V CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 3 1924 096 224 518 ^^ Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924096224518 In compliance with current copyright law, Cornell University Library produced this replacement volume on paper that meets the ANSI Standard Z39.48-1992 to replace the irreparably deteriorated original. 2002 CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY GIFT OF David Stang THE HISTORY OF DON QUIXOTE BY CERVANTES. THE TEXT EDITED BY y. W. CLARK, M.A. FELLOW OF TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. AKD A BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICE OF OEEVANTES, EY T. TEIGNMOUTH SHORE, M.A. ILLUSTRATED BY GUSTAVE DOR^. p. F. COLLIER, NEW YORK. ■ CONTENTS PART I. CHAPTEB I. • PAGB The quality and way of living of the renowned Don Quixote de la ManehM 1 GEAPTEB 11. Of Don Quixote's first sally 4 CEAPTER III. An account of the pleasant method taken by Don Quixote to be dubbed a knight 8 CHAPTER ir. What befell the knight after he liad left Vie inn 12 CHAPTER r. A further account of our knight's misfortunes 10 CHAPTER VI. Of the pleasant and curious scrutiny which the curate and the barber made of the library of our ingenious gentleman 20 CHAPTER VIL Don Quixote's second sally in quest of adventures 24 CHAPTER Vni. Of the good success which the valorous Don Quixote had in the most terryfyin^ and never -to-be-imagined adventure of the windmills, vyith other transactions worthy to be transmitted to posterity . . . 28 CHAPTER IX. The event of the most stupendous combat between the brave Biscayan and the valorous Don Quixate 34 CHAPTER X. WJiat farther befell Don Quixote with the Biscayan; and of the danger he ran among a parcel of Yanguesians 37 CHAPTER XI What passed between Don Quixote and the goatherds 40 CHAPTER XII Tlie story which a young goatlierd told to those that were with Don Quixote 44 CHAPTER XIIL A continuation of the story of MarcoUa 47 CHAPTER XIV. Tlie unfortunate shepherd's verses, and other unexpected matters. . . 51 CHAPTEB XV. Giving an acconnt of Don Quixote's unfortunate rencounter with certain bloody-minded and wicked Tanguesian carriers 55 CHAPTER XVL What haxipened to Don Quixote in the inn which he took for a cattle 60 CHAPTEB XVn. Of the discourse between the knight and the squire, witli otJier mat- ters worth relating 67 CHAPTEB XVIII Of tlie wise discourse between Sancho and his master; as also of the adventure of the dead corpse, and other famous occurrences. ... 73 CHAPTEB XIX. Of a wonderful adventure achieved by the valorous Don Quixote de la Manclui; tlie like never compassed with less danger by any of the most famous knights in tlie wo^'ld 76 CHAPTEB XX. Of the high adventure and conquest of Mantbrino's helmet, with other events relating to our invincible kniglU 83 CHAPTER XXI. How Don Quixote set free many miserable creatures, who werebeing taken, much against their 'wills, to a place they did not like. ... 88 CHAPTER XXII What befell the renoumed Don Quixote in tlie Sierra Morena (Black Mountain) being one of the rarest adventures in this authentic history 94 CHAPTER XXIII The adventure in the Sierra Morena {continued) 104 CHAPTER XXIV. Of the strange things that happened to the valiant knight of La Mancha in the black mountain; and of the penance lie did tlnre, in imitation of Beltenebros, or the lovely obscure 109 CHAPTER XXV. A continuation of tlie refined extravagances by which the gallant knight of Da Mancha chose to express his love in the Sierra Mo- rena 118 CHAPTER XXVL How the curate and barber put their design in execution; with other things worthy to be recorded in this important history 121 V VI CONTENTS. CMAPTEB XXVn. PAGE The pleasant »cM adtenture the curate and barber met with in Sierra Morena, or Black Mountain 136 CHAPTER xxrin. An account of the beautiful Dorothea's discretion, with other plea- sant passages 135 CHAPTER XXIX. TJie pleasant stratagems used to free the efiamoured knight from tlie rigorous penance which lie liad undertaken 143 CHAPTER XXX. The pleasant dialogue between Don Quixote and his squire continued, with other adventures 148 CHAPTER XXXI Whjit befell Don Quixote and his company at the inn 152 CHAPTER XXXII. Containing an account of many surprising accidents in the inn. . . .156 CHAPTER XXXIII. The history of the fa/mous Princess Micomieona continued, with other pleasant adventures 160 CHAPTERXXXIY. A. continuation of Don Quixote's curious discourse upon arms and learning 163 CHAPTER XXXV. Where the captive relates his life and adventures 165 CHAPTER XXXVI. The story of the capti/tie continued 169 CHAPTER XXXVn. The adventures of the captive continued 174 CHAPTER XXXVIIL An amount of wliat luvppened in tlie inn, with several other occur- rences worth notice 185 CHAPTER XXXIX. PAGS Tlie pleasant story of the young muleteer, witJi other strange adven- tures that luzppened in tlie inn 187 CHAPTER XL. A continuation of the strange adventures in the inn 193 CHAPTER XL! The controversy about Marnbrino's helmet and the pack-saddle disput- ed and decided: with other accidents, noimorestrangeOiantrue. 195 CHAPTER XLU. The notable adventure of tlie ojicers of tlie holy brotherliood, with Don Quixote's great ferocity and enchantment 198 CHAPTER XLin. Prosecuting tlie course of Don Quixote's enchantment, with other memorable occurrences 303 CHAPTER XLIV. Containing a continuation of the canon's discourse upon books of knight-errantry, and otliei curious matter 206 CHAPTER XL V. A relation of the wise conference between Saneho and Ids master. . . . 209 CHAPTER XLVL Tlie notable dispute between the canon and Don Quixote; vMh other matters 213 CHAPTER XLYII. The goatherd's tale 318 CHAPTER XL VHI. Of the combat between Don Quixote and the goatherd; vnth the rare adventure of the penitents, which the knighXhappUy accomp- lished with tlie sweat of his brows 223 PART 11. CHAPTER L What passed between the curate, tlie barber, and Don Quixote, con- cerning his indisposition 228 CHAPTER II Of tlw memorable quarrel between Saneho Panea and Don Quixote's niece and Jiousekeeper; with other pleasant passages 232 CHAPTER III. Ihe pleasant discourse between Don Quixote, Saneho Pama, and tlie bachelor Samson Carrasco 234 CHAPTER IV. Saneho Panza satisfies tlie bachelor, Samson Carrasco, in his doubts and queries; with other passages fit to be known and related. . .237 CHAPTER V. The wise and pleasant dialogue between Saneho Panza and Teresa Pama, his wife: together with otlier passages worthy of happy memory. 240 . CHAPTER VI Wliat passed between Don Quixote, his niece, and the housekeeper; being one ofthem.ost important cliapters in the whole history. ..243 CHAPTER VII An account of Don Quixote's conference with his squire, and oilier most famous passages 344 CHAPTER VHI Don Quixote's success in Ids journey to visit tlie Lady Dutcinea del Tdboso 347 CHAPTER IX. Thatgives an account of tilings whichyou wiUknowwlienyou readit.251 CHAPTER X. How Sahcho cunningly found out a way to enchant tlie Lady DvXd- nea, with other passages no less certain titan ridiculous 252 CONTENTS. Vll GHAFTERXl. FAGS Of the stupendous adventure that befell the valorous Don Quixote, with the ehanot or cart of the court or parliament of death, . . .256 CHAPTER XII. The vaXorous Don Quixote's strange adventure mth the bold knight of the mirrors 360 CHAPTER XIII. The adventure with the knight of tlie wood continued, with the wise, rare, and pleasant discourse that passedbetweenthe two «j!1M'««.263 CHAPTER XIV. A continuation of the adventure of the knight of t/ie wood 265 CHAPTER XV. Giving an account who the knight of tlie mirrors and his squire M«r«. 260 CHAPTER XVI. WiMt happened to Don Quixote ujitJi a sober gentleman of La Mancha.i70 CHAPTER XVIL Where you will find set forth the higliest and utmost proof tliat great Don Quixote eoer gave, or could give, of his incredible courage, with the successful issue of the adventure of the lions 273 CHAPTER XVIIL How Don Quixote was entertained at tlie castle or house of the knight of the green coat, with other extravagant passages 278 CHAPTER XIX. Ihe adventure of the amorous shepherd, and ot!ier truly comical passages 283 CHAPTER XX. An account of rich Gamaclio' s wedding , and wJuitbefeU poor Basil. .285 CHAPTER XXL The progress of Camaclw's wedding, mth otlier delightful accidents. 