtue, the crown of good women, the pattern of chastity!" with other expressions of similar import, that nobody, who had heard her, but would have taken her for the most compassionate and faithful damsel in the universe, and her lady for another persecuted Penelope. Camilla soon recovere,d from her swoon, and, when she was come to herself, she said, " Why do you not go, Leonela, and call the most faithless of all friends that the sun ever beheld, or the night ever covered? Be quick, run, fiy! let not the fire of my rage be spent by delay, and the just vengeance I mean to take, pass off in empty threats and revilings."

"lam going," said Leonela; "but, dear madam, you must first give me that dagger; lest when I am gone, you should do a thin" which might give those who love you cause to weep all the days ol their lives."

" po, dear Leonela. and fear not," said Camilla; ' I will not do it



for though I am resohite in defending my honour, I shall not act like that Lucretia, of whom it is said, that she killed herself without having committed any fault, and without first taking his life, who was the cause of her misfortune. Yes, I will die, if die I must; but it shall be after I have satiated my revenge on the WTetch who is the occasion of my being now here to bewail his insolence, which no misconduct of mine has in the slightest degree authorized."

Leonela wanted a great deal of entreaty before she would call Lothario ; but at last she went, and while she was away, Camilla, as if she was talking to herself, said, " Good God! would it not have been more advisable to have dismissed Lothario, as I have often done before, than to give him reason to think ill of me, though it be only for the short time that I defer the undeceiving him ? Doubtless it woidd have been better ; but neither shall I be revenged, nor will my husband's honour be satisfied, if from an attempt, to which his wicked thoughts alone have led him, he escape. But after all it would perhaps be a better step still to disclose the whole to Anselmo. I have already hinted the subject to him, in the letter I wrote while he was in the country ; and his neglecting to remedy the threatened mischief must be owing to his own purity of heart, and a blind confidence in Lothario, which would not let him believe that the least thought to the prejudice of his honour could be lodged in the breast of so faithful a friend; nor did I myself believe it for many days, nor should ever have believed it, had not his daring by presents, large promises, and continual tears, put it beyond all dispute." And she walked up and down the room with such disordered steps and strange gestures, the drawn dagger in her hand, that she seemed quite beside herself, and might have been taken for some desperate rufSan instead of a soft and delicate woman.

Anselmo, in perfect amazement, observed all this from behind the arras where he had hid himself, and he already thought what he had seen and heard more than sufficient to balance his suspicions, had they been greater than they were, and began to wish that Lothario might not come, for fear of some sudden disaster. Indeed, he was upon the point of discovering himself, of flying out to embrace and undeceive ids wife, when he was prevented by seeing Leonela return with his friend, whom Camilla no sooner beheld, than she drew with the dagger a long line between her and him, and said, " Take notice signor, of what I say : if you shall dare to pass this line, or even come near it, the moment I perceive the attempt, I will pierce my breast with this weapon ; and before you answer a word to this, hear what I have farther to say, and then reply as you please. In the first place, I would ask whether you know Anselmo, ray husband, and in what estimation you hold him % And in the next place, I would be informed whether you know me? The questions are not difficult, and may be answered promptly, without perturbation or study." Lothario was not so ignorant but that, from the instant Camilla desired him to advise Anselmo to hide himself, he guessed what she intended, and accordingly humoured her design so well, that tUey were ?.ble between them to make the counterfeit pass for



something more than truth; and he therefore answered in thia mannerâ€"

"I did not imagine, fair Camilla, that you called me hither to answer to things so wide of the purpose for which I supposed myself invited. But that you may not reproach me with not answering your questions, I reply that I know your husband Anselmo well, for we have been intimate from our tenderest years. Of our friendship I will say nothing, that I may not be a witness against myself of the wrong which love, that powerful excuse for greater faults, has led me to commit. You too I know, and prize as highly as he does; for were it otherwise, did you possess less excellence, I should not have acted so contrary to my duty as a gentleman, and so much against the holy laws of true friendship, which I have broken and violated, through the tyranny of that uncontrollable power I have mentioned."

" If you acknowledge so much," replied Camilla, "with what face, mortal enemy of all that justly deserves to be loved, dare you appear before her whom you know to be the mirror that reliects hira, and in whose affection you might have seen whether you had reasonable grounds on which to build your presumption? But ah, unhappy that I am! a light dawns upon me, leading me to discover what it was that made you forget yourself; it was^doubtless some indiscretion on my part, for I will not call it by the name of immodesty, since it proceeded not from design, but from some one of those inadvertences into which women frequently fall unawares when there is nobody present before whom they think they need be upon the reserve. But tell me, O traitor, when did I ever answer your addresses with any word or sign that could give you the least shadow of hope. When were your advances not repulsed and rebuked with rigour and severity ] When were your promises and presents believed or accepted 1 But knowing that no one can persevere long in an aflfair of love, unless it be kept alive by some hope, I take upon myself the blame of your impertinence ; and therefore I will chastise and inflict that punishment on myself which your ofi"ence merits. And to convince you that being so severe to myself, I could not possibly be otherwise to you, I have invited you hither to be a witness to tlae sacrifice I intend to make to the offended honour of my worthy husband, injured by you with the greatest imaginable deliberation, and by me through carelessness in not shunning the occasion, if occasion I gave, of countenancing in any way your wicked intentions. Yes, I will die, but I will die bearing with me the blood of one whose death shall entirely satisfy the thirst of that revenge which I partly enjoy already in the reflection that I shall have before my eyes, to what place soever I go, the sentence of impartial justice strictly executed on the villain who has reduced me to this desperate condition."

(Saying this, she flew at Lothario, with the drawn dagger, so quickly, so violently, and with such seeming earnestness, to stab him to the heart, that he was almost in doubt himself, whether the efforts were feigned or real; and was obliged to use his dexterity and etrength to prevent his being wounded. Indeed, she played the coun*



terfeit part so much to tlie life, that, to give this strange imposture a colour of truth, she resolved to stain it with her own blood. Perceiving, therefore, or pretending, that she could not wound Lothario, she said, " Since fortune denies to my just desires a complete satisfaction, it shall not defeat it entirely."

And struggling to free her dagger-hand, which was held by Lothario, she succeeded ; and, directing the point of the weapon to a part where it might give but a slight wound, she stabbed herself above the breast, near the left shoulder, and fell upon the floor as in a swoon. Leonela and Lothario were now in greater astonishment than before, and more at a loss what to think of the event, especially when they saw Camilla lying at her length, and bathed in her own blood. Lothario, friglited, and breathless, hastened to draw out the dagger; when, perceiving the wound had but Little depth, his fears vanished, and he could not help admiring anew the sagacity, prudence, and great ingenuity of the fair tragedian. And now, to act his part, he began a long and sorrowful lamentation over the body of Camilla, as if she were dead, imprecating heavy curses, not only on himself, but on him who had been the original cause of this calamitous scene; and, knowing that his friend Anselmo was listening to what passed, he uttered such tilings, that whoever had heard them, would have pitied him more than Camilla herself, though they had judged her to be really dead. Leonela took her in her arms, and having laid her on the couch, besought Lothario to procure, and introduce privately, some one to dress the wound; and was anxious for Ms advice and opinion, as to what should be said to Anselmo, should he unfortunately come home before it was healed. To this he replied, that she miglit say what slie

Eleased; that he was not in a condition to give advice worth following ; e bid her, however, endeavour to stanch the blood j and, as for him-seLf, he would go where he should never be seen more. And, with a show of much sorrow and concern, he left the house; but when he found himself alone, and unseen, he crossed himself repeatedly, in admiration of the cunning of Camilla, and the no less subtle behaviour of her maid. He was pleased, too, with reflecting, that now Anselmo must have a thorough assurance of his wife being a second Portia ; and he longed to be with him, that they might rejoice together at the imposture, so nearly resembling truth, that perhaps no artful disguise was ever carried farther,

Leonela, as desired, stopped the flowing of her mistress's blood, which was just as much as was necessary to give the wonted eff'ect to the stratagem; and washing the wound with a little wine, she bound it up as well as she could, uttering all the while such pathetic things in her praise, that Anselmo could not but believe his wife the very mirror of chastity. To those of Leonela, Camilla added her lamentations, calling herself poor-spirited and a coward, in that she had failed in resolution, at a time when she stood most in need of it, to deprive herself of a life which she so much abhorred. She asked her maid'a advice, whether she should disclose what had happened to her husband; and the maid advised that nothing should be said about it, ; since, if he knew it, he would be under the necessity of revenging



t72 DON QUIXOTE.

himself on Lothario, which would be attended with danger to himself ; and it was the duty of a good woman not only to avoid all occasion of involving her husband in a quarrel, but, as far as lay in her power, to prevent it. Camilla expressed her approbation of this advice, and said she would follow it; but then what could she say to Anselmo about the wound, which he must needs see. The maid affected to be at a loss here, observing, that, for her part, she could not tell a lie, even in jest.

" How, then, can I T replied Camilla, " who dare not invent, or persist in one, though my life were at stake % If we cannot contrive some means oi conquering this difficulty, it will be better to tell at once the whole truth, than be detected in a false story."

" Be in no pain, madam," answered Leonela, " about the matter; for, between this and to-morrow morning, I wiU study what is best to be done; and perhaps, the wound being where it is, he may not observe it, and Heaven may befriend us. Compose yourself, therefore, good madam ; endeavour to quiet your spirits, that my master, should he return, may not find you in this disorder; and leave the rest to my care, and to that of Heaven, which never fails to favour iust and honourable intentions."

Anselmo stood listening, with the utmost attention, to this tragedy of the death of his honour, which the actqrs represented with such strange and appropriate passions, that it seemed as if tiiey were transformed into the very characters they personated ; and he longed for night, that he might have an opportunity of escaping to his dear Lothario, and rejoice with him on finding, in the confirmed virtue of his wife, which the denouement evinced, so precious a jewel. The opportunity he wanted, they took care he should not be long without, and he did not fail to embrace it; and, having found his friend, it would be diflScult to describe the eagerness with which he embraced him, the satisfaction he expressed at his conduct, and the praises he heaped on Camilla. In Lothario, however, there were no signs of corresponding joy, for he could not but reflect how cruelly his friend was deceived, and how ungenerously he treated him. Anselmo observed that he did not partake of his joy; but he ascribed it to the wound Camilla had inflicted on herself, and of which he had been the occasion ; he therefore requested him to be in no pain on that account, for the wound could be but slight, as she had agreed with her maia upon concealing it; and as there was nothing to be feared, he hoped he would cast off his gloom, and be jocund with him, since it was by his means he found himself raised to the highest pitch of happiness he could wish to attain.

Anselmo, the most agreeably deceived man in the world, now led home by the hand the instrument, as he thought, of his glory, but, in reality, the perdition of his fame. The imposture was carried on for several months ; but fortune at last turned her wheel, and theiniqiiity till then so artfully concealed, came to light, and poor Anseliixo's luj-pertiaent Curiosity cost him his life.



CHAPTER XXIX,

ThA dreadful battle Don Quixote fought with certain mne-tkins.

There remained but little more of the novel to be read when Sancho Panza came running out of Don Quixote's chamber in a terrible fright, crying out, " Help, help, good people ! help my master ! He is just now at it tooth and nail with that same giant, the Princess Micomicona's foe; I never saw a more dreadful battle in my born days. He has lent him such a blow, that whip off went the giant's head, as round as a turnip."

" You are mad, Sancho," said the curate, starting up astonished; " is thy master such a wonderful hero as to fight a giant at two thousand leagues distance T

Upon this they presently heard a noise and bustle in the chamber, aud Don Quixote bawling out^, " Stay, villain ! robber, stay! since I have thee liere, thy scimitar snail but httle 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 1 though I believe it is after-meat mustard; for sure the giant is dead by this time, and giving an account of his iU life ; for I saw his blood run all about the iiouse, 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 lie bad been really engaged with some giant. But the best jest of all, he was all this time fast asleep ; for the thoughts of the adventure he had undertaken had so wrought on his imagination that his depraved fancy had in his sleep represented to him the kingdom of Micomicon and the giant ; and dreaming that he was then fighting him, he assaulted the wine-skins so desperately that he set the whole chamber afloat with good wine. The innkeeper, enraged to see the havoc, flew at Don Quixote with his fists ; and had not Cardenio and the curate taken him off, he had proved a giant indeed against tho knight. All this could not wake the poor Don, till the barber, throw-

* In Spain thej keep their wines in the skin of a goftt, sheep, or other beast, pitched withiii, uidsewed close without.



ing a bucket of cold water on him, wakened Lim from his sleeps thougli not from his dream.

Sanclio 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 now the giant's head that 1 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 tliat runs about the floor here."

" Well, well," said Sancho, " do not trouble me; I only tell you that I cannot find the giant's head, and my earldom ia gone after it; and so I am undone, like salt in water."

And truly Sancho's waking dream was as pleasant as his master's when asleep. The 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 ofi" 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 wineskins would want.

Don Quixote in the meanwhile, belie^ang lie had finished his adventure, and mistaking the curate, that held him by the arms, for the Princess ]\Iicomicona, fell on his knees befoi^ him, and with a respect due to a royal presence, " Now may your highness," said he, " great and illustrious princess, live secure, free from any further apprehensions from your conquered enemy ; and now I am acquitted of my engagement, since, by the assistance of Heaven, and the influence of her favour by whom I live and conquer, your adventure is so happily achieved."

" Did not I tell you so, gentlefolks ?" said Sancho ; " who is drunk or mad now ? See if my master has not already put the giant in pickle % I am an earl as sure as possible."

The whole comjiany (except the unfortunate innkeeper) were highly diverted at the extravagances of both. At last, the barber, Cardenio, and the curate, having with much ado got Don Quixote to bed, he presently fell asleep, being heartily tired ; and then they left him to comfort Sancho Panza for the loss of the giant's head; but it was no easy matter to appease the innkeeper, who was at his wit's end for the unexpected and sudden fate of his wine-skins.

The hostess in the meantime ran up and down the house crying and roaring : " In an ill hour," said she, " did this unlucky knight-errant come into my house ; I wish, for my part, I had never seen him, for he has been a dear guest to me. He and his man, his horse and his ass, went away last time without paying me a cross for their supper, their bed, their litter, and provender: and aU, forsooth, because he was seeking adventures. What, in the wide world, have we to do with his statutes of chivalry % If they obhge him not t« pay, they should obHge him not to eat neither. It was upon this score tliat the other fellow took away my 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 ^vith destroviuir mv wxuc-skins, and spiliiug



my liquor. But I will be paid, so I will, to the last maravedis, or I will disown my name, and forswear my mother." Her honest maid Maritornes seconded her furyj but Waster 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 restored her to her dominions, he should be sure of the best earldom in her dis-

{)osaL With this he buckled up again, and vowed "that he himself lad seen the giant's head, by the same token that it had a beard that reached down to his middle ; and if it could not be found, it must be hid by witchcraft, for everything went by enchantment in that house, as he had found to his cost when he was there before." Dorothea answered that she believed, him; and desired him to pluck up his spirits, for all things would be well.

Tranquillity being now restored, the priest was desirous of reading the remainder of the novel, for he saw that it drew towards a close, and the rest of the company wishing him to do so, to please both himself and them, he went on with the story as follows:â€"

Now it was that Anselmo, from the satisfaction he felt in the supposed virtue of his wife, begun to taste the sweets of that felicity, which content and security could give him; while Camilla looked with seeming displeasure on Lothario, that her husband might think he was an object rather of hatred to her than love. As a further disguise, Lothario ou his part begged his friend to excuse his coming to his house, since it was manifest that his presence »iave uneasiness to Camilla. But the deceived Anselmo would by nc means consent to this : and thus, in a thousand different ways, he trecame the contriver of his own dishoncur, while he thought he was laying up for himself an increasing store of happiness. As for Leonela, she was so pleased to find herself thr^ at liberty to follow her inclinations, that she grew regardless of e>,Tything.

One night, however, Anselmo heard somebody walking in her chamber, and being desirous of knowing who it was, he found, on attempting to go in, the door held against him. This increased his curiosity, and with an effort of strength he burst open the door, when, as he entered, he saw a man leap from the window into the street; but he was not quick enough to lay hold of him, or ascertain who he was, being prevented by Leonela, who clung about him, cryingâ€"

" Pray, dear sir, do not be angry, do not pursue the person who has escaped by the window : he came here on my account: he is, indeed he is, my husband."

Anselmo would not believe a word of what she said, and, blind with rage, he drew his poniard, protesting, if she did not tell him the whole truth, he would instantly put her to death. Terrified, and not knowing what she said, she answeredâ€"

" Do not kill me, sir, and I will tell you things of greater importance than you can imagine."

"Be quick, then, in your communication," said Anselmo, "or you arc a dead woman."' " In, my present agitation it is impossible," said Leonela] " wait till



to-morrow and you shall leam what will amaze you; but I assure you, sir, he who jumped out of the window is a young man of this city, who has given me a promise of marriage."

With this declaration Anselmo was in some degree pacified, and consented to wait the time she desired, not dreaming he should hear anything to the prejudice of Camilla, of whose virtue he was so satisfied and secure; but on quitting the room he took the precaution of locking up Leonela, telling her that she should not stir out of it till she had made the promised discovery. From the chamber of Leonela he went immediately to Camilla and related to her all that had passed, and the promise her maid had made to acquaint him with things of the utmost importance. It is needless to ask whether Camilla was disturbed at this intelligence: so greatly was she disturbed, that believing, and not without reason, that Leonela would disclose all she knew of her disloyalty, she had not the courage to wait the event of her suspicion, but that very night, when Anselmo was asleep, taking with her all her best jewels and what money slie could, she left the liouse without being perceived by any one, and hastened to Lothario, to whom she recounted what had passed, 1 egging him to conduct her to a place of safety, or fly with her to ft )me retreat in which they might live secure from her husband's pursuit. The confusion of Lothario at what she related was so great, that for awhile he could not answer a word,-much less resolve on what was to be done. At length, recovering himself, he determined on placing her in a convent of which the prioress was his sister, and Camilla consenting, he conducted her thither ^vith aU the expedition which the case required, and commending her to the friendly ofiices of the abbess, departed himself in haste from the city, without com-riunicating the occasion of his flight to any soul breathing.

As soon as it was day, Anselmo, without missing Camilla from his side, so impatient was he to know what Leonela had to impart, rose and went to the room in wliich he had shut her up : but on opening the door and going in, he found that his prisoner was gone, and perceiving the sheets tied to the window, he wanted no other proof in what way she had effected her escape. Full of concern, he instantly returned to acquaint Camilla with the circumstance, and not finding her in bed, nor anywhere in the house, he was in the utmost astonishment. He made inquiries of every servant, but no one could give him the least tidings. It happened, however, in the course of his search, that he found her cabinet open, and upon inspecting it, most of her jewels gone ; and then it was that the suspicion of his disgrace first entered his head, and that his wife, not Leonela, was the cause of his misfortune. Half dressed as he was, he went sad and pensive to give an account of his disaster to his friend Lothario, and when he learned from the servants that he had gone away in the night, and had taken with him all the ready money he had, his senses nearly forsook him. To complete his wretchedness, when he returned to his house he found it deserted, not a servant, male or female, being anywhere to be seen in it. In this miserable dilemma, he was at a loss what to think, say, or do, and was so truly bewildered, that hia



mind began to fail him. In an instant he found himself deprived of wife, friend, and servants, and abandoned, as he thought, by the heavens that covered him, and above all robbed of his honour by the misconduct of Camilla, which he considered as the consummation of his ruin. Reflecting as well as he could, he resolved at last to go to the country-house of his friend, whom he had visited when he furnished the opportunity of plotting this unhappy business. He accordingly locked the doors of his house, and mounting his horse, set out greatly oppressed in spirit; but before he had ^one half way, overwhelmed by his melancholy thoughts, he was obliged to alight, and tying his horse to a tree, he fell down at the foot of it, giving vent to the most heart-rending sighs and lamentations. Here he remained till ths approach of night, when seeing a man on horseback coming from the city, he saluted bim, and inquired what news there was in Florence.

"The strangest," replied the citizen, "that has been heard this many a day ; for it is publicly reported that Lothario, the particular friend of Anselmo the rich, who lived at St. John's, last night carried off Camilla, the wife of Anselmo, and that he also is missing. The discovery, it seems, was made by Camilla's maid to the governor, who caught her in the night letting herself down by a sheet from a window of Anselmo's house. I am not acquainted with the particulars, but I know that the whole city is in a blaze at an event so little to be expected from the friendship that subsisted between the two gentlemen, which was of so extraordinary a nature, that they were styled on account of it the Two Friends."

" Is it known what road the runaways have taken ?" said Anselmo.

" No, it is not," replied the citizen ; " but the governor has ordered diligent search to be made after them."

This inauspicious news reduced Anselmo to the brink, not only of losing his senses, but his life. He remounted, however, as well as he could, and arrived at the house of his friend, who had not heard of his misfortune, but from his looking so pale, spiritless, and faint, concluded that some heavy affliction was upon him. He begged that he might be permitted to retire to a bedroom and furnished with pen, -«ik, and paper, which being done, he was left alone on the bed, and the door locked, as he also requested. In this situation he felt his niind so overcharged with his misfortunes, that he plainly perceived his end was approaching, and resolving to leave behind him some account of his strange and unexpected death, he began to write ; but before he could execute his whole intention, his breath failed him, and he expired, a victim to that sorrow which his own impertinent curiosity had occasioned. The master of the house, finding it grow late, and that his friend did not call, resolved to go to him to inquire if he were better, and he found him lying on his face, his body half in bed and half resting on the table, the paper lying open, and the pen still in his hand. Having spoken to him without receiving an answer, he was induced to take him by the hand, and he found him m cold and stiff that he inferred he had for some time breathed his Uat. Surprised and troubled, he called the family together to be



witnesses of the sad disaster, and taking up the paper, he read these words, which he knew to be in the handwriting of Anselmo;â€"

" A foolish and impertinent curiosity has deprived me of life. If the news of my death should reach the ears of Camilla, let her know that I forgive her, for she was neither obliged to work miracles, nor I to require them at her hands; and since I have been the contriver of my own dishonour, there is no reason why "

Thus far only had he written • by which it would appear as if life had deserted mm before he could finish the sentence. The next day liis friend sent an account of the circumstance of his death to bis relations, who had already heard of his misfortune, and of Camilla having retired to a convent, where she was almost in a condition to accompany him in the last inevitable journey, not from the intelligence of his death, but the absence of her lover. Though now a widow, it was said she would neither quit tlie convent nor take the veil, till a short time after that the news reached her of Lothario having been killed in a battle fought about that time between the renowned Captain Gonzalo Fernandez of Cordova, and Monsieur de Lautrec, in the kingdom of Naples, whither the too late repenting friend had retreated. Then she assumed the religious habit, and in a few days, like the husband she had disgraced, resigned her life into the rigorous hands of grief and melancholy. Such was the untimely end of all the parties engaged in this fatal drama, which owed its rise to an instance of extravagant rashness and indiscretion.

" I do not dislike this novel," said the priest, as he finished it; " but r cannot persuade myself that it is a true story; and if it be fiction, the author has erred greatly against probabihty, for there cannot be supposed a husband so senseless as to venture upon so dangerous an experiment as that of Anselmo. The manner of telling, however, ia not unpleasant."

CHAPTER XXX.

Containing an account of Tuany surpnsing incidents in the inn.

As the priest finished his comment on the novel, the host, who stood at the inn-door, said, " Here comes a goodly company of guests. 11 they stop here, we shall sing Gaudeamus,"*

" What sort of persons are they V said Cardenio.

" Four gentlemen," answered the host, " on horseback ^ la gineta,t with lances and targets, and black masks on their faces ;J and a lady on a side-saddle, dressed in white, her face likewise covered ] and two lads behind on foot."

" Are they near T asked the priest,

" So near," replied the innkeeper, " that they are already at the gate."

Dorothea hearing this, veiled her face, and Cardenio retired to Don Quixote's chamber; and scarcely had they done so, when the com-

'* O le.joyful. t With short stirrups. t A Moorish fushion.



pany mentioned by the host entered the inn-yard. The four horsemen, who seemed by their appearance to be persons of distinction, having alighted, went to help the lady from her horse; and one of them, taking her in his arms, placed her in a chair, which stood at the door of the chamber into which Cardenio had withdrawn. All this time not one of them had unmasked or spoken a word ; but the lady, on sitting down in the chair, breathed a deep sigh, and then let her arms fall, like a person indisposed and ready to faint. The servants on foot having taken the horses to the stable, the priest, desirous to know who they were in such odd guise, and observing such profound silence, followed the lads, and inquired of one of them.

" Eeally, signor," said he, " I cannot inform you ; but I take them to be persons of considerable quality, especially he who lifted the lady from her horse, because the others pay him such respect and do nothing but what he orders and directs."

"And the lady, pray, who is she T demanded the priest.

"Neither can I tell that," replied the servant, "for I have not seen her face during the whole .journey. I have indeed often heard her sigh bitterlj'-, and utter such groans, that one would think any one of them enough to break her heart. But it is no wonder we know so little of them, for it is not more than two days since my comrade and I came into their service. Having met us upon the road, they begged and persuaded us to accompany them as far as Andalusia, promising to pay us well for our trouble."

" But have you heard none of them called by their names ?" said the priest.

" Not once," answered the lad; " for they travel in so much silence, that nothing is heard but the sobs and sighs of the poor lady, which move us to pity her. Wherever she is going, we believe it to be against her will; and from what we can gather from her dress, we suppose her to be a nun, or, as is more probable, about to become one, and the reason she is so sorrowful perhaps is that it does not proceed from her own choice."

" Very likely," quoth the priest; and leaving them, he returned to the room where he had left Dorothea, who hearing the sighs of the lady stranger, by a natural impulse of compassion approached and accosted her thusâ€"

" May I presume to ask, dear madam, what is the matter with you \ If it be anything in which female aid can be of service, I offer you mine with the utmost good-will."

The afflicted lady returned no answer to this, and though urged by Dorothea to speak, persisted in her silence, till the cavalier whom the servant had represented as superior to the rest, addressing himself to Dorothea, said, " Do not trouble yourself, madam, to offer any kindness to this woman, for it is her disposition not to be thankful fop any favours that are conferred upon her, nor endeavour to make her speak, unless you would hear falsehood from her lips."

"Falsehood!â€"no!" said the hitherto silent lady; "it is for my aversion to falsehood and deceit that I am reduced to my present hard lot. Of this you are yourself a witness, who know that it is my

N 2



truth alone that makes you act towards me so false and treacheious a part."

Cardenio, being only parted from the company by Don Quixote'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 this 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 tliat 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 fear and wonder. She struggled so hard, and the gentleman was so disordered by beholding her, that his mask dropped off too, and discovered to Dorothea, who was assisting to hold the lady, the face of her husband Don Fernando. Scarce had she recognised 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 to help her, and pulling off her veil to throw water in her face, Don Fernando presently knew her, and was struck almost as dead as she at the sight; nevertheless he did not quit Lucinda, who was the lady that struggled so hard to get out of his hands. Cardenio hearing Dor^hea's exclamation, and imagining it to be Lucinda's voice, flew into the chamber in great disorder, and the first object he met was Don 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; "unloose your hold, my lord; by the generosity you should have, or by your inhumanity, since it must be so, I conjure you leave me, that I may cling like ivy to my old support; and from whom neither your threats, nor prayers, nor gifts, nor promises, could ever alienate my love. Contend not against Heaven, whose power alone could bring me to my dear husband's sight by such strange and unexpected means; you have a thousand instances tc convince you that nothing but death can make me ever forget him ; let this, at least, turn your love into rage, which may prompt you to end my miseries with my life here before my dear husband, where I shall be proud to lose it, since my death may convince him of my 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 w^is, and thot 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 sbow 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 led, 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 me ; she cannot share your love, for it is only mine; and Cardenio's interest in her wUl 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 ! 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, Avhose 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, sympathized with her. Lucinda particularly, as much admiring her wit and beauty as moved by the tears, the piercing sighs and moans, that followed her entreaties; and she would have gone nearer to have comforted her, had not 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 cunquered; 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 Cardenio, without regard to his safety, leaped forward and cauglit her in his arms, and embracing her with eagernesa and joyâ€"

" Thanks, gracious Heaven !" cried he, aloud ; " my dear, my faithful wife, thy sorrows are now ended ; for where canst thou rest more safely than in my arms, which now support thee as once they did when my blessed fortune first made thee mine?"

Lucinda then opening her eyes and finding herself in the arms of her Cardenio, without regard to ceremony threw her arms about his neck.

" Yes," said she, " thou art he, thou art my lord indeed ! Now, f irtune, act thy worst; nor fears 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 coun-



DON QUIXOTE.

tenance, and laying his hand to his sword, that he prepared to assault Cardenio, fell suddenly on her knees, and with ?n endearing embrace held him so fast that he could not stir.

" What means," cried she, all in tears, " the only refuge of my hopel See here thy own and dearest wife at thy feet, and her you would have in her true husband's arms. Ihink 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 dangers, and confirmed in strictest constancy and honour, leaning in tears of joy on her true lover's bosom ? For Heaven's sake I entreat you, by your OAvn 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 the 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 Litcinda 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 tlie expense of his life. But Don Fernando'a friends, the curate, the barber, and all the company (not forgetting honest Sancho Panza), got together about Don Fernando, and entreated him to pity the beautiful Dorothea's tears ; that, considering what she had said, the truth of which was apparent, it would be the highest injustice to frustrate her lawful hopes; that their strange and wonderful meeting could not be attributed to chance, but the peculiar and directing providence of Heaven; that nothing 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 happier by death than he could hope to be by surviving; that, in irrecoverable accidents, a submission to Providence, and a resignation of our wills, sliowed 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 otherwise be satisfied, or have any esteem for htm. 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 bo many enforcing arguments, that Don Fernando, who was truly a gentleman, could no longer resist reason, but stooped down, and embracing Dorothea, " Else, maaam," 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 goodnefis, I may henceforth set the groatu; value on yoiu merit. Let the future respects and services I



shall pay you plead a pardon for my past transgressions; and let the violent passions 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 eyes, and there read a thousand farther excuses; but 1 promise henceforth never to disturb her quiet; and may she live long and contented with her dear Cardenio, as I hope to do with my dearest Dorothea,"

Cardenio, Lucinda, and the greater 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 Fer-nando's feet, giving him thanks with the strongest expressions which gratitude could suggest; he raised them up, and received their acknowledgments with much modesty, 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 befailer him in the city after he had found the paper in Lucinda's bosom which declared 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 scentlemen 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 her 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, distant a good way from any town. He likewise added how Lucinda, finding herseK in his power, fell into a swoon; and that after she came to herself, she continually wept and sighed, but would not speak a syllable; and that, accompanied with silence only and tears, they had travelled till they came to that inn, which proved to him as his arrival at heaven, having pat % happy conclusion to all his earthly misfortunes.



DON aViXOTE.



iff'! mm. \ K





CHAPTER XXXI.

The history of the famous Princess Micomicona continued; with otiier 2^leasant adventures.

The joy of tlio whole company Avas unspeakable by the happy conclusion of this ]iei-plexed business. Dorothea, Cardenio, and Lucinda thought the sudden change of their affairs too surprising to be real; and could hardly be induced to believe their happiness. Fernando tlianked Heaven a thousand times for having led him out of a labyrinth, in which his honour and virtue were like to have been lost. Tiie curate, as he Avas very instrumental in the general reconciliation, had likewise no small share in the general joy ; and that no discontent miglit sour their universal satisfaction, Cardenio and the curate engaged to see the hostess satisfied for all the damages committed by Don Quixote ; only poor Sancho drooped sadly. He foimd his lordship and his hopes vanished into smoke ; the Princess Jtlicomicona was changed to Dorothea, and the giant to Don Fernando. Thus, very webegoneand melancholy, he slipped into his master's chamber, who had slept on, and was just wakened, little thinking of what had Lappenec-.



" I hope your early rising will do you no hurt," said he, " Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, but ^70u 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."

" I verily believe it," 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 violent stream of water."

" Of wine, you mean," said Sancho ; " for you must know (if you know it not already), that your worship's dead giant is a pierced wineskin ; and the blood some thirty gallons 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 vengeance."

" 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 Avith the blanket been of that kind ; but sure it w^as likest the real tossing in a blanket of anything I ever knew in my life. And this same innkeeper, I remember very well, was one of those that tossed me into the air, and as cleverly and heartily he did it as a man could wish, I wall say that for him; so that, after all, I begin to smell a rat, and do greatly suspect that all our enchantment will end in nothing but bruises and broken bones."

" Heaven will retrieve all," said the knight; " I will therefore dress, and march to the discovery of these wonderful transformations."