29\ CHAPTER XXn. An account of the great adventure of the cave of Monteninos, situated in tlie heart oi La Mancha, which the valm-ous Don Quixote successfully achieved 295 CHAPTER XXIIL Of the wonderful things which the unparalleled Don Quixote declared he !tad seen in the deep cave of Montednos, tlie greatness and impossibility of which makes this adventure puss for apocrypluU.SQl CHAPTER XXIV. Which gives an account of a thousand flimflams and stories, as im- pertinent as necessary to the right understanding of this grand history 307 CHAPTER XXV. Where you find the grounds of the braying adventures, tliat of the puppet-player, and the memorable divining of tlie fortune-telling .311 ape CHAPTER XXVL A pleasant account of the puppet-play, with other very good things truly. .315 CHAPTER XX VIL Wherein is discovered who master Peter was, and his ape; as also Don Quixote's iU success in tlie braying adventure, which did not end so happily as Tie desired and expected 319 CHAPTER XXVIU. PAOB Of some things which Benengdi tells us he that reads shall know, if he reads them with attention 323 CHAPTER XXIX. Tlie famous adventure of tlie enchanted barque 325 CHAPTER XXX. Wliat happened to Don Quixote with the fair huntress 329 CHAPTER XXXL Which treats of many and great matters 332 CHAPTER XXXII. Don Quixote's answer to his reprover, with other grave and merry accidents 336 CHAPTER XXXIIL The savoury conference which the duchess and her women held with Sanelw Panza, worth your reading and observation 341 CHAPTER XXXIV. Containing ways andmeansfor disenchanting the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, being one of the most famous adventures in the whole book 345 CHAPTER XXXV. Wlierein is contained tlie information given to Don Quixotehow to disenchant Dulcinea with oilier wonderful passages 348 CHAPTER XXXVI. The strange and never thought-of adventure of the disconsolate ma- tron, alias the Countess Trifaldi, with Sancho Pama's letter to his wife, Teresa Panza 351 CHAPTER XXXVIL The fa/mous adventure of the disconsolate matron continued 354 CHAPTER XXXVIIL The account which the, disconsolate matron gives of Iter misfortune . .355 CHAPTER XXXIX. Wliere Trifaldi continues Iter stupendous and memorable story 358 CHAPTER XL. Of some things that relate to this adventure, a-nd appertain to this memorable story 359 CHAPTER XLL Of Clavileno's {alias Wooden Peg's) arrival, with tlie conclusion of this tedious adventure 361 CHAPTER XLU. The instructions which Don Quixote gave Sancho Panza before he went to tlie government of his island, with other matters ofmomentS65 CHAPTER XLIIL Tlie second part of Don Quixote's advice to Sancho P anza -367 CHAPTER XLIV. How Sancho Paivta was carried to his government, and of the strange adventure that befell Don Quixote in the castle 369 CHAPTER XLV. How the great Sancho Panza took possession of his island, and in wliat manner he began to govern 374 CHAPTER XL VL Of the d/readful alarm given to Don Quixote by the bells and cats, the course of Altisidora's amour 377 CONTENTS. CHAPTER XLYII. FACE A fuHTier account of BancTio Pama'a behavior- in his government. . 380 CHAPTER XL Yin. Wliat liappenect to Don Quixote with Donna Rodriguez, the duch- ess's woman; as also other passages worthy to be recorded and had in eternal remembrance 385 GE.i.PTER XLIX. What happened to Sancho Pama as he went the rounds in his is- land 388 CHAPTER L. In which is declared who were the enchanters and executioners tliat whipped the duenna, and pinched and scratdted Don Quixote; with the success of the page who carried the letter to Teresa Pama, Sancho'a wife 393 CHAPTER LI. A continuation of Sancho Panza's government, with other passages, such aa they are 39S CHAPTER LIl. A relation of the adventures of the second disconsolate or distressed matron, othervyise coiled Donna Rodriguez 399 CHAPTER LIU. The toilsome end and conclusion of Sancho Pama's government. . ..402 CHAPTER Lir. Which treats of matters that relate to this history, and no other. . . .406 CHAPTER LV. Wliat happened to Sancho by the way, with other matters which ym will have no more to do than to see 410 CHAPTER LVL Of the extraordinary and unaccountable conibat between Don Quix- ote do la Mancha and the lackey TosUos, in vindication of t!ie matron Donna Rodriguez's daughter 413 CHAPTER LTII. How Don Quixote took his leave of the duke, and what passed be- tween him and the witty wanton Altisidora, the duchess's dam.scl.il5 CHAPTER LVIIL How adventures crowded so thick and threefold on Don Quixote, that tliey trod upon one another's heels 418 CHAPTER LIX. Of an extraordinary accident that happened to Don Quixote, which may well pass for an adventure 424 CHAPTER LX. Wliat happened to Don Quixote going to Barcelona 427 CHAPTER LXl. PAGE Don Quixote's entry into Barcelona, with other accidents tliat have less ingenuity than truth in them 435 CHAPTER LXU. Ihe adventure oftlie enclumted head, with other impertinences not to be omitted 437 CHAPTER LXIII. Of Sancho'a misfortunes on board the galleys, with the strange ad- venture of tlie beautiful Morisca (Moorish) lady 445 CHAPTER LXIV. Of an unlw.ky adventure, which Don Quixote laid most to heart of any that had yet befallen him 450 CHAPTER LXr. An account of the knight of the white moon, Don OregoHo's cnlarg- ment, and otlier ■paaaaijes 453 CHAPTER LXVI Which treats of tliat which shall be seen by him that reads it, and heard by him that listens when it is read 456 CHAPTER LXVIL How Don Quixote resolved to turn shepherd, and lead a rural life for tlie year's time he was obliged not to bear arms; with other passages truly good and diverting 458 CHAPTER LXVIIL The adventure of the /toga 460 CHAPTER LXIX. Of the most singular and strange adventure that befell Don Quixote in the whole course of this famous history 463 .CHAPTER LXX. Which comes after tlie sixty-ninth, and contains several particulara necessary for tlie illustration of this history 465 CHAPTER LXXL Wliat happened to Don Quixote and his squire on tlieir way home. .468 CHATTER LXXII. Hiiu) Don Quixote and Sancho got home 470 CHAPTER LXXIII. Of the ominous accidents thai crossed Don Quixote as he entered his village, with other tranaactions that illustrate and adorn this memorable history 474 CHAPTER LXXl V. How Don Quixotofell sick, made his last will, and died 476 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PART I. "A world of disorderly notions, picked out of his books, crowded into his imagination." " He travelled almost all that day." ' ' He began to walk about by the horse-trough with a graceful deportment." " By the sun that shines, I have a good mind to run thee through the body with my lance." " In spite of his arms, he thrashed him like a wheat-sheaf." "Alas! where are you, lady dear, that for my woe you do not moan?" " He led them all towards the village, and trudged a-foot him- self, very pensive." "The knight made him so many fair promises, that at last the poor silly clown consented to go along with him, and become his squire." " It was yet early in the morning, at which time the sunbeams did not prove so offensive." " The sail hurled away both knight and horse along with it." " Sancho ran as fast as his ass could drive, to help his master." " 'Oh, happy age,' cried he, 'which our first parents called the age of goldr " " A meadow watered with a rivulet, invited them to alight." " The Yanguesians betook themselves to their levers and pack- staves." " Leading the ass by the halter, he took the nearest way he could guess to the high road." " He verily believed his last hour was come." " ' I have nothing to do with all this,' cried the innkeeper: ' pay your reckoning.' " " The more he stormed, the more they tossed and laughed." " He charged the squadron of sheep." "Don Quixote, accompanied by his intrepid heart, leaped upon Rozinante." " When they came nearer, even patient Eozinante himself started at the dreadful sound." " Don Quixote asked the first for what crimes he was in these miserable circumstances." " Sancho, I