Meanwhile the curate gave Don Fernando and the rest an account of Don Quixote's madness, and of the device he had used to draw him from the desert, to which the supposed disdain of his mistress had 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 hitn home. Cardenio oflFered his service in the aflair, and that Lucinda should personate Dorothea,

" No, no," answered Don Fernando ; " Dorothea shall humour the jest still, if this honest gentleman's habitation be not very far oflf."

"Only two days'jouiney," 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 salhed out armed cap-^-pie, !NT -.m-bdno'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 lance. 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 greatness is annihilated, and your majesty reduced to nothing; for of a queen and mighty princess, as you used to be, you are become a private damseL If any express order from the necromantic king your father, doubting the ability and success of my arm in the reinstating 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 skUled in the revolutions of chivalry; for had he been conversant in the study of knight-errantry as I have been, he might have found that in every age champions of less fame than Don Quixote de la Mancha have finished more desperate adventures ; since the killing of a pitiful giant, how arrogant soever he may be, is no such great achievement; for not many hours past I encountered one myself j the success I will not mention, lest the incredulity of some people might distrust the reality; but time, the discoverer of all things, will disclose it when least expected. To conclude, most high and disinherited lady, if your father, for the reasons already^mentioned, has caused this metamorphosis in your person, believe him not; for there is no peril on earth through which my sword shall not open a way; and assure yourself that in a few days, by the overthrow of your enemy's head, it shall fix on yours that crown which is your lawful inheritance."

Here Don Quixote stopped, waiting the princess's answer: she, assured of Don Fernando's consent to carry on the jest till Don Quixote was got home, and assuming a face of gravity, answered, "Whosoever has informed you, valorous Knight of the Rueful Countenance, that I have altered or changed my condition, has imposed upon you; for I am just the same to-day as yesterday. It is true some unexpected but fortunate accidents have varied some circumstances of my fortune, much to my advantage, and far beyond my liopes; but I am neither changed in my person, nor altered in my resolution of emplojdng 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 believe these easy and infallible means to redress my wrongs the pure effects of his wisdom and policy, as the good fortune I now enjoy has been the 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, and the power of your unparalleled courage 1"

The ingenious Dorothea having concluded, Don Quixote turning to Sancho with all the signs of fury imaginable, "Tell me, rogue, Bcoundrel, did not you just now inform me that this princess was



changed into a lit tie private damsel, called Dorothea, with a thousand other absurdities ? I vow I have a mind so to use thee, as to make thee appear a miaerable 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 I am mistaken or so, about my lady Princess Micomi-cona's concern there ; but that the giant's head came off the wiue-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 ? Bat you will guess at the meat presently by the sauce; the proof of the pudding is in the eating, master; and if my landlord here do not let you know it to your cost he is a very honest and civil fellow, that is all."

" Sancho," said the Don, " I pronounce thee non compos ; I therefore pardon thee and have done."

" It is enough," said Don Fernando : " we, therefore, in pursuance of the princess's orders, will this night refresh ourselves, and tomorrow 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 liis celebrated and matchless courage."

" I shall be proud of the honour of serving and waiting upon you, my.good lord," replied Don Quixote, "and reckon myself infinitely 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."

Many compliments and proiFers of service were passing between Don Quixote and Don Fernando, when a stop was put to them by a traveller just then entering the gates of the inn, who by his garb seemed to be a Christian, newly escaped from the Moors; for he was clad in a blue cloth coat, -v^-ith short skirts, half sleeves, and no collar; liis breeches and cap were of the same cloth, but his buskins were date-colour, and in a shoulder belt, that came across his breast, hung a Moorish scimitar. He was accompanied by a female, in a Moorish dress, mounted on an ass, her face veiled, a brocade turban on her head, and covered with a mantle from her shoulders to her feet. The man was of a robust but agreeable figure, apparently a little turned of forty, of a dark complexion, with large whiskers, and a well-set beard : in short, his mien was so much the reverse of vulgar, that, had he been well dressed, he might have been taken for a person of birth and quality. He inquired for a room, and being told there was not one in the inn unoccupied, he seemed troubled: he however went to his companion, and lifted her off in his arms: upon which Lu-cinda, Dorothea, the landlady, her daughter, and ilaritornes, gathered round her, attracted by the novelty of her appearance ; and Dorothea being always complaisant and obliging^ perceiving that both she and her conductor were uneasy at not finding a vacant apartment, introduced herself, and said: " Be not concerned, madam, at the want of ".ccummodations, which is an inconvenience in travelling that will



DON QUIXOTE.

frequently occur; but if you will be pleased to partake with us," pointing to Lucinda, " perhaps in the course of your journey, you may have been obliged to submit to harder fare."

The veiled lady returned no answer, except that she rose from her seat, and, crossing her hands upon her breast, bowed both her head and body, in token of thanks.

Her companion, who had been employed about something else, coming in and seeing the company thus surrounding his fair friend, who could make no reply to their interrogations, said to them, " Ladies, this young woman does not understand Spanish, nor can she speak any other language than that of her own country, which is the reason she has not answered any questions you may have been pleased to ask her."

" No questions have been asked her," Lucinda replied, " but simply, whether she would accept of our company for the night, and partake of our lodging and the few accommodations we enjoy; and we make the offer with the good-will that is due to all strangers, and especially to such of our own sex as may stand in need of it."

"Dear madam," answered the stranger, "I gratefully kiss your hands, both for her and for myself, and highly prize the proflered favour, which, at such a time, and from such persons as your appearance denotes, I feel to be extremely kind and condescending."

" Allow me, sir, to ask," said Dorothea, '^vhether the lady be a Christian or a Moor % for we are apprehensive from her dress and her silence that she is not that which we could wish her to be."

" In her person, as in her dress, she is a Moor," answered the stranger, " but a Christian in her soul, having a most ardent desire to be admitted as a convert to our faith."

" Tlien she is not yet baptized T inquired Lucinda.

"There has been no opportunity for that," answered the stranger, " since we left Algiers, which is the place of her birth, and, till lately, has been the place of her abode ; nor hitherto has she been in such imminent danger of death as to render it necessary, before she has been instructed in the ceremonies which our holy church enjoins; but, if it pleased God, she shall shortly be baptized, with the decency becoming her rank, which is greatly above what either her appearance or mine would imply."

This little dialogue excited in all who heard it a strong desire to know who the Moor and stranger were; but they were too considerate to make the inquiry yet; deeming it more proper they should rest themselves, than be troubled with relating the history of their lives. Dorothea took the lady by the hand and led her to a seat, and, sitting down by her side, requested her to take off her veil. She gave an inquiring look at the stranger, as if asking him what was said, and what she was to do. He told her in Arabic, and she accordingly unveiled, and discovered a face so beautiful, that Dorothea thought her handsomer than Lucinda, and Lucinda gave her the preference to Dorothea : and even their lovers seemed to express by their looks, that, if any beauty could be compared with theirs, it must be that of the Moor ; nay, there were among the bystanders some



who thought she surpassed them both. As beauty has the prerogative and power to reconcile minds, and attract inclinations, they were ftll eager to show courtesy to the beautiful Moor. Don Fernando asked the stranger the name of the lady, who answered, Lela Zoraida ; but as soon as she heard this, understanding what they had inquired of the Christian, she said, with a sprightly but concerned air, "No, not Zoraida; Maria, Maria;" signifying that her name was Maria, and not Zoraida.

These words, and the earnest manner with which they were delivered, extorted more than one tear from those who heard her, and especially from the ladies, women being naturally tender-hearted and compassionate. Lucinda embraced her affectionately, and replied : " Yes, yes, Maria, Maria;" and the ]\Ioor joined in, " Yes, Maria, Zoraida macange ;" meaning, not Zoraida,

By this time it was four in the afternoon, and, by order of Don Fernando and his party, the innkeeper had taken care to provide the best collation in his power ; which being now ready, they all sat down at a long table, like those used in halls, there being neither a round, nor a square one, in the house. They gave the upper end and principal seat, though he would have declined it, to Don Quixote, who would have the lady Micomicona sit next him, considering himself as her champion. Next sat Lucinda and Zoraida, and opposite to them Don Fernando and Cardenio, and then the stranger and the rest of the gentlemen ; while the priest and the barber took their station close to the ladies : and thus they banqueted mucli to their satisfaction ; and it gave an additional pleasure to the feast to hear Don Quixote, who, stirred by such another spirit as that which had moved him to talk so much, when he supped with the goatherds, instead of eating, harangued as follows :â€"

" Verily, gentlemen, if it be well considered, great and unheard-of tilings do they see who profess the order of knight-errantry. If any one present thinks otherwise, let me ask him, what man living, that should now enter at the gate of this castle, and see us regaling in this manner, could judge or believe us to be the persons we really are ? who could imagine, that this lady, sitting by my side, is the great queen, that we all know her to be, and that I am that Knight of the Kueful Countenance so blazoned abroad by the mouth of fame? There can be no doubt, that this art and profession exceeds all that have ever been invented by men ; and is so much the more honourable, as it is exposed to more and greater dangers. Away with those •v/ho say that letters have the advantage over arms: I will tell them, be they who they will, that they know not what they say. For the reason usually assigned, and upon which the greatest stress is laid, is, that the labours of the body are exceeded by those of the brain, and that arms are exercised by the body alone : as if the use of them were the business of porters, for which nothing is necessary but downright strength ; or as if in the particular branch which we, who profess it, call chivalry, acts of fortitude were not included, to execute which, a very consummate understanding is requisite ; or as if again the mind of the warrior, who has an army, or the defence



of a besieged city, committed to his charge, did not labour with his mental as well as his bodily capacity. Were it not so, how, by mere animal strength, would he be able to penetrate into the designs of the enemy, form stratagems, overcome difficulties, and prevent impending dangers ? things which are pure acts of the understanding, the body having no share in them.

"As arms then employ the mind as well as letters, let us next see whose mind labours most, the scholar's, or the warrior's. And this may be determined by the scope and tendency of each: for that is most entitled to esteem, which has for its object the noblest end. Now the end and design of letters (I do not now speak of divinity, which has for its aim to lift and conduct souls to heaven, for to an end so endless as this no other can be compared) is to regulate distributive justice, and give to every man his due; to institute good laws, and cause them to be strictly observed; an end most certainly generous and exalted, and worthy of high commendation; but not equal to that which is annexed to the profession of arms, the object and end of which is peace, the greatest blessing mortals can wish for in tliis wearisome life. Accordingly, the first good news the world and men received, was what the angels brought, on that Night which was our Day, when they sang in the air, ' Glory be to God on high, and on earth peace and goodwill towards men.' And the salutation, which the best Master either upon earth of^in heaven taught His followers and disciples, was, that, when they entered any house, they should say, ' Peace be to this house !' On other occasions, He said, ' My peace I give unto you, my peace I leave with you, peace be among you.' A jewel and legacy worthy the hand that bequeathed it! a jewel, without which there can be no happiness below, nor felicity above ! This peace is the true end of war ; and arms and war are the same thing. Granting, then, that the end of war is peace, and that in this it has the advantage of the end proposed by letters, let us weigh the bodily labours of the scholar against those of the warrior, and see on which side the balance turns."

Don Quixote went on with his discourse in so rational a manner, using such appropriate expressions, that no one who heard him covdd have supposed him insane. On the contrary, most of his auditors being gentlemen, to whom the use of arms properly belongs, they listened to him with delight while he thus proceeded.

" I say then that the hardships of the scholar are these: in the first place, poverty; not that they are all poor, but I would put the case in the strongest manner possible, and when I have mentioned that the scholar endures poverty, no more need be said to evince Ida misery ;* for he who is poor is destitute of every good thing, he has to contend with misery in all forms, sometimes in hunger, sometimes in cold, sometimes in nakedness, and sometimes in all three together. Yet his necessity is not so great but that still he eats, though somewhat later than usual, either by partaking of the rich man's scrajvs

® It ifl worthy of note, how feelingly Cervantes here speaks of poverty.



PLEASANT ADVENTURES. /91

ftnd leavings, or, which is his greatest misery, by going a sopping."^ Neither does he always want the fireside or chimney-corner of some charitable person, where, if he is not quite warmed, at least the extreme cold is abated ] and lastly, at night he sleeps under cover. I will not mention other trifles, such as want of linen, deficiency of shoes, hia thin and threadbare clothes, nor the surfeits to which he is liable from intemperance when good fortune sets a plentiful table in his way. By this path, rough and difficult as I have described it, now stumbling, now falling, now rising, then falling and rising again, do scholars arrive at last to the end of their wishes; which being attained, we have seen many who, having passed these Syrtes, these Scyllas, these Charybdises, buoyed up as it were by a favourable tide, have exercised authority from a chair of state, and governed the world ; their hunger converted into satiety, their pinching cold into refreshing coolness, their nakedness into embroidered raiment, and the bare mat to beds of down, with furniture of fine holland and damask, a reward justly merited by their virtue. But their hardships, when fairly brought together and compared, fall far short of those of the warrior, as I shall presently demonstrate. Since, in speaking of the scholar, we began with his poverty and its several branches, let us see how it is with the soldier in that respect, and we shall find Buch is his lot that poverty itself is not poorer, for he depends on his wretched pay, which comes late, or perhaps never, or else on what he can plunder, with great peril both of life and conscience. Sometimes his want of clothing is such that his slashed buft' doublet serves him both for finery and for shirt; and in the midst of winter, being in the open field, he has nothing but the breath of his mouth to warm him, which issuing from an empty place, must needs be cold, against all the rules of nature. But come, Night, and let us see whether his bed will make amends for these inconveniences. If it be not his own fault, it will never offend in point of narrowness, for he may measure out as many feet of earth as he pleases, and roll himself thereon at pleasure, without fear of rumpling the sheets. Suppose again the day and hour arrived of taking the degree of his professionâ€"I mean, suppose the day of battle come, wherein he is to put in practice the exercise of his profession, and strive to gain some new honour, then, as a mark of distinction, shall his head be dignified with a cap made of lint, to stop a hole made by a bullet, or be perhaps carried off mainied, at the expense of a leg or arm. And if this do not happen, but that merciful Heaven preserve his life and limbs, it may fall out that he shall remain as poor as before, and must run through many encounters and battles, nay, always come off victorious, to obtain some small prefermentâ€"and these miracles, too, are rareâ€"but I pray teU me, gentlemen, if ever you made it your observation, how few are those who obtain due rewards in war, in comparison of those numbers that perish % Doubtless you will answer that there is no parity between them, that the dead cannot be





J T Beggiag at the doors of monasteries where sop« »rere given in porridge.



reckoned up; whereas those â– who live and are rewarded may be numbered with three figures.* It is quite otherwise with scholars, not only those who follow the law, but others also, who all either by hook or by crook get a livelihood; so that though the soldier's sufferings be much greater, yet his reward is much less. To this it may be answered, that it is easier to reward two thousand scholars than thirty thousand soldiers, because the former 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 difiiculty makes good my argument. Now for a man to attain to an eminent degree of learning costs him time, watching, hunger, nakedness, dizziness in the head, weakness in the stomach, and other inconveniences, which are the consequences of these, of which I have already in part made mention. But the rising gradually to be a good soldier is purchased at the whole expense of all that is required for learning, and that in so surpassing a degree that there is no comparison betwixt them, because he is every moment in danger of his life. To what danger or distress can a scholar be reduced equal to that of a soldier, who, being besieged in some strong place, and at his post 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 1 All he can do is to give notice to his commander, that he may countermine, but must himself stand still, fearing and expecting when on a sudden he shall soar to the clouds without wings, and be again cast down headlong against his will. If this danger seem inconsiderable, let us see whether that be not greater when two galleys shock one another with their prows in the midst of the spacious sea. When they have thus grappled, and are clinging together, the soldier is confined to the narrow beak, being a board not above two feet wide ; and yet though he sees before him so many ministers of death threatening, as there are pieces of cannon on the other side pointing against him, and not half a pike's length from his body; and being sensible that the first slip of his feet sends him to the bottom of Neptune's dominionsâ€"still, for all this, inspired 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, than another steps into the same place ; and if he also drops into the sea, which lies in wait for him like an enemy, another, and after him another, still fills up the place, without suffering any interval of time to separate their deaths, a resolution and boldness scarce to be paralleled in any other trials of war. Blessed bo those happy ages that were strangers to the dreadful fury of these devilish instruments of artillery which is the cause that very often a cowardly base hand takes away the life of the bravest gentleman, and that in the midst of that vigour and resolution which animates and inflames the bold, a chance bullet (shot

• ».<j., do not exceed hundfedu.



perhaps by one that fled, and was frighted at the very flash the mis-cliievous piece gave when it went ofi") coming nobody knows how or frum whence, in a moment puts a period to the brave designs and the life of one that deserved to have survived many years. This considered, I could almost say I am sorry at my heart for having taken upon me this profession of a knight-errant in so detestable an age ; for thougli no danger daunts me, yet it afi'ects 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 more honoured by how much the dangers I have exposed myself to are greater than those the knights-errant of former ages underwent."

This long harangue was made by the knight while the rest were eating, himself forgetting to convey a morsel to his mouth, though Sancho Panza frequently desired him to mind the main chance; telling liim he would have time enough afterwards to talk as much as he pleased. The whole company were moved with fresh compassion to see a man, who had so good an understanding, and could talk 80 well upon every other subject, so egregiously want it whenever the discourse happened to turn upon his unlucky and cursed chivalry; and the priest paid him the compliment of saying, there was great reason in all that he had said in favour of arms ; and that he himself, though a scholar and a graduate, could not help being of his opinion.

The collation being over, and the cloth taken away, while the hostess, her daughter, and Maritornes were preparing the chamber in which Don Quixote de la Mancha had been sleeping, and which was now to be appropriated to the ladies for the night, Don Fernando desired the stranger to relate to them the particulars of his life ; which, from the manner of his arrival, accompanied with the fair Zoraida, could not but be extraordinary and entertaining. The stranger answered, that he would very willingly do so, but that he feared the story would not afford them the pleasure they might expect; however, rather than appear ill-disposed to their wishes, ho would undertake the task. They all joined in thanks for his complaisance, and in entreaties that he would begin: and thus solicited, he replied, " Where you majr command, gentlemen, there is no need of solicitation; and if you will favour me with your attention, you shall hear a story, not to be equalled by any fiction, however curiously wrought, or artfully studied."

They accordingly seated themselves, and were silent; when with a pleasing and composed voice, he begun in this manner his recital.



CHAPl'ER XXXIL

In which the captive relates his life and adventuret.

"1 WAS born in a certain village among tlie mountains of Leon, where my family had its origin, more blessed by nature than by the gifts of fortune ; though, amidst the penury of the country, my father passed for a rich man, and would have been really such, had he possessed the art of saving, as he had of squandering, his estate. This disposition to expense proceeded from his having been a soldier in hLs youth ; for the army is a school in which the niggardly become generous, and the generous prodigal; and if there are instances of soldiers being misers, they are a species of monsters but rarely seen. My father exceeded the bounds of liberality, and bordered upon profusion : a disposition ill-suited to married men who have children to inherit their name and quality. He had three sons, arrived at an age to choose their profession ; and seeing, as he himself said, that he could not bridle his natural propensity, he resolved to deprive himself of the means of indulging it, by resigning his property ; for without property Alexander himself could not be generous. Accordingly one day, calling us all three into his chamber, he spoke to us in these words:â€" ^

" ' My sons, to tell you that I love you is only to say that you are my children; and yet you may well think me deficient in affection, since I am not sufficiently master of myself to forbear dissipating your inheritance. But that you may henceforth see that I love you like a true father, and have no desire to ruin you like a stepfather, I am resolved to execute a plan in your favour, which I have long had in my thoiaghts, and have weighed with mature deliberation. You are now of an age to choose for yourselves a settlement in the world, or at least to fix upon some way of life which may redound to your honour and profit when you are more advanced in years. Now, my plan is, to divide what I possess into four parts, three of which I wiU give to you, share and share alike, without making any diff"erence; and the fourth I will reserve for my own subsistence, during the days, be they few or many, that Heaven may please to allot me. When you have each received your portions, my wish is that you would choose one or other of the modes of life I shall point out to you. We have a proverb in Spain (in my opinion a very just one, as most proverbs are, being short sentences, drawn from long and wise experience). " The church, the sea, or the court ;" the obvious meaning of which is, that whoever would thrive and be rich, must devote his time to the Church, or go to sea and exercise the art of merchandize, or serve the kin^ in his court ; and there is another Baying, that "The king's bit is better than the lord's bounty." I mention this because I would have you thus dispose of yourselves: one following letters, another commerce, and the third the service of the king in his wars; for it is difficult to get admission into his household. And though wars do not procure a man much wealtb,



he may acquire iu them that which is better than wealthâ€"esteem and reputation. Within a week I will give each of you his share in ready money, without wronging you of a farthing, as you will in effect see. And now tell me whether you are willing to follow my advice in what I have proposed ]'

"And he bade me, being the eldest, to answer first. After requesting him not to diminish in this manner his property, but to spend it freely as he pleased, we being young, and able to shift for ourselves, I concluded with assuring him that I would do as he desired, and I chose to serve God and the king, by the profession of arms. My second brother preferred turning his portion into merchandize, and resolved on a voyage to the Indies ; while the youngest, and I believe the wisest, said he would devote himself to the Church, and finish his studies at Salamanca.

" As soon as we had thus agreed, and chosen our several professions, my father tenderly embraced us ; and within the time he had promised he put his design in execution, giving to each his share, which, as I remember, was three thousand ducats; his brother having purchased so much of the estate as would yield that sum, that it might not be alienated from the family. In one and the selfsame day we all took leave of our beloved father; and as it appeared to me inhuman to leave him in his old age with so scanty a subsistence, 1 prevailed on him to take back two thousand ducats out of my three, the remainder being sufficient to equip me with what was necessary for a soldier. Incited by my example, my two brothers returned him of their portion each a thousand ; so that he now had four thousand ducats in ready money, and three thousand more, the value of the land that fell to his share, and which he would not sell. In short, we took leave both of him and our good uncle with much concern and many tears on aU sides; they charged us to acquaint them with our success, wliether prosperous or adverse, as often as we had opportunity, which we promised to do. Having received a last embrace, and their blessing, one took the road to Salamanca, another to Seville, and I to Alicant, where I had understood I should find a Genoese ship, loading with wool for Genoa. It is now two-and-twenty years since I left my father's house, and during that time, though I have written many letters, I have received no intelligence either of him or of my brothers. "What, in the course of so long a period, has happened to myself I wiU briefly relate.

" I embarked at Alicant, and had a favourable passage to Genoa; flora whence I went to Milan, where I furnished myself with arms, and some gay military accoutrements, intending to enter the service ill Piedmont; but learning upon the road to Alexandria de la Paglia that the great Duke of Alva was passing into Flanders with an army, I changed my mind, and accompanied and served under him in all his engagements. I was present at the death of the Counts d'l']gmont and Horn. I obtained an ensign's commission in the corps of a famous captain of Guadalajara, whose name was Diego de U rbina. Soon after my arrival in Flanders, news came of the league concluded between Sptiin and Pope Pius V. of happy memory,

o 2



against the common enemy the Turk; who about that time had, with his fleet, taken the celebrated island of C}T)rus, before subject to the Venetiansâ€"a sad and unfortunate loss! Of this league it was known for certain that the most serene Don John of Austria, natural brother of our good King Philip, was appointed generalissimo, and great preparations for war were everywhere loudly rumoured. This excited in me a vehement desire to be present in the battle that was expected; and though I had reason to believe (many promises and even assurances having been given me) that on the first occasion that offered I should be promoted to the rank of captain, I resolved to relinquish that prospect, and go into Italy. Luckily for me, Don John of Austria had just then arrived at Genoa, on his way to Naples, to join the Venetian fleet, which he afterwards found at Messina. I was present at that glorious action in the capacity of captain of infantry, to which honourable post I was advanced more by my good fortune than my merits. But on that day, so happy to Christendom, on which the nations of Europe were convinced of their error in believing that the Turks were invincible by sea; on that day, on which the Ottoman pride and haughtiness were broken, among so many happy persons who were presentâ€"for surely the Christians who died on that occasion were happier than the survivors and conquerorsâ€"I alone remained unfortunate; since, instead of what I might have expected, had: it been in the times of the Romans, some naval crown, I found myself the night following that glorious day with chains on my feet, and manacles on my hands.

"Lchali, King of Algiers, a bold and successful corsair, having boarded and taken the captain-galley of Malta, in which three knights only were left alive, and those desperately wounded, the captain-galley of John Andrea D'Oria, on board of which I was stationed with my company, came to her relief; and doing my duty upon this occasion, I leaped into the enemy's galley, which separating suddenly from ours, my soldiers could not follow me, and I was left alone among my enemies, whom, being so many, I could not resist. I was taken prisoner, after being sorely wounded. And as you must have heard, gentlemen, that Uchali escaped with his whole squadron, I remained a captive in his hands, being the only sad person, when so many were joyful, and a slave, when so many were freed ; for no less than fifteen thousand Christians, who were at the oar in the Turkish galleys, that day recovered their long-wished-for liberty. I was conveyed to Constantinople, where Selim, the grand signor, made my master, Uchali, general of the sea, for having done his duty in the fight, and having brought off', as a proof of his valour, the flag of the order of Malta.

" The year following, which was seventy-two, I was at Navarino, rowing in the captain-galley of the Three Lanterns, and observed the opportunity that was lost by the Christians, of taking the whole Turkish navy in the harbour; for all the Levantines and Janizaries on board took it for granted they should be attacked, and had their baggage and passamaques, or shoes, in readiness for running away.



THE CAPTIVE RELATES HIS LIFE. \c^i

intending to escape on shore, without waiting for an engagement, or making resistance, such terror had our navy struck into their hearts. But Heaven ordered it otherwise ; not through any fault or neglect of the general who commanded, but for the sins of Christendom, and because God permits and ordains that there should always be some ecourge by which to chastise us. In short, Uchali got into Modon, an island near Navarino, and, landing his men, fortitied the entrance of the port, and quietly kept his station, till Don John was forced by the season of the year to return home. During this expedition the galley called the Prize, the captain of which was the son of the famous corsair Barbarossa, was taken by the captain-galley of Naples, called the Sbe-wolf, commanded by that thunderbolt of war, that father of the soldiers, that fortunate and invincible captain, Don Alvaro de Basan, Marquis of Santa Cruz : and I cannot forbear relating what happened on the occasion.

" The son of Barbarossa was so cruel, and treated his slaves so unmercifully, that, as soon as the rowers saw that the She-wolf was ready to board and take them, they all at once dropped their oara, and seizing their captain, who stood near the poop, and calling out to the enemy at the same time to row hard, they passed him from bank to bank, and from the poop to the prow, giving him such blows by the way, that he had passed but little beyond the mast, before his soul was passed, such was the hatred they bore him for the cruelty with which he treated them.

" We returned to Constantinople, and the year following, which was seventy-three, it was known there that Don John had taken Tunis, and the whole kingdom, from the Turks, and put Muley Hamet in possession of it, thereby cutting off the hopes of Muley Hamida, who, while he was one of the crueUest, was at the same time one of the bravest Moors that ever existed. This loss was most sensibly felt by the Sultan; but putting in practice that sagacity which is inherent in the Ottoman family, he made a hasty peace with the Venetians, who desired it more than himself; and the next year, that of seventy-four, he attacked the goleta fort, which Don John had left half finished, near Tunis. During these transactions, I was still at the oar, without any hope of redemption ; at least by ransom, for I was determined not to write an account of my misfortune to my father. The goleta was lost, and the fort also ; for in the siege the Turks had seventy-five thousand of their own troops, besides upwards of four hundred thousand Moors and Arabs from various parts of Africa: and this vast multitude was furnished with such abundance of ammunition and other warlike stores, and so many pioneers, that, by each man bringing only a handful of earth, they might have covered both places. The goleta, till then deemed impregnable, wa«^ first taken, not through any fault of the besieged, who performed all that men could possibly attempt; but experience had shown how easily trenches might be raised in that desert; for tliough the water used to be within two spans of the surface, the Turks now dug without finding any, even at a depth of two yards ; and thus by the help of innumerable sacks of sand, they raised their works so high as tc



tgS t)ON QUIXOTE.

command the fortifications; and levelling from a cavalier, they discharged such volleys upon them, that it was out of the power of the besieged to make any defence. It was the general opimon, that instead of shutting themselves up in the goleta, our troops ought to have met the enemy in the open field, at the place of debarkation: but those, who talk thus, speak at random, and like men little experienced in military afi'airs. There were scarcely seven thousand soldiers in the goleta and fort together ; and how could so small a number, however resolute, both take the field and leave a sufficient garrison, against a host like that of the enemy 1 And how can a place be maintained, which is incapable of being relieved, especially when besieged by an army, that is both numerous and obstinate, and in their own country besides? But others thought (and I was of the number), that Heaven manifested a particular grace and favour to Spain, in the destruction of that forge and refuge of all iniquity, that devourer, sponge, and moth of countless sums of money, so idly spent, as to answer no other purpose than to preserve the memory of its having been a conquest of the invincible Charles the Fifth ; as if it were necessary to his memory, which is sure to be eternal, that a pile of stones should keep it up. The fort was also taken at last: but the Turks were forced to purchase it inch by inch; for the soldiers, who defended it, fought with such bravery and resolution, that they killed above twenty-five thousand of the enemy in two-and-twenty general assaults. And of three hundred heroes that were left alive, not one was taken prisoner unwounded ; an evident proof of the obstinacy and valour with which the place was defended. A small fort, or tower, in the middle of the lake, commanded by Don John Zanoguera, a cavalier of Valencia, a famous soldier, surrendered upon terms. The Turks took Don Pedro Portocarrero, general of the garrison, prisoner ; but so deeply was he aff'ected by its loss, that he died of grief on the way to Constantinople, whither they were carrjdng him captive. They took also the aommander of the fort, called Gabrio Cerbellon, a Milanese gentleman, a great engineer, and a most valiant soldier. Several persons of distinction lost their lives in these two garrisons; among whom was Pagan D'Oria, knight of Malta, a gentleman of uncommon generosity, as appeared by his liberality to his brother, the famous John Andrea D'Oria ; and what made his death the more laiuented, was, that it was inflicted by the hands of some treacherous African Arabs, who, upon seeing that the fort was lost, had offered to convey him, disguised as a Moor, to Tabarca, a small haven or settlement which the Genoese have on that coast, for the coral fishing. But these traitors cut off" his head, and carried it as a present to the general of the Turkish fleet, who, however, made good upon them our Castilian proverb, that,' though we love the treason, Ave hate the traitor:' for he ordered thera to be instantly hanged, for not having brought him alive. Among the Christians who were taken was one Don Pedro d'AguHar, a native of some town in Andalusia, who had been an ensign in the garrison, and was both a good soldier and a man of excellent capacity; in particular he had the happy gift of poetry. I



mention this, because it was liis fate to be slave to the same patron with myself: we served in the same galley, and at the same oar; and before we parted from that harbour, he composed two sonnets, by way of epitaph, one upon the goleta, and the other upon the fort. I Lave them by heart, and as I believe it will be entertaining, rather than disagreeable to you, I will repeat them."

When the captive mentioned Don Pedro d'Aguilar, Don Fernando looked at his companions, and they aU three smiled; and when he spoke of the sonnets, one of them said, " Pray, sir, before you proceed, allow me to ask, what became of that gentleman ]"

" All I know," answered the captive, " is, that after he had been two years at Constantinople, he escaped in the habit of an Arnaut,* with a Greek spy; but whether he recovered his liberty, I am ignorant, though I believe he did ; for about a year after I saw the Greek in Constantinople, but had not an opportunity of asking him the success of their flight."

" He returned to Spain," said the gentleman; "he is my brother, and is now at home, in health, and wealth, and blessed with a wife and three hopeful children."

" I thank God," said the captive, "for, in my opinion, there is not a satisfaction on earth equal to that of recovered liberty."