have alivays heard it said, that to do a kindness to clowns is like throwing water into the sea." " It was night before our two travellers got to the most desert part of the mountain." ' Gines, who was a stranger both to gratitude and humanity, re- solved to ride away with Sancho's ass." ' Don Quixote was transported with joy to find himself where he might flatter his ambition wltL the hopes of fresh adven- tures." ' The first thing he found was the rough draft of a sonnet ; so he read it aloud." ' He spied upon the top of a stony crag just before him a man that skipped from rock to rock with wonderful agility." ' They came to a park, where they found a mule lying dead." ' ' But pray, sir,' quote Sancho, ' is it a good law of chivalry that says we shall wander up and down, over bushes and briars, in this rocky wilderness?' " ' He gave two or three frisks in the air, and then pitching on his hands, he fetched his heels over his head twice to- gether. " ' They spied a youth in a country habit sitting at the foot of a rock behind an ash tree." ' He got a number of love-letters transmitted to me, every one full of the tenderest expressions." ' I am yours this moment, beautiful Dorothea : see, I give you here my hand to be yours." ' With the little strength I had I pushed him down a precipice, where I left him." ' ' Alas!' answered Sancho, ' I found him in his shirt, lean, pale, and almost starved, sighing for his Lady Dulcinea.' " ' They went on for about three-quarters of a league, and then among the rocks they spied Don Quixote, who had by this time put on his clothes, though not his armor." ' 'Now, lady,' said Don Quixote, ' let me entreat your greatness to tell me which way we must go, to do you service.' " ' Towards the kingdom of Micomicon." ' How Don Diego Garcia with his single force defended the passage of a bridge against a great army." ' How Felixmarte cut off five giants by the middle." ' Lucinda, finding herself in his power, fell into a swoon." ' They cut off his head, and brought it to the Turkish general." ' At last I resolved to trust a renegade of Murcia, who had shown me great proofs of his kindness." 'Her father came hastily to us, and, seeing his daughter in this condition, asked her what was the matter." ix LIST 0-p ILLITSTKATIONS. " Zoraida, showing trouble in her looks, went away with her father." " Zoraida all this while hid her face, that she might not see her father." " Come back, my dear daughter, for I forgive thee all." " They being under the wind, fired two guns at us." ' • He had inevitably fallen to the ground, had not his wrist been securely fastened to the rope." " Be not impatient, O Knight of the Wof ul Figure, at your im- prisonment." "Don Quixote was not so much amazed at his enchantment as at the manner of it." " The curate was very attentive, and believed him a man of a sound judgmeht." ' ' A vast lake of boiling pitch, in which an infinite multitude of fierce and terrible creatures are traversing backwards and forwards." "The sky appears to him more transparent, and the sun seems to shine with a redoubled brightness." "Another damsel comes into the room, and begins to inform him what castle that is, and how she is enchanted in it. " "There was not that country upon the face of the earth which he had not seen, nor battle which he had not been engaged in." "A party with officers is sent out, who find the poor fond Leandra in a cave in one of the mountains." " Sancho Panza alone was vexed, fretted himself to death, and raved like a madman." "The woful accents of the squire's voice at last recalled Don Quixote to himself. " PART II. " We slept as soundly as if we had four feather beds under us." ' ' ■ Friend Sancho, ' said Don Quixote, ' I find the approaching night will overtake us ere we can reach Toboso.' " " Don Quixote gazed with dubious and disconsolate eyes on the creature whom Sancho called queen and lady." " The fool of the play came up frisking with his morrice bells." " In such discourses they passed a great part of the night." " He posted himself just before the door of the cage." " Oh, ye Tobosian urns! that awaken in my mind the thoughts of the sweet pledge of my most bitter sorrows !" " To all this fine expostulation Sancho answered not a word." Arrival of Don Quixote at the wedding of Camacho and Quiteria. "Make shift to stay your stomach with that till dinner be ready." "They were led up by u reverend old man and a matronly woman." " The poor virgin, trembling and dismayed, without speaking a word, came to poor Basil." " Poor Sancho followed his master with a heavy heart." "Sancho and his master tarried three days with the young couple, and were entertained like princes." "An infinite number of overgrown crows and daws came rushing and fluttering out of the cave." "They found that his eyes were closed, as if he had been fast asleep. " " The venerable Montesinos fell on his knees before the afflicted knight." "I saw a mournful procession of most beautiful damsels, all in black." " At these words Don Quixote stood amazed." "Observe what a vast company of glittering horse comes pour- ing out of the city, in pursuit of the Christian lovers." "According to the laws of arms, you really injure yourselves, in thinking yourselves affronted." "They were both hauled ashore, more over-drenched than thirsty. " " Don Quixote descried a company, whom, upon a nearer view, he judged to be persons of quality." "'Go, great and mighty sir,' said they, 'and help my lady duchess down.' " "At the duchess's request, he related the whole passage of the late pretended enchantment very faithfully." " The figure in the gown stood up." "The morn began to spread her smiling looks in the eastern quarters of the skies." "He kissed the duke and duchess's hand at parting, and received his master's benediction." "Here the courting damsel ended her song." The lord governor Sancho Panza administering justice. " Pray, my lord Don Quixote, retire, for this poor young creature will not come to herself while you are by." " ' Absit!' cried the doctor." "Don Quixote, thus unhappily hurt, was extremely sullen and melancholy." " ' Bless me !' cried she, ' what is this?' " " ' March!' quoth Sancho. 'How do you think I am able to do it?' " "' Come hither,' said he, 'my friend; thou faithful companion and fellow-sharer in all my travels and miseries. ' " " ' Oh! my dear companion and friend,' said he to his ass, 'how ill have I requited thy faithful services.' " " He acquainted the duke and duchess with his sentiments, and begged their leave to depart," ''Now, sir, if you please to afford us your company, you shall be made very welcome." "They trampled them under foot at an unmerciful rate." "A clear fountain, which Don Quixote and Sancho found among some verdant trees, served to refresh them." LIST OP ILLUSTKATIONS. ' He told the gentlemen the whole story of her being en- chanted. " ' He called out to Don Quixote for help." ' Don Quixote, mounted on Kozinante, declaiming very copiously against their way of living." ' The squires left Don Quixote, Roque, and Sancho to wait their return. " ' ' Thus it is I punish mutiny,' said he." ' Don Quixote stayed there, waiting the approach of day." ' Enclosing him in the middle of their brigade, they conducted him towards the city." ' Don Antonio's wife had invited several of her friends to a ball, to honor her gnest," "Two ladies made their court chiefly to Don Quixote." " 'Tell me, thou oracle,' said he, 'was what I reported of my adventures in the cave of Montesinos a dream or reality?' " "They found him pale, and in a cold sweat." " Here fell my happiness, never to rise again." "They passed that day, and four more after that, in such kind of discourse." " ' Sleep, Sancho,' cried Don Quixote; ' sleep, for thou wert born to sleep.' " " ' Hold I' cried he; ' friend Sancho, stay the fury of thy arm.' " " Oh, my long-wished-for borne." Death of Don Quixote. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF CERVANTES. On the 9tli of October, 1547, Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, the youngest child of Eodrigo de Cervantes and Leonora de Cortinos, was baptised in the church of St. Mary Major (Santa Maria la Mayor), in the city of Alcala de Henares. The exact date of his birth is un- certain, but it is not improbable that he was born on the 29th of September preceding, and that he was christened Miguel, after St. Michael, to whom that day is dedicated. Both his parents were descended of illustrious houses ; his father was a member of a Castil- ian family, which had for years been renowned both in Spain and in the colonies, and which a century before Miguel's birth had formed an alliance with the Saave- dras. The ancient glories of the family had, however, well nigh departed, when, in the small city of Alcala de Henares, the child was born of comparatively poor parents, who was destined, as well by his dauntless heroism as by his surpassing literary genius, to eclipse the ancient fame of his race, and achieve a reputation so illustrious that the proudest cities of his fatherland jealously contended for the honorable reputation of being his birthplace.* The university of his native town, founded some half-century earlier by Cardinal Ximenes, probably afforded Miguel de Cervantes op- portunities for study in his youth, of which he availed himself, and though he later enjoyed some years' study at the famous university at Salamanca, he seems to have ever clierished genial memories of the town where he spent his boyhood, which he speaks of more than once in his writings as "famoso Henares. "f At a very early age Cervantes exhibited a thirst for knowledge, d,nd a remarkable taste for poetry and dramatic compo- sitions. The story told in "Don Quixote" of the pieces of paper picked up, and found to be inscribed with an Arabic version of the life of the Don, is no doubt founded on the habit to which he was himself addicted when a youth, of collecting even stray scraps of paper, in the hope of obtaining some information from them. His taste for the drama and poetry was fostered by the opportunities which he had of being present at the performance of comedies which Lope de Bueda inaugu- * Toledo, Seville, Madrid, and otiier lesa notable cities for long claimed the honor of being Cervantes' native place. + " Galatea." rated, about the middle of the sixteenth century, in the principal towns and cities of Castile. Cervantes first appeared in print as the author of six poems of very little merit, contributed by him to a vol- ume published in 1569, in commemoration of the splendid obsequies of Isabella de Valois, wife of Philip II., which had been celebrated towards the close of the preceding year. In this volume his friend and instruc- tor, Juan Lopez de Hoyos, an accomplished ecclesias- tic, makes mention of Miguel Cervantes as his "dear and beloved pupil, "| and speaks of his poems in such terms of praise as do more credit, however, to his kind- ly feelings for his disciple than to the soundness of his literary taste. About this time Cervantes became acquainted at Madrid with Monsignor Giulio Aquaviva,§ who had come as ambassador to Spain, in 1568, to offer the Pon- tiff's condolence upon the death of Don Carlos. The monsignor, himself a young man of great accomplish- ments and literary taste, having doubtless found Cer- vantes a genial comi^anion, offered him a post in his household, for in the year 1570 Cervantes was at Eome, in the position of chamberlain to Monsignor Aquaviva. The charming descriptions of Southern France, which are found in the "Galatea," are evidently based upon the observations which Cervantes was enabled to make at this time, when he journeyed to Eome with his patron. He did not long continue in the service of the monsignor, as in 1571 he volunteered to join in the united Venetian Papal and Spanish expedition, com- manded by Don John of Austria, and levelled against the Turks. His strong religious convictions and im- pulsive love for his fatherland made Cervantes zealous to serve against the race who were alike the hated op- pressors of the chivalry of Spain, and the inveterate enemies of the religion of the Catholic Church. On the 7th of October, 1571, he took a brave part in the famous naval engagement at Lepanto, where the Ma- hometan power sustained a great defeat, and Western Europe was saved from Moslem invasion. In this bat- tle Cervantes lost his left hand, and was otherwise so i " Caro disciputo ;" "Amado discipulo." § Aquaviva was chamberlain of Plus V. , and at an early age was raised to the dignity of cardinal. xiii XIV BIOGEAPHICAL NOTICE OF CEET ANTES. severely wounded as to be compelled to remain for some six months in the hospital of Messina. When sufBciently recovered he joined the expedition to the Levant, commanded by Marco Antonio Oolonna, Duke of Paliano. Here, however, he did not see much active service. It is to these events that Cervantes alludes in the Dedication of his "Galatea," where he speaks of hav- ing served for years under the standard of Marco Antonio Oolonna; and upon incidents which occurred during this campaign is based the Story of the Captive in "Don Quixote." In 1575 Cervantes set out to return to Spain, having, during the previous few years, joined in various expeditions, and borne a prominent part in the engagement at Tunis, where he was under the im- mediate command of the illustrious Marques de Santa Oruz. The warmest testimony to the heroism and bravery of Cervantes during these campaigns was borne by Don John and Don Carlos de Aragon, the viceroy of Sicily, both of whom gave him strong letters of commendation to the King of Spain. The possession of these letters, however, proved very unfortunate for poor Cervantes; for when El Sol, the ship in which he and other wounded soldiers were returning to Spain, was captured on September 26th, 1575, by an Algerine squadron, the captain, Dali Mami, to whose lot Cervantes fell, finding these documents upon him, imagined he was some don of immense im- portance, for whose liberation a large sum would be offered by his friends. He was therefore loaded with heavy fetters, guarded with the greatest strictness, and subjected to cruelties of every kind, as well to hasten the ofi'ers of the expected ransom as to secure him from any attempts either at escape or release. During his captivity, which lasted five years, he was sold by the Greek captain to the Dey Azan for five hundred escudos. In the service of the latter his suf- ferings reached a climax. The dey hated him because of the repeated attempts which he had made to escape, and for his zeal and energy in aiding his fellow-suf- ferers. Having endured much cruelty and hardship, he was at last ransomed in September, 1580. His brother Boderigo, who had been taken prisoner on the same occasion as Miguel, had obtained his liberty some years before, and by means of his exertions, and his widowed mother sacrificing the little money she and her daughters had, a small sum was raised for the ransom ' of Miguel Cervantes. To this were added, to make up the necessary amount, the contributions of some pious and generous monks, who were ever foremost in their exertions to obtain the liberation of Christian captives. Chief amongst these was a friar named Juan Gil, of whom Cervantes speaks in terms of grateful remem- brance in his "Los Tratos de Argel " ("Manners in Al- giers"*), where he describes him as "a most Christian man."f • This is a badly-constructed and, for the moBt part, indifEerently-written play, in Ave acts, worthy of the wretched style of dramatic art in Spain before its regenera- tion by Lope de Vega. Its chief value is as a description of the miseries which Christian captiyes endured in Algiers, Its dullness is occasionally relieved with passages of true poetic feeling. + " Christianisimo." After his release Cervantes again entered the army, and joined his brother, who was then serving in Portugal with the Duke of Alva's army, under whom Don Lope de Figueroa, who had known Cervantes in former cam- paigns, commanded a regiment of veteran and tried soldiers, to which it is most probable Miguel Cervantes was now attached. He also accompanied an expedition, commanded by the Marques de Santa Cruz, to the Azores. After a fierce engagement, and brilliant vic- torj' at Terceira, the admiral easily reduced all the islands to submission, and