" The goleta and the fort," he continued, " being delivered up, the Turks gave orders to dismantle the goleta; which was unnecessary aa to the fort, for it was in so wretched a condition, that there was nothing left to be demolished ; and to accomplish the work with less labour and more speed, they undermined it in three places. The part which seemed to be least strong, the old walls, they could not blow up, but whatever remained of the new fortification, erected by the engineer Fratin, came easily down. In short, the fleet returned to Constantinople victorious and triumphant; and within a few months my master, the famous Uchali, died. He was called Uchali Fartax, which means in the Turkish language the leperous renegado, for he was so; and it is customary with the Turks to give nicknamea to persons from some quality, good or bad, belonging to them. Only four families, distinguished by family names, contend for nobility amongst the Ottoman ; while the rest, as I have said, are named either from the blemishes of the body or the virtues of the mind. This leper had tugged at the oar for fourteen years, being a slave of the grand signor; but when he was about thirty-four years of age, being enraged at a blow given him by a Turk while he was at the oar, he renounced his religion, to have it in his power to be revenged on him. So great was his valour that, without resorting to those base methods practised by the minions of the grand signor, he was raised to the tlirone of Algiers, and afterwards made general of tha eea. which is the third command in the empire. He was born in Calabria, was a man of good morals, and treated his slaves >v'ith great humanity. At his death he had three thousand, who were dividedâ€"as he had ordered by his last willâ€"half to the grand signor,

* A trooper of Epirus.



who is every man's heir in part, sharing equally with the children ol the deceased, and the rest among his renegadoes. I fell to the lot of a Venetian, who having been cabin-boy in a ship taken by Uchali, gained so much on his affections, that he became one of his greatest favourites ; but he was, perhaps, the most cruel renegado that evei existed. His name was Azanaga. He grew rich, and became, like his master, King of Algiers, With him 1 came from Constantinople, a little comforted by being so near my native country; not that I intended to write to any one respecting my situation, but the hope revived that fortune would be more favourable to me in Algiers than it had been in Constantinople, where I iiad tried, ineffectually, a thousand ways of making my escape ; and now I resolved on other means of compassing what I desired, for the hope of recovering my liberty never entirely abandoned me, and whenever one plan failed, without desponding, I immediately devised another, and thereby gained fresh hopes to sustain me; slight and inconsiderable as they might be,

" Thus I managed to support life shut up in a prison, or house, which the Turks call a bath, in wliich their Christian captives are incarcerated, whether belonging to the king or to private individuals, as are those also of the almazen, or captives of the council, who serve the city in its public works, and other offices. This last species of slaves find it very difficult to recover their liberty ; for as they have no particular master, there is no person with whom to treat for their ransom, though the price should be ready. In these baths the slaves of private persons (especially when their ransom is agreed upon) do not work, but are merely kept in safety till their ransom arrives. Neither do the king's slaves who are to be ransomed go out to work with the rest of the crew, unless when their money is long in coming; in which case, to force them to write for it with greater importunity, they are made to fetch wood with the rest, which is a work of no small toil and difficulty. As they knew I had been a captain, I was considered as upon ransom ; and though I assured them I wanted both interest and money, it did not hinder me from being thus placed, with a chain upon me, but rather f^s a sign that I was to be redeemed, than to secure me; so that I passed my life in the bath, with many other gentlemen and persons of condition, who were similarly situated ; and though Ave had often, and indeed generally, both hunger and nakedness to contend witli, nothing troubled us so much as to see, on every occasion, the unparalleled and excessive cruelties with which our master treated the Christians. Not a day passed •without his hanging one, impaling another, and cutting off the ears of a third, and tliat upon the least provocation, and sometimes no provocation at all; insomuch that the very Turks were sensible he did it for the mere pleasure of the thing, to gratify his murderous and inhuman disposition. One Spanish soldier only, called something de Saavedra,* happened to be so much in his good graces that, whatever he did towards obtaining his libertyâ€"and he did things

* It is believed that Cervantes here meant himsclfl See his Life.



that will long be remembered by those people, the tyrant never gave him a blow, nor ordered one to be given, nor even uttered a harsh word against him; and yet for the least of many things which he did we all feared he would be impaled alive, and more than once he had the same fear himself. Would the time permit, I could relate pranks done by this soldier that would entertain and surprise you more than the narrative of my own story.

"But to return. The courtyard of our prison was overlooked by the windows of a house belonging to a rich Moor of distinction, which, as is common there, were rather peepholes than windows; and even these had their thick and close lattices. It happened one day, as I was upon the terrace of our prison, with three of my companions, trying, by way of pastime, who could leap farthest with liia chains (the rest of the Christians being gone out to work) I casually lifted up my eyes, and saw from one of the little apertures I have mentioned a cane projecting, with a handkerchief tied at the end of it, and moved up and down, as if making signs for us to come and take it. We looked earnestly at it for some time, and at last one of my companions ran and placed himself under it, to see whether the hand that held it would let it drop, or what would ensue. But as he drew near the cane was drawn farther in, and moved from side to side, as if it had said No, as we imply a negative by a shake of the head. The Christian came back, and the cane was again thrust out as before. Another of my companions went, and the same happened to him as to the former; then the third, who had no better success. Seeing this, I resolved to try my fortune likewise; and I had no sooner placed myself under the cane than it was dropped, and feli just at my feet. I immediately untied the handkerchief, and in a knot at a corner I found ten zianiys, a sort of base gold coin used by the Moors, each of the value of about ten reals* of Spanish. I need not tell you that I rejoiced at the prize. Indeed I was no less pleased than surprised, ignorant as I was whence this good fortune could come : yet plainly perceiving, from the cane being refused to every one else, that the favour was intended for me alone. I pocketed the welcome present; I broke the cane to pieces ; I returned to the terrace; I looked again to the window, and presently perceived a very fair hand open and shut it hastily. By this we understood, or fancied, that it must be some woman residing in the house of the Moor who had been thus charitable to us ; and, to express our thanks, we made our obeisance after the Moorish fashion, by inclining the head, bending the body, and placing the hands on the breast.

_" Soon after a small cross, made of cane, was held out at the same window, and then drawn in again. On this signal, we concluded that some Cliristian woman was a captive in the house, and that itwas she who had done us the kindness ; but the whiteness of the hand, and the bracelets we had a glimpse of, soon destroyed that ideco. Then again we imagined it to be some Christian renegade, whom their masters often marry, esteeming themselves fortunate in the

" About an English crown.



opportunity, for they value them more than the women of their own nation; but all our reasonings and conjectures were wide of the truth. And now all our entertainment was to gaze at and observe the window, as the propitious quarter of the heavens from which that star, the cane, had appeared ; but a complete fortnight passed, during which we saw neither hand, nor any other signal whatever; and though in this interval we endeavoured to inform ourselves by whom the house was inhabited, and whether any Christian renegade lived in it, we could learn nothing more, than tliat it belonged to a considerable and wealthy Moor, named Agimorato, who had been alcaide of Pata, an office in that country of great authority. But when we least dreamed of its raining a farther shower of zianiys, we perceived, unexpectedly, another cane, with a handkerchief tied to it, the knot of which appeared larger than the former one ; and this also luckily happened at a time when the bath, as before, was nearly empty of prisoners. We repeated the experiment, each of ray three companions preceding me, as at first; but the cane was not let down till I approached, when it instantly dropped, I untied the knot, and found in it forty Spanish crowns in gold, and a paper written in Arabic, with a large cross at the top. I kissed the cross, took the crowns, and returned to the terrace, where we all made our reverences. The hand appearing again, I made signs that I would read the paper, and the window was then shut. Though overjoyed at this event, we were considerably perplexed ; and great as was our desire to read the paper, the difficulty of coming at its contents was still greater, for not one of us understood the language in which it was written.

" At last I resolved to confide in a renegado, a native of Murria, who professed himself my friend, and with whom I had exchanged such pledges of confidence, that he could not well betray whatever secret I might impart to him; for it is usual with a person of this description, who intends to return to Christendom, to carry with him certificates from the most considerable captives, attesting in the most ample manner, and best possible form, that he is an honest man, and has always been kind and obliging to the Christians, and desirous to make his escape the first opportunity that offered. Some procure theae certificates with a good view; others for the purposes of craft. For if, when going to rob and plunder on the Christian coasts, they happen to be shipwrecked or taken, they can produce these written testimonials, as proofs of the true design of their cruising wil h the Turks, which was no other than to get into some Christian country. By this means they escape thi' first fury, reconcile themselves to the Church, and live unmolested; waiting all the time an opportunity to return to Barbary, and pursue their former predatory course of life. Wliereas those who procure them with a good design, remain in the Christian countries during the rest of their lives. Now of this description was my friend, and he had certifioAtes from us all, in which we recommended him so warmly, that if the Moors had found these papers upon him, they would certainly have burnt him alive, I knew he understood Arabic BO well that he could not only spejik, but write it But before I



would let him into the whole affair I desired him to read the paper, pretending I had found it by chance in a hole of my cell. He opened it, and stood thoughtfully conning and translating it to himself. I asked him if he understood it. He said he did perfectly, and that if I desired to know its contents word for word, I must furnish him with pen and ink, that he might translate it with the more exactness. We supplied him with all he required, and when he had finished the task he said, ' But what I have here written in Spanish is precisely what is contained in this Moorish paper; but take notice, that where the words Lela Marien occur, they mean Our Lady the Virgin Mary.' We read the translated paper, which ran thus :â€"

" ' When I was a child, my father had a female slave, who instructed me in the Christian worship, and told me many things of Lela Jklarien. This Christian died, and I know her soul did not go to the fire, but to Allah, for I saw her twice afterwards, and she bid me go to the country of the Christians, to see Lela Marien, who loved me very much. I know not how it is. I have seen many Christians from this window, and none has looked like a gentleman but yourself. I am young, and beautiful, and have a great deal of money to carry away with me. Try, if you can find out how we may escape, and you shall be my husband in the Christian country, if you please ; and if not, I shall not care, for Lela Marien will provide me a husband. I write this with my own hand: be careful to whom you give it to read : trust not to any Moor; for they are all treacherous: therefore am I full of fears ; for I would not have you discover it to anybody : because, should my father come to know it, he would immediately throw me into a well, and cover me with stones. I will fasten a thread to the cane ; with which you may tie your answer: and if you have nobody that can write Arabic, tell me by signs; for Leia Marien will make me understand you. She and Allah keep you, and this cross, which I very often kiss, for so the captive directed me to do.'

" Conceive, gentlemen, our joy and surprise at the contents of this paper : so manifest were our emotions, that the renegado discovered that the paper had not been found by accident, but was addressed to one of us : and therefore he entreated us, if what he suspected was true, to confide in him, and tell him all; for he would venture his life for our liberty : and he pulled a brass crucifix out of his bosom, and with many tears, swore by the God whom that image represented, in whom he, though a great sinner, truly and firmly believed, that he would faithfully keep secret whatever we should think proper to communicate; for he imagined, and was almost persuaded, that, by means of her, who had written that letter, himself and all of us should regain our liberty, and he, in particular, attain what he so earnestly desired, which was, to be restored to the bosom of holy Church his mother, from which, like a rotten member, he had been separated, and cut off through his sin and ignorance. This was accompanied with so many tears and other signs of sincerity, that we unanimously agreed to trust him ; and accordingly we gave him an account of the whole affair, without concealing a single circuinr



stance. We showed him the little window, out of which the cane had appeared, and he marked the house, resolving to inform himself who lived in it. We also agreed, as to the propriety of answering the billet; and, as we now had a person who could do it in the language she wished, the renegado that instant wrote that which I dictated to him, which was precisely what I shall repeat to you ; for of all the material circumstances, which befel me in this adventure, not one has yet escaped my memory, nor, whilst I have breath, shall I ever forget them. The answer was this :â€"

"'The true Allah preserve you, dear lady, and that blessed Marien, the true mother of God, who has put the desire into your heart of going into the country of the Cliristians, because she loves you. Pray to her, that she will be pleased to instruct you how to bring about what she commands you to do, for she is so good, she will assuredly not deny you. On my part, and that of all the Christians with me, I offer to do for you all that we are able, at tlie hazard of our lives. Do not fail to write to me, and acquaint me with whatever resolutions you take, and I will constantly answer you. For the great Allah has given us a Christian captive, who speaks and writes your language well, as you may perceive by this paper. So that you may, without fear, give us notice of your intentions. As to your condescending offer of becoming my wife, when you get into a Christian country, I promise you, on the word of a good Christian, it shall be so; and know, dear lady, that the Christians keep their promises more faitlifully than the Moors. Allah and Marien his mother have you in their holy keeping !'

" This letter being written and folded up, I waited two days till the bath was empty, as before, and then took my accustomed post upon the terrace, and it was not long before the cane made its appearance. As soon as I perceived the signal, though I could not discern by whom it was made, I held up the paper, intimating that I wished the string to be fastened to the cane, but I found it was already done ; and shortly after I had tied on the letter with it, our star reappeared, with the white flag of peace, tlie handkerchief. This was dropped, and on taking it up, I found in it, in several kinds of coin, both of siver and gold, about fifty crowns : which multiplied our joy fifty times, confirming the hopes we had conceived of regaining our liberty. That same evening, our renegado returned, and told us he had learned that the house was inhabited by the Moor I have mentioned under the name of Agimorato; that he was extremely rich, had an only daughter, heiress to all his possessions, who, in the general estimation, was the most beautiful woman in all Barbary: that several viceroys who had been sent thither had sought her in marriage, but that she had refused them all, and, lastly, that she used to be attended by a Christian female, who died some time ago. All which perfectly agreed with the contents of the letter. We then consulted him as to the best means of carrying off the lady and making our escape into Christendom ; but the decision was deferred till we had a further intimation from Zoraida, which was the name of her who now desires to be called Maria: for it was



evident that by her, and her only, the diflSculties which lay in our way could be surmounted. After we had come to this resolution, the renegado bid us be of good cheer, for he would set us at liberty or lose his life. The bath after this was for four days full of people, and in all that time, no signal was exhibited ; but on the fifth, being once more empty, we perceived the handkerchief. It fell as in the preceding instances, and I found in it another paper, and a hundred crowns in gold only, without any other coin. The renegado being present, we gave him the paper to read in our cell, and he translated it in these words:â€"

" ' I do not know, dear sir, how to contrive a method for our escaping to Spain, nor has Lela Marien informed me, though I have implored her assistance. This, however, may be done : I will convey to you through this window a large sum of money in gold : redeem yourself and your friends therewith, and let one of your party go to the country of the Christians, to purchase a bark, and return for the rest. You will find me in my father's garden at the Babazon-gate close to the seaside, where I am to remain all the summer witli him and my servants. Thence you may carry me off by night without fear, and put me on board the bark; but remember you are to be my husband; otherwise I will pray to Marien to punish you. If you can trust nobody to go for the bark, effect your own ransom, and go yourself; for I shall be more secure of your return than of another's, as you are a gentleman and a Christian. Take care not to mistake the garden. "When I see you walking again where you now are, I shall conclude the bath to be empty, and will furnish you with more money. Allah preserve you, dear sir!'

" These were the contents of the second letter : which being heard by us all, every one offered himself as the person to be ransomed, promising to go and return with expedition and punctuality. I also offered: but the renegado opposed us all, and would in no wise consent, that one should get his liberty before the rest, experience having taught him how wretchedly, when free, men keep the promises they make while in slavery; for several considerable captives, he said, had tried this expedient, ransoming one of their companions, to go to Valencia or Majoioa, with money to purchase an armed vessel, and return for those who had ransomed him, but the person so sent has never come back: for liberty once regained effaced all obligations from the memory. In confirmation of this truth, he told us briefly a case which had happened lately to certain Christian gentlemen, attended with the strangest circumstances that had ever taken place even here, where the most surprising and wonderful events occur every day. He concluded with saying, that the best way would be, to give the money designed for the ransom of a Christian to him, and he would buy a vessel here in Algiers, upon pretence of turning merchant, and trading on the coast, and to Tetuan; and being master of the vessel, he could easily contrive means to get them out of the bath, and put them on board. But if the fair Moor, as she promised, should furnish money enough to redeem them all, this would be easy of itself, since, being free, they might go on board even at noon-



day: the greatest difficulty, he said, consisted in this, that the Moors do not allow any renegado to purchase or keep a vessel, unless it be a large one for pirating; for they suspect the owner of a small one, especially if he be a Spaniard, believing that his only design ia to escape into Christendom; and this inconvenience, he said, he would further obviate, by taking a Tagarin* Moor as partner both of the vessel and its profits ; and under this colour becoming master of the vessel, he reckoned the rest as good as done.

" Now, though to me and my companions it seemed better to send to Majorca for the vessel, as the JMoorish lady had suggested, yet we did not dare to contradict him; fearing, that by not conforming to his wishes, he might be induced to betray our project, and thus endanger not only our own lives, but that of our fair correspondent, for whose Hfe we would willingly have laid down our own. We therefore resolved to commit ourselves into the hands of God, and those of the renegado, and instantly answered Zoraida's letter, telling her we would do in all respects as she had advised: for she had directed as prudently, as if Lela Marien herself had inspired her; and that it depended upon her alone, whether the business should be delayed, or carried into immediate execution; and I renewed my promise of being her husband. The next day, in consequence of this intimation, the bath happening to be clear, she, at several times, by means of the cane and the handkerchief, conveyed to us two thousand crowns in gold, and a paper, in which she said, that the first Juma, which is Friday, she was to go to her father's garden, but that, before she went, she would supply us with more money ; and if that was not sufficient, she begged we would inform her, and she would give us as much as we pleased; for so vast was her father's store, that he would never miss it; and she had the keys in her possession.

" We immediately gave five hundred crowns to the renegado, to purchase the vessel; and with eight hundred more I ransomed myself, depositing the money with a merchant of Valencia, then at Algiers, who redeemed me from the king, by passing his word, that on the jtrrival of the first ship from Valencia, my ransom should be paid ; for if he had paid it immediately, suspicion would have been excited that the money had been a great while in his hands, and that he had employed it to his own use; and with a man of my master's dispo-Eition, every precaution was necessary.

" The Thursday preceding the Friday on which the fair Zoraida Was to set out for the garden, she gave us a thousand crowns more, and in a short note apprised us of her departure, and entreated me, if I ransomed myself, to hasten to her father's garden, and contrive an opportunity of seeing her. I answered in few words, that I would aot fail to do as she desired, and begged she would recommend ua to Lela Marien, using all those prayers which the captive had tiaught lier.

" Having succeeded thus far, means were concerted for redeeming Oiy three companions, lest, seeing me ransomed, and themselves not,

* A Moor of Arragon.



knowing there was money sufficient, they should be uneasy, and tempted to do something to the prejudice of our fair benefactor; for though their being men of honour might have freed me from such apprehension, I was unwilling to nin the smallest hazard; and "I therefore effected their liberty in the same way by which I had procured my own, depositing the whole money with the merchant, that he might safely and securely pass his word for us; though we confided no part of our secret to him, from the danger to which it might have exposed us.

" In less than a fortnight our renegade had purchased a very good bark, capable of holding above thirty persons; and to make sure v/ork, by giving a good face to business, he took a short voyage to a place called Sargel, thirty leagTies from Algiers towards the coast of Oran, where there is a brisk trade for dried figs. He made this trip two or three times, in company with |the Tagarin mentioned before. In Barbary, the Moors of Aragon are called Tagarins, and those of Granada, Mudajares; while in the kingdom of Fez the Mudajares have the name of Elches, and are tlie people of whom the king makes most use in his wars. Each time that he passed with his bark, the renegado cast anchor in a little creek, within two bowshots of the garden where Zoraida expected us; and there he stationed himself with the Moors that rowed, either to perform a religious ceremony of the Moors, called the cala, or to practise in jest what he intended shortly to execute in earnest; and with this view he would go into the garden, begging fruit, which her father gave him, without knowing who he was. But his chief design, as he afterwards told me, was to speak to Zoraida, and tell her that he was the person who, by my direction, W'as to carry her to Christendom, and that she might be satisfied and secure of my fidelity. But he had no opportunity of doing so, the women of that country never suffering themselves to be seen either by Moor or Turk, unless when authorized by their husbands or fathers; though Christian slaves are allowed both to see and converse with them. I should have been sorry if he had spoken to her, as she might have been alarmed at finding that the business was entrusted to a renegado; but Heaven ordered it as I could have wished.

" Finding how securely he passed to and from Sargel, anchoring when, how, and where he pleased; that the Tagarin his partner had no wiU of his own, but approved whatever he directed ; that I was ransomed, and that there wanted nothing but a few more Christians to assist in the business of rowing; he bid me consider whom I would employ, besides my friends, and to bespeak them for the first Friday; for that was the time he fixed for our departure. Accordingly I engaged twelve Spaniards, all able men at the oar, and such as could most easily quit the city unsuspected. A number not to be procured without difficulty at that juncture; for no fewer than twenty corsairs being out on a pirating cruise, they had taken almost all the rowers with them ; and these had not been found, but that their master, having a galliot to finish that was then upon the stocks, did not go out that summer. I said nothing more to them,



but that they would contrive to steal out of the city one by one, tlie ensuing Friday, m the dusk of the evening, and wait for me in or about Agimorato's garden; and I gave the direction to each separately, with this caution, that if they should see any other (Jliristians there, they should only say that I ordered them to stay for me in that place.

" The point being settled, one thing was yet wanting, and that the most essential of all; which was to advertise Zoraida of our proceedings, that she might not be alarmed at our appearance, so long before the time she could expect the vessel from Christendom to arrive. I therefore went myself to the garden, the day previous to tliat fixed on for our departure, under the pretence of gathering herbs, but in the hope of seeing her. When arrived thither, the first person I met was her father, who spoke to me in a language used throughout Barbary, and even at Constantinople, by the captives and Moors; it is neither Morisco nor Castilian, nor peculiar to any nation, but a medley of several languages, and generally understood.* In this jargon, he asked me what I wanted in the garden, and to whom I belonged. I answered that I was a slave of Arnaute Mami, whom I knew to be an intimate friend of his, and that I was merely in search of a few herbs, for a salad for my master. He then asked me if I was upon ransom, and how much my master demanded for me. ^Vliile I was answering him, the fair Zoraida, who had perceived me from the house, came into the garden; and as the Moorish women make no scruple of appearing before Christians, with whom, as I observed before, they are not at all shy, she directed her steps towards the place where I waa standing with her father, who seeing her approach slowly, called to her to quicken her pace. It would be difficult for me to describe at present the blaze of beauty or splendour of dress with which my beloved Zoraida then appeared before my astonished eyes. More pearls hung about her lovely neck, and more jewels were suspended to her ears, or scattered over her tresses, I might almost say, than she had hairs on her head. Eound her ankles, which were bare, according to the custom of the country, she had two carcaxes, for so they call the enamelled feet-bracelets in ^Morisco, of the purest gold, and set with so many diamonds, that, as she has told me since, her father valued them at ten thousand pistoles ; and the bracelets on her wrists were not less costly. The pearls that were strewed in abundance over every part of her dress were of the purest quality; the pride and magnificence of the Moorish women consisting in these ornaments: for which reason, there are more pearls in Barbary, than in all the other countries of the globe taken together; and the father of Zoraida had the reputation of possessing the greatest number and the best in Algiers, and of being worth, besides, two hundred thousand Spanish crowns ; of all which, she, who is now mine, was once mistress. Whether thus adorned, and in the height of prosperity, she appeared beautiful or not, may be judged from what she is now. after having undergone great and numberless fatigues : for th(

* Lingua Franc*.



beauty of women has its times and seasons, and is under the control of accidents, the passions of the mind increasing or diminishing, and sometimes totally destroying it. To me, however, she appeared as perfect in beauty, as she was rich in attire, the loveliest being I had ever beheld, and, considering my obligations to her, I could regard her in no other light than as an angel descended from heaven for my deliverance and felicity.

" When she came up, her father told her, in his own language, that I was a captive of his friend xVrnaute Mami, and the reason I had assigned for being in the garden ; and joining in the discourse, using \he medley of tongues before mentioned, she asked if I was a gentleman, and why I did not ransom myself. I replied that I was already ransomed, and she might judge in what esteem I was held by my master, from the price that was demanded, which was no less than fifteen hundred pieces of eight. To which she answered, ' Truly, had you belonged to my father, he should not have parted with you foi twice that sum \ for you Christians are never sincere in the account you give of yourselves, pretending to be poor, for the purpose of cheating the Moors.'

" 'That may be the case sometimes, madam,' I replied, ' but it was not so with me : I dealt honestly by my master, as I had been accustomed to do in my intercourse with mankind, and I hope I shall always follow the same upright course.'

"' And when do you purpose to go away f asked Zoraida.

" ' To-morrow, I believe,' said I •' for a French vessel will then sail, and I mean to avail myself of the opportunity.'

" ' Had you not better,' replied Zoraida, ' wait the arrival of a ship from Spain, and return in that, than trust yourself to the French, who are not friendly to your nation T

"'No, madam,' I answered, 'unless a Spanish ship should arrive quickly, of which there is some hope; but the probability is, that I shall depart to-morrow ; for the desire I have to be in my own country, and with those I love, is so strong that any delay would be painful to me; nor shall I incur it by waiting for another, though a better, conveyance.'

"' Without doubt, you are married in your own country,' said Zoraida,' and are so anxious to be gone, that you may be at home with your wife.'

" 'No,' I replied, ' I am not married ; but I have given my promise to marry, as soon as I get thither.'

"' And is the lady whom you have promised beautiful ? asked Zoraida.

" ' So beautiful,' answered I,' that to compliment her, and tell you the truth, she is the very image of yourself.'

" The father laughed heartily at this, and said, ' Pveally, Christian, she must be beautiful indeed, if she resembles my daughter, who is esteemed the handsomest woman in the kingdom: look at her. and see if she be justly estimated.'

" Zoraida's father served as an interpreter during the greater part of this conversation, as understanding Spanish ; for though she knew

P



ft little of tlie Lingua Franca spoken by the Moors, she expressed he? meaning to me moi'e by signs than by words.

" While we were thus engaged, a Moor came running to us, crying aloud that four Turks had leaped over the pails or wall of the garden, and were gathering the fruit, though it was not yet ripe. At this information, the old man, as well as Zoraida, was alarmed; for the Moors have a natural dread of the Turks, and particularly of the soldiers, who are so insolent and imperious, that they treat them worse than if they were their slaves. The father therefore said to the daughter, 'Retire, child, into the house, while I go and talk to these dogs: and you. Christian, gather your herbs, and be gone in peace, and Allah conduct you safe to your own country,'

" I made my obeisance, and he went in search of the Turks, leaving me alone with Zoraida, who feigned compliance with his injunction, but returned the moment he was out of sight among the trees, and said to me, with tears in her eyes, ' Ameni, Christiano, ameni ?' Meaning, ' Are you going away. Christian % are you going away V I answered, ' Yes, madam, but not without you. Expect us to-morrow, which is Juma, and be not terrified, or apprehensive, for we shall certainly escape to Christendom.'

"In saying this, I gave as much expression as I could to my manner, so that she understood me ; and throwing her arm about my neck, she moved soft and tremblingly towards the house ; when, unfortunately, as it might have proved, but Heaven ordained otherwise, her father returned from sending away the Turks, and saw us in that attitude. We were sensible that he discovered us, but Zoraida had the discretion and presence of mind not to take her arm from around my neck, but rather held me closer; and leaning her head against my breast, and bending her knees a little, pretended to be fainting; while I, on my part, endeavoured to appear as if supporting her from necessity, to prevent her falling. Her father, seeing her in this situation, hastened towards us, and anxiously inquired what was the matter; and, receiving no answer, said, ' The insolence of these Turkish dogs has frightened her into a swoon :' and he took her from me, and gently inclined her head to his own bosom.

" Presently, fetching a deep sigh, her eyes still filled with tears, she said again, but in a different tone, ' Ameni, Christiano, ameni!' ' Begone, Christian, begone !' To which her father answered, 'There is no occasion, child, for the Christian's going away; he has done you no harm, and the Turks are fled : be not terrified, there is no danger; they are really gone : at my entreaty, they left the garden the same way by which they came in.'

" ' They have indeed frightened her extremely,' said I, 'and as she wishes it, I will take my leave; but, with your permission, will come again occasionally, for my master says tliere is no place so good for salads in the whole vicinity of Algiers. God be with you,'

"' You may come whenever you please,' said Agiraorato : ' for my daughter does not wish you gone, from anger to you, or any other Christian ; she thought, perhaps, she was bidding the Turks begone, or that it was time you should go and gather your herbs.'

\



THE CAPTIVE RELATES HIS LIFE. ait

j; . â€" . .

•* I left them, and she, as if her so\il had been rent from her body, talked towards the house with her father. Under pretence of gathering herbs, I roamed over the whole garden at my pleasure, carefully observing both the inlets and outlets, the strength of the house, and every convenience that might tend to facilitate our project.

"Having finished my observations, I returned to give an account of my excursion to the renegado and my companions; longing eagerly for the hour, when, without fear of surprise, I might enjoy the happiness which fortune presented, in the beautiful and charming Zoraida. The period fixed upon for the execution of our purpose, a period so much wished for, at length arrived ; and observing the order and method which, after mature deliberation and long debate, we had agreed upon, we were blessed with the desired success. On the da> after my interview with Zoraida, Morenago, for that was the renegado's name, cast anclior, at the close of the evening, almost opposite to the house in which my fair one resided. The Christians, who were \o be employed in rowing, were ready in their hiding-places, their hearts beating, in anxious expectation of my coming, being eager to surprise the bark, which lay at anchor before their eyes : for they were ignorant of our plan, and supposed they were to gain their liberty by mere force, putting to death every Moor belonging to the vessel: as soon, therefore, as I and my friends appeared, they came forth, one after another, and quickly joined us. The hour was fortunate, for the city gates being by this time shut, there were no persons in the fields to observe our proceedings. Being all met, we deliberated, whether it would be better to go first for Zoraida, or secure the Moors who were in the boat; and while we were in this uncertainty, our renegado arrived, and asked what we were waiting for; for now was the time for action, all his crew being thoughtless of danger, and most of them asleep. We told him the cause of our suspense, and he instantly said, that the most important step was ta secure the vessel, whicli might be done with all imaginable ease, and without incurring the least danger; and that then we might go for Zoraida with the greater confidence. We approved of Jiis counsel, and, with him for a guide, repaired to the vessel, into which he leaped first; and drawing a cutlass, said in Moresco,' Let no man stir, unless be is willing to lose his life,' The Christians were with him in a moment, and the Moors, cowards by nature, hearing their master speak thus, were terrified, and without resistance, for indeed they had few or no arms, tamely sufi"ered themselves to be bound; whic"h the Christians performed expeditiously, threatening, if they raised any DUtcry, or made the least noise, they should instantly be put to the jword.

" This done, leaving haK of our men on board as a guard, we pro-;eeded with the rest, the renegado being still our leader, to the garden )f Agimorato; the gate of which, fortunately, yielded to our pressure, 13 if it had not been locked, and we reached the house in silence, without being perceived by any one. The lovely Zoraida was expect-ng us at the window, and hearing our approach, she asked in a low roice, if we were Nazareni; that is, Christians. I replied that wo

p 2



were, and requested her to come down. As she knew my voice, she complied, without a moment's delay; and opening the door, she appeared to us all so beautiful, and so richly attired, that it would be vain to attempt a description. As soon as I saw her, T took her hand and kissed it, as did the renegado and my two comrades; and the rest ot'_ the partj% without knowing its meaning, followed the example, thinking it the mere expression of our thanks and acknowledgments to her as the instrument of our deliverance. The renegado asked her, in the Morisco tongue, if her father were in the house : she said he was, but that he was asleep.

" * Then we must wake him,' replied the renegado, 'and carry him with us, and all that is of value in this delightful villa.'

"'No,' said she, 'my father must not be touched; and there is nothing valuable here, but what I have secured, which is sufficient to satisfy and enrich you all: stay a little, and you shall see.'

" And she went back into the house, requesting us to be quiet, and make no noise, for she would return in an instant. In her absence, I asked the renegado what had passed between them; and being informed, I insisted upon his complying in everything with the wishes of Zoraida, who now appeared with a trunk, so fuU of gold crowns, that she could hardly carry it.

" As ill fortune would have it, her father in the meantime happened to wake; and hearing a noise in the garden, looked out at the Avindow; and, finding we were Christians, cried out as loud iS he could, in Arabic, 'Christians! Christians! thieves I thieves!' which threw us all into the utmost terror and confusion.

" The renegado, however, seeing the danger we were in, and how much it imported him to achieve the enterprise before it was discovered, flew to the chamber of Agimorato, accompanied by several others, while I remained in the garden, not daring to quit Zoraida, who, ai the voice of her father, had fainted in my arms. They ao quitted themselves so well, that they were down in a moment, bringing Agimorato with them, his hands tied, and his mouth stopped with a handkerchief, and threatening, if he made the least noise, that it sho'.ild cost him his life. When his daughter saw him, she covered her eyes, to avoid the continuance of so painful a sight; while he was astonished at seeing her, not knowing how willingly she had put herself into our hands. As it was now of the utmost importance to fly, we hastened as speedily as we could to the bark, where our comrades expected us with impatience, fearing we had met with some accident; and scarcely had two hours of the night passed away, when we were all safe on board. We now untied the hands of Zoraida'a father, and took the handkerchief from his mouth ; but the renegado warned him again as to silence, threatening as before. When the poor old man perceived that his daughter was also in our power, both sighs and tears escaped him, especially when he saw that I held her closely embraced, and that she sat quiet and contented, without showing either opposition, complaint, or coyness; but he held aia peace, lest the menaces of the renegado should be put into execution.