Cervantes, who had long and bravely served under Santa Cruz, wrote a sonnet in praise of his genius and gallantry. He undoubtedly had the highest opinion of and esteem for his old leader, of whom in "Don Quixote" he speaks as "the valorous and invincible captain." This sojourn in Portugal had a decided and marked effect upon Cervantes' genius and career. He acquired a knowledge of Portuguese literature, and a kindly regard for the country and its inhabitants, which is repeatedly reflected in his writ- ings, and is very different, indeed, from the feelings of hatred and contempt with which his contemporaries regarded the Portuguese. At this time (1583) Cervantes wrote his "Galatea" — the first great work ui)on which his literary reputation is based. In the town of Esquivias, in the neighbor- hood of Madrid, lived the Donna Catalina de Palacios y Salazar, a young lady of apparently very limited for- tune and unlimited respectability. To her Cervantes paid his addresses, and we may fairly conclude that the "Galatea" was written to excite the admiration, and thus aid in the winning the hand of this lady. If this were its object, the poem was an undoubted success, for immediately upon the publication of the first part the true Elicio and Galatea were wedded, on December 12th, 1584 ;t and this satisfactory result having been attained, the poem remained, as it does to this day, unfinished. The merits and style of this poem we re- serve for further consideration. After his marriage Cervantes devoted himself to literature, as a means of subsistence. He resided at Madrid until 1588, during which time he wrote some thirty plays, of which only two remain — the "Tratos de Argel," and the "Numancia." This latterwork, while utterly devoid of what are now considered the requi- sites of dramatic composition, is very remarkable both as regards the likeness which it bears in some points to the early Greek tragedies, and the peculiar phase of national character, to which the success of such a com- position upon the stage points. The plot is based upon an incident in Eoman history. The city of Nu- mantia, having resisted the assaults of the Eoman army for fourteen years, is at last captured. The Numan- tians have resolved, however, that not one of them shall fall into the hands of their enemies as prisoners; most of the inhabitants perish of famine, and the remaind- er, feeling resistance useless, put each other to death. The last survivor, a youth of great bravery, stands upon the walls of the desolate city, holding the keys of the gates in hishand, and, in the presence of the Roman army, X Mr. Florence M'Carthy gives the date of the marriage December 14, 1684. XVI BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF CERVANTES. dies by throwingliimself from one of the battlements. In the course of the play some personal incidents of indi- vidual devotion and suifering are brought in with great pathos and power. The main interest of the drama, however, does not depend upon any one person, nor is the working out of the plot intimately connected with individual character. The real subject of the play is the heroic devotion and dauntless bravery of the Nu- maiitians. The object is to excite similar virtues in others, and to intensify hatred to religious and national enemies by a minute display of the cruel sufferings which a brave people endured at the hands of their powerful opponents. Incidents of personal love and devotion are introduced only so far as they tend to promote the wished-for effect — to kindle hatred, and paralyze general feelings of benevolence. To accom- plish the desired result, horrible details of suffering and ghastly incidents form the action of the play. In one scene a young man determines to get food at any risk for his mistress. He penetrates into the ene- my's camp, receives his death wound, but is able to crawl back and give the girl the bread saturated with h'is blood. In another a starving child sucks blood in- stead of milk from the breast of its starving mother; and a poor wretch, who has once endured the agonies of death, is brought back again to life by a magician. No doubt such scenes tend to excite some compassion for suft'ering, but this feeling is overwhelmed by the excessive x)assion of hate which is awakened against the enemies who caused all this. Unquestionably, if (as it is asserted) this play was performed during the siege of Saragosa, it must have kindled a great patri- otic enthusiasm. But the effects of such representa- tions were not always so good. The mimic sufferings of the stage prepared a nation to witness with pleasure the more terrible realities of the auto-da fif. In the greatness of the theme, and the introduction of allegor- ical characters in this play, there is undoubtedly a re- semblance to the Greek model, and of the poetry of this composition no less a critic than Schlegel speaks in terms of enthusiastic praise. Having in vain striven to earn a respectable susten- ance at Madrid and Esquivias, Cervantes, maimed, neglected, and disappointed, went in 1588 to Seville, at that time one of the principal cities of Spain, and a great centre of commerce, where he continued to reside for about ten years. Here he acted as a kind of col- lector, or clerk, to Antonio de Guevara, who was Com- missary-General to the Indian and American depend- encies. But little is known of Cervantes during his sojourn at Seville, save that he was once imprisoned for not being able to account satisfactorily for some moneys entrusted to his care, and that he petitioned for some colonial appointment without success. Of this latter circumstance Mr. Ticknor, to whom every lover of Spanish literature is immensely indebted for his incomparable work upon that subject, gives the following interesting account: — * "During hi& residence at Seville, Cervantes made an • " History of Spanish Literature," vol. ii., p 113. ineffectual application to the king for an appointment in America, setting forth, by exact documents, which now constitute the most valuable materials for his bi- ography, a general account of his adventures, services, nd sufferings while a soldier in the Levant, and of the miseries of his life while he was a slave in Algiers. This was in 1590. But no other than a formal answer seems ever to have been returned to the application, and the whole affair only leaves us to infer the severity of that distress which could induce him to seek relief in exile to a colony of which he has elsewhere spoken as the great resort of rogues." Cervantes petitioned for one of four ofQces — the auditorship of New Gra- nada, that of the galleys of Carthagena, the governor- ship of the province of Soconusco, or the place of corregidor of the city of Paz. " A few sonnets, of no particular brilliancy, are the only literary productions of which we have any trace as having been written by Cervantes during this period. From his departure from Seville in 1598, to his settle- ment in Valladolid in 1603, we may conclude, in the absence of any reliable or accurate information, that Cervantes was still engaged in tax-collecting and sim- ilar work, as well for private individuals as for public and corporate functionaries. There is no reason to doubt that he was on one occasion employed thus by the Prior of the Order of St. John in La Mancha, and that having attempted to perform his duties in the vil- lage of Argamasilla, he was ill-treated by the inhab- itants, and finally thrown into prison. With this inci- dent is connected the scene of his illustrious knight Don Quixote de la Mancha's early adventures. Early in 1603 Cervantes, in obedience to a summons from the Bevenue authorities, arrived at Valladolid, whither the court had removed some eighteen months previously. During this period Cervantes was engaged upon the first pait of his "Don Quixote," which was licensed at Valladolid in the year after his arrival there, and j)rinted the following year (1605) at Madrid. In 1606 the Court went to Madrid; Cervantes returned there also, and resided in vaiious parts of that capital until his death. There is no doubt that Cervantes was, during his residence here, acquainted with his illus- trious contemporary. Lope de Vega;* but between the suffering and neglected Cervantes and his prosperous contemporary there can scarcely be said to have existed a friendship. The kindly and generous nature of Cer- vantes was ever ready to recognize and laud the genius of his brother poet and dramatist. These feelings, how- ever, were not reciprocated by Lope, who speaks occa- sionally of Cervantes with a contemptuous sarcasm, which, we cannot avoid thinking, was the offspring of an ungenerous and jealous nature. Next to "Don Quixote," the most remarkable works of Cervantes, which he published in his later years, were his "Espanola Inglesa," written in 1611; his "NovelasExemplares" ("Moral Tales"), which appear- * Lope Felix de Vega Carpio was a distinguiahed poet, and may be regarded as the real founder of the Spanish drama. He wrote 1,800 plays, and 400 sacred dramas, besides numerous epic and other poems. For the last five-and-twenty years of his life he was an ecclesiastic, but previous to his taking orders he had held offices of trust under the Count de Lemos, the Marquis Malplce, and the Duke of Alva. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF CEEVANTES. XVll ed in 1613; his "Viage al Parnaso," or "Journey to Parnassus," a satire upon the poets of the age, which ^made many bitter enemies when it was issued in 1614; his eight comedias and entremeses (farces); and"Persiles and Sigismunda," the last of his writings. In April, 1616, Cervantes joined himself to the order of Franciscan friars; and not many days afterwards he received the last rites of his Church. On the 23d* of that month the spirit of this great and noble genius passed from a world where he had suffered much vicis- situde, and found little but a posthumous fame, into the hands of his God. Of the writings of Cervantes, his "Don Quixote" and "Galatea" are best known, and on these his literary fame may most securely rest. What claims have these works respectively to immortal popularity? The sim- ple eclogues of the ancients were superseded, both in Italy and Spain, by a style of writing more romantic and full of incident, which may be regarded as the transition stage from j)ure pastoral to dramatic compo- sition. To this class of writing belongs the "Galatea." This style of pastoral romance was introduced into Spain by Jorge de Montemayor, a Portuguese by birth, whose "Diana Enamorada," an unfinished work of con- siderable merit, probably suggested to Cervantes the style and frame-work of his " Galatea. " The real faults and great merits of this work are pointed out by Sis- mondi with his usual aciiteness. He saysf — "Cervantes has been blamed for having mingled too many episodes with the principal tale. It is said that he has undertaken too many complicated histories, and introduced too many characters, and that he has, by the quantity of incidents and names, confounded the imagination of the reader, who is unable to follow him. I should also be inclined to impute it to hiim as a fault — though this accusation more properly falls upon the class than upon this individual work — that he is al- most cloying in the sweetness and languor of his love- scenes. When we read these pastoral romances, we may imagine ourselves bathing in milk and honey. Notwithstanding these observations, the purity of its morals, the interest of its situations, the richness of in- vention, and the poetical charms which it displays, must ensure to the ' Galatea ' an honorable place in the list of Spanish classics." The first part of "Don Quixote," as we have already stated, was printed in 1605. The second part was pub- lished ten years after, Cervantes having been urged thereto by the appearance of a spurious continuation of the work, purporting to have been written by Alonzo Fernandez de Avellaneda. The individual who adopt- ed this nom de plume was, not unlikely, some obscure writer to whom Cervantes had given offence in his "Viage al Parnaso," by uncomplimentary criticism; for his composition is laden with personal virulence. * It haB been remarked by some writers, as a strange coincidence, that Shakespeare and Cervantes both died upon the same day, viz., April 23d, 1G16. The coincidence is, howerer. only apparent. The S3d April, 1616, in Spain was not identical with the same datein England. The Gregorian calendar, which was earlier adopted in Spain, was not accepted in England nntil 1761 ; so that April 23d in Spain was April 13th in England. t " Historical View of the Literature of the South of Europe." vol. ii., p. 271. The one continued chain of thought which pervades the entire of "Don Quixote" is the striking contrast between the prosaic and poetic — the heroic and matter- of-fact aspects of life. The great lesson which seems to me to underlie this at once most melancholy and most brilliant of human compositions is, that true hero- ism and chivalry do not consist in the pursuit of some exceptional mode of conduct which happens to be vul- garly considered in itself heroic or chivalrous. We have here portrayed, with surpassing power and inim- itable wit, a man of a noble and generous nature, going in quest of those adventures which a misguiding and corrupting literature had represented as alone afford- ing opportunities for the display of heroic qualities; and, with all his earnestness and chivalry, the knight turns out only a laughing-stock for the world. It is generally believed that the publication of "Don Quix- ote" was the death-blow of the so-called literature of chivalry which had long degraded the spirit and cor- rupted the morals of Christendom. I venture to think that it has borne no small part also in crushing out the false estimate of duty which the spurious heroism of knight-errantry had created and maintained. The in- tensity of our earnestness in the pursuit of what is good and true in any department, no matter how limit- ed — in any rank, no matter how humble — is now re- garded as the real standard of worth. Compare this present state of thought with the ideas gathered by Don Quixote from the works of chivalry which moulded his character, and we shall be able to realize something of the change which has taken place in our estimate of Christian duty. If this splendid masterpiece of Cer- vantes has borne any share, however small, in this great moral revolution, the world should cherish with gratitude and admiration the memory of its illustrious author.J Of the purely literary merits of this work it would be impossible to siieak in terms of exaggeration. Montesquieu says, " The Spaniards have but one good book, that one which has made all the others ridicu- lous." Sir W. Temple remarks, "The matchless writer of ' Don Quixote ' is much more to be admired for having made up so excellent a composition of satire or ridicule without indecency and profaneness ; it seems to me the best and highest strain that ever has been or will be reached by that vein." M. Sismondi observes, "No work of any language ever exhibited a more ex- quisite or more sprightly satire, or a happier vein of inveniion, worked with more striking success." In fact, the most eminent men of every age and country seem to vie with each other in the fervor of the praise which they bestow upon this work. Everything which we know of the i^ersonal character of Cervantes adds to our appreciation of his writings. He was an accomplished scholar, a brave soldier, a kindly gentleman, a sincere and pious Christian. § He i A writer in " Notes and Queries " (vol. x., p; 348) insists that " Don Quixote " is really an attack npon the Jesuits, and that the Don himself represents Ignatius Loyola. Such a supposition is directly opposed to what we know of Cervantes' religious feeling and strong attachment to his church. §Pellicer describes him as " homhre devoto y timorato"- a pious man, and full of the fear of God. XVUl BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF CERVANTES. was, as Mr. Viardot remarks, "an illustrious man before he became an illustrious writer — one who was the doer of great deeds before he produced an immortal book. "* According to his desire, Cervantes was buried in the Convent of the Nuns of the Trinity, which was situated in the street of the Humilladero. It is not known whether his "emains were transferred afterwards to the convent in the street of Cantarranas, whither the sisters removed. Where the ashes of the greatest Spanish * " Notice Sttr la Vie et lea OuvrageB de Cervantes." author lie is, therefore, a matter of uncertainty. In 1835 a splendid statue was erected to his memory at Madrid, in the Plaza del Estamento ; but the most last- _ ing memorial of Cervantes is his writings. "The in- scription shall not be effaced by time ; the imagery shall not moulder away." And since this brief sketch is in- tended as an introduction to an edition of his "Don Quixote,"! think I may say with tinth—^^ Si quceris monumentum aspice. " T. TEIGNMOUTH SHOEB. *** The Bnglieh text of "Don Qnixote " adapted in this edition is that of Jarvie, with occasional correctiona from Motteaux' translation. A few objectionable words and sentences, in no waj necessary to the beauty and completeDess of the work, have been omitted. THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE READER. YoTJ may depend upon my bare word, reader, with- out any farther security, that I could wish tliis off- spring of my brain were as ingenius, sprightly, and accomplished as yourself could desire; but the mischief ou't is, nature will have its course. Every production must resemble its author, and my barren and un- polished understanding can ijroduce nothing but what is very dull, very impertinent, and extravagant beyond imagination. You may sujipose it the child of disturb- ance, engendered in some dismal prison, where wretch- edness keeps its residence, and every dismal sound its habitation. Kest and ease, a convenient place, pleas- ant fields and groves, murmuring springs, and a sweet repose of mind, are helps that raise the fancy, and impreguate even the most barren muses with concep- tions that fill the world with admiration and delight. Some parents are so blinded by a fatherly fondness, that they mistake the very imperfections of their chil- dren for so many beauties, and the folly and imperti- nence of the brave boy must pass ui>on their friends and acqaaintance for wit and sense. But I, who am ouly a stepfather, disavow the authority of this modern and prevalent custom; nor will I earnestly beseech you, with tears ,in my eyes, which is many a poor author's case, dear reader, to pardon or dissemble my child's faults; for what favor can I expect from you, who are neither his friend nor relation ? Ton have a soul of your own, and the privilege of free will, whoever you be, as well as the proudest he that struts in a gaudy outside; you are a king by your own iireside, as much as any monarch on his throne; you have liberty and property, which set you above favor or affection ; and you may therefore freely like or dislike this history, according to your humor. I had a great mind to have exposed it as iiiiked as it was born, without the addition of a ])refannctuality of true history; nor do I find any business you can have either with astrology, geometry, or logic, and I hope you are too good a man to mix sacred things with profane. Nothing but pure nature is your l)Usiness; her you must consult, and the closer you can imitate, your picture is the better. And since this Avriting of yours aims at no more than to destroy the authority and acceptance the books of chivalry have had in the world, and among the vulgar, you have no need to go begging sentences of philosophers, pas- sages out of Holy Writ, poetical fables, rhetorical ora- tion.s, or miracles of saints. Do but take care to express yourself in a plain, easy manner, in well-chosen, significant, and decent terms, and to give an lia.rmonious and i)leasing turn to your periods; study to explain your thoughts, and set them in the truest light, labor- ing, as much as possible, not to leave them dark uor intricate, but clear and intelligible; let your diverting stories be expressed in diverting terras, to kindle mirth in the melancholic, and heighten it in the gay; let mirth and humor be your superficial design, though laid on a solid foundation, to challenge attention from the ignorant, and admiration from the judicious; to se- cure your work from the contempt of the graver sort, and deserve the praises of men of sense; keeping your eye still fixed ou the principal end of your project, the fall and destruction of that monstrous heap of ill-con- trived romances, which, though abhorred by many, have so strangely infatuated the greater part of man- kind — mind this, and your business is done." I listened very attentively to my friend's discourse, and found it so reasonable and convincing, that with- out any reply, I took his advice, and have told you the story by way of preface; wherein you may see, gentle- men, how happy I am in so ingenious a friend, to whose seasonable counsel you are all obliged for the omission of all this pedantic garniture in the history of the re- nowned Don Quixote de la Mancha, whose character among all the neighbors about Montiel is, that he was the most chaste lover and the most valiant knight that has been known in these parts these many years. I will not urge the .service I have done you by intro- ducing you into so considernl)le and noble a knight's acquaintance, but only beg the favor of some small acknowledgment for reiommeniling you to the familiar- ity of the famous Sanclio Panza, his squire, in whom, in my opinion, you will find united and described all the squire-like graces which are scattered up and down in the whole bead-roll of books of chivalry. And now I take my leave, entreating you not to forget your humble servant. DON QUIXOTE PART I. CHAPTER I. THE QUALITY AND WAY OF LIVING OF THE KENOWNBD DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. At a certain village in La Manclia, of whicli I can- not remember the name, there lived not long ago one of those old fashioned gentlemen who are never with- out a lance upon a rack, an old target, a lean horse, and a greyhound. Soup, more frequently of mutton than of beef, minced meats on most nights,, lentiles on Fri- days, griefs and groans on Saturdays, and a pigeon extraordinary on Sundays, consumed three-quarters of his revenue; the rest was laid out in a doublet of iine cloth, velvet breeches, with slippers of the same for holidays; and a suit of the very best homespun, 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 him in the house and in the field, and could saddle a horse and handle the pruning-hook. The master himself was nigh fifty years of age, of a hale and strong complexion, lean-bodied, and thin-faced, an early riser and a lover of hunting. Some say his surname was Quixada, or Quesada (for authors differ in this particular) ; however, we may reasonably conjecture he was called Quixada (i. e., lantern-jaws), though this concerns us but little, provided we keep strictly to the truth in every point of this history. Tou must know, then, that when our gentleman had nothing to do (which was almost all the year round), he passed his time in reading books of knight-erranty, which he did with that application and delight, that at last he in a manner wholly left off his country sports, and even the care of his estate; nay, he grew so strangely besotted with these amusements, that he sold many acres of arable land to purchase books of that kind, by which means he collected as many of them as were to be had; but, among them all, none pleased him DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. like the works of the famous Feliciano de Sylva; for tlie clearness 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 challenges, and the amorous addresses, many of them in this extraordinary style: "The reason of your unreasonable usage of my reason, d(jes so enfeeble my reason, that I have reason to expostulate with your beauty." Aud 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 expressions, strangely puzzled tlie poor gentleman's understanding, while he was breaking his brain to unravel their mean- ing, which Aristotle himself could never have found, though he should have been rais d 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 strangelj' disfigured with