"Zoraida finding herself on board, and seeing us, by our manning



the oars, about to leave the coast, wliile her father remained a prisoner, and the rest of the Moors fettered, she requested, by the renegado, that I would order the "Moors to be released, and they, as well as her father, to be put ashoie ; for she would sooner throw herself into the sea, than see a parent by whom she was so tenderly loved, carried away captive before her eyes, and upon her account. When I understood from Morenago the nature of her request, 1 begged she might be gratified ; but he said that it would be the most imprudent thing in the world; for if they were lauded, the whole city and country round would be in a state of alarm ; light frigates would be sent out against us : and thus, beset both by sea and land, it would be impossible for us to escape : but he agreed to give them their liberty at the first Christian port we should touch at. We were all of the same opinion, and Zoraida, when we told her why we could not grant her wishes, and what we had determined on, was satisfied. Then with joyful silence, and cheerful alacrity, each of our brave rowers plying his oar, and we recommending ourselves to God with all our hearts, set forward, intending to make the island of Majorca, which is the nearest Christian coast.

"But the north wind beginning to blow, and the sea becoming rough, we found it impracticable to steer that course, and were obliged to keep inshore, towards Oran, not without great apprehension of being discovered from the town of Sargel, lying on that coast, about sixty miles from Algiers ; we were also afraid of meeting in our passage with some of those galliots, which usually came with merchandize from Tetuan: though, stout of heart as we were, each relying, not only on liis own courage, but that of his comrades in general, a single galliot, if not a cruiser, would not have dismayed us; on the contrary, we should probably have encountered and taken it, and thus have obtained a vessel by which we might more securely pursue our voyage. Hitherto, Zoraida had kept her head between my hands, that she might not look on her father, and I perceived she was continually calhng on Lela Marien to assist us.

" When we had rowed about thirty miles, the day broke upon us, and we found ourselves at no greater distance than tliree musket-shots from the shore, which appeared to be a desert, without a human creature to betray us. However, by dint of labour, we gained more sea, which was now become cftlaier; and when we had made about two leagues, we wished the rowers to rest in turns, for the purpose of refreshments, with which the bark was well supplied; but they refused to quit their oars, observing that it was not a time for rest, and they could row and eat too, if those who were unemployed would supply them with provision. This was accordingly done, but a brisk gale springing up, they were obliged to lay down their oars, and with sails set, steer directly for Oran, no other course being practicable. All tills was done with great expedition; we sailed at the rate of more than eight miles an hour, without any other fear than that of meeting some corsair. We ordered some food to be given to the Moorish prisoners ; and the renegado comforted them with the aasurance that they were not slaves, and should have their liberty



tlie first opportunity ; and lie made the same declaration to Zoraida'a father, who answered, ' I might reasonably, O Christians, expect from your liberal and generous practice any other favour; but think me not so simple as to believe that you mean to give me my liberty; for you would never have exposed yourselves to the danger of depriving me of it, to restore it again so freely; especially as you know who I am, and the advantage that may accrue to you from my ransom; which, do but name, and from tbis moment, I promise whatever you demand for myself, and this my unhappy child, or for her alone, who is the better part of my souL'

" And he wept so bitterly, that we were moved to compassion, and Zoraida could no longer keep her eyes from him; and wnen she saw him in this piteous state, she also burst into tears, and quitting my arras, ran to embrace him; and a scene so tender then took place between them, that several of the company could not help joming in their lamentations. But when her father observed the nature of her dress, and the profusion of jewels, he said to her, in their language, 'How is this, my child? Yesterday evening, before this terrible misfortune befel us, I saw you in your common and ordinary dress ; and now, without having had time for change, or any pleasing news that requires to be thus solemnized, I see you in your gayest apparel and richest ornaments ? Account for this, for it surprises me more than the misfortune itself.' _

"The renegado interpreted to us all that the Moor said to his daughter, who gave no answer to his question; but when he saw the box in which she kept her jewels, and which he knew he had left at Algiers, when he removed to his country-house, he was still more confounded, and asked her, how it came into our hands, and what was in it. To which the renegado replied, without giving time for Zoraida to speak, ' Trouble not yourself, signor, by asking your daughter so many questions; for I can satisfy you with a single word. Know, therefore, that she is a Christian; that she has filed off our chains, and given us liberty; that she is here with her own consent, and pleased, I have reason to think, with her condition, like one delivered from darkness to light, from death to life, and from suffering to glory.'

"' Is this true, child f said the Moor.

"' It is,' answered Zoraida.

"' And thou art really a Christian ? And it is to thee I owe that I am in the power of my enemies ? said the old man.

" ' I am indeed a Christian,' she replied; ' but it was not I who reduced you to your present condition : I meant no harm to you; I only intended good to myself.'

"' And what good hast thou done thyself ]'

"' Ask that,' she replied, ' of Lela Marien, who can tell you better than I can,'

" The Moor no sooner heard this, than, with incredible precipitation, he threw himself headlong into the sea, and would certainly have perished, had not his wide and cumbrous garments kept him for awhile afloat on the Avater. Zoraida, in a shriek, begged we would



pave iiim, and we all hastened, and, laying hold of his robe, dragged him on board, half drowned and senseless : a sight which so much affected her, that she uttered a most tender and sorrowful lamentation over him, as if he had really been dead. We placed him so that the water he had swallowed might run out of his mouth, and in two hours he came to himself. In the meantime, the wind shifting, we were obliged to ply our oars, to prevent being driven ashore; and, by good fortune, we came to a creek, by a small promontory or headland, called by the Moors the Cape of Cava Kumia, meaning the wicked Christian woman ; for the Moors have a tradition, that Cava, who occasioned them the loss of Spain, lies buried there; Cava signifying a wicked woman, and Eumia, Christian ; and therefore it is considered by them as an ill omen to be obliged to land, and they never do it but from necessity, though it proved to us, considering how high the sea ran, a safe harbour and retreat. We placed scouts on shore, and never dropped our oars; and having made a second meal on what the renegado had provided, we devoutly prayed to God and Our Lady, for assistance and protection, that the termination of our enterprise might prove as happy as the beginning. We now promised, at the entreaty of Zoraida, to set her father on shore, before our departure, as well as the Moors, whom we had hitherto kept fast bound : for her tender heart could not bear to see her parent and countrymen thus held in captivity before her face ; and we had the less hesitation in gratifying her as, by leaving them in a place so desolate, we could incur no danger,

" Our prayers were not in vain: Heaven heard them: for the wind presently changed in our favour, and presenting a calm sea, invited us to return into the course from which we had been driven, and proceed on our intended voyage. We accordingly unbound the Moors, and, one by one, put them all ashore, to their utter astonishment. But when we came to disembark Zoraida's father, who was now perfectly in his senses, he said, ' Know you, Christians, why this wicked woman is desirous of my being set at liberty % Think you, it is from filial piety? No, certainly; but because, when she wuuld indulge her evil inclinations, my presence would disturb her. Neither imagine that she is induced to change her religion from thinking yours preferable to ours: no, it is because she knows that in your country there is greater libertinism than in her own.'

" Then turning to her, myself and another holding him, lest he should commit some outrage, he said, ' Infamous girl, ill-advised maiden ! whither goest thou, blindfold and precipitate, in the power of these dogs, our natural enemies % Cursed be the hour in which thou wert born, and cursed the indulgence and luxury in which I brought thee up !'

" Seeing him not likely to terminate his upbraidings, I hurried him ashore, where he continued his exclamations and waiUngs, praying to Mahomet that he would beseech God to confound, overwhelm, and destroy us; and when we were out of hearing, we could see the frenzy he acted, plucking off his hair, tearing his beard, and rolling himself on the ground; and once he raised his voice so high, that we



could distinguish words like these : * Come back, my beloved child, come back ! I forgive thee all! Let those wretched men keep the money they have in their possession, and come thou back, and comfort thy disconsolate father, who, if thou forsakest him, must lose hia life in this desert!'

" Zoraida both heard and felt this pathetic appeal, but could only say in reply, 'Allah grant, my dear father, that Leia Marien, who has been the cause of my turning Christian, may comfort you in youl affliction. Allah well knows that I could not have acted otherwise than I have done : and these Christians owe me no thanks for any particular goodwill I bore them, since, had I been ever so unwilling to have accompanied them, and ever so desirous of staying with you, my dear father, it would have been impossible! for my mind would not let me rest till I performed this work, which to me seems to be as righteous and good as in your eyes it appears wicked and abominable.'

"These words never reached her father, for whom they were uttered; for we were at so great a distance from him, that we could not even perceive him. I endeavoured to console her as well as I could, while the rest were intent upon the voyage, which was now made so easy to us by a favourable wind, that we had no doubt of being the next morning on the coast of Spain.

" But, as good seldom, if ever, comes pure and unmixed, being sure to be attended or followed by some evih to alarm and disturb our enjoyment, it unfortunately happened, perhaps in consequence of the curses bestowed by the Moor upon his daughter (for a father's curse is to be dreaded, whoever he may be), I say it happened that, when we were far out at sea, the third hour of the night already passed, the oars lashed, a fair wind easing us of the labour of making use of them, we discovered, by the light of the moon, which broke from the clouds with remarkable brightness, a round vessel, v/ith all her sails out, steering a little upon the wind, right ahead of us, but so.very near that we were obliged to shorten sail, that we might not run foul of her, while she chapped her helm a-weather, to give us time to pass. The men upon deck hailed us, asking who we were, whence Ave came, and whither we were bound ; but as they sjxike French, our renegado said, ' Let no one answer, for this is one of the French corsairs, to whom all is fish that comes to the net.' Upon this caix-tion we were all silent, and continued our course, leaving their ship a little to windward, when they suddenly fired upon us two guns, both, as it appeared, loaded with chain-shot; for one of them cut our mast through the middle, which, with the sail, fell into the sea, while the other, following instantly upon it, took us amidships, laying open the side of our bark, but without wounding any of us. Finding ourselves on the point of going to the bottom, we cried aloud for help, beseeching those in the vessel to save us from destruction. They then struck their sails, and hoisted out the boat or pinnace, manned by twelve Frenchmen, armed with muskets, and their matches lighted, who, coming close to us, and seeing how few we were ajid that the bark was sinking, took us iii, telling us, that



what we suffered was through our own incivility, in not returning an answer to their questions : but the renegado found an opportunity, unperceived by any one, of throwing the trunk, containing Zoraida'a treasure, into the sea. In short, we all passed into the French ship, the crew of which, after informing themselves of all they wished to know, proceeded to strip U3 of everything we possessed, as if they had been our enemies, plundering Zoraida even of the bracelets which she wore on her ankles. They would have taken away the very clothes we wore as slaves, if they bad thought they could have made anything of them. Some of them proposed wrapping us all together in a sail, and throwing us into the sea : for their design being to trade in some of the Spanish ports, pretending to be from Brittany, should they carry us thither, they would be seized and punished for the robbery. But the captain, who had rifled my dear Zoraida, said he was satisfied with the prize he had got, and would touch at no port in Spain, but pass the Straits of Gibraltar in the night, or as privately as he could, and make the best of his way for Rochelle, the place from which he commenced his cruise; and in consequence of this determination they agreed to give us their ship's boat, and such provisions as were necessary for so short a voyage as we had now to make. This they did the 'rfi''!:X day, as soon as we were in view of the Spanish coast; at sight of which all our miseries were as completely forgotten, as if nothing untoward had happened to us; so exquisite is the delight afforded by the hope of regained liberty. It was about uoon when we were put into the boat, with a supply of two casks of water and some biscuit: and strange to say, the captain, by some unaccountable impulse of compassion, gave the beautiful Zoraida forty crowns, and would not suffer any of the clothes which she now wears to be taken from her : so that at parting, instead of feeling resentment for what we had suftered, we expressed our thanks, as it, with goodwill, they had conferred upon us extraordinary favours.

" They stood out to sea, shaping their course for the Straits ; while we, regardless of any other north-star than the land before us, plied so lustily our oars, that at sunset we were at so short a distance from the shore, that we thought we might reach it, without stealing more than an hour or two from the night; but having no moon to guide us, and the sky being cloudy, it was deemed in general unsafe to land upon a coast of which we were wholly ignorant, while some of our party were disposed to venture though among rocks, and far from any town ; as by so doing we should avoid the danger we had reason to fear from the corsairs of Tetuan, who at night are in Barbary, and in the morning on the Spanish coast, whence, having taken some prize, they return to sleep at their own homes. At last it was igreed that we should row slowly, and, if the sea proved calm, land at the first convenient place that offered. Accordingly, a little before midnight, we arrived at the foot of a very large and lofty mountain, not so close upon the sea but that there was room enough fur effectmg our purpose. Having disembarked, and dragged the boat on shore, we kissed the ground, with tears of satisfaction and joy, tlianking God for the mercy He h^ci vouchsafed us, in tUe liapny



termination of our perilous voyage. We then took the provisions from the boat, and ascended the mountain, still in trembling apprehension, scarcely believing, though it was really so, that our feet trod upon Christian ground. The day, which we thought long in coming, arrived at last, and we reached the summit of the mountain, hoping to discover some village, house, or shepherd's hut; but through the country round, as far as the eye could reach, no village, house, highway, path, or trace of human resort was visible; we therefore proceeded farther into the country, trusting that fortune would throw some kind soul in our way, to inform us where we were. But what troubled me most was to see Zoraida travel on foot over the flinty rocks: for though I once or twice carried her in my arms, she was more distressed than relieved by my doing so, from the fatigue she saw it occasioned me, and would accept no farther service than my arm, resting on which, she trudged on with exemplary patience and good spirits.

" We had not gone in this manner more than a quarter of a league, when the tinkhng of a little bell reached our ears, a sure signal that some flock was near us \ and, looking round with searching eyes, we descried a shepherd lad, sitting tranquilly at the foot of a cork-tree, shaping a stick with his knife. When we called to him, he raised his head, and started nimbly on his feet, and, believing, as we afterwards understood, the renegado and Zoraida, who were in Moorish dress, being the first objects that presented themselves to his sight, that all the Moors in Barbary were upon him, ran with incredible speed towards a wood that was at a little distance, crying out as loud as he could, ' Moors! the Moors are lauded! Moors, Moors! arm, arm!'

" We were so confounded at this outcry, that for a moment we were at a loss what to do ; but reflecting that the shepherd's noise would alarm the country, and that the guards of the coast would soon be on the alert, to see what was the matter, it was agreed that the renegado should throw ofl^ his Turkish jacket, and put on a slave's cassock or jerkin, which one of us immediately supplied, remaining himself in his shirt. Then recommending ourselves to Heaven, we followed the same road w'hich the shepherd had taken, expecting every moment to be surrounded with soldiers; nor were we deceived, for in less than two hours, as we descended into the plain, we saw about fifty horsemen making towards us, on a hand-gallop; upon which we stood still, waiting their approach. When they came near, perceiving, instead of the Moors they had expected, a company of poor Christian captives, they were surprised; and one of them asked if we had been the occasion of the shepherd's alarming the neighbourhood. I answered in the affirmative, and was about to acquaint him Avhence we came and who we were, when one of our party, recollecting the features of the person who had addressed us, prevented me, by exclaiming exultingly, ' Thank God, my friends, for having brought us to so good a part of the country; for, if I am not H)istakenj the ground we stand upon is the domain of Velez Ma]ag;i»



Wid you, sir, who now question us, if the length of my captivity has aot impaired my memory, are my very good uncle, Pedro de Bostamente.'

" Scarcely had the captive said this, than the person thus recog-Txised dismounted, and flew to embrace him, saying, * Dear nephew of my soul, I have not forgotten you; though I have often bewailed your supposed death, with my sister your mother, and the rest of your kindred, who are all well, God in his mercy having preserved their lives, that they may have the pleasure of seeing you again. We knew you were in Algiers; and your dress, and that of your com-pa,nions, plainly show, that you have recovered your liberty in some miraculous manner,'

'"It is even so,'answered the nephew; 'but we shall find time and opportunity hereafter to relate the particulars of our story.'

" As soon as the party understood that we were Ciiristians escaped from captivity, every man dismounted, and civilly offered his horse to aid us in reachirg the city of Velez Malaga, which was only about a league and a halt from the place where we were. Some of them went to take the boat round to the town, when informed where we bad left it ; others took us up behind them, while Zoraida had the seat oi honour, behind the captive's uncle. News of our coming having outstripped our pace, crowds came out of the city to meet us. It was not to see captives freed, or Aloors in captivityj that they came; for to both of these sights they were accustomed, residing so near the coast. It was to gaze on the beauty of Zoraida, then in its meridian perfection, for the fatigue of walking, combined with the joy she felt at finding herself in a Christian country, and in safety, gave a glow and animation to her countenance, that, if my affection did not deceive me, a more beautiful being never existed, nor in my eyes one equally handsome.

" Our hearts directed us first to the church, to give God thanks for the mercy of our deliverance; and as Zoraida entered, she said, that she saw faces very like that of Lela Marien. We told her they were pictures of her, and therenegado explained to her asweU as he could their meaning, that she might adore them, as if every one of them was the very Lela Marien who had spoken to her. Possessing good sense, and a clear and ready apprehension, she had little difficulty in understanding him. From the church they conducted us to lodgings in different parts of the town: but the nephew took Pedro de Bostamente, the renegado, Zoraida, and me to the house of his parents, who were in comfortable circumstances, and treated us with as much kindness as if we had been part of their family. We stayed in Velez six days, during which the renegado, having informed himself of what it was necessary for him to do on the subject of his conversion, repaired to the city of Granada, there to be readmitted into the bosom of our holy mother the Church. The rest of the freed captives went every one his way, as he pleased, while Zoraida and I remained by ourselves, furnished with no other means for our subsistence than the crown pieces which the courtesy of the French corsair had given



to my beloved. With part of them I purchased the animal on which she came hither, and have attended her in the capacity of her squire, and cherished her with the pure affection of a parent.

" We are going to my native village, to ascertain if my father be living, and if either of my two brotliers have had better fortune than myself, though, since Heaven ban given me Zoraida, no fortune could have befallen me which I should have valued at so high a rate. The patience with which she bears the inconveniences poverty brings in its train, and the fervour of her zeal to become a Christian, are so great, that my admiration can rise no higher, and I consider myself as bound to love and serve her all the days of my life. Yet is the delight I take in reflecting that she is mine, and I am hers, frequently interrupted and almost destroyed by my ignorance whether I shall find a corner in my own country in which to shelter her, and whether time or death may not have made such alterations, both as to fortune and life, in my family, as scarcely to have left a singlf creature to acknowledge me.

" This, gentlemen, is my story : whether it be an entertaining and uncommon one, it is for you to judge. I can only say, I would gladly have related it with more brevity; though many circumstances have been omitted, lest, by being minute, I should weary you."

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Which treats of what farther happened at the inn, and of many other

things worthy to be known.

The captive having finished his narration, Don Fernando complimented him by saying, " ileally, sir, the agreeable manner in which you have related your stoiy can only be equalled by the novelty and surprising nature of the events of it; events so extraordinary and interesting, that, had it lasted till to-morrow, we could have listened with pleasure, and then have wished you to begin it again."

Cardenio and the rest of the auditors joined in this compliment, and offered him whatever services were in their poAver, with such expressions of kindness and seeming sincerity, that he could not but be satisfied with their goodwill. Don Fernando, in particular, generously said, that if he would return with him, he would prevail on the marquis his brother to stand godfather at Zoraida's baptism ; and, on his own part, would accommodate him with whatever was requisite to enable him to appear in his own country with the dignity and distinction due to his rank in society. Though these offers were declined, the captive expressed his thanks in the most grateful and gentlemanly manner.

The evening had now closed, when a carriage, attended by several servants on horseback, drove up to the inn. They wanted accommodations for the night. The hostess answered, that there Avas not an iuok of room in the house, but w](?it was already occupied. " That



may be," said one of the attendants, " but room must be found for my lord judge, for all that."

At this title tlie hostess was a little disturbed, and said, " Sir, the tnith is, I have no bed; but mayhap his worship has brought one with him, and if he has, he may come in and welcome; and I and my husband wiU give up our own chamber to accommodate his honour."

" Be it so, then," quoth the attendant.

By this time a gentleman had alighted from the coach whose garb Immediately showed the nature and dignity of his station ; for liis long gown and tucked-up sleeves denoted him to be a judge, as his servant had said. He led by the hand a young lady apparently about sixteen years of age, in a riding-dress, so lovely and elegant in her person that aU were struck with so much admiration that, had they not seen Dorothea and Lucinda, they would never have believed that there was such another beautiful damsel in existence. Don Quixote was present at their entrance, and he thus addressed them : " Your worship may securely enter and range this castle; for, however confined and inconvenient it may be, place will always be found for arms and letters; especially when, like your worship, they appear under the patronage of beauty; for to this fair maiden not only castles should throw open wide their gates, but rocks divide and separate, and mountains bow their lofty heads in salutation. Enter, sir, into this paradise; for here you will find suns and stars worthy of that lovely heaven you bring with you. Here you will find arms in their zenith, and beauty in perfection!"

The judge marvelled greatly at this speech, and he earnestly surveyed the knight, no less astonished by his appearance than his discourse; and was 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 the priest, paid their compliments in a more intelligible manner than Don Quixote, and all the ladies of the castle welcomed the fair stranger. In short, the judge easily perceived that he was in the company of persons of distinction ; but the mien, visage, and behaviour of Don Quixote confounded him. After mutual courtesies and inquiries as to what accommodation the inn afforded, the arrangements previously made were adoptedâ€"namely, that all the â– 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 was delighted with her intended associates. Thus with part of the innkeeper's scanty bed, and what the judge had brought with him, they passed the night in a less incommodious manner than they Lad reason to expect.

The captive who, from the moment he beheld the judge, felt his heart beat, from a presentiment that this gentleman was his brother, inquired of one of the servants what his name was, and what part of Spain was considered as the place of his birth. The servant answered, that he was the licentiate Juan Perez de Viedma, and was born, as



he understood, in some town in the mountains of Leon. This account, with what he had observed himself, confirmed him in the belief, that he was his youngest brother, who, following the advice of his father, had chosen the path of learning. Overjoyed at the discovery, he called aside Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the priest, and communicated to them the singular intelligence ; adding, as he had learned from the same authority, that his brother had arrived thus far on his way to South America, having been appointed supreme judge of the courts of Mexico ; that the young lady was his daugliter, whose mother had unfortunately died in giving her birth, and that he was become extremely rich by her dowry, which would one day wholly devolve on this his only child. He asked their advice, as to the method he should take to make himself known ; or rather, how he should be able to ascertain, whether, having done so, seeing bin', so poor, he would be ashamed to own him, or would receive him v-^ch affection.

" Leave the experiment to me," said the priest; " though I have no doubt, in whatever way it be done, that you will meet with a kind reception ; for in your brother's demeanour there are no signs of pride and arrogance; on the contrary, he appears to be endowed with the virtue and good sense which are sure to make due allowance for the accidents of fortune,"

" Nevertheless," said the captive, " I shouM not like to come upon him suddenly and unawares, but had rather prepare him by some indirect hint or roundabout intimation."

" Leave it wholly to me," said the priest again, " and I will manage the matter to the entire satisfaction of both parties."

Supper was now ready, and they all sat down to table, except the captive, who absented himself from prudence, and the ladies, who supped by themselves in their chamber. They had not sat long, when the priest said, " My lord, I had once a comrade of your name in Constantinople, where I was several years in slavery, one of the bravest soldiers and best officers in the Spanish infantry, but as unfortunate as he was resolute and brave."

" Pray, sir, what was the name of this soldier T said the judge, in a tone of interested inquiry.

" Kuy," answered the priest; " Kuy Perez de Viedma; and he was born, as he told me, in a village in the mountains of Leon, He related to me a circumstance which happened between bis father, his two brothers, and himself, which, if I had not sufficiently known his adherence to truth, I should have considered as one of tliose tales which garrulous old women tell by a fireside in winter. His father, he said, divided his estate equally among his three sons, giving them at the same time advice in the form of precepts, of so salutary a nature that he even outshone the sage Cato. This son (my comrade followed the profession of arms, and succeeded in it so well thai; with no other aid than that of his extraordinary virtue and valour, he rose to be a captain of foot, and was in the high road to the promotion of colonel, when fortune proved adverse where he had most reason to expect her smiles, and he was deprived of her favours and hia



freedom together, in that glorious action in which such multitudes recovered theirs ; I mean the battle of Lepanto. My own freedom I lost in the goleta; and afterwards, by different adventures, we became fellow-slaves in Constantinople ; whence we were conveyed to Algiers, where he met with one of the strangest incidents that, in the diversified life of man, was ever experienced."

The priest then recounted with brevity what had passed between his comrade and Zoraida, and was listened to by the judge, as no judge ever listened before: carrying the story, however, no farthei than the period when the Christians were plundered by the French, and his comrade and the beautiful Moor left in consequence in the most destitute situation; pretending to be ignorant of their subsequent fate, whether they arrived in Spain, or were taken by their plunderers into France.

The captive stood at a distance, listening to what the priest said, and watching the emotions of his brother, who, when the priest had done speaking, uttered a deep sigh, and said, " 0 sir, you know not how nearly I am concerned in what you have related ; so nearly, that the tears will flow from my eyes in spite of my endeavours to restrain them. That gallant soldier you mention is my elder brother, who, stouter in constitution, and entertaining more elevated thoughts, than I, or my younger brother, chase the honourable profession of arms, which was one of the three callings recommended to us by my father in his parting advice. I applied myself to learning, which, by God's blessing on my industry, has been the means of raising me to my present exalted station. My younger brother is in Peru; so rich, that, with the large sums he has remitted, my father has been enabled to indulge his natural disposition to liberality, and I to prosecute my studies to greater advantage, and better fit myself for the promotion that, by the decrees of Providence, awaited me. My father is still alive, but pining with desire to hear of his long lost son ; and begging incessantly of Heaven, that death may not close his eyes till he has once more seen and embraced him. It is surprising, that this dear brother, discreet as he was known to be, should never, either in his prosperous state, or in his many troubles and afflictions, have written any account of himself to his family : for, had his situation been known to us, the miracle of the cane would not have been necessary to have obtained his ransom. Now the most afflicting thought is, how he has been treated by the French ; whether they have set him at liberty, or murdered him, to conceal their robbery. This uncertainty respecting his fate wiJl render my voyage, which I undertook with so much satisfaction, sad and melancholy. O my dear brother, did I but know where to find thee, I would fly to deliver thee from thy troubles, though at the expense of my own repose. Who shall carry the news to our aged father, of thy being alive'? Wert thou incarcerated in the deepest dungeon of Barbary, all our wealth should be employed to deliver thee. O generous and lovely Zoraida, who shall repay thy kindness to him 1 Who shall be so happy as to witness thy regeneration by baptism 1 Who be present at the ceremony of thy nuptials, which would afibrd such gladness to us all ?"



These pathetic expressions, with others of a simiLar nature, were uttered by the judge in so genuine a strain of fraternal affection, that all who heard him joined in demonstrations of tender concern for hia sorrow.

The priest, finding he had gained his point according to the captive's wish, and unwilling to prolong either the anguish of the judge or the painful suspense of the company, instantly quitted the table and the room and presently returning, leading in Zoraida, who was followed by the rest of the ladies, and taking in his other hand the captive, who had waited in anxiety to see what he intended, he introduced them to the judge, saying, " Cease, my lord, your tears and lamentations, and enjoy the happiness that is presented to you by the sight of your good brother, and your fair sister-in-law : for in tliis gentleman you behold Captain Viedma, and in this lady, the beautiful Zoraida, to whom he owes so many obligations; both reduced to poverty by the French, that you may have an opportunity of showing the generous and affectionate feelings of your noble breast."

The captive ran to embrace his brother, who prevented him for a moment, by putting his hands against his breast, the better to recognise his features; which he had no sooner done, than he pressed him closely to his bosom, shedding such tears of joy, that every eye melted at the scene : the tenderness and rapture of which it would be difficult for the imagination to conceive, and impossible for the pen to write. Now the two brothers attempted a brief account of their adventures, then broke off to renew their demonstrations of affection. Now the judge embraced Zoraida, offering her all his wealth ; then he told his daughter to embrace her, and the mutual caresses of these lovely maidens renewed the tears of the company. Now Don Quixote engaged the attention, who stood sUently wrapt in the passing events, associating them with chimeras of chivalry. Then the future was thought of, and it was agreed, that the captive and Zoraida should accompany their brother to Seville, and thence inform their father of his lost son being found and at liberty, that the good old man might be present at the baptism and nuptials ; for it would be impossible for the judge to go out of his way, as the fleet would sail in tlie course of a month, and he might lose his passage. In short, all were satisfied, and all in ecstasy; and the night being far advanced, they now proposed to retire and pass the remainder of it in sleep ; Don Quixote offering his service to guard the castle, lest some giant or wicked adventurer, tempted by the vast treasure of beauty which it contained, should break in to despoil it.

Those of the party who were acquainted with the knight thanked him, and when he had left the room, gave an account of his strange frenzy to the judge, who was much amused by the detail of his extravagance. Sancho Panza alone was 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 tliey could be, Don Quixote, according to his promise, sallied out of the inn to take his post at the castle-gate.



j^

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 anaccompanied 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 Cardenio retired. Then listening with much attention, Dorothea plainly distinguished the following words.

CHAPTER XXXrV.

The agreeable hisUyry of the Young Muleteer ; with oilier strange

accidents.

Tosa'd in doubts and fears I rove On the stormy seas of love; Far from comfort, far from port. Beauty's prize, and fortune's sport; Yet my heart disdains despair While I trace my leading-star.

But reservedncss, like a cloud, Does too oft her glories shroud. Pierce to the gloom, reviving light I Be auspicious as you're bright. As you hide or dart your beams, Yottr adorer sinks or swims !

DoKOTHEA thought it was a great loss to Donna Clara not to hear Bucli excellent singing; she therefore gave her a gentle shake and awoke her. "Excuse me, my dear, for disturbing you," she said, " since it is only that you may have the pleasure of hearing the sweetest voice which perhaps you ever heard in your life."

Clara, half awake, was obliged to ask Dorothea to repeat what she had said to her; after which she endeavoured to command her 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, dear lady of my soul! why did you wake me ? The greatest service that could bo done me would be for ever to close both my eyes and ears, that 1 might neither see nor hear that unhappy musician."

"What do you say, my dear?" answered Dorothea; "is it not a muleteer who is singing T

Q



"Oh; no,'' replied Clara; "he ia a young gentleman of large possessions, and so much master of my heart that, if he reject it not, it bIuiII be his eternally."

Dorothea was surprised at the passionate expressions of the girl, Avhich she would not have expected from one of her tender years.

She therefore said to her, " Your words surprise me, Signora Clara; explain yourself farther] what is this you say of heart and possessionsâ€"and who is this musician whose voice affects you so much 1 But stay, do not spcidi just yet; he seems to be preparing to sing again, and I must not lose the pleasure of hearing him."

Clara, however, stopped her own ears with both hands, to Dorothea's great surprise, who listened veiy attentively to the music.

When the siuging 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 putting her face close to her ear, she whispered, lest she should be overheard by Lucmda, " That singer, my dear madam," said she, " i.s the son of an Arragonian gentleman who is hn-d of two towns, and Avhen at court lives opposite to my father. Although my father kept his windows covered with canvas in the winter, and lattices iu summer, it happened by some chance that this young gentleman saw meâ€"whether at church or where it was I know notâ€"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 laand 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 to whom 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 show myself, at which he seemed so delighted that you would have thought him mad. When the time of my father's departure drew near, he heard of it, though not from me, for I never had an opportunity to speak to him ; and soon after he fell sick, as I was told, for grief; so that on the day we came away 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 i about a day's journey hence, 1 saw him at the door of an inn, in the habit of a muleteer, so disguised that had not his image been deeply imprinted in my heart, I could not have known him. I was surprised and overjoyed at the sight of him, and he stole looks at me unobserved by my father, whom he carefully avoids when he passes, either on the road or at the inns. When I think who he is, and how he travels on foot, bearing so much fatigue for love of me, I am ready to die with pity, and cannot help following him with my eyes. I cannot imagine what his intentions are, nor how he could leave hi3 father, who loves him passionately, having no other heir, and also because he is so very deserving, as you will perceive when you see liim. I can assure you besides that all he sings is of his own composing, for I have heard thai he is a great sclio' r 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 never can Kve without him. This, dear madam, is all I can tell you about him whose voice has pleased you so much ; by that alone you may easily perceive 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 affivir so that the conclusion may be as happy as the beginning is innocent."

" Ah, signora !" said Donna Clara, "what conclusion can be expected, since his father is of such high rank and fortune that I am not wortliy to be even his servant, much less his wife 1 As to marrying without my father's knowledge, I would not do it for all the world. I only wish this young man would go back and leave me ; absence perhaps may lessen the pain I now feel, though I fear it will not have much effect. "What a strange sorcery tlais love is ! I know not how it came to possess me, so young as I amâ€"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 remainder of the night, and to hope for everything in the morning.

Profound silence now reigned over the whole house, all being asleep except the innkeeper's daughter and her maid Maritornes, who, knowing Don (Quixote's weak points, determined to amuse themselves by observing him whde 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 they commanded a view of the knight on horseback, leaning on his lance, and could hear him ever and anon heaving such deep and mournful sighs that they seemed torn from the very bottom of his soul. They could also distinguish words, uttered in a soft, soothing, amorous tone, such as, " 0 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 J 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 offence to her virtue and dignity, assuage the torment which this poor afflicted heart of mine endures for her! or meditating on what glory she shall bestow on my sufferings, what solace to my cares, or recompense to my long services. And thou, bright sun, who must now be harnessing thy steeds to come early abroad and visit my sovereign mistress, I entreat thee, as soon as thou seest her, to salute her in my name; but beware, in

<4 2



C28 BON QUIXOTE.

doing so, thou dost not kiss her face ; for I shall be m(jre jealous of thee than ever thou wort of that swift ingrate who made thee sweat and run so fast over the plains of Thessaly, or along the banks of Peneus, for I do not well remember over which it was thou spedst thy rapid course, so jealous and so enamoured."

When Don Quixote had proceeded thus far in his piteous soliloquy, the innkeeper's daughter called to him, in a whisper, " Sir, &ir, pray come a little this way, if you please." And in obedience to the summons, he turned his head, and perceived by the light of the moon, which then shone forth as if to assist his vision, a head peeping from the loft-hole, which to him seemed a window with gdded bars, suited to the grandeur of so rich a castle, as he fancied the inn to be. Instantly it came again into his mad imagination, that the fair damsel, daughter of the lord of the castle, being irresistibly in love with him, was come to solicit a return of affection: and impressed with this thought, that he might not appear discourteous and ungrateful, he approached the loft, and, seeing the two girls, said, " I pity you from my soul, fair lady, for having placed your affections where it is impossible they should meet the return, to which from your great worth and beauty they are entitled. Yet blame not this unfortunately enamoured knight, whom love has rendered incapable of devoting himself to any other than to her whom he made sovereign mistress of his affections, the moment his eyes beheld her. Pardon me, therefore, dear lady, and retire to your chamber, lest by a farther disclosure of your wishes, I may appear still more ungrateful. But if, through the passion with which you honour me, you can find any other way in which I can satisfy you, you may freely command ray services, and I swear, by that absent sweet enemy of my soul, to bestow upon you immediately whatever you may ask, though it should be a lock of Medusa's hair, which was all snakes, or one of the sunbeams enclosed in a vial."

" Sir," quoth ilaritornes, " my lady wants nothing of all this."

''What then is your fair lady's pleasure, discreet DuennaT answered Don Quixote.

" Only one of your beautiful hands," quoth IMaritornes, " by which she may in part satisfy that longing desire, which has brought her to this window, so much to the peril of her honour, that, if her lord and father should come to know it, the least thing he would do would be to cut off one of her ears."

" He had best beware what he does," answered Don Quixote, " unless he woidd incur the most disastrous fate that father ever experienced, for having laid violent hands on the delicate members of his daughter."

Maritornes having no doubt that Don Quixote would comply with her request, resolved instantly what she would do. She went down into the stable, and taking the halter of Sancho's ass, returned to her station in the loft, just as the knight had contrived to ])lace himself erect on his feet upon Rozinante's saddle, to reach the gilded window, where he imagined the love-smitten damsel stood ; when presenting ilia hand, he said, " Take, madam, this hand, or rather this chastisei



of the evildoers of the world; this hand, which no woman's hand ever touched before, not even hers who has the entire right to it. I do not present it to be kissed, but that you may behold the contexture of its nerves, the firm knitting of its muscles, its large and spacious veins, whence you may infer what strength must be in the arm itself, to which such a hand belongs."

" We shall soon see that," quoth Maritornes; and making a running-knot in the halter, she put it on his wrist, and fastened the other end of it to the staple of the hay-loft door. Don Quixote, feeling the rope a little harsh about his wrist, said, " You seem, fair lady, rather to rasp than grasp my hand : pray, treat it less roughly, since it is not to blame for the injury done you by my unyielding inclination ; nor is it right to vent the whole of your displeasure on so small a part; nor are lovers wont to take revenge at this cruel rate."

But nobody heard a word of all this ; for, as soon as Maritornes had fastened the rope, both she and her companion fled, ready to die with laughing, and left him so secure, that, had it been a giant's arm, he could not have got loose.

In this untoward situation, standing upright on his steed, his arm thrust within the aperture of the loft, and his wrist fast tied to the bolt of the door, our knight was in the utmost consternation, lest, by Rozinante stirring ever so little on one side or the other, he should lose his balance, and thus remain completely suspended. He dared not therefore make the least movement, though he had faith in the patience and sobriety of his beast, that he would have stood stock still for an entire century. In short, finding himself thus bound, and the ladies vanished, he began to imagiaie, that it was all the effect of some wicked spell. Then, he cursed within himself, his want of conduct and discretion, in having been deceived so easily. He pulled Ais arm, to try if he could disengage himself, using gentle means, for fear of disturbing Rozinante ; but he was so securely bound, that all his manoeuvres were unavailing. Glad too would he have been to have regained his seat on the saddle ; but that was alike impracticable ; and he had no alternative, but to continue in his present upright posture, or, by a daring effort, tear his hand piecemeal from its hempen manacle. How did he now wish for the sword of Amadis, against which no enchantment had power ! Then he would curse his fortune, exaggerating the loss the world would sustain, while he remained under this malign influence. Then he bethought himself anew of his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso : then called upon his good squire Sancho Panza, who, stretched upon his ass's pannel, buried in sleep, did not, at that instant, so much as dream of the mother that bore liim: then he invoked the aid of the sages Lirgandeo and Alquife : then called upon his special friend Urganda, to assist him : lastly, there the morning overtook him, in a state of such confusion and despair, that he bellowed like a bull; for he did not expect that the day would bring any relief to his distress ; which, believing himself enchanted, he concluded would be eternal ; and he was confirmed in this by the steadfast immobility of his steed, who never budged a hair's breadth- He verily thought, ttat hjmself and Rozinante must



DON QUIXOTE.

remain as they were, without eating, drinking, or sleeping, until the evil star should pass over, or some more sage enchanter dissolve the spell.

But he was mistaken in his thought; for scarcely did the day begin to dawn, when four men on horseback arrived at the inn, well mounted and accoutred, with carbines hanging at their saddle-bows. As the inn-door was not yet opened, they called and knocked so loud, that Don Quixote, from the ])lace where he still stood sentinel, cried out, in an arrogant tone, " Knights, or squires, or whatever you are, you have no business thus to disturb the peaceful slumbers of the inhabitants of this castle, who are not accustomed to open the gates of their fortress till the sun has spread his beams over the whole horizon ; retire therefore from the glacis until broad daylight shall show whether you are persons proper to be admitted."

" What the devil of a fortress or castle is this," quoth one of them, " that we must observe all this ceremony 1 if you are the innkeeper, order somebody to open the door; for we are travellers, and only want to bait our horses, and proceed on our journey, for we are in haste." " Do I look, gentlemen, like an innkeeper V answered Don Quixote. " I know not what you look like," answered the other ; " but this I know, that you talk preposterously, to call this inn a castle."

" A castle it is," replied Don Quixote, " and one of the best in the wliole province ; and it has persons within, who have had sceptres in their hands, and crowns on their heads."

" You had better have reversed the matter," quoth the traveller, " and said the sceptre on the herid, and the crown in the hand : but, perhaps, it is some company of strolling players, who frequently wear the insignia you talk of : for in no other case can I conceive that, in so small and paltry an inn, and where all is so silent, there can be lodged persons worthy either to wear crowns or wield sceptres."

" You know little of the world," replied Don Quixote, " if you are ignorant, that such incidents frequently occur in knight-errantry."

The other horseman, tired with this dialogue, knocked again with such increased violence, as to wake every one in the house, and the innkeeper among the rest, who left his bed to inquire into the cause. Now it happened that the horse of one of the strangers approached Rozinante, who, melancholy and sad, his ears hanging down, had borne up his distended master without stirring ; but sensible of the compliment, and turning round to repay it by a friendly caress, Don Quixote instantly lost his footing on the saddle, and must have fallen to tbe ground, had he not hung by the arm: which put him to so much torture, that he fancied his wrist was sundering from his arm, or his arm tearing from his body ; and lie hung so near the ground, that he could just reach it with the tips of his toes, which increased the evil: for, feeling how little he wanted to be able to re. t his feet, he strove as much as he could to efitect it; like those poor wretches tortured by the strappado, who, suspended at a similar height, extend their bodies, in the hope of finding a resting-place and relief, and tberebjr render their misery the greater



CHAPTER XXXV.

i continvMion of the extraordinary adventures that happened in the inn.

Dox Quixote roared out so lustily, tliat the host in a fright opened t!ie inn-door hastily, to see from what pair of lungs the outcry proceeded. Maritornes, who was waked by the same noise, guessing what was the matter, went to the loft, and, without being perceived, untied the halter ; upon which Don Quixote immediately fell like a sack to the ground, in sight of the innkeeper and the travellers; who, running to him, asked what misfortune had befallen him, that he made such a clamour? But he, without answering a word, slipped the rope from his wrist, and rising up, mounted Rozinante, braced his target, couched his lance, and, taking a good compass about the field, came up at a half-gallop, saying, " Whoever shall dare to affirm that I liave merited this vile enchantment, I tell him to his beard he lies, and, with permission of my sovereign lady the Princess Micomicona, I here challenge him to single combat."

The new-comers were amazed at these strange words ; but the innkeeper removed their wonder by telling them who Don Quixote was ; and that they need not mind his ravings, as he was disordered in his intellects. They then inquired of the host, whether there was not in the inn a youth about fifteen years of age, dressed like a nndeteer, with such and such marks, describing exactly Donna Clara's lover. The host answered, there were so many people in the inn that really he could not tell, but he had not noticed any such person.

"He certainly must be here," said one of them, espying the coach the judge came in, " for there stands the very carriage he follows. Let one of us guard the door, while the rest search the house ; nor would it be amiss for one to ride round the inn, that he may not escape over the pales of the yard."

This plan was no sooner formed than executed, a little to the annoyance of the landlord, who could not judge with certainty why all this bustle was made, though he was disposed to believe the motive they assigned to be the true one.

By tliis time it was clear day, and every soul in the house, (disturbed by the various noises that had been made, were stirring, and especially Donna Clara and Dorothea, who had slept but indifferently ] the one from concern at being so near her lover, and the other from the desire of seeing him. Don Quixote, perceiving that none of the four travellers paid him the least attention, or answered his challenge, was ready to burst with the inward workings of rage and despite; and, could he have found a precedent in the statutes and ordinances of chivalry, that a knight-errant might lawfully undertake any other adventure, till he had finished that to which he had pledged his faith and troth, he would have attacked them all, and made them answer whether they would or no. But thinking himself bound first to



reinstate tlie Princess Micomicona in her kingdom, he thought it best to chew the cud in quiet, until he saw what would be the issue of the inquiry and search those travellers were so diligently making ; one of whom found the youth they were in quest of sleeping by the side of a muleteer, his dreams employed upon a very different subject from that of being pursued and discovered. The man shook him by the arm, and said, " Upon my word, Signor Don Louis, this dress is very becoming a gentleman ; and the bed you lie on most suitable to the tenderness Avith w^hich your mother brought you up."

The youth rubbed his drowsy eyes, and, looking earnestly at the person who held him by the arm, soon recollected him to be one of his father's servants; which surprised him so much, that he could not speak a word ; while the servant went on saying, " Come, Signor Den Louis, get up, and prepare, with a patient mind, to return home, unless you would have my master, your father, take a journey to the other world; for nothing less can be expected from the grief he is in at your absence."

" How did my father know," said Don Louis, " that I had taken this road, and assumed this dress T

" A student," answered the servant, " to whom you confided your charming secret, discovered it, moved to pity by the lamentations your father made the instant he missed you : and he has despatched four of us in pursuit of you; and we are all here at your service, overjoyed at having found you, and that we shall return so soon, ana restore you to those eyes that love you so dearly."

" That will be as I please, or rather as Heaven shall ordain," answered Don Louis.

" What should you please, or Heaven ordain, but that you return home T quoth the servant; " for there is no possibility of avoiding it."

The muleteer, who had been Don Louis's comrade for the night, hearing tbis contest, rose, and went to acquaint Don Fernando, and the rest of the company, who were now risen and dressed, with what had passed ; telling them, that the man had styled the lad Don, and urged him to return to his father's house, from which he had eloped, and how the youth stubbornly refused. They all recollected his Hne voice, and being eager to kn(jw who he was, and to assist him if any violence were ohered him, they repaired to the place wliere he was contending Avith his servant. Dorothea now came out of her chamber with Donna Clara; and, calling Cardenio aside, she related to hitn in a few words the history of the musician and Donna Clara. He then told her of the search that had been made after the young /nan by the servants ; and although he whispered, he was overheard oy Donna Clara, who was thrown into such an agony by the intelligence, that she would have fallen to the ground if Dorothea had not •jupported her. Cardenio advised her to retire with Donna Clara, h'hile he endeavoured to make some arrangements in their behalf. Dc^m Louis was now surrounded by all the four servants, entreating that lie would immediately return to comfort his father. He answered that hp 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 certainly not go back without him, and that they must compel him to return if he refused.

"That you shall not do," replied Don Louis; "at least you shall not take me living."

This contest had now drawn 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 castleguard. 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 tlie whole of this affair."

The man (who recollected him) answered, " Does not your worship know this gentleman ] He is your neighbour's son, and has absented himself from his father's house, in a garb very unbecoming his quality, as your worship may see."

The judge, after looking at him with attention, recognised him, and accosted him in a friendly manner.

" What childish frolic is this, Signor Don Louis," said he ; " or what powerful motive has induced you to disguise yourself in a manner so unbecoming your rank T

The eyes of the youth were filled with tears, and he could not say a word. The judge desired the servants to be quiet, promising that all should be well; and taking Don Louis by the hand, he led him aside to question him.

While the judge was thus employed, a great outcry was heard at the door of the inn, the occasion of which was that two guests, who had lodged there that night, seeing everybody busy in the affair of the youth and the servants, had attempted to decamp without paying their reckoning. But the host, who was more mindful of his own business than that of other people, laid hold of them just as they were quitting the door, and demanding his money in words of no very civil import, they were provoked to return an answer with their fists, and in so impressive a manner that the poor innkeeper was forced to call out for help. The hostess and her daughter, seeing nobody so disengaged, and therefore so proper to succour him, as Don Quixote, the daughter said to him, " Sir Knight, I beseech you, by the valour which God has given you, to come to the assistance of my poor father, whom two wicked fellows are beating to a mummy."

To which Don Quixote, very leisurely and with much phlegm, replied, " Fair maiden, your petition, I am grieved to say, cannot be granted at present, because I am incapacitated from meddling with any other adventure until I have accomplished one in which my honour is already engaged; but what I can do for your service I aiu



«31 DON QUIXOTE.

ready and willing to do. Run, therefore, and bid your father maintain the fight in the best manner he can, and not suffer himself to be vanquished, while I go and ask permission of the Princess Micomi-cona to relieve him in his distress, which, if she grant me, rest assured this arm will not fail to deliver him."

" As I am a sinner," quoth Maritornes, who stood by, "before your worship can obtain the licence you talk of, my master may be gone into the other world."

"Permit me, madam, to obtain the permission I speak of," answered Don Quixote, "and though he should be in the other world, I would fetch him back, in spite of the other world itself, should it dare to contradict or oppose me; or at least will take such ample revenge on those who shall have sent him thither, that you shall be more than moderately satisfied."

And without saying a word more, he went and kneeled before Dorothea, beseeching, in most knightly and chivalrous expressions, that her grandeur would vouchsafe to give him leave to go and succour the governor of the castle, who was in grievous distress. The princess having graciously consented, he instantly braced on his target, drew his sword, and ran to the inn-door, where the two guests were still lugging and pummelling the poor host; but when he saw them, he stopped short and stood irresolute, and being asked by Maritornes and the hostess why he delayed giving the succour he had promised, " I delay," said he, " from reflecting, that it is not lawful for a knight to draw his sword against such unknightly combatants: but call hither my squire Sancho; for to him this defence and revenge most properly belongs."

This passed at the door of the inn, where the boxing and cuffing continued briskly, to the cost of the innkeeper, and the rage of Maritornes, the hostess, and her daughter, who were half distracted at beholding the cowardice, as they deemed it, of Don Quixote, and the injury sustained by their respective master, husband, and father.

And there let us leave him awhile ; for he will not want somebody or other to relieve him \ or should it be otherwise, let him suffer and be silent, for being so foolhardy as to engage in what is above his strength ; and let us turn fifty paces back, to see what answer Don Louis made to the judge, whom we left apart asking the cause of his coming so far on foot, and so meanly apparelled. To which the youth, pressing both his hands, as if some great affliction was WTing-ing his heart, and pouring down tears in abundance, replied, " AJl I can say, dear sir, is, that, from the moment Heaven was pleased, by means of our near residence to each other, to bless me with a sight of Donna Clara, your daughter, she became sovereign mistress of my affections; and if you, my true lord and father, do not oppose it, this very day she shall be my wife. For her I left my father's house, and put myself into this dress, resolved to follow whithersoever she went, undeviatingly, as the arrow to the mark, or the needle to the pole. As yet she knows no more of my passion, than she may have inferred from occasionally seeing at a distance my eyes full of ten-(Je.rness and tears. You know, my lord, the wealth and rank of my



family, and that I am sole heir : if you think these motives sufficient for venturing to make me perfectly happy, receive me immediately for your son; and, though my father, biassed by views of bis o"\vn, should not appn ve of this my self-chosen felicity, time may work some favourable change, and lead him to bless it with his approbation."

Here the enamoured youth was silent, and the judge remained in the utmost suspense, surprised at the ingenuous manner in which Don Louis had made known his passion, and no less at a loss what measures to take in an affair of so sudden and unexpected disclosure; and therefore he returned no other answer, than desiring him to calm his emotions, and endeavour to detain his servants till the next day, that there might be time to consider what was most expedient to be done. Dun Louis kissed his hands by force, and even bathed them with tears, in such grateful transport, that it was enough to soften a heart of marble, and much more that of our judge, who, being a man of sense, soon saw how advantageous and honourable this match would be for his daughter; though he wished it could be effected with the consent of Don Louis's father, who, he knew, had higher pretensions 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 selfsame pannel. He instantly fell upon him with fury :j "Ah, thief !" said he, "have I got you at last!â€"give me my basin and my pannel, with all the furniture you stole from me!"

Sancho, finding himself thus suddenly attacked and abused, secured the pannel with one hand, and with the other made the barber such a return, that his mouth was bathed in blood. Nevertheless, the barber would not let go his hold ; but raised his voice so high that he drew everybody 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 higliway robber; my master, Don Quixote, won these spoils in fair war,"

Don Quixote was now present, and not a little pleased to see how well his squire acted both on the offensive and defensive; and, regarding Lim 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 liim.

Daring this contest the barber made many protestations. "Gentlemen," said he, " this pannel is certainly mine \ and moreover, the very day they took this from me, they robbed me likewise of a new brass basin, never hanselled, that cost me a crown."

Here Don Quixote could not forbear interposing. " The error of this honest squire," said he, " is manifest, in calling that a basin which is Mambrino's helmet:â€"that helmet which I won in fair war, and am therefore its right and lawful possessor. La conffrmation 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 surely all things in this castle cannot be governed by enchantment."

Sancho went for the basin, and, returning with it, he gave it to Don Quixote.

" Only behold, gentlemen," said he ; " how can this squire have the face to declare that this 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 I master won it until now, he has fought but one battle in it, which â–  was when he freed those unlucky galley-slaves; and had it not been for that same basin-helmet, he would not have got off so well from the showers of stones which rained upon him in that skirmish."

CHAPTER XXXVI:

In which the dispute concerning Mambrino's helmet is decided ; toilh other adventures that realbj and tridy 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 convince 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 amusement 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 helmet 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 judgment."

" Gentlemen," said Don Quixote, " such extraordinary things have befallen me in this castle, that I dare not vouch for the certainty of anything 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 clioice entertainment ; 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 officers of the holy brotherhood, who had overheard the dispute, cried out, full of indignationâ€"

" 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 was still in his hand, he aimed such a blow at the head of the trooper, that, had he not slipped aside, he would have been levelled to the ground. The lance came down with such fury that it was shivered to pieces.

" Help, help the holy brotherhood!" cried out the other officers.

The innkeeper, being himself one of that body, ran instantly for his wand and his sword, to support his comrades. Don Louis's servants surrounded their master, lest he should escape during the confusion. The barber, perceiving the house turned topsy-turvy, laid hold again of liis 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 cufled Sancho, and Sancho pummelled the barber. Don Fernando got one of the troopers down, and laid on his blows most unm.ercifully; 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 iudge and his reverence the priest come forward, the one as King Agramante, 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."

The troopers, who did not understand Don Quixote's language, and found themselves roughly handled by Don Fernando, Cardenio, and their companions, would not be pacihed; but the barber submitted, for both his beard and his pannel were demolished in the scuffle. Sancho, as became a dutiful servant, obeyed the least voice of his master. Don Louis's four servants were also quiet, seeing how little Uiey got by being otherwise. The innkeeper alone was refractory,



and insisted that the insolence of that madman ought to be chastised, who was continually turning his house upside down. At last the tumult ceased; the pannel was to remain a caparison, the basin a helmet, and the inn a castle ; and, in Don Quixote's imagination, till the day of judgment.





Amity and peace having been restored by the interposition of the judge and the priest, the servants of Don Louis renewed their soUci-tations for his return. The judge having, in the meantime, informed Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the priest, of what had passed between himself and the young man, he consulted with them on the affair; and it was finally agreed that Don Fernando should make himself known to Don Louis's servants, and inform them that it was his desire that the young gentleman should accompany him to Andalusia, where he would be treated by the marquis his brother in a manner suitable to his quality ; for his determination was, at all events, not to return, just at that time, into his father's presence. The servants being apprised of Don Fernando's rank, and finding Don Louis resolute, agreed among themselves, that tliree of them should return to give his father account of wliat had passed, and that the others should stay to attend Don Louis, and not leave him until he knew his lord's pleasure. 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 disturbances. 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 recollect that, among other warrants in his possession, he had one against Don Quixote, whom his superiors had ordered to be taken into custody for releasing galley-slaves, determined to examine whether the person of Don Quixote answered the description ; thus confirming 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 convinced that he was the very person therein described, he held out the warrant in his left hand, while with his right he seized Don Quixote by the collar with so powerful a grasp as almost to strangle him, at the same time crying aloudâ€"" Help the holy brotherhood ! and, that you may see 1 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 this scoundrel, was exasperated to the highest pitch, and, trembling with rage, caught the trooper bv the throat with both hands; and, had he



not been immediately rescued by his comrades, he would certainly tave 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 the officer and Don Quixote, and, to the satisfaction of both, unlocked their hands from the doublet collar of the one, and from the windpipe 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 apprehending tliat common robber and highway thief. Don Quixote smiled at ihe>c expressions, and, with great calmness, said, " Come hither, base aad iU-born crew: call ye it robbing on the highway to loosen the chains of the captive, to set the prisoner free, to succour the oppressed, to raise the fallen, to relieve the needy and wretched? Tell me, ye rogues in a troop!â€"not troopers, but highway marauders, under licence of the holy brotherhoodâ€"who was the blockhead that signed the warrant for apprehending such a knight as I am % What knight-errant ever paid custom, poU-tax, subsidy, quit-rent, porterage, or ferry-boat? What tailor ever brought in a bill for making his clothes] \Vhat 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 XXXVII.

The notable adventure of the Holy BroUierhood ; with an account of t!ie 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 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

t'udged it best, therefore, to be quiet, and endeavour to make peace (etween the barber and Sancho Panza, who still continued their



Bcuffle with great rancour. As ofiBcera of ju.sfi.ce, therefore, they compounded the matter, 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, acquitting him of all fraud thenceforth and for evermore.

Thus were these important contests decided ; and fortune seemed to smile on all the heroes and heroines of the innâ€"even the face of Donna Clara betrayed the joy of her hearty 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 restored, and the inn no longer displayed the confusion of Agramante's camp, as Don Quixote had called it, but ratlier the tranquillity of the days of Octavius Caesar, 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 before her ; but she would not listen to him in that posture ; and therefore, in obedience to her, he arose, and thus addressed her; " It is a common adage, fair lady, that' diligence is the mother of success \ and experience constantly verifies its truth : the active solicitor brings the doubtful suit to a happy issue. Bu\» this truth is never more obvious than in military operations, where expedition and despatch anticipate the designs of the enemy, and victory is secured before he is prepared for defence. I am induced to make these remarks, most exalted lady, because our abode in this castle seems no longer necessary, and may indeed be prejudicial; for who knows but your enemy the giant may, by secret spies, get intelligence of my approach, and thus gain time to fortify himself in some impregnable fortress, against which my vigilance, and the force of my indefatigable arm, may be inefiectual. Therefore, sovereign lady, that his designs may be prevented by our diligence, let us depart quickly in the name of that good fortune Avhich will be yours the moment I come face to face with your enemy."

Here Don Quixote was silent, and with dignified composure awaited the answer of the beautiful infanta, who, with an air of majesty, and in a style corresponding 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 oflice and employment it is to succour the orphan and distressed; and Heaven grant that our desires may be soon accomplished ; that you may see that all women are not 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 lier 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 ray 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 cake 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 I there are more tricks in the town than are dreamt of; with all respect be it spoken."

" What tricks can there be to my prejudice in any town or city in the world, thou bumpkin?" said Don Quixote.

" If your worship puts yourself into a passion," answered Sancho, " I will hold my tongue, and not say what I am bound to say, as a faithful squire and a dutiful servant."

"Say what thou wilt," replied Don Quixote, "but think not to intimidate me ; for it is thy nature to be faint-heartedâ€"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 company."

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 stammering tongue, while living fire darted from his eyes, he cried, ''Scoundrel! unmannerly, ignorant, ill-spoken, foul-mouthed, impudent, 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, magazine of deceits, storehouse of rogueries, inventor of mischiefs, publisher of absurdities, and foe to all the honour due to royalty I i3egone! 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 Ms wrath, said, " Be not offended- Sir Knight ot

s



the Eueful Countenance, at the impertinence of your good squire; for, perhaps, he has not spoken without some foundation: nor can it be suspected, considering his good sense and Christian conscience, that he would bear false witness against anybody; it is possible that since, as you affirm yourself, Sir Knigkt, 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 I my honour."

" Ah!" quoth Don Quixote, " your highness has hit the mark !â€" some evil apparition must have appeared to this sinner, and represented 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 unhappy wretch, and that he is incapable of slandering any person living." i

"So it is, and so it shall be," said D'm Fernando; "therefore,! Signor Don Quixote, you ought to pardon hiirj, and restore him to! your favour, as at first, before these illusions turned his brain,"

Don Quixote having promised his forgiveness, tlie 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, "Thou wilt now, son Sancho, be thoroughly convinced of what I have often told thee, that ' all things in this castle are conducted by enchantment."

"I believe so too," quoth Sancho, "except the business of the blanket, which I am persuaded really fell out in tlie ordinary way."

"Thou must learn to think otherwise," answered Don Quixote: "for, were it so, I would have revenged thee at that time,as 1 would do now. But neither could I then, nor can I now, discover on whom the revenge of the injury ought to fall." They aU desired to know what the business of the blanket was; and the innkeeper, pleased to gratify their curiosity at the expense of the squire, gave them a very circumstantial account of Sancho's aerial caperings; which, though it diverted them, would have put him to fresh shame, had not his master again assured him, that it was all a business of enchantment. Yet Sancho's folly never rose so high, but that he believed it to be downright truth, without any mixture of illusion or deceit, that he had been tossed in the blanket by persons of flesh and blood, and not by imaginary beings or visionary phantoms, as his master supposed.

This illustrious company had now passed two days in the inn ; and thinking it time to depart, they considered how the priest and barher might convey the knight to his home, without troubling Dorothea and Don Fernando to accompany them ; and for that purpose, having fii'st 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 innkeeper, covered their faces and disguised themselves so aa not to be recognised by Don Quixote; This done,



they silently entered the room where the knight lay fast asleep, reposing after his late exertions, and secured him with cords ; so that when he awoke, he stared about in amazement at the strange visages that surrounded him, but found himself totally unable to move. His disordered 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 liimself 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, " 0 Knight of the Rueful Countenance! let not thy present confinement afflict thee, since it is essential to the speedy accomplishment of the adventure in which thy great valour hath engaged thee; which shall be finished when the furious Manchegan lion shall be coupled with the white Tobosian dove, after having submitted their stately necks to the soft matrimonial yoke ; from which wonderful union shall spring into the liglit of the world brave whelps, who shall emulate the ravaging claws of their valorous sire.â€"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, therefore, the valorous and enchanted knight; for it is expedient for thee to go where ye both may find repose. More I am not permitted to say. Heaven protect thee, I now goâ€"I well know whither !" And, as he drew towards the close of his prophecy, he raised his voice so high, and then sunk it by degrees into so soft an accent, that even they, who were in the secret of the jest, were almost ready to believe what they heard to be true,

Don Quixote remained much comforted by what he had heard thus thundered forth; for he quickly apprehended the whole signification of the prophecy, and was sure that it promised he should be joined in holy and la-wful wedlock with his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso, And, with this firm persuasion, he exclaimed, fetching a deep sigh, " O thou, whoever thou art, who hast prognosticated in my favour so much good, I beseech thee to entreat, on my behalf, the sage enchanter who has the charge of my aff^airs, that he sufi"er me not to perish iir this prison, in which I am now borne away, until I see accomplislicd the joyful and incomparable promises thou hast now made me: for, 80 they come to pass, I shall account the pains of my imprisonment glory, the chains with which I am bound refreshment, and this couch, whereon I am laid, not a hard field of battle, but a soft bed of down. And, as touching the consolation of Sancho Panza, my squirg

B 2



I confide in his love and integrity, that he will not forsake me, eithet in good or evil fortune : for though it should fall out, through his or my hard hap, that I should not be able to bestow upon him the island, or something equivalent, that 1 have promised, at least he cannot lose liis Avages ; for, in my will, which is already made, I have declared what shall be given him, not indeed proportionable to hia many and good services, but according to my own poor ability."

Sancho Panza bowed with great respect, and kissed both hia master's hands; for one alone he could not kiss, they being both tied together.

The goblins then took the cage on their shoulders, and placed it .securely on the waggon.

CHAPTER XXXVIIL

Of the strange and wonderful manner in which Bon Quixote de la Mancha was enchanted; with other remarkable occurrences.

Our knight, finding himself thus caged and carted, said, " Many and most grave histories have I read of knights-errant; but I never read, saw, or heard of enchanted knights being transported in this manner, or so slowly as these lazy, heavy animals seem to promise. For the custom invariably was to be carried through the air with wonderful speed, wrapped in some thick and dark cloud, or seated in a chariot of fire, or mounted upon a hippogrifF, or other extraordinary animah But to be conveyed in a waggon drawn by a team of oxen, overwhelms me with confusion. But, perhaps, the chivalry and enchantments of these our times may have taken a different turn from those of the ancients ; and perhaps also, as I am a new knight in the world, and the first who have revived the long-forgotten exercise of chivalry, new enchantments may have been invented, and new methods of conveying those who are under their influence. What is thy opinion of this, son Sancho T

"I do not know what to think of the matter," answered Sancho, " not being so well read as your worship in scripture-errantry : yet I dare affirm and swear, that these hobgoblins are not altogether catholic."

"Catholic! my father;" answered Do/i Quixote; "how can they be catholic, being devils, who have assumed fantastic shapes, on purpose to come hither and put me into this state 1 and to be convinced of this, touch them and feel them, and thou wilt find they have no bodies, but are all air, mere semblances, bodies in appearance only."

" Truly, sir," replied Sancho, " I have already touched them, and this same devil, who is so very busy about us, is as plump as a partridge, and has another property very diflerent from what your devils are wont to have, who all smell of brimstone ; but this one is scented with amber, as may be perceived at the distance of half a league."



Sancho meant this of Don Fernando, wlio being a cavalier of quality, was probably perfumed, as the squire hinted.

" Wonder not at that, friend Sancho," answered Don Quixote: ** for your devils are a knowing sort of people, and may carry perfumes about them, though they have no scents in themselves, Dcing spirits ; or, if any odour proceed from them, it cannot be of a

f)leasing, but must be of a loathsome nature ; because they carry their lell with them wherever they go, and can receive no respite from their torments. Now, a perfume being pleasing and delightful, it is not possible they should smell of so good a thing: and if this devil to thy sense smells of amber, either thou deceivest thyself, or he would deceive thee, thereby to hide his Satanic essence more effectually."

This dialogue between the master and the squire, being overheard by Don Fernando and Cardenio, they were afraid Sancho would light upon their plot, for he was already so hot in the pursuit, as to be nearly uf on the game: they resolved therefore to hasten their departure, and, calling the innkeeper aside, they ordered him to saddle Kozinante, and put the pannel on the ass, which he did with all practicable expedition. Meanwhile the priest had agreed to give the troopers of the holy brotherhood so much a day, to accompany Don Quixote to his village. Cardenio hung the buckler on one side, and the basin on the other, of the pommel of Kozinante's saddle, and having made signs for Sancho to mount his ass, and take Kozinante by the bridle, he placed two troopers, with their carbines, on each side of the waggon. But, before the equipage moved forward, the hostess, her daughter, and Maritornes, came out to take their leave of Don Quixote, pretending to shed tears at his misfortune; which the knight observing, said, " Weep not, my good ladies; for mishaps of this nature are incident to those who profess what I profess ; and if they did not befall me, I should not deem myself a knight-errant of any considerable renown : for to knights of little reputation, such accidents never happen, since nobody in the world thinks of them : but to tho valorous it is otherwise ; as princes and other knights, envious of their extraordinary virtue and courage, are constantly endeavouring, by indirect ways, to destroy them. Notwithstanding all which, so powerful is virtue, that of herself, in spite of all the necromancy that its first inventor Zoroaster ever knew, she will come off victorious from every encounter, and spread her lustre round the world, as the sun spreads his over the heavens. Pardon me, fair ladies, if, through inadvertency, I have incurred in any way your displeasure; for willingly and knowingly I never offended a living soul: and pray to God that he â– would deliver me from these bonds, into which some evil-minded enchanter has thrown me : for, if ever I find myself at liberty, I shall not forget the favours you have conferred upon me in this castle, but shall acknowledge and requite them with the gratitude they deserve." While this passed between the ladies of the castle and Don Quixote, the priest and the barber were taking leave of Don Fernando and his companions, the captain and his brother the judge, and all the now happy ladies, especially Dorothea and Lucinda. They all embraced, promising to give each other an account of their future fortunes.



Don Fernando gave the priest directions where to write to him, and acquaint him with what became of Don Quixote, assuring him that nothing would afford him greater pleasure; and that, on his part, be would inform him of whatever might amuse or please him, either in relation to his own marriage, or the baptism and marriage of Zoraida, and the success or otherwise of Don Louis's adventure, and the return of Lucinda to her parents. The priest having promised to perform everything that was desired of him with the utmost punctuality, they again embraced, and, renewing their mutual offers of service, parted. The innkeeper then came to the priest, and put into his hands a bundle of papers, telling him they were what he found in the lining of the wallet, in which was the novel of the Curious Impertinent, and, as the owner had never come back to claim them, he was welcome to take them all with him ; for, as he could not read, he had no desire to keep them. The priest thanked him, and, opening the papers, found written as a title. The Novel of Rinconete and Corta-dilla.* He packed it up carefully, intending to read it the first opportunity that offered. He and his friend the barber then mounted on horseback, with their masks on, that Don Quixote might not know them, and joined the cavalcade, the order of which was this: first went the car, guided by the driver, and guarded on each side by the troopers with their firelocks; then foUowed Sancho upon his ass, leading Eozinante by the bridle ; in the rear-were the priest and tlie barber, on their puissant mules, and their faces masked, marching with a grave and solemn air, no faster than the slow pace of the oxen would allow; while Don Quixote sat in the cage, with his hands tied, and his legs stretched out, leaning against the bars, with as much patience and silence as if, instead of a man of flesh and blood, he had been a statue of stone. In this slowness and silence, they travelled about two leagues, when they came to a valley, which the waggoner thought a convenient place for resting and baiting his cattle: and acquainting the priest Avith his purpose, the barber recommended that they should travel a little farther, as behind the next rising ground was a vale, that afforded more and better grass than that in which the waggoner proposed to stop. This advice waa followed, and they went on accordingly.

The priest, happening about this time to look back, perceived behind them six or seven horsemen, well mounted and accoutred, who soon came up with them. 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, Kozinante, the priest, and the barber, and especially Don (Quixote, caged up and imprisoned, could not forbear making some inquiries; thougn, on observing the badges of the holy brotherhood, he concluded that they were conveying some notorious robber or other criminal, whose punishment belonged to that fraternity.

" Why the gentleman is carried in this manner," replied one of the

• Written by Cervantes, and extant in the colloctiou of his novels.



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, 7 will acquaint you with my misfortunes; but if not, I will spare myself that trouble."

The priest and the barber, perceiving that the travellers were epeaking with Don Quixote, rode up to them, lest anything should pass that might frustrate their plot. The canon, in answer to Don Quixote, said, " In truth, brother, I am more conversant in books of chivalry than in Villalpando's Summaries ; you may, therefore, freely 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 tlais 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 inniiortality, to serve as a model and mirror to future ages, whereby knights-errant may see the track they are to follow, if they are ambitious of reaching the honourable simi-mit and pinnacle of true glory."

" Signor Don Quixote de la Mancha says the truth," said the priest; " for he is conveyed in that enchanted state, not through his own fault or demerit, but the malice of those to whom virtue is odious and courage obnoxious. This, sir, is the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, 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 â– svere his followers less suri)rised ; and Sancho now coming up, to mend the matter said, " Look ye, gentlemen, let it be well or ill taken, I will out with it: the truth of the case is, my master, Don Quixote, is just as much enchanted as my mother; he is in his perfect senses, he eats 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 1 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 enchantments drive at? Let me tell you I know you, though you do hide your face, and understand you too, sly aa you be. But the good cannot abide where envy rules, nor is generosity found in a beggarly breast. Evil befal the devil! Had it not been for your reverence, before this time his worship had been married to the Princess Micomicoua. 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 bottom. I am grieved for my poor wife and children ; for, when they might reasonably expect to see their father come home a governor or viceroy of some island or kingdom, they will now see him return a pitiful groom. All this I say, master priest, only to make your paternity feel some 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 Bquire; "what! art tliou, Sancho, of thy master's fraternity 1 I begin, indeed, 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."

" I am not lured by anybody," answered Sancho ; " and though I am a poor man, I am an old Christian, and owe nobody anything ; and if I covet islands, there are others who covet worse things; and every one is the son of his own works • and being a man, I may come to be pope, and much more easily governor of an island, especially siuce my master may win so many that he may be at a loss where to bestow them. Pray, master barber, take heed wliat you say ; for shaving of beards is not all, and there is some difference between Pedro and Pedro. I say this, because we know one another, and there is no putting false dice upon me: as for my master's enchautment, God knows the truth, and let that rest."

The barber would not answer Sancho, lest, by his simplicity, he should discover what he and the priest took so much pains to conceal; and for the same reason the priest desired the canon to ride on a little before, and he would let him into the secret of the encaged gentleman, with other particulars that would divert him.

The canon and his servants then rode on before with the priest, who entertained him with a circumstantial account of Don Quixote, from the first symptoms of his derangement to his ])resent situation in the cage. The canon was surprised at what he heard. " Truly," said he to the curate," tliose tales of chivalry are veryprejudicial to the common weal; and, though led away by an idle and false taste, I have read in part almost all that are printed, I could never get through the wdaole 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, calculated 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 from 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 â– wJiich 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 o.fUfPrsarie3, and obtains the victory by his single arm % I have never ^ct tound a regular well-connected fable in any of our books of chivalry ; they are all inconsistent and monstrous ; the style is generally bad; and they abound with incredible exploits, absurd sentiments, 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 waggoner presently unyoked the oxen, and turned them loose .n a green and delicious spot, the freshness of which was inviting to persons not only as much enchanted as Don Quixote, but as intelligent and discreet as his squire, who besought the priest to permit his master to come out of the cage for awhile. The priest feared lest his master, finding himself at liberty, should play one of his old pranks, and be gone where nobody should set eyes en him more.

" I will be security for his not running away," replied Sancho.

"And I also," said the canon, "especially if he will pass his word M a knight that he will not leave us without our consent."

" I do pass it," answered Don Quixote, who was listening to all they said ; " and the rather, because whoever is enchanted, as I am, is not at liberty to dispose of himself as he pleases; for the enchanter can so completely deprive him of his locomotive power, that he shall not be able to stir for three centuries, and, if he should attempt an escape, will instantly fetch him back on the wing."

The canon contemplated the Don with great surprise; for he dis-

Elayed in conversation a very good understanding, and seemed, as it ath been before observed, only to lose his stirrups on the theme of chivalry; and he Avas 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, when I read them without reflecting on their falsehood and folly, they give me some amusement; 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 their want of common sense, and their injurious tendency in misleading the uninformed. Nay, they may even disturb the intellects of sensible and well-born gentlemen, as is manifest by the effect they have had on your 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. AL Siguor Don Quixote ! have pity on yourself, shake oflF this folly, and employ the talents with which Heaven has blessed you in the cultivation of literature more subservient to your honour, as well as profitable to your mind. If a strong natural impulse still leads you to books containing the exploits of heroes, read in the Holy Scriptures the Book of Judges, where you will meet with wonderful trutlis and achievements no less heroic than true."

Don Quixote listened with great attention to the canon till he had ceased speaking, and then, looking steadfastly in his face, he replied, " I conceive, sir, that you mean to insinuate that there never were knights-errant in the world ; that all books of chivalry are false, mischievous, and unprofitable to the commonwealth ; and that I have done ill in reading, worse in believing, and still worse in imitating tbem ; 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 rae much prejudice, having injured my brain, and occasioned my imprisonment in a cage ; and that it woul I 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 blaspheme an order so universally acknowledged in the world, and its existence so axithenticated, that he who denies it merits that punishment you are pleased to say you inflict on certain books. To assert that there never was an Amadis in the world, nor any other of the knights-adventurers of whom so many records remain, is to say that the sun does not enlighten, the frost produce cold, nor the earth yield sustenance. What human ingenuity can make us doubt the truth of that afi'air 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 sea in the king's armoury the very peg wherewith the valiant Peter steered the Avooden 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 Pioncesvalles, too, there may be seen Orlando'3 horn, the size of a great beam; not to mention many other matters, all so authentic and true, that I say again, whoever denies them must be wholly destitute of sense and reason."

The canon was astonished at Don Quixote's medley of truth and fiction, as well as at the extent of his knowledge on affairs of chivalry; and he replied, " I cannot deny, Signor Don Quixote, but that there is some truth in what you say. That there was a Cid no one wiU deny, and likewise a Bernardo del Carpio; but that they performed all the exploits ascribed to them I believe there is great reason to doubt. As to Peter of Provence's peg, and its standing near Babieca's saddle in the king's armoury, I confess my sin in being so ignorant



or short-siglited that, thoiigli I have seen the saddle, I never could discover the pegâ€"large as it is, according to your description."

'' Yet unquestionably there it is," replied Don Quixote, "and they Bay, moreover, that it is kept in a leathern case to prevent rust."

â– ' It may be so," answered 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 understanding and talents should give credit to such extravagance and absurdity."

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Of ihe ingenious contest between Don Quixote and the Canon; vuith oilier incidents.

" A GOOD jest, truly/' said Don Quixote, " that books printed with the licence of kings and the approbation of the examiners, read with general pleasure, and applauded by great and small, poor and rich, learned and ignorant, nobles and plebeiansâ€"in short, by people of every state and condition, should be all lies, and, at the same time, appear so much like truth ! Study well these books, signer ; for, believe 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 manaic, 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 hx this breast 0 mine; for, upon my faith, sir, tlie poor man is unable to exercise the virtue of liberality; and the gratitude which consists only in inclination is a dead thing. I shall, therefore, rejoice when fortune presents me with an opportunity of exalting myself, that I may show my heart iu conferring benefits on my friends, especially on poor Sancho Panza here, my squire, who is one of the best men in tlie world ; and I would fain bestow on him an earldom, as I have long ^ince promised : although I am somewhat in doubt of his abihty in the government of his estate."

Sancho overhearing his master's last words, said, " Take you tlie trouble, Signor Don Quixote, to procure me that same earldom which your worship has so often promised, and I have been so long waiting for, and you shall see that I shall not want for ability to govern it. But even if I had not, 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 bis ease, enjoying his estate, without concerning himself any farther about it. Just so will I do, and give myself uo more trouble than



needs must, but enjoy myself like any diike, and let the world rub."

" Tills, brother Sancho," said the canon, " may be done^ as far aa regards the management of your revenue ; but the administration of justice must be attended to by the lord himself; and requires capacity, judgment, and, above all, an upright intention, without which nothing prospers; for Heaven assists the good intent of the simple, and disappoints the evil designs of the cunning."

" I do not understand these philosophies," answered Sancho ; " aU I know is, that I wish I may as surely liave 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 wiU; and, having my will, I should be contented ; and, being content, there is no more to be desired : and when there is no more to desire, there'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, Sancho," 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 compensation for the loyal and signal services they had received from their squires, conferred upon them extraordinary favours, making them absolute lords of cities and islands ; indeed, there was one whose services were so great that he had the presumption to accept of a kingdom."

With all this methodical raving the canon was no less amused than astonished.

By this time the canon's servant had returned from the inn with the sumpter-mule ; and, spreading a carpet on the green grass, the company gat down under the shade of some trees, and dined there, that the waggoner might not lose the conveniency of the fresh pasture, as we have mentioned. As they were thus employed, they suddenly heard a noise, and the sound of a little 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 ? But what else can it mean, but that thou art a female, and therefore canst not be quiet! A plague on thy humours, and on all theirs whom thou resemblest! Turn back, my dear, turn back; for though not content, at least thou wilt be more safe in thine own fold, and among thy companions; for if thou,



vho shouldst protect and guide them, go astray, what must become of them V

The party were very much amused by the goatherd's remonstrances; and the canon said, " I entreat you, brother, not to be in such haste to force back this goat to her fold; for, since she is a female, she will follow her natural inclination in spite of all your opposition. Come, do not be angry, but eat and drink with us, and let the wayward creature rest herself."

At the same time he offered hira 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 difference 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 shephferds 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 teU you a circumstance which confirms it."

" Since this affair," said Don Quixote, " bears somewhat the semblance of an adventure, for my own part, friend, I shall listen to you most willingly: I can answer also for these gentlemen, who are persons of sense, and will relish the curious, the entertaining, and the marvellous, which I doubt not 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 stomach 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 hie face, seemed to listen to his story, which he began as follows.



CHAPTER XL.

The Goaiherd^s narrative.

" Three leagues from this valley there is a town, which, though small, is one of the richest in these parts ; and among its inhabitants was a farmer of such an excellent cliaracter, that, though riches generally gain esteem, he was more respected for his good qualities than for his wealtli; 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 villagesâ€"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 right it was to dispose of so precious a jewel was perplexed, and knew not whom to select among her importunate suitors. I was one of the number, and had indulged fond hopes of success, being known to her father, 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, being equally satisfied with both of us, was perplexed which to prefer, and therefore determined to leave the choice to Leandra herselfâ€"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 expressions as neither bound himself nor disobliged us. My rival's name is Anselmo, mine Eugenio ; for you 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, having been carried away from our town at twelve years of age by a captain who happened to march that way with his company; and now, at the end of twelve years more, he came back in a soldier's garb, bedizened with a variety of colours, and covered with a thousand trinkets and glittering chains. To-day he put on one piece of finery, to-morrow another : but all slight and 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 gewgaws, and found that he had three suits of apparel, of diifeient colours,-with hose and garters to them; but those he <^\s-



guised in so many diflferent ways, and with so much contrivance, that had they not been counted, one would have sworn that he had above ten suits, and twenty plumes of feathers. Do not look upon this description of his dress as impertinent or superfluous, for it is an important part of the story. He used to seat himself on a stone-bench, under a great poplar-tree in our market-place, and there he would iiold us all gaping and listening to the history of his exploits. There was no country on the whole globe that he had not seen, nor battle in wliich he had not been engaged. He had slain more Moors than are in Morocco and Tunis together ; and fought more single combats, according to his own account, than Gante, Luna, Diego Garcia d« Paredes, and a thousand others, from which lie always came off victorious, and without losing a drop of blood ; at the same time he would show us marks of wounds, which, thougli they were not to be discerned, he assured us were so many musket-shots, received in different actions. With the utmost arrogance, he would ' thee' and ' thou' his equals and acquaintance, and boast that his arm was his father, his deeds his pedigree, and that under the title of soldier he owed the king himself nothing. In addition to this boasting, he pretended to bo somewhat of a musician, and thrum a little upon the guitar, which some people admired. But his accomplishments did not end here; for he was likewise something of a poet, and would compose a ballad a league and a half in length on every trifling incident that happened in the village.

" Now this soldier whom I have described, this Vincent de la Rosa, this hero, this gallant, this musician, this poet, was often seen and admired by Leandra from a window of her house, which faced the market-place. She was struck with the tinsel of his gaudy apparel; his ballads enchanted her; the exploits he related of himself reached her earsâ€"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 aflaii's 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 liouse of her affectionate father, and quitted the town vsdth 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 I were utterly confounded, her father grieved, her kindred ashamed, justice alarmed, and the troopers of the holy brotherhood in full activity. They beset the highways, and searched tlie woods, leaving no place unexplored; and at the end of three days they found the poor giddy Leandra in the cave of a mountain, stripped of all her clothes and the money and jewels which she had carried away from home. They brought her back to her disconsolate father; and being questioned, she freely confessed that Vincent de la Rosa had deceived her, and upon promise of marriage had persuaded her to leave her father's house, telling her he would carry her to Naples, the richest and most delicious city in the whole world. The imprudent and credulous girl



said that, having believed him, she had robbed her father, and given the whole to liini on the night of her elopement; and that he had carried 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 neighbouring town, in hopes that time might efface the remembrance of this untoward event. Her tender years were some excuse for her fault, especially with those who were indifferent as to whether she was good or bad \ but those who know how much sense and understanding she 'sossessed, could only ascribe her fault to levity, and the foibles natural to womankind. When Leandra was gone, Anselmo and myself were blind to everythingâ€"at least no object could give us pleasure. We cursed the soldier'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

f)ass our lives tending our flocks, and indulging our passion by praises, amentations, or reproaches, and sometimes in solitary sighs and groans. Our example has been followed by many other admirers of Leandra, who have joined us in the same employment; indeed we are so numerous, that this place seems converted into the pastoral Arcadia ; nor is there a jjart of it where the name of our beautiful mistress 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 disposition : in truth, all blame and all adore herâ€"nay, such is the general frenzy, that some complain of her disdain who never had spoken to her, and some there are who bemoan themselves and aftect 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 shows the least, though he has the most, sense among us madmen, is my rival Anselmo, for he complains only of absence; and to the sound of a rebec, whicli he touches to admiration, pours forth his complaint in verses of wonderful ingenuity. I follow another course ; which is, to inveigh against the levity of women, their inconstancy, and double-dealing, their vain promises and broken faith, their absurd and misplaced atiections.

" 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 my 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 XLI.

Of the qiKtrrel between Don Quixote and ilie Goatherd, with the rart 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 convinced that the priest was perfectly right when he affirmed tliat men of letters were often produced among mountains. They all offered 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 immediately engage myself in your service, and release your lady from the nunnery in spite of the abbess and all opposers, then deliver her into your hands, to be disposed of at your pleasure, so far as is consistent with the laws of chivalry, which enjoin that no kind of outrage be offered to damsels. I trust, however, that the power of one malicious enchanter shall not be so prevalent over another but that a better disposed one may triumph; and then I promise you my aid and protection according to the duty of my profession, which is no other than to favour the weak and necessitous."

The goatherd stared at Don Quixote, and observing his odd appearance, he whispered to the barber who sat next to him, "Pray, sir, who is that man that looks and talks so strangely V

*' Who should it be," answered the barber, " but the famous Don Quixote de la Mancha, the redresser of injuries, the righter of wrongs, the protector of maidens, the dread of giants, and the conqueror of armies T

" Why this is like what we hear in the stories of knights-errant," said the goatherd; " but I take it either your worship is in jest, or the apartments in this gentleman's skull are unfurnished."

"You are a very great blockhead," exclaimed 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, and threw it at the goatherd's face with so much fury that he laid his nose flat. The goatherd did not much relish the jest, so, without any respect to the tablecloth 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 overturning all that was upon it. Don Quixote, finding himself free, turned again upon the goatherd, who, being kicked and trampled upon 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, liowever, maliciously contrived that the goatherd should get Dou Quixote mider him, whom he buffeted so unmercifully that he had ample retaliation for his own sufferings. This ludicrous encounter

a



overcame the gravity of both the churchmen; while the troopers of the holy brotberhood, 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 prevented him from going to assist his master. In the midst of this sport a trumpet was suddenly heard sounding so dismally that every face 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 demon," 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 seasonable showers, throughout all the villages of that district, processions, disciplines, and public prayers were ordered, beseeching God to show His mercy by sending them rain. For this purpose the people of a neighbouring village were coming in procession to a holy hermitage built upon the side of a hill not^ar from that spot. The strange attire of the disciplinants struck Don Quixote, who, not recollecting 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 some illustrious lady, forcibly borne away by ruffians and miscreants. With all the expedition in his power, he therefore went up to Eozinante, and taking the bridle and buckler from the pommel of the saddle, he bridled him in a trice ; and calling to Sancho for his sword, he mounted, braced his target, and, in a loud voice said to all that were present, " Now, my worthy companions, ye shall see how important to the world is the profession of chivalry ; now shall ye see, in the restoration of that captive lady to liberty, whether knights-errant are to be valued or not T

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 vain endeavoured to stop him; and in vain did Sancho cry out, " Whither go you, Signor Don Quixote? what possesses you to assault the catholic faith % Evil befal me ! do but lookâ€"it is a procession of disciplinants, and the lady carried upon the bier is the blessed image of our Holy Virgin; take heed, for trds 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 already wanted to rest a little, and in a hoarse and agitated voice cried out, •' Stop there, ye who cover your facesâ€"for an evil purpose, I doubt notâ€"stop and listen to me !"

The bearers of the image stood still ; and one of the four ecclesiastics, who sung the litanies, observing the strange figure of Don Quixote, the leanness of Rozinante, and other ludicrous circumstances attending the knight, replied, " Friend, if you have anything to say to us, say it quickly; for these our bretliren are scourging their flesh, and we cannot stay to hear anything 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 injury. I, who was born to redress such wrongs, command you, therefore, not to proceed one step further until you have given hei- the liberty she desires and deserves."

By these expressions they concluded that Don Quixote must be some whimsical madman, and only laughed at him; which enraged him to such a degree, that, without saying another word, he drew his sword and attacked the bearers, one of whom, leaving the burden to his comrades, stepped forward brandishing the pole on which the bier liad been supported; but it was quickly broken in two by a powerful stroke aimed oy 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 feMed to the ground, Sancho, who had followed him, now called out to the man not to strike again, for he was a poor enclianted knight, who had never done anybody harm in all his Ufe. The peasant forbore, it is true, though not on account of Sancho's appeal, but because he saw his opponent without motion, and thinking he had killed him, he hastily tucked up his vest under his girdle, and fled like a deer over the field.

By this time all Don Quixote's party had come up; and those in the procession, seeing among them troopers of the holy brotherhood armed with their crossbows, began to be alarmed, and drew up in a circle round the image; then lifting up their hoods, and grasping their whips, and the ecclesiastics their tapers, they waited the assault, determined to defend themselves, or, if possible, offend their aggressors; while Sancho threw himself 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 !â€"Help, friend Sancho, to place me upon the enchanted car \ 1 am no longer in a condition to press the saddle of Bozinante, 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 wiH

s 2



be highly prudent in us to wait until the evil influence of the star which now reigns is passed over."

The canon, the priest, and the barber, told him they approved hib 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 promise from the priest that he would acquaint him with the future fate of Don Quixote. Thus the party now consisted only of the priest, the barber, Don Quixote, and Sancho, with good Rozinante, who bore all accidents as patiently as his master. The waggoner yoked his oxen, and having accommodated Don Quixote with a truss of hay, they jogged on in the way the priest directed, and at the end of six days reached Don Quixote's village. It was about noon when they made their entrance, and it being a holiday, all the people were standing about the market-place through wliich the waggon passed. Everybody ran to see who was in it, and were not a little surprised when they recognised their townsman ; and a boy ran off at full speed with tidings to the housekeeper that he was coming home, lean and pale, etretched out at length in a waggon drawn by oxen. On hearing this, the two good women made the most pathetic lamentations, and renewed their curses against 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 repaired thither; and, on meeting him, her first inquiry was, whether the ass had come home well. Sancho told her that he was in a better condition than his master.

" Heaven be praised," replied she, " for so great a mercy to me! But tell me, husband, what good have you got by your squireship] Have you brought a petticoat home for me, and shoes for your children T

" I have brought you nothing of that sort, dear wife," quoth Sancho; "but I have got other things of greater consequence."

" I am very glad of that," answered the wife ; " pray show me your things of greater consequence, friend; for I would fain see them to gladden my heart, which has been so sad all the long time you have been away."

" You shall see them at home, wife," quoth Sancho, " 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 T answered Teresa Panza; for that was the name of Sancho's wife^



though they were not of kin, but because it was the custom of La

Mancha for the wife to take the husband's name.

" Do not be in so much haste, Teresa," said Sancho; " it is enough that I tell you what is true, so lock up your mouth ; only take thia by the way, that there is nothing in the world so pleasant as to be an honourable esquire to a knight-errant and seeker of adventures. To be sure, most of them are not so much to a man's mind as he could wish; for, as I know by experience, ninety-nine out of a hundred fall out cross and unlucky, especially when one happens to be tossed in a blanket, or well cudgelled : yet, for all that, it is a fine thing to go about in expectation of accidents, traversing mountains, searching woods, marching over rocks, visiting castles, lodging in inns, all at pleasure, and never a farthing to pay."

While this discourse was passing between Sancho Panza and hia wife Teresa, the housekeeper and the niece received Don Quixote, and they laid him in his old bed, whence he looked at them with eyes askance, not knowing perfectly where he was. Often did the women raise their voices in abuse of aU 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 feara were not groundlesa."





PART THE SECOND.

CHAPTER XLn.

What passed between the Curate, the Barber, and B(m Quixc^, concerning his indisposition..

CiD Hamet Bengali relates in the second part of this history, containing the third sally of Don Quixote, tbat the curate and the barber let a whole month elapse without paying Don Quixote a visit, lest, calling to mind his former extravagances, he might take occasion to renew them. However, they failed not e^ery day to see his niece and his housekeeper, whom they charged to treat and cherish him with great care, and to give him such diet as might be most proper to cheer his heart and comfort his brain, whence in all likelihood his disorder wholly proceeded. The good women informed them that they did so, and would continue it to their utmost power ; the rather because they observed that sometimes he seemed to be in his right senses. This news was very welcome to the curate and the barber, who looked on this amendment as an effect of their contrivance in bringing him home in the enchanted waggon, as already recorded. Thereupon they resolved to pay him a visit, and make trial themselves of the progress of a cure, which they thought almost impossible. They also agreed not to speak a word of knight-errantry, lest they should endanger a wound so lately closed.

In short, they entered his chamber, where they found him sitting on his bed, in a waistcoat of green baize, with a red Toledo bonnet on his head, and in so lean and shrivelled a state, as to be reduced to a seeming mummy. They were received by him with much kindness, and when they inquired respecting his health, he gave an account of his indisposition and of himself with the utmost propriety both of manner and expression. In the course of conversation they entered upon matters of state and forms of government, during which they corrected this abuse and condemned that, reformed one custom and banished another, each setting himself up for a legislator, a modern Lycurgus, or a Solon, tiU they had remodelled the commonwealth as completely as if they had committed it to a forge and then hammered it into a shape quite different from what it had before. Don Quixote expressed himself with so much good sense on every subject that was discussed, that the two inquisitors were disposed to believe that he was in the entire possession of his reason ; while the niece and



the housekeeper, who were present during the conversation, observing in their master such proofs of a sound mind, thought they ould never be sufficiently thankful to Heaven. From these favourable auspices, the priest, changing his former purpose of not touching upon matters of chivalry, now resolved to make a thorough experiment whether the knight was perfectly recovered or not, and from one transition to another, he at length introduced a piece of news, lately brought from court, that the Turk was coming down with a powerful fleet, and as it was not known what was his design, nor where the storm would burst, all Christendom was alarmed, as usual, and the king had already provided for the security of the coasts of Naples and Sicily, as well as of ths island of Malta.

To this information Don Quixote replied, " In providing in time for the defence of his dominions, that the enemy may not surprise him, the king has acted like a most prudent warrior; but if my counsel might be taken, I would recommend a precaution which is perhaps the farthest of any from his majesty's thoughts." The priest no sooner heard these words than he said within himself, " God help thee, poor knight! for methinks thou art falling from the summit of thy madness into the profoundest abyss of thy folly !" But the barber, though he had made the same reflection, ventured to ask what precaution it was that he thought so proper to be taken, for perhaps it was of a nature to be ranked with the many impertinent admonitions usually given to princes.

" No, Mr. Shaver," replied Don Quixote, " mine shall not be impertinent, but to the purpose."

" I meant no harm," said the barber, " but only to suggest, what experience has proved to be true, that all or most of the projects offered by individuals to his majesty have been impracticable or absurd, or else prejudicial to the king or the state."

" Granted," said Don Quixote, " but mine is neither impracticable nor absurd, but the most easy, just, feasible, and expeditious that ever entered the imagination of a projector."

" Signer Don Quixote," quoth the priest, " methinks you keep us too long in suspense."

" I have no mind," answered Don Quixote, *' that my plan should be told here now, and to-morrow by daybreak be carried to tbe ears of the lords of the privy council, and another run away with the thanks and reward of my labour."

" I give you my word," said the barber, " that I will not reveal what your worship may communicate, either to king, rook,* or any personage upon earth, an oath which I learned from the romance of the ' Curate,' who in the preface gives the king notice of the thief who robbed him of the hundred pistoles and his ambling mule."

" I am not acquainted with the story," said Don Quixote, " but I will presume the oath to be a good oath, because I believe Mr. Barber to be an honest man."

" And though he were not," said the priest, " I will make the oath

• An aliusioo to the same of chesa.



good, and be surety for him, that, in this business, he will be aa silent as if he were dumb."

" And who will be surety for your reverence, Mr. Priest 1" eaid Don Quixote,

" My profession," answered the priest, " by which I am in duty bound to keep secrets."

" Body of me! then," said Don Quixote, "what has his majesty to do, but to cause proclamation to be made, commanding all the knights-errant, who are wandering about Spain, to repair on a certain day to court % for should but half a dozen appear, there may be found one, even in that small number, who may be able of himself to destroy the whole power of the Turk. Pray, gentlemen, be attentive, and go along with me. Is it a new thing for a knight-errant to defeat, singly, an army of two hundred thousand men, as if they had but one throat, or were all made of paste ? How many histories are replete with such wonders ? Unfortunate is it for meâ€"I will not say for anybody elseâ€"that the famous Don Belianis, or one of the numerous race of Amadis de Gaul, is not now in being! for were it 80, were one of those heroes alive, and were he to confront the Turk, in good faith, I should be loth to farm the infidel's winnings. But God will provide for his people, and send some champion or other, if not as strong as the knights-errant of old, at least not inferior in courage. Heaven knows my meaningâ€"I wiU say no more."

" Alas!" exclaimed the niece at this intimation, " may I perish if ray uncle has not a mind to turn knight-errant again !"

" A knight-errant!" replied Don Quixote, " yes, a knight-errant I â– will live, and a knight-errant I will die, and let the Turk come down, or up, when he pleases, or where he pleases, and with aU the power iie can musterâ€"I say again, God knows my meaning."

Here the barber interposed. " I beg leave, gentlemen," said he, "to teU a short story of what happened once in Seville; for it is so much to the purpose, that I cannot well withhold it."

The knight and the priest consenting, and the women giving their attention, he begun thusâ€"

" A certain person being distracted, was put into the madhouse at Seville. He had studied the civil law, and taken his degrees at Ossuna; though, had he taken them at Salamanca, many are of opinion that he would have been mad too. After some years spent in this confinement, he was pleased to fancy himself in his right senses ; and, upon this, wrote to the archbishop, be.'^etching him, with all the colour of reason imaginable, to release him by his authority, eince, by the mercy of Heaven, he was wholly freed from his disorder ; only his relations, he said, kept him in, in order to enjoy hia estate, designing, 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 te iuquire into the truth of the matter, and also to discourse with the writer, that he might set him at large, in case he found him o{ sound mind. Thereupon the chaplain went, and having asked the governor what condition the graduate was in, was answered that hf



DON QUIXOTE'S INDISPOSITION. tf)%

was still mad; that sometimes, indeed, he would talk like a man of excellent sense, but presently after he would relapse into his former extravagances, which, at least, balanced all his rational talk, as he himself might find if he pleased to discourse with him. The chaplain, resolved to make the experiment, went to the madman, and conversed with him above an hour, and in all that time could not perceive the least disorder in his brain ; far from that, he 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 understanding; 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 short, 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 prevail 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 charity's sake, to permit him to take leave of his late companions in affliction. The chaplain told him he would bear him company, having a mind to see the mad folks in the house. So they went upstairs, and with them some other people that stood by. Presently the graduate came to a kind of 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 and 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 our stomachs empty of food, and our brains full of wind'

" Just over against that room lay another madman, who, having listened with an envious attention to all this discourse, starts up from an old mat on which he lay: ' Who is that,' cried he, aloud, ' that is going away so well recovered and so wise V

"' 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 Heaven,"



" ' 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 setting thee at large, affirming that thou art sound in thy intellects, I will take such a severe revenge on the whole city, that it shall be remembered with terror from age to age. Dost thou not know, my poor brainless thing in a gown, that this is in my power 1 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 1 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 I here 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 Jupiter, 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 stay here a little longer: and some other time, at convenient leisure, I may chance to find a better opportunity to wait on you, and bring you away.'

" The keeper and the rest of the company could not forbear laughing, which put the chaplain almost out of countenance. In short, Mr. Neptune was disrobed again, and stayed where he was; and there ia 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 not forbear telling if? Ah, Mr. Cutbeard, how blind must he be that cannot 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 I am not Neptune, the god of the waters, good Master Barber ; neither do I pretend to set up for a wise man when 1 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, indeed, 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 oppres-Biou, and the reward of humility. Most of your knights, now-a-days, keep a greater rustling with their sumptuous garments of damask, gold brocade, and other costly stuffs, than with the coats of mail, which they should glory to wear. No knight now will lie on the hard ground in the open field exposed to the 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 journeyed over a dismal barren shore, washed by a turbulent tempestuous 88a, 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 himseK to the implacable billows of the main that now mount him to the skies, and then hurry him down to the most profound recesses of the waters ; till, with his insuperable courage 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 1 But now, alas, sloth and effeminacy triumph over vigilance and labour; idleness oyer industry; vice over virtue; arrogance over valour; and the theory of arms over the practice, that true practice which only lived and flourished in those golden days, and among those professors of chivalry. For, where shall we hear of a knight more valiant and more honourable than the renowned Amadis de Gaul % Who more discreet than Palmerin of England ? Who more affable and coraplai-Bant than Tirante the White 1 Who more gallant than Lisuarte of Greece 1 Who more cut and hacked, or a greater cutter and hacker, than Don Belianis ? Who more intrepid than Perion of Gaul 1 Who more daring than Felixmarte of Hyrcania? Who more sincere than Esplandian ] Who more courteous than Ciriongilio of Thrace ? Who more brave than Rodomont 1 Who more prudent than King Sobrino 1 Who more desperate than Pvinaldo ? Who jnore invincible tlian Orlando ? And who more agreeable or more affable than Piogero, from whom (according to Turpin in his cosmography) tlie Dukes of Ferrara are descended ? All these champions, Master Curate, and a great many more that I could mention, were knights-errant, and the very light and glory of chivalry. Now, such as these are the men I would advise the king to employ; by which means his majesty would be effectually served, and freed from a vast expense, and the Turk would tear his very beard for madness. For my part, I do not design to stay where I am because the chaplain will not fetch me out; though if Jupiter, as Master Barber said, will send no rain, here stands one that will, and can rain when he pleases. This I say, that Goodman Basin here may know I xmderstand 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," replied Don Quixote, ** is best known to myself."

" Well," said the curate, " I have hardly spoken a word yet; and before I go, I would gladly be eased of a scruple, which Don Quixote's words have started within me, and which grates and gnaws my conscience."

" Master Curate may be free with me in greater matters," said Don Quixote, " and so may well tell his scruple; for it is no pleasure to have a burden upon one's conscience."

" With your leave then, sir," said the curate, "I mu.st tell you,that I can by no means prevail with myself to believe, that all tliis multitude of knights-errant, which your worship has mentioned, were ever real men of this world, and true substantial flesh and blood; but rather, that 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 mistake," said Don Quixote, "into which many have been led, who do not believe there ever were any of those knights in the world. And in several companies I have many times had occasion to vindicate that manifest truth from the almost univer- | sal error that is entertained to its prejudice. Sometimes my success 1 has not been answerable to the goodness of my cause, though at others it has; being supported on the shoulders of truth, which is so apparent, that I dare almost say I have se^n 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 aflable; 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 taU then might the giant Morgante be V

" 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 before^ were very obstreperous; which made them all hasten to know what was the matter.



CHAPTER XLin.

Of the memorable quarrel between Sancho Panza and Don Quixotes

Niece and IIousekeejMr ; vrith other pleasant passages.

The occasion of the noise which the niece and housekeeper made, waA Saiicho 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 1" 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-rarabling aU 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 inveigled me from my house and home with his colloguing, and saying he would give me an i.'iland, which is not come yet, and I still wait for."

" Mayst thou be choked with thy plaguy islands," cried the niece; *' what are your islands ? anything to eat, goodman greedy, ha X'

" Hold you there," answered Sancho ; " they are not to eat, but to govern; and better governments than any four cities, or as many heads of the king's best corporations."

" For all that," quoth the housekeeper, " thou comest not within these doors, thou bundle of wickedness and sackful of roguery ! Go, govern your own house ; work, you lazy rogue. To the plough, and never trouble your jolter-head about islands or eylets."

The curate and barber were highly diverted in hearing this dialogue. But Don Quixote, fearing lest Sancho should not keep within bounds, but blunder out some discoveries prejudicial to his reputation, while he ripped up a pack of little foolish slander, called him in, and enjoined the women to be silent. Sancho entered ; and the curate 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 aU 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 the extravagance of the knight and the foolishness of the squire. One would think they had been cast in one mould; and indeed the master's madness without the man's impertinence were not worth a rush."

" Right," said the barber; " and now they are together methinks 1 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 squir*',



,;o DON QUIXOTE.

they had the following colloquy : " I take it very ill," said he^ *â–  Sancho, 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 knighta than on the squires."

"Thou art mistaken, Sancho," replied Don Quixote; "for the proverb will tell thee that Quando caput dolef, &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 am also thy head; and as thou art my servant, thou art one of my members ; it follows, therefore, that I cannot be sensible of pain but thou too oughtest to be affected with it; and, likewise, that nothing of ill can befal thee but I must bear a share."

" Right" 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 thinkest I was not sensible of thy sufferings. For I was then more tortured in miud 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 1 How do the knights discourse of my high feats of arms, and my courteous behaviour 1 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 lessened 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 before princes in its native simplicity, and disrobed of the odious disguise of flattery, we should see happier days; this age would be changed into an age of gold, and former times compared to this would be called the iron age. Remember this, and be advised, that I may hear thee impart a faithful account of these matters."

"Why then," quoth Sancho, "first you are to know that the common 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 lampblack their own shoes, and mend their old black stockings themselves with a needleful 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 than my long wearing."

"As for what relates to your prowess," said Sancho, "there are several opinions about it. Some say he is mad, but a pleasant sort of a madman; others say he is valiant, but his luck is 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 Quixote, " that the more eminently virtue shines, the more it is exposed 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 weD, if this were all; but they don't stop here."

" Why," said Don Quixote, " what can they say more ?"

"More!" 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 history is already in books, by the name of the most renowned Don Quixote de la Mancha. He says I am in too, by my own name of Sancho Panza, and also my Lady Diilcinea del Toboso : nay, and many things that passed betwixt nobody but us two, wnich 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, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that the author of our history must be some sage enchanter, and one of those from whose universal knowledge 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 surname of that Cid, that lord, I 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."

• A sort of firuit in Spain, brought over by the Moors. Sancho meant Benon;relL



«72 I>ON QUIXOTE.

"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, thai 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 bachelor: and, having brought him along with him awhile after, they all had a very pleasant dialogue.

CHAPTER XLIV.

The pleasant discourse betiveen Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and the bachelor Samson Carrasco.

Don Quixote could not be persuaded that there was a history ot himself extant, while yet the blood of those enemies he had cut off 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 tho noblest performances of the most famous knights-errant; or as an enemy, to sully the lustre of his exploits, and debase them below the most inferior actions of any of the meanest squires. Though, thought he to himself, the actions of squires were never yet recorded; and, after all, if there were such a book printed, since it was the history of a knight-errant, it could not choose but be pompous, lofty, magnificent, and authentic. This thought yielded him awhile some small consolation ; but then he relapsed into melancholy doubts and anxieties when he considered that the author had given himself the title of Cid, and consequently must be a Moorâ€"a nation from whom no truth could be expected, they all being given to impose on others with lies and fabulous stories, to falsify and counterfeit, and very fond of their own chimeras. Sancho and Carrasco found him thus agitated and perplexed with a thousand melancholy fancies, which yet did not hinder him from receiving the stranger with a great deal of civility.

This bachelor, though his name was Samson, was none of the biggest in body, but a very great man at all manner of drollery. He had a pale complexion, but good sense. He was about four-and-twenty years of age, round-visaged, flat-nosed, and wide-mouthed^ all signs of a disposition that would delight in nothing more than in makSg sport for himself by ridiculing others, as he plainly discovered when he saw Don Quixote. For, falling on his knees before him, " Admit me to kiss your 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, through the whole extent of the habitable globe.



Blest may the sage Cid Hamet Benengeli be for enricliing the world with the history of your mighty deeds! And more than blest that curious virtuoso who took care to have it translated out of the Arabic into our vulgar tongue, for the universal 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, Barcelona, and Valencia, where they have been printed, can witness that if there were occasion. It is said that it is also now in the press at Antwerp, And I verily believe there is scarce a language into which it is not to be translated,"

"Truly, sir," said Don Quixote, "one of the things that ought to yield the greatest satisfaction to 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 good name and reputation," replied Carrasco, "youi worship has gained the palm from all the knights-errant that ever lived; for both the Arabian in his history, and the Christian in his version, have been very industrious to do justice to your characterâ€" your peculiar gallantry, your intrepidity and greatness of spirit in confronting danger, your constancy in adversities, your patience in Bufifering wounds and afflictions, and your modesty in that love so very platonic 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 f

" As to that," answered Carrasco, " the opinions of men are dividedâ€"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 infinite number of drubbings which the noble Don Quixote received."

" There lies the truth of the history," quoth Sancho.

" Those things in human equity/' said Don Quixote, " might very well have been omitted, for actions that neither impair nor alter the history ought rather to be buried in silence than related, if they redound to the discredit of the hero of the history. Certainly iEneaa 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



sufficient for the first to deliver matters as they ought to have been; whereas the last must relate them as they were really transacted, without adding or omitting anything upon any pretence whatever."

" Well," quoth Sancho, " if this same Moorish lord be once got into the road of truth, a hundred to one but among my master's rib-roastings he has not forgot mine; for they never took measure of his worship's shoulders but they were pleased to do as much for my whole body ; but it was no wonder, for it is his own rule that if once the head aches, every limb must suffer too."

"Hold your tongue," said Don Quixote, "and let the learned bachelor proceed, tliat I may know what the history says of me."

" And of me too," quoth Sancho, *' for they tell me I am one of the top parsons in it."

" Persons, you should say, Sancho," said Carrasco, " and not parsons."

" Heyday!" quoth Sancho, " have we got another corrector of hard words 1 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 ^'ere horribly credulous to flatter yourself with having the governmeit of that island which your master promised you."

"While there is life there is hope," said Don Quixote: "when Sancho is grcwn 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 Methu-salem; but there the mischief lies, we have brains enough, but we want the island."

" Come, Sancho," said Don Quixote, " hope for the best; trust in Providence; all will be well, and perhaps better than you imagine j but know, there is not a leaf stirs on any tree without the permission of Heaven."

" That is very true," said Carrasco; " and I daresay Sancho shall not want a thousand islands to govern, much less one; that is, if it be Heaven's will."

" Why not T quoth Sancho; " I have seen governors in my time who, to my thinking, could not come up to me passing the sole of my shoes; and yet, forsooth, they were called ' your honour,' and they eat their victuals all in silver."

" Ay," said Carrasco, " but these were none of your governors of islands, but of other easy governments; why, man, these ought at least to know their grammar."

" Gramercy, for that," quoth Sancho : " give me but a grey mare* once, and I shall know her well enough, I warrant ye. But leaviiig the government in the hands of him that wLU best provide for me, I must tell you, Master Bachelor Samson Carrasco, I am huge glad

• This jingle of the words grammar, gramercy, and grey mare, i» in imiUtion at Uie original, whipli would not admit of a Uteral translation.



that, as your author has not forgot me, so be has not given an ill character of me ; for by the faith of a trusty squire, had be said anything that did not become a Christian as I am, I bad rimg Mm such a peal that the deaf should have heard me."

*' That were a miracle," said Carrasco.

" Miracle me no miracles," cried Sancbo; " let every man take care how he talks, or bow be writes of other men, and not set down at random, higgledy-piggledy, whatever comes into his noddle,"

" The author," continued Carrasco, " has made everything so plain, that there is nothing in that book but what any one may understand. Children handle it, youngsters read it, grown men understand it, and old people applaud it. In short, it is universally so thumbed, so gleaned, so studied, and so known, that if the people do but see a lean horse, they presently cry, ' There goes Kozinante.' But no description of persons is so devoted to it as your pages; there is not a nobleman's ante-chamber in which you will not find a Don Quixote. If one lays it down, another takes it up; while one is asking for it, another snatches it; in short, this history affords tbe most pleasing and least prejudicial entertainment that ever was published, for there is not so much as the appearance of an immodest word in it, nor a thought that is not entirely catholic."*

"To write otherwise," said Don Quixote, "had been not to write truths, but lies ; and historians, who are fond of venting falsehoods, should be burnt, like coiners of false money. For my part, I cannot imagine what could have moved the author to introduce novels, or foreign narratives, my own story affording such abundant matter: but without doubt we may apply the proverb,' With hay or with straw, &c.,' for verily, had he confined himself to the publishing my thoughts, my sighs, my tears, my good wishes, and my achievements, with these alone he might have compiled a volume as large, or larger, than all the works of Tostatus,t bound up together. In my opinion, Signor Bachelor, to compile a book requires a clear head, a sound judgment, and a mature understanding: to talk wittily, and write pleasantly, are the talents of a great genius only: in comedy the most diflicult character is that of the fool, and he that plays that part must be no simpleton. History is a kind of sacred writing, because truth is essential to it; and where truth is, there God himself is : yet are there men who compose books, and toss them out into the world like fritters."

" There are few books so bad, but you may find something good in them," said the bachelor.

"There can be no doubt of that," replied Don Quixote ; "but it often happens, that persons who have acquired, and deservedly, a

* The extraordinary popularity of tliis work in Spain is exemplified in a story told in the life of Philip III. The king, standing one day on the balcony of his palace of Madrid, observed a student at a distance with a book in his hand, which he \va9 readingâ€"erery now and then he struck his forehead, accompanied with convulsions cf laughter. " That student," said the king, " is either out of his wits, or is reading Ihc E-istory of Don Quixote."

f A .Spanish theologian, who wrote voluminous works on divinity. T 2



good share of reputation by their writings, lessen, or lose it entirely* by committing them to the press."

" The reason of that is," said Samson, " that printed works bein» examined at leisure, the faults are the more easily discovered ; and the greater be the fame of the author, the more strict and severe is the scrutiny. Men celebrated for their talents, great poets, or great historians, are always envied by those whose pleasure and pastime it is to censure other men's writings without having dared to publish any of their own."

" That is not to be wondered at," said Don Quixote, " for there are even divines, who make no figure in the pulpit, and yet are excellent at espying the defects or superfluities of your very best preachers."

" All you say is eminently true, Signor Don Quixote," said Car-rasco; " and I wish such critics would be more merciful, and less nice, and not dwell so much upon the motes of that bright sun, the work they censure. For, though aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus, they ought to consider how long he must have watched to give hia work as much light, and leave as little shade, as possible : and perhaps those very parts, which some men do not reli.sh, are like moles, i which not unfrequently add to the beauty of the face on which they' are seen. I therefore think, that whoever prints a book runs a very great risk, it being of all impossibilities the-most impossible to write one that shall satisfy and please all readers."

" That which treats of me," said Don Quixote, " I fear has pleased but a few,"

"Quite the contrary," replied the bachelor; "for as stultorum infinitus est numerus, so is the number of those infinite who have been delighted with that history. It is objected, however, that he has omitted to mention what Sancho did with the hundred crowns which he found in the portmanteau upon the Sierra Morena ; for he never speaks of them; and many persons would be glad to learn what he did with them, or how he spent them; and tlus is deemed one of the most glaring defects in the work."

" Master Samson," replied Sancho, " I am not now in a condition to teU tales, or make up accounts • for I have a qualm come over me, and shall be upon the rack till I have removed it with a couple of draughts of old wine. I have the comforter at home, and my chuck stays for me. As soon as I have dined I will come back, and satisfy your worship, and the whole world, in whatever they are pleased to ask me, concerning what became of the hundred crowns:" and without waiting for an answer, or speaking another word, away he went to his own house, Don Quixote pressed and entreated the bachelor to stay, and do penance with him. The bachelor accepted the invitation: a couple of pigeons were added to the usual commons, and the conversation at table fell upon the subject of chivalry, wliich Carrasco carried on with appropriate humour: the banquet euaed, they slept during the heat of the day: Sancho came back, and the former discourse was renewed.



In answer to what the bachelor Samson Carrasco desired to be informed ofâ€" i.e., what became of the hundred crownsâ€"

" I laid them out," quoth Sancho, " for the use and behoof of my own person, and those of my wife and children; and they have been the cause of her bearing patiently the tedious journeys and rambles I have taken in the service of my master Don Quixote: for had 1 returned, after so long a time, penniless, and without my ass, black would have been my luck. If you would know anything more of me, here am I, ready to answer the king himself in person ; though nobody has any right to meddle or make, whether I brought or brought not, whether I spent or spent not; for if the blows that have been given me in these sallies were to be paid for in ready money, though rated only at four maravedis apiece, another hundred crowns would not pay for half of them : and let every man lay his hand ^ipon his heart, and let him not be judging white for black, nor black for white ; for every one is as God has made him, and oftentimes a great deal worse."

" I will take care," said Carrasco, " to apprize the author of the history, that in the next edition he may not forget to insert what honest Sancho has told us, which wLli make the book as good again."

"Is there anything else to be corrected in that legend, Signor Bachelor V quoth Don Quixote.

" There may be other errata," answered Samson, " but none of the importance of those already mentioned."

"And, peradventure," said Don Quixote, "the author promises a second part]"

" He does," answered Samson, " but says he has not met with it, nor can learn in whose possession it is; and therefore we are in doubt whether it will appear or not: and for another reason, that some people say, second parts are never good for anything, and that there is enough of Don Quixote already, it is believed, there will be no second part; though there are partisans more jovial than saturnine, who cry, Quixote for ever! let the knight encounter, and Sancho Panza talk ; and be the rest what it will, we shall be contented."

" And pray, signor, how stands the editor affected T Don Quixote asked.

" How!" answered Sampson, " why, as soon as ever he can lay hands on the history, which he is looking for with extraordinary diligence, he will immediately commit it to the press, prompted more by interest than any motive of praise."

To which Sancho replied, " O the rogue ! what, does he aim at money and profit ? if so, it will be a wonder if he succeeds, since he will only stitch away in haste, like a tailor on Easter-eve ; for works that are done hastily are never finished with that neatness they require. I wish this same Signor Moor would consider a little what he is about: for I and my master will furnish him so abundantly with lime and mortar, in matter of adventures and variety of accidents, that he may not only compi'e a second part, but a hundred parts.



The good man thinks, without doubt, tha': we lie sleeping here in straw; but let him hold up the foot while the smith is shoeing, and he will see on which side we halt. What I can say is, that, if this master of mine had taken my counsel, we had ere now been in the field, redressing grievances, and righting wrongs, as is the practice and usage of your true knights-ervant."

Sancho had scarcely finished this &T)eech, when the neighings of Eozinante saluted their ears; which Don Quixote took for a most happy omen, and instantly resolved to make another sally within three or four days ; and, declaring his intention to the bachelor, he asked his advice as to the route he should pursue. The bachelor replied, he was of opinion that he should go directly to the kingdom of Arragon and the city of Saragossa, where in a few days a most solemn tournament was to be held, in honour of the festival of St. George, in which he might acquire renown above all the Arragonian knights in the world. He commended his resolution, as most honourable and most valorous, and gave him a hint to be more wary in encountering dangers, seeing his life was not his own, but theirs who stood in need of his aid and succour in their distresses.

"That is just what I denounce. Signer Samson," quoth Sancho; " for my master makes no more of attacking an hundred armed men, than a greedy boy would do half a dozen melons. Body of the world ! Signor Bachelor, surely there must be a time to attack, and a time to retreat; and it must not be always ' Saint Jago, and charge, Spain !" And farther I have heard say, and, if I rightly remember, from my master himself, that the mean of true valour lies between the extremes of cowardice and rashness: and if this be so, I would neither have him run away when there is no need of it, nor would I have him fall on when the too great superiority requires quite a different conduct : but above all things, I would let my master know that, if he will take me with him, it must be upon condition that he shall battle it all himself, and that I will not be obliged to any other service but to look after his clothes and his diet, to which purposes I will fetch and carry like any spaniel ; but to imagine that I vpill lay hand to my sword, though it be against rascally woodcutters with liooks and hatchets, would be a very great mistake. I, Signor Samson, do not set up for the fame of being valiant, but for that of being the best and faitlifullest squire that ever served a kniglit-crrant: and if my lord Don Quixote, in consideration of my many and good services, has a mind to bestow on me some one island of the many his worship says he shall light upon, I shall be much beholden to him for the favour; and though he should not give me one, born I am, and we must not rely upon one another, but upon God : and perhaps the bread I shall eat without the government may go down more savourily than that I should eat with it: and how do I know but the devil, in one of these governments, may provide me some stumbling-blocK, that I may fall and dash out my grinders ? Sancho I was born, and Sancho I intend to die; yet, for all that, if fairly and squarely, without much solicitude or much danger, Heav^ should chance to throw an island;, or some such benefit, ip



my way, I am not such a fool neither as to refuse it; for it is a saying, When they give you a heifer, be ready with the rope; and When good fortune comes to the door, be sure to take her in," "Brother Sancho," quoth Carrasco, "you have spoken like any

Erofessor ; nevertheless, trust in God, and Signor Don Quixote, that e will give you not only an island, but even a kingdom."

" One is as likely as the other," answered Sancho ; " though I could tell Signor Carrasco, that my master will not throw the kingdom he gives me into a sack without a bottom ; for I have felt my own pulse, and find myself in health enough both to rule kingdoms and govern islands, and so much I have signified before now to my lord."

" Look you, Sancho," quoth Samson, " honours change manners ; and it may come to pass, w^hen you are a governor, that you may not know the very mother that bore you."

" That," answered Sancho, " may be the case with those that are born among the mallows, but not with souls, like mine, covered four inches thick with the flesh of the old Christian ; then consider my disposition, and you will find it is not likely to be ungrateful to anybody."

" God grant it," said Don Quixote; " but we shall see when the government comes; and methinks I have it already in my eye."

This said, he desired the bachelor, if he were a poet, to favour him with a copy of verses, by way of a farewell to his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and that he would place a letter of her name at the beginning of every line, so that the initials being joined together might make Dulcinea del Toboso. The bachelor answered, though he was not ona of the famous poets of Spain, who were said to be but three and a half, he would not fail to comply with his request; observing, at the same time, that it would be no easy task, the name consisting of seventeen letters ; for if he made four stanzas of four lines each, there would be a letter too much, and if he made them of five, which they caU decimas or redondiUas, there would be three letters wanting; nevertheless he would endeavour to sink a letter as well as he could, so that the name of Dulcinea del Toboso should be included in the four stanzas,

" Let it be so by all means," said Don Quixote j " for if the name be not plain and manifest, no woman will beUeve that the rhymes were made for her."

Having settled this, it was farther agreed, that the knight should get out in eight days. Don Quixote enjoined the bachelor to keep it secret, especially from the priest and Master Nicholas, and from his niece and housekeeper, that they might not obstruct his honourable and valorous purpose : all which Carrasco promised, and took his leave, charging Don Quixote to give him advice of his good or ill success, as opportunity offered : and so they again bid each other farewell, and Sancho went to provide and put in order what was necessary for the expedition.



CHAPTER XLV.

Of the wise and pleasant discourse which passed between Sancho Panza and his wife Teresa Pama.

Sancho came home so gay and so merry, that his wife perceivcii his joy a bowsliot off, insomuch that she could not help asking, " What is the matter, friend Sancho, you are so merry V To which he answered, " Dear wife, I should De very glad not to be so well pleased as I appear to be."

"Husband," replied she, "you speak riddles, and I cannot guess what you mean by saying you should be glad, if it were God's will, you were not so much pleased as you are : for, silly as I am, 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 me to leave thee and those sweet babes of ours; and would Heaven but be pleased to let me live at home dry-shod, in peace and quietness, without gadding over-hill and dale, through brambles and briars, why then it 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 merrier if I did not seem so well pleased."

"Look you, Sancho," quoth the wife; " ever since you have been a member of a knight-errant you talk so round about the bush that ;^obody 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 everything be set to rights ; for we are not going to I wedding, but to roam about the world, and to make our party good jpith giants, and dragons, and hobgoblins, and to hear nothing but nissing, 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, "I am 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 I 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 government, 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 hi^n



nomething in the Church. Then there is Mary Sancho, your daughter; I daresay 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 weU 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 wont know how to behave herself, but will make a thousand blunders, and show 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 lier; and suppose they should not, what is it to anybody? Let her be but a lady, and let what will happen."

" Good Sancho," quoth the wife, " don't look above yourself; I say, keep to the proverb that says, ' birds of a feather flock together.' It would be a fine thing, I trow, for us to go and throw away our child on one of your lordlings, or right worshipfuls, who, when the toj should take him in the head, would find new names for her, and call her '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 aU 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 shaU always have her under our wings, and be aU as one, father and mother, 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 nobody, and nobody will understand her."

" Why, foolish woman," cried Sancho, "have you not heard that 'he who will not when he may, when he will he shall have nay V when good luck is knocking at our door, is it fit to shut him out 1 No, no, let us make hay while the sun shines, and spread our sails before this prosperous gale. Canst thou not perceive, thou senseless animal," said Sancho, going on, " that I ought to venture over head and ears to light on some good 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 caU 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 ol this j 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 min4 of being a governor, pray even take vour son Sancho



along with yon, and henceforth train bim up to your trade of governing ; for it is but fitting that the son should be brought up to the father's calling."

" When once I am governor," quoth Sancho, " 1 will send for him by the post, and I will send the money withal; for I daresay 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, 1 tell you again, even follow your own inventions ; you men will be masters, and we poor women are born to bear the clog of obedience, though our husbands have no more sense than a cuckoo." Here she fell a-wecping 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 dialogue, and he went back to Don Quixote to dispose everything for a march.

CHAPTER XLVI.

WTiat passed between Don Quixote, his Niece, and the Housekeeper ; being one of the most ijnjwrtant chaj^ters 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, guessing by a thousand signs that the knight intended a third saUy. 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 mischiefâ€"for so I may well call the hopeful adventures which you go aboutâ€"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 return 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 concerning me."

" But pray, sir, tell me," replied she, "are there not a many kuightf la the king's court V'



"I must confess," said Don Quixote, "that for the ornament, the grandeur, and the pomp of royalty, many knights are and ought to be maintained there."

" Why, then," said the woman, " would it not be better for your worship to be one of those brave knights who serve the king their master on foot in his court 1"

" Hear me, sweetheart," answered Don Quixote ; " 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 shelter of the court, can journey over all the universe in a map, without the expense and fatigue of travelling, without suflFering the inconveniences of heat, cold, hunger, and thirst; while we who are the true knights-errant, exposed to all the inclemencies of heaven, by night and day, on foot as well as on horseback, measure the whole surface of the earth with our own feet. And further, the true knight-errant, though he meet ten giants, whose tall aspiring heads not only touch but overtop the clouds, each of them stalking with prodigious legs like huge towers, their sweeping arms like masts of mighty ships, each eye as large as a mill-wheel, and more fiery than a glass furnace; yet he is so far from being afraid to meet them, that he must encounter them with a gentle countenance and an undaunted courageâ€"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, shoidd presume to put in her oar, and censure the histories of the knights-errant! What would Sir Amadis have said had he heard this % 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 would 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 disposition suitable to the function. Some indeed are of the right stamp, but others are either counterfeit, or of such an alloy as cannot bear the touchstone, though they deceive 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 Icist debase themselves by negligence or by vice, so that there is need of a distinguishing understanding to Judge between thesp



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 into 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 valiantâ€"that you can set everything right, and force stubborn malice to bend, when you yourself stoop beneath the burden of age ; and what is yet more odd, that you are a knight, when it is well known you are none ! For though some gentlemen may be knights, a poor gentleman can hardly be so, because he cannot buy it."

" You say well, niece," answered Don Quixote; " and as to this last observation, I could tell you things tliat you would admire at, concerning families; but because I would not mix sacred things with profane, I waive the discourse. However, listen both of you, and for your farther instruction know, that all the lineages and descents of mankind are reducible to these four headsâ€"first, of those who, from a very small and obscure beginning, have raised themselves to a spreading and prodigious magnitude ; secondly, of those who, deriving 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 pyramid, which by little and little dwindles as it were into nothing, yc 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 peopleâ€"the plebeian race. The Ottoman family is an instance of the first sort, having derived their present greatness from the poor beginning of a base-born shepherd. Of the second sort "

But here somebody knocked at the door, and being asked who it was, Sancho answered it was he. Whereupon the housekeeper slipped 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 former, the result of which was, that they resolved at once to proceed in their enterprise.

With the approbation of Signor 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 housekeeper made a woeful outcry, tore their hair, scratched their faces, and howled liked common mourners at funerals, lamenting the knight's departure as it had been his real death, and abusing Carnisco most unmercifully. In short, Don Quixote and his squire having got all things in readinessâ€"the one having pacified his wife, ^d th? other his niece and housekeeperâ€"towards the evening, witlj-



out being seen by anybody but the bachelor, who would needs accompany them about half a league from the village, they set forward for Toboso, the knight mounted on his Rozinante, and Sancho on hia trusty Dapple, his wallet well stuffed with provisions, and his purse with money, which Don Quixote gave him to defray expenses. At last Samson took his leave, desiring the champion to give him from time to time an account of his success, that according to the laws of friendship, he might sympathize in his good or evil fortune. Don Quixote made him a promise, and then they parted ; Samson went home, and the knight and squire continued their journey for the great city of Toboso.

CHAPTEE XLVIL

Don Quixote^s success in his Journey to visit the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso.

Don Quixote and his squire were no sooner parted from the bachelor but Rozinante began to neigh and Dapple to bray, which both the knight and his squire interpreted as good omens, and most fortunate

Sresages of their success ; though the truth of the story is, that aa (apple's braying exceeded Rozinante's neighing, Sancho concluded that his fortune should outrival and eclipse his master's ; which inference I will not say he drew from some principles in judicial ustrology, in which he was undoubtedly well grounded, though the history is silent in that particular; however, it is recorded of him that oftentimes upon the falling or stumbling of his ass he wished he had not gone abroad that day, and from such accidents prognosticated nothing but dislocation of joints and breaking of ribs, and notwithstanding his foolish character, this was true enough.

" Friend Sancho," said Don Quixote to him, " I find the approaching night will overtake us ere we can reach Toboso, where, before I enter upon any expedition, 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 knight-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, dust thou say T cried Don Quixote. " Mistaken fool, that wall could have no existence but in thy muddy understanding, it is a mere creature of thy dirty fancy; for that never-duly-celebrated paragon of beauty and gentility was then undoubtedly in some court, in some stately gallery or walk, or, as it is properly called, in some sumntuous and royal palace."



" It may be so," said Sanclao, " though, so far as 1 can remember, it seemed to me neither better nor worse than a mud-wall."

" It is no matter," replied the knight, " let us go thither; I will visit my dear Dulcinea; let me but see her, though it be over a mud-wall, through a chink of a cottage, or the pales of a garden, at a lattice, or anywhere ; which way soever the least beam from her bright eyes reaches mine, it will so enlighten my mind, so fortify my heart, and invigorate every faculty of my 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 mayhap the reason was that the dust of the grain she was winnowing raised a cloud about her 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 winnowing? Are such exercises used by persons of her quality, whose recreations are always noble, and such as display an air of greatness suitable to their birth and dignity % Canst thou not remember the verses of our poet, when he recounts the employments of the four nymphs at their crystal mansions, when they advanced their heads above the streams of the lovely Tagus, and sat upon the grass working those rich embroideries, where silk and gold, and pearl embossed, were so curiously^interwoven, and which that ingenious bard so artfully describes ? So was my princess employed when she blessed thee with her sight; but the envious malice of some base necromancer 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 teU 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, misrepresented my life, inserting a hundred falsehoods for one truth, and diverting himself with the relation of idle stories, foreign to the purpose, and unsuitable to the character of a true history. 0 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 iU word of a magician 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 knavo for all that, and so indeed I was bred and born ; and if there were nothing else in me but my religionâ€"for I firmly believe whatever our holy Church believes, and I hate the infidels mortallyâ€"these same historians should take pity oq me, and spare me a little in their



i» â€"

books. But let them say on to the end of the chapter; naked I 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 time wrote a very scurrilous and abusive lampoon upon all the intriguing ladies of the court, forbearing to name one, as not being sure whether slie deserved to be put into the catalogue or not; but the lady not finding herself there, was not a little affronted 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 obeyed her commands, and gave her a character with a vengeance ] and to her great saitisfaction made her as famous for infamy as any woman about the town. Such another story is that of Diana's temple, one of the S€ven wonders of the world, burnt by an obscure feUow merely to eJerr^e his name; which, in spite of an edict that enjoined all people LVjver 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 occasion, 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 aperture on the top of the roof. The emperor being got up thither, and looking down from the brink upon the fabric, with a Roman knight by him, who showed 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 from my presence for ever.' Which done, he bestowed some considerable 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 handl What forced Caesar over the Rubicon, spite of all the omens that dissuaded his passage ? And to instance a more modern example, what made the undaunted Spaniards sink their ships when under the most courteous Cortez, but that scorning the stale honour of this so often conquered world, they sought \ maiden glory in a new scene of victory ? TJiese, and a multiplicity 0' other great actions, are owing to the immediate thirst and desire of .'ame. which mortals expect as the proper price



DON QUIXOTE.

and immortal recompense of their great actions. But we that are Christian catholic knights-errant must fix our hopes upon a higher reward, placed in the eternal and celestial regions, where we may expect a permanent 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 reward, 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 occasions of military as well as Christian honours. This, Sancho, is tliO road to lasting fame, and a good and honourable renown."

In such discourses as these the knight and squire passed t^enight and the whole succeeding day, without encountering any occasio::! to signalize themselves ; at which Don Quixote was very much co'if'erned. At last, towards evening the next day, they discovered the goi/dly 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 melajjcholy and disturbed in mind because he had never seen her; nor did he know what to do, should his master send hini 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 prefixed moment came; then they entered the city, where they met with adventures indeed.

CHAPTER XLVIIL

That gives an account of things which you vnll 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 champion'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 palacef answered Sancho; "that in which I saw her highness was but a little mean house." ^

" It was, I suppose, some small apartment of her ca.stle which sue



DON QUIXOTE AT TOBOSO. a§9

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 T

" First, however, let us find this castle," replied Don Quixote, " and then I will tell thee how to act;â€"but look, my eyes deceive me, oi that huge dark pile yonder must be Dulcinea's palace,"

" Then lead on, sir," said Sancho; " it may be so ; though if I wera to see it with my eyes, I will believe 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 hast thou ever found castles and royal palaces built in blind alleys 1"

"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 lanes and alleys just before me; and perhaps I may pop upon this same palace, which I wish I may see 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 bucket."

" I will curb myself," answered Sancho; " but I cannot 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 tlireshold 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 T cried Don Quixote; "didst thou not tell me that thou sawest her winnowing wheat T

" Take no heed of that, sir," replied the squire; " for the fact is, her message, and the sight of her too, were both by hearsay, and I can no more tell who the Lady Dulcinea is than I can buftet the moon."

" Sancho, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "there is a time to jest, and a time when jests are unseasonable. 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 T

C



Theywere 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 T

" Sir," answered the fellew, "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 Toboso; not that I think there is any princess living here, though there are several great ladies that may every one be a princess in her own house."

" Among those, friend," said 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, and 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, I 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 sentences in a few words. Thy counsel I relish much, and shall most willingly follow it. Come on, and let us seek for some shelter: then shalt thou return and seek out my lady, from whose discretion and courtesy I expect more than miraculous favours."

Sancho was impatient till he got his master out of the town, lest his 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 XLIX.

Wherein is related the stratagem j^radised by Sancho, of enchanitng the Lady Dulcinea ; viith otJier 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 knignt 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 standest in the blaze of that sun of beauty. Happy thou above all the squires in the world ! Deeply impress on thy memory the particulars of thy receptionâ€"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 all her actions and motions; for by an accurate detail of them I shall be enabled to penetrate into the secret recesses of her heart touching the affair of my love ; for let me tell thee, Sancho, 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 successfiil than my anxious heart will bode during the painful period of thy absence."

" I will go, and return quickly," quoth Sancho. " In the meantime, good sir, cheer up, and 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 it, the hare starts :' this I say, because though we could not find the castle or palace of my Lady Dulcinea in the dark, now that it is daylight I reckon I shall soon find it, and thenâ€" let me alone to deal "ndth 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 ou horseback, resting on his stirrups and leaning on his lance, full of melancholy and confused fancies, where we will leave him and attend Sancho Panza, who departed no less perplexed and 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 himself.

" Tell me now, brother Sancho," quoth he, " whither is your worship going 1 Are you going to seek some ass that is lost V " No, verily."_ " Then what are you going to seek?" " Why, I go to look for a thing of nothingâ€"a princess, the sun of beauty, and all heaven together!" " Well, Sancho, and where think you to find all this ?" •'Where 1 In the great city of Toboso." "Very well; and pray who sent you on this errand T " Why, the renowned knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, who redresses wrongs, and gives drink to the hungry and meat to the thirsty." "All this is mighty well; and do you know her house, Sancho T " My master says it must be soma royal palace or stately castle." " And have you ever seen her T

u %



" Neither I nor my master have ever seen her!â€"Well," continued he, " there is a remedy for everything 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 oetter ; nay, I am worse, in following and serving him, if there is any truth in the proverb, ' Show me who thou art with, and I will tell thee what thou art / or in the other, ' Not with whom thou wert bred, but with whom thou art fed.' He then being in truth a madman, and so mad as frequently to mistake one thing for another, and not know black from white ; as plainly appeared when he called the windmills giants, mules dromedaries, and the flock of sheep armies of fighting men, with many more things to the same tune; this being the case, I say, it will not be very difficult to make him believe that a country girl (the first I light upon) is the Lady Dulcinea; and, should he not beHeve it, I will swear to it; and if he swears, I will outswear him ; and if he persists, I will persist the more : so that mine shall still be uppermost, come what will of it. By this plan I may perhaps tire him of sending me on such errands ; or he may take it into his head that some wicked enchanter has changed his lady's form, out of pure spite."

This project set Sancho's spirit at rest, and he reckoned his business as good as half done: so he stayed where he was till towards evening, that Don Quixote might suppose him travelling on his mission. Fortunately for him, just as he was going to mount his Dapple, he espied three country girls coming from Toboso, each mounted on 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 Saucho, am I to mark thia day with a white or a black stone V

" Your worsliip," answered Sancho, " had better mark it with red ochre, as they do the inscriptions on professors' chairs, to be the more easily read by the lookers-on."

" Thou bringest me good news, then ?" cried Don Quixote,

"So good," answered Sancho, "that your worship has only to clap spurs to Rozinante, and get out upon the plain to see the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, who, with a couple of her damsels, is coming to pay your worship a visit."

" Gracious Heaven !" exclaimed Don Quixote, " what dost thou say % Take care that thou beguilest not my real sorrow by a counter^ feit 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 win see the princess, our mistress, all arrayed and adornedâ€"ia short, like herself. She and her damsels are one blaze of flaming gold; all strings of pearls, all diamonds, all rubies, all cloth of tissua above ten hands deep ; their hair loose about their shoulders, like so many sunbeams blowing about in the wind ; and, what is more, they come mounted upon three pied belfreys,the finest you ever laid eyes on."

" Palfreys, thou wouldst say, Sancho," quoth Don Quixote.



" Well, well," answered Sancho, " belfreys and palfreys are much the same thing ; but let them be mounted how they will, they are sure the finest creatures one would wish to see, especially my mistress the princess Dulcinea, who dazzles one's senses."

" Let us go, son Sancho," answered Don Quixote ; " and, as a reward for this welcome news, I bequeath to thee the choicest spoils 1 shall gain in my next adventure."

They were now got out of the wood, and saw the three girls very near. Don Quixote looked eagerly along the road towards Toboso, and seeing nobody but the three girls, he asked Sancho, in much agitation, whether they were out of the city when he left them.

" Out of the city !" answered Sancho ; " are your worship's eyes in the nape of your neck that you do not see them now before you, shining like the sun at noonday]"

" I see only three country girls," answered Don Quixote, " on three asses."

" Now keep me from mischief!" answered Sancho ; " is it possible that three belfreys, or how do you call them, white as the driven snow, 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 thou Sancho Paiiza; at least so they seem to me."

" Sir," quoth Sancho, " say not such a thing; but snuff those eyes of yours, and come and pay reverence to the mistress of your soul."

So saying he advanced forward to meet the peasant girls; and, alighting from Dapple, he laid hold of one of their asses by the halter, and, bending both knees to the ground, said to the girl, " Queen, princess, and duchess of beauty, let your haughtiness and greatness be pleased to receive into 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 Rueful Countenance."

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, fiat nose, coarse and homely, he was so confounded that he could not open his lips. The girls were also surprised to find themselves stopped by two men so different in aspect, and both on their knees ; but the lady who was stopped, breaking silence, said in an angry tone, " Get out of the road, plague on ye! and let us pass by, for we Are in haste."

" O princess and universal lady of Toboso !" cried Sancho, " is not

J'^our magnificent heart melting to see, on his knees before your sub-imated presence, the pillar and prop of knight-errantry?"

"Heyday! 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 ; 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 no 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 proceeding to raise his enchanted mistress, but the lady saved him that trouble; for immediately upon getting up from the ground she retired three or four steps back, took a little run, then, clapping both hands upon the ass's crupper, jumped into the saddle lighter than a falcon, and seated herself astride like a man.

"By Saint Eoque!" cried Sancho, "our lady mistress is lighter than a bird, and could teach the nimblest Cordovan or Mexican how to mount. She springs into the saddle at a jump, and without the help of spurs makes her palfrsy 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 enchanters ! 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! 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 comitry wench. But tell me, Sancho, that which to me appeared to be a pannel, waa it a side-saddle or a pillion?"

" It was a side-saddle," answered Siincho, " with a field covering, worth half a kingdom for the richness of it."

"And that X should not see all this!" exclaimed Don Qu«otc^



" Again I say, and a thousand times will I repeat it, I am the most unfortunate of men!"

The sly rogue Sancho had much difficulty to forbear laughing to think how finely his master was gulled. After more dialogue of the Bame 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 befel them which for their importance, variety, and novelty, weU deserve to be recorded and read.

CHAPTER L.

Of the strange adventure which hefel tJie valorous Don Quixote wUh the cart, or Death's cay-avan.

Don Quixote proceeded an his way at a slow pace, exceedingly pensive, musing on the base trick the enchanters had played him in transforming his Lady Dulcinea into the homely figure of a peasant wench, nor could he devise any means of restoring her to her former state. In these meditations his mind was so absorbed, that, without perceiving it, the bridle dropped on Rozinante's neck, who, taking advantage of the liberty thus given him, at every step turned aside to take a mouthful of the fresh grass with which those parts abounded, Sancho endeavoured to rouse him.

" Sorrow," said he," was made for man, not for beasts, sir; but if men give too much way to it, they become beasts. Take heart, sir; recollect yourself, and gather up Rozinante's reins ; cheer up, awake, and show that you have courage befitting a knight-errant! Why are you so cast down 1 Are we here or in France ? The welfare of a single knight-errant is of more consequence than aU the enchantments and transformations on earth."

" Peace, Sancho," cried Don Quixote, in no very faint face ; " peace, 1 .say, and utter no blasphemies against that enchanted lady, of whose disgrace and misfortune I am the sole cause, since they proceed entirely from the envy that the wicked bear to me."

" So say I," quoth Sancho; " for who saw her then and sees her now, his heart must melt with grief, 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 people imaginable ; it was without any awning above, or covering to the sides, and the carter who drove the mules had the appearance of a frightful demon. The first figure that caught Don Quixote's attention was that of Death with a human visage; close to him sat an angel with large painted wings : on the other side stood an emperor with a crown, seemingly of gola, 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 pf a morion, or casque, he wore a hat with a large plume of feathers pf divers colours j and there were several other persons of equal



diversity in appearance. Such a sight, coming thus abruptly upon them, somewhat startled Don Quixote, and the heart of Sancho waa struck with dismay. But with the knight surprise soon gave placa 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 who are the persons thou conveyest in that vehicle, which by its freight looks like Charon's ferry-boat!"

To which the man calmly replied, " Sir, we are travelling players, belonging to Angulo el Male'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 it again in the village just before us: and, not having far to go, we travel in the dresses of our parts to save trouble. This young man represents Death ; he an angel; that woman, who is our authors wife, plays a queen; the other a soldier; this one an emperor ; and I am the devil, one of the principal personages of the drama ; for in this company I have all the chief parts. If your worship desires any further information, I ara 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, ^od be with you, good people; go and perform your play; and if there be anything in which I may be of service to you, command me, for I will do it most readily, having been from my youth a great admirer of masques and theatrical representations."

While they were speaking one of the motley crew came up capering towards them, in an antic dress, frisking about with his morris-bells, and three full-blown ox-bladders tied to the end of a stick. Approaching the knight, he flourished his bladders in the air, and bounced them against the ground close under the nose of Rozinante, who was so startled by the noise, that Don Quixote lost all command over him, and having got the curb between his teeth, away he scampered over the plain, with more speed than might have been expected from such an assemblage of dry bones. Sancho, seeing his master's danger, leaped from Dapple and ran to his assistance; but before his squire could reach him, he was upon the ground, and close by him Rozinante, who fell with his masterâ€"the usual termination of Rozinante'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 moment 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 affection for his ass ; though as often as he saw the bladders hoisted iu 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 Roziuante, he said, " Sir, the devil has run away with Dapple.'

" What devil T 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 moves but slowly, and the mules shall make compensation for the loss of Dapple."

" Stay, sir," cried Sancho, " you may cool your anger, for I see the scoundrel has left Dapple, and gone his way."

And so it was ; for Dapple and the devil having tumbled, as well as Rozinante and his master, the merry imp left him and made off on foot to the village, while Dapple turned back to his rightful owner.

"Nevertheless," said Don Quixote, "it will not be amiss to chastise the insolence of this devU 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 player taken up fur two murders, and get off scot-free. As they are merry folks and give pleasure, everybody favours them, and is ready to stand their friend j particularly if they are of the king's or some nobleman's company, who look and dress like any princes."

" That capering buffoon shall not escape with impunity, though he were favoured by the whole human race," cried Don Quixote, as he rode off in pursuit of the cart, which was now very near the town, and he called aloud, " Halt a little, merry sirs ; stay and let me teach you how to treat cattle belonging to the squires of knights-errant."

Don Quixote's words were loud enough to be heard by the players, who, perceiving his adverse 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; and, all armed with stones, waited in battle-array, ready to receive Don Quixote at the points of their pebbles. Don' Quixote, seeing the gallant squadron, with arms uplifted, ready to discharge such a fearful volley, checked Rozinante with the bridle, and beg-an 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 attempt such an enterprise. Pray consider there is no armour proof against stones and brick, unless you could thrust yourself into a bell of brass. Besides, it is not courage, but rashness, for one man singly to encounter an army, where Death is present, and where emperors fight in person, assisted by good and bad angels. But if that is not reason enough, remember that, thouG;h these people all look like princes and emperors, there ia ijot » real knight amon^ them,"



" Now, indeed," said Don Quixote, " thou hast hit the point, Sancho, which can alone shake my resolution; I neither can nor ought to draw my sword, as I have often told thee, against those who are not dubbed knights. To thee it belongs, Sancho, to revenge the afiFront 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 daresay that Dapple is as forgiving as myself, and ready to submit his case to my will and pleasure, whicb 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 honest Sancho," replied Don Quixote, " let us leave these phantoms, and seek better and more substantial adventures; for this country, I see, is likely to afford us many and very extraordinary ones."

He then wheeled 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 caravanâ€"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 LL

Of the. Grange adventure which hefel the valorem Don Quixote vrith the brave Knight of tlia Wood.

Don Quixote and his squire passed the night following their encounter with. Death under some tall, umbrageous trees; and as they were refreshing themselves, by Sancho's advice, from the store of provisions carried by Dapple, he said to his master, " What a fool, sir, should I have been had I chosen for my reward the spoils of your worship's first adventure, instead of the three ass-colts! It is a true saying, ' A sparrow in the hand is better than a vulture upon the wing.'"

" However, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, " hadst thou suffered me to make the attack which I had premeditated, thy share of the booty would have been at least the emperor's crown of gold and Cupid's painted wings; for I would have plucked them off per force, and delivered them into thy hands."

" The crowns and sceptres of your theatrical emperors," answered Sancho, " are never pure gold, but tinsel or copper."

" That is true," replied Don Quixote; " nor would it be proper that the 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, continually presenting a mirror before Qur eyes, iu which we see lively representations of the actions o|



human life ; nothing, indeed, more truly portrays to us what we are, »nd what we should be, than the drama. Tell me, bast thou never eeen a play in which kings, emperors, popes, lords, and ladies are introduced, with divers other personages: one acting the ruffian, another the knave; one the merchant, another the soldier; one a designing fool, another a foolish lover; and observed that, when the play is done, and the actors undressed, they are all again upon a level r

" Yes, marry, have I," quoth Sancho.

" The very same thing, then," said Don Quixote, " happens on the stage of this world, on which some play the part of emperors, others of popesâ€"in short, every part that can be introduced 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 Sanchoj "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 together into the ground when we are dead."

" Sancho," said Don Quixote, " thou art daily improving in sense."

" And so I ought," answered Sancho ; " for some of your worship's wisdom must needs stick to me; as dry and barren soil, by well manuring and digging, comes at last to bear good fruit. My meaning is, that your worship's conversation has been the manure 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 hia 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 discerp



two men on horseback, one of whom dismounting, said to the other. " Alight, friend, and unbridle the horses; for this place will afford them pasture, 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 difficulty 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 T

"Where, sayest thou, Sancho ?" replied Don Quixote ; " turn thine eyes that way, and thou wilt see a knight-errant lying extended, wlio seems to me not over-happy in his mind; for I just now saw him dismount and throw himself upon the ground, as if much oppressed with grief, and his armour rattled as he fell."

" But how do you know," quoth Sancho, " that this is an adventure 1"

" Though I cannot yet positively call it an adventure, it has the usual signs of one: but listen, he is tuning an instrument, and seems to be preparing to sing."

" By my troth, so he is," cried Sancho, " and he must be some knight or other in love." ^

"As all knights-errant must be," quoth Don Quixote; "but hearken, and we shall discover his thoughts by his song."

Sancho would have replied ; but the Knight of the Wood, whose voice was only moderately good, began to sing, and they both attentively listened to the followingâ€"

SONNET.

Bright queen, how shall your loving slay*

Be sure not to displease ? Some rule of duty let him crave;

He begs no other ease.

Say, must I die, or hopeless live P

I'U act as you ordain; Despair a silent death shall give,

Or Love himself complain.

My heart, though soft as war, will prov*

Like diamonds firm and true: For what th' impression can remove,

That's stamp'd by love and you ?

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, " 0 thou most beautiful and most ungrateful of womankind ! 0 divine Casildea de Vandalia ! wilt thou, then, suffer this thy captive knight to consume »nd pine J^way in continual peregrinations and in severest toils? \»



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 T

" Not so," said Don Quixote, " for I am of La Mancha, and never have made such an acknowledgment, nor ever will admit an assertion so prejudicial to the beauty of my mistress. Thou seest, Sancho, how this knight raves; but let us listen; perhaps he will make some farther declaration %"

" Ay, marry will he," replied Sancho, " for he seems to be in a humour to complain for a month to 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 1 What are ye ] Of the number of the happy, or of the afflicted?"

" Of the afflicted," answered Don Quixote.

" Come to me, then," answered the Knight of the Wood, " and you will find sorrow and misery itself !"

These expressions were uttered in so moving a tone, that Don Quixote, followed by Sancho, went up to the mournful knight, who, taking his hand, said to him, " Sit down here, Sir Knight; for to be assured that you profess the order of chivalry, it is sufficient that I find you here, encompassed by solitude and the cold dews of night, the proper station for knights-errant."

"A knight I am," replied Don Quixote, "and of the order you name; and although my heart is the mansion of misery and woe, yet can I sympathize in the sorrows of others ; from the strain I just now heard from you, I conclude that you are of the amorous kindâ€"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 calamities."

"That is true," replied the Knight of the Wood, "provided our reason and understanding be not afi"ected 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 V 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 u



good as , 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 wliere we may chat squire-like together, and leave these masters of ours to talk over their loves to each other; for I warrant they will not have done before to-morrow morning."

" With all my heart," quoth Sancho, " and I will tell you who I am, that you may judge whether I am not fit to make one among the talking squires."

The squires then withdrew, and a dialogue passed between them as lively as that of their masters was grave.

CHAPTER LII.

Wherein i& continued the adventure of ike Knight of the Wood, tvith the

wise and witty dialogue between tlie two Squires.

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 fastâ€" 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 doea 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 promised it me a thousand times."

" And I, said he of the Wood, " should think myself amply rewarded for all my services with a canonry; and I have my master's word for it too,"

" Why then," quoth Sancho, " belike your master is some knight of the Church, and so can bestow rewards of that kind on his squires; mine is only a layman. Some of his wise friends advised him once to be an archbishop, but he would be nothing but an emperor, and I trembled 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, someâ€"in short, the best of them are sure to bring more care than they are worth, ana are



mostly too heavy for the shoulders that have to bear them. I suspect it would be wiser in us to quit this thankless drudgery and stay at home, where we may find easier work and better pastime; for he must be a sorry squire who has not his nag, his brace of greyhounds, and an angling-rod to enjoy himself with at home."

" I am not without these things," answered Sanclio ; " it is true I nave no horse, but then I have an ass which is worth twice as much as my master's steed. I would not swap with him, tliough he should offer me four bushels of barley to boot; no, that would not I, though you may take for a joke the price I set upon my Dappleâ€"for dapple, sir, is the colour of my ass. Greyhounds I cannot be in want of, as our town is overstocked with them; besides, the rarest sporting is that we find at other people's cost."

" Really and truly, brother squire," answered he of the Wood, " I have resolved with myself to quit the frolics of these knights-errant, and get home again and look after my children, for I have three like Indian pearls."

" And I have two," quoth Sancho, " fit to be presented to the Popfc himself in person, especially 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 continually setting before my eyes, here, there, and everywhere, a bagful of gold pistoles, so that methinks at every step I am laying my hand upon it, hugging it and carrying it home, buying lauds, settling rents, and living like a prince • and while this runs in my head I can bear all the toil which must be suffered with this foolish master of mine, who, to my knowledge, is more of the madman than the knight."

"Indeed, friend," said the Squire of the Wood, "you verify the proverb which says that' covetousness bursts the bag.' Truly, friend, now you talk of madmen, there is not a greater one in the world than my master. The old saying may be applied to him, ' Other folks' burdens break the ass's back;' for he gives up his own wits to recover those of another, and 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; he has some other crotchets in his pate which we shall hear more of anon."

" There is no road so even but it has its stumbling places," replied Sancho ; "in other folks' houses they boil beans, but in mine whole kettles full. Madness wiU have more followers than discretion ; but if the common saying is true, that there is some comfort in having partners in grief, I may comfort myself with you, who serve as crack-Drained 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 noonday, for which I love him as my life, and cannot find 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 sometimes to their cost. But methinks," said he, " we have talked till our throats are dry; but I have got, hanging at my saddle-bow, that which will refresh them ;" when, rising up, he quickly produced a large bottle of wine and a pasty half a yard long without any exaggeration, for it was made of so large a rabbit that Sancho thought verily it must contain a whole goat, or at least a kid; and, after due examination,

" How," said he, " do you carry such things about with you 1"

"Why, what do you think?" answered the other; "did you take me for some starveling squire 1 No, no, I have a better cupboard behind me on my horse than a general carries with him upon a march."

Sancho fell to, without waiting for entreaties, and swallowed down huge mouthfuls in the dark. "Your worship," said he, "is indeed a squire, trusty and loyal, round and sound, magnificent and great withal, as this 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 filbertsâ€"thanks to my master's stinginess, and to the fancy he has taken that knights-errant ought to feed, like cattle, upon roots and wild herbs."

" Troth, brother," replied he of the Wood, " I have no stomach for your wild pears, nor sweet thistles, nor your mountain roots; let our masters have them, with their fancies and their laws of chivalry, and let them eat what they commend. I carry cold meats and this bottle at the pommel of my saddle, happen what wiU; and such is my love and reverence for it, that I kiss and hug it every moment." And as he spoke he put it into Sancho's hand, who grasped it, and, applying it straightway to his mouth, continued gazing at the stars for a quarter of an hour; then, having finished his draught, he let his head fall on one side, and, fetching a deep sigh, said, " 0, the rogue! how excellent it is! But tell me, by all you love best, is not this wine of Ciudad Keall"

" 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 know I have had in my family, by the father's side, two of the rarest tasters that were ever known in La Maucha; and I will give you a proof of their skill



THE KNIGHT OF THE WOOD.

A certain hogshead 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 or leather. Notwithstanding this, the two famous tasters stood positively to what they had said. Time went on; the wine was sold off, and, on cleaning the cask, a small key, hanging to a leathern thong, was found at the bottom. Judge, then, sir, whether one of that race may not be well entitled to give his opinion in these matters."

"That being the case," quoth he of 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 Saragossa," quoth Sancho; " then, mayhap, we shall turn over a new leaf."

Thus the good squires went on talking and eating and drinking until it was full time that sleep should give their tongues a respite and allay their thirst, for to queneh it seemed to be impossible ; and both of them still keeping hold of the almost empty bottle, fell fast asleep; in which situation we will leave them at present, to relate what passed between the two knighta.





DON QrUIXOTE.





CHAPTER LIII.

Contimiatim again of the adventure of the Knight of the Wooii.

Much conversation pcassed between the two knigLts. Among otter things, he of the Wood said to Don Quixote, "In fact, Sir Kni-,bt, I must confess that, by destiny, or rather by clioice, 1 became enamoured of the peerless Casildea de Vandalia: peerless I call her, because she is without her peer, either in rank, beauty, or form. Casildea 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 countless i aor caiPL 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 cavern 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 I meet to confess that in beauty she excels all others now in existence; and that I am the most valiant and the most enamoured knight in the 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 conquest 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 I therefore consider as already mine, and placed to my account."

Don Quixote was amazed at the assertions of the Knight of tho Wood, and had been every moment at tlie point of giving him tho 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 ^M ancha I have much reasc\« to doubt. Some one resembling him, I allow, it might have been \ though, in truth, I believe there are not many like him."

" How say you ?" cried he of the Wood ; " as sure as I am hero 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-nose, with large black mous«-tachios, and styles himself the Knight of the Rueful Countenance. The name of his squire is Sancho Panza; he oppresses the back and governs the reins of a famous steed called Roziuanteâ€"in a word, the mistress of his thoughts is one Dulcinea del Toboso, formerly called Aldonza Lorenzo, as my Casildea, being of Andalusia, is now distinguished by the name of Casildea de Vandalia. And now, if I have not sufficiently proved what I have said, here is my sword, which shaU make incredulity itself believe."

" Softly, Sir Kniodit," said Don Qi'ixote, " and hear what I have to



say. You must know that this Don Quixote you speak of is the dearest friend I have in the world, insomuch that he is, as it were, another self; and, notwithstanding the very accurate description you have given of him, I am convinced, by the evidence of my senses, that you liave never subdued him. It is, indeed, possible that, as he io continually persecuted by enchanters, some one of these may have assumed his shape, and suffered himself to be vanquished, in order to defraud him of the fame which his exalted feats of chivalry have acquired him over the whole face of the earth. A proof of their malice occurred but a few day 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 paymaster wants no pledge: he who could vanquish bignor Don Quixote under transformation 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 shalT remain entirely at the mercy and disposal of the conqueror; provided that he require n> thing of him but what a knight may with honour submit to."

Don Quixote having expressed himself entirely satisfied with these conditions, they went to seek their squires, whom they found snoring in the very same posture as that in which sleep had first surprised them. They were soon awakened by their masters, and ordered to prepare the steeds, so that they might be ready at sunrise for a single combat. At this intelligence Sancho was thunderstruck, and ready to swoon away with fear for his master, from what he had been told by the Squire of the Wood of his knight's prowess. Both the squires, however, without saying a word, went to seek their cattle ; and the three horses and Dapple were found all very sociably together.

" You must understand, brother," said the Squire of the Wood to Sancho, " that it is not the custom in Andalusia for the seconds to stand idle with their arms folded while their 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 ruffians; but among the squires of knights-errant no such practice is thought ofâ€"at least I have not heard my master talk of any such custom ; and he knows by heart all the laws of knight-errantry. But supposing there is any such law, I shall not obey it. I would rather pay the penalty laid upon such peaceable squires, which, I daresay cannot be above a couple of pounds of wax : 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 all my heart," answered Sancho \ " for such a battle will only dust our jackets."

" It must not be quite so, either," replied the other; " for, lest the wind should blow them aside, we must put in them half-a-dozen clean and smooth 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 balls 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 seeking ways to go before our appointed term and season."

" Nay," replied he of the Wood, " do let us fight, if it be but foi half an hour."

" No, no," answered Sancho, " I shall not be so rude nor ungrateful as to have any quarrel with a gentleman after eating and drinking with him. Besides, who can set about dry fighting without being provoked to it V

" If that be all," quoth he of the Wood, " I can easily manage it; for, before we begin our fight, I will come up and just give you three or four handsome cuffs, which will lay you flat at my feet and awaken your choler, though it slept sounder than a dormouse,"

" Against that trick," answered Sancho, " I have another not a whit behind it; which is to take a good cudgel, and, before you 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 sufi"er 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 onâ€"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 peacemakers and cursed the peacebreakers. 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," replied 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 delicious manna, the fountains smiled, the brooks murmured, the woods and meads rejoiced at her approach. But scarcely had hill and dale received the welcome light of day, and objects become visible, when the first thing that presented itself to the eyes of Sancho Panza was the Squire of the Wood's nose, which was so larpe that it



almost overshadowed his whole body. Its magnitude was indeed extraordinary; it was moreover a hawk-nose, full of warts and cat buncles, of the colour of a mulberry, and hanging two fingers' breadth below his mouth. The size, the colour, the carbuncles, and the crookedness, produced such a countenance of horror, that Sancho, at 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, I entreat you to lift up your beaver a little, that 1 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 mounting our horses," said Don Quixote, "you can tell me whether I resemble that Don Quixote whom you said you had vanquished."

" As like as one egg is to another," replied he of the Mirrors, "though, as you say you are persecuted by enchanters, I dare not affirm that you are actually the same person."

" I ani satisfied that you acknowledge you may be deceived," said Don Quixote ; " however, to remove all doubt, let us to horse, and in less time than you would have spent in raising your beaver, if 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 wheeled Eozinante 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 liimself called by his opponent, who, meeting him halfway, 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 imposed shall not transgress the laws of chivalry."

" Certainly," answered he of the Mirrors.

At this juncture ti^e squire's strange nose presented itself to Doo



THE KNIGHT OF THE WOOD. %i\

Quixote's sight, wlio 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 him to the ground, either by force or fright. So he ran after his master, holding by the stirrup-leather, and when he thought it was nearly time for him to face about, " I beseech your worship," he cried, " before you turn, to help me into yon cork-tree, where I can see better and more to my liking the brave battle you are going to have with that knight."

" I rather believe, Sancho," quoth Don Quixote, "that thou art for mounting a scaffold to see the bull-sports without danger."

" To tell you the truth, sir," answered Sancho, " that squire's monstrous nose fills me with dread, and I dare not stand near him."

" It is indeed a fearful sight," said Don Quixote, " to any other but myself; come, therefore, and I will help thee up."

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 beheving 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 unable to stir any farther. Don Quixote, thinking his enemy waa coming full speed against him, clapped spurs to Eozinante'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 adversary embarrassed not only with his horse but his lance, which he knew either not how, or had not time, to fix in its rest; and therefore our knight, who saw not these perplexities, assailed him with perfect security, and with such force that he soon brought him to the ground, over his horse's crupper, leaving him motionless and without any signs of life. Sancho, on seeing this, immediately slid down from the cork-tree, and ia all haste ran to his master, who alighted from Rozinante, and went up to the vanquished knight, when, unlacing his helmet to see whetlier 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 terror, in all that shall hear iti He saw, says the history, the very face, the very figure, the very aspect, the very physiognomy, the very efiigies and semblance of the bachelor Samson Carrasco!

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