scars. How- ever, he highly commended the author for concluding his book with a promise to finish that nnflnishable ad- venture ; and many times he had a desire to put pen to paper, and faithfully and literally finish it himself ; which he certainly had done, and doubtless with good success, had not his thoughts been wholly engrosserevailing more than any reason, he resolved to be dubbed a knight by the first he should meet, after the example of several others, who, as his distracting ro- mances informed him, had formerly done the like. As for the other difficulty about wearing white armor, he proposed to overcome it by scouring his own at leisure until it should look whiter than ermine. And having thus dismi.ssed these busy scruples, he very calmly rode on, leaving it to his horse's discretion to go which way he pleased ; firmly believing, that in this consisted the very being of adventures. And thus he went on, "I cannot but believe," 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 early setting out:— 'Scarce had [the ruddy-colored Phcebus begun to spread the golden tresses of his love- ly 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, who, having left her jealous husband's bed, displayed her rosy graces to mortal eyes from the gates and balconies of the Manchegan horizon, when the renowned knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, dis- daining soft repose, forsook the voluptuous down, and, mounting his famous steed Eozinante, entered the an- cient and celebrated plains of Montiel.' " This was in- deed the very road he took ; and then proceeding, " Oh, happy age! Oh, 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 paint- ing, as monuments of my glory, and examples for pos- terity! 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 be- seech thee, my trusty Eozinante, the eternal companion of all my adventures! " After this, as if he had been really in love, " Oh, 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! Remember, la all over CHAPTER V. A FURTHER A.CCOUNT OF OUR KNIGHT'S MISFORTUNES. Don Quixote, perceiving that he wns not able to stir, resolved to have recourse to his signal remedy, which was to bethink himself what passage in his books might attbrd him some comfort; and presently his folly brought to his remembrance that story of Baldwin and the Marquis of Mantua, when Chariot left the former wounded on the mountain : a story learned and known by little children, not unknown to young men and wo- men, 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 purpt)se for his pres- ent circumstances, and therefore he fell a rolling and tumbling up and down, expressing the greatest pain and resentment, and breathing out, with a languishing voice, the same complaints which the wounded Knight of the Wood is said to have made : — "Alas! where are you, lady dear, 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 he came to these verses : — " O thou, my ancle and my prince," "Marquis of Mantua, noble lord!" 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 he made such a sad complaint. Don Quixfite, whose distemperea brain presently rep!- resented to him the countryman for the Marquis of Mantua, his imaginary uncle, made him no answer, but went on with the i-omance, giving him an account of his misfortunes, and of the loves of his wife and the em- peror's sou, just as the book relates them. The fellow stared, much amazed to hear a man talk such unaccountable stuff, and taking off the vizor of his helmet — broken all to pieces with blows bestowed upon it by the mule-driver — he wiped off the dust that covered his face, and presently knew the gentle- man. "Master Quisada," 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 con- dition?" But the other continued his romance, and made no answers to all the questions the countrj'man put to him but what followed in course in the book; which the good man perceiving, he took off the battered adventur- er's armor as well as he could, and fell a searching for his wounds ; but finding no sign of blood, or any other hurt, he endeavored to set him upon his legs, and at last, with a great deal of trouble, he heaved him upon his own ass, as being the more easy and gentle carriage. He also got all the knight's arms together, not leaving behind so much as the splinters of his lance; and hav- ing tied them up and laid them on Eozinante, which he 16 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 17 took by the bridle, and his ass by the lialter, he led them all towards the village, and trudged a-foot him- self, very pensive, while he reflected on the extrava- gances which he heard Don Quixote utter. Nor was Don Quixote himself less melancholy, for he felt himself so bruised and battered that he could hardly sit on the ass; and now and then he breathed such grievous sighs as seemed to pierce the very skies, which moved his compassionate neighbor once more to entreat him to declare to him the cause of his grief. But one would have imagined the devil prompted him with stories that had some resemblance of his circumstances, for in that instant, wholly forgetting Baldwin, he be- thought him of the Moor Abindaraez, whom Rodrigo de Narvaez, Alcayde of Antequera, took and carried pris- oner 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 Monte Mayor, where that adventure is related; applying it so prop- erly to his purpose, that the countryman wished himself anywhere rather than within the hearing of such strange nonsense ; and being now fully convinced that his neigh- bor's brains were turned, he made all the haste he could to the village, to be rid of his troublesome impertinences. 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 will achieve the most famous deeds of chivalry that ever were, are, or ever shall be seen in the universe !" " Good sir !" replied the husbandman, " as I am a sinner, I am not Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, nor the Marquis of Nantua, but Pedro Alonzo by name, your worship's neighbor; nor are you Baldwin, nor Abinda- raez, but only that worthy gentleman, Signor Quixada. " "I know very well who I am," answered Don Quix- ote ; " 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 dis- tance till it was dark, that the distressed gentleman might not be seen so scurvily mounted, and then he led him home to his own house, which he found in great confusion. The curate and the barber of the village, both of them Don Quixote's 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 armor have been seen these six days. What shall I do ? wretch that I am ! I dare lay my life, and it is as sure as I am a living creature, that those cursed books of errantry which he used to be always poring over have set him 2 DON QUIX. beside his senses ; for now I remember I have heard him often mutter to himself that he had a mind to turn knight-errant, and jaunt up and down the world to find out adventures. Out upon all such books, that have thus cracked the best head-piece in all La Mancha ! " His niece said as much, addressing herself to the barber. "You must know. Master Nicholas," quoth she (for this was his name), " that many times my uncle would read you those unconscionable books of disven- tures for eight-and-forty hours together. Then away he would throw you his book, and drawing his sword, he would fall a-fencing again.st 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 flght; then would he swallow you a huge jug of cold water, and presently 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 I do not know how many of tliem that deserve to be burned as those of the rankest heretics." "I am of your mind," said the curate; "and verily, to-morrow shall not pass over before I have fairly brought them to a trial, and condemned them to the flames, that they may not minister occasion to snch as would read them, to be perverted after the example of my good friend." The countryman, who, with Don Quixote, stood with- out, listening to all this discourse, now perfectly under- stood by this the cause of his neighbor's disorder ; and, therefore, without any more ado, he called out aloud — "Here, house ! open the gates there, for the Lord Bald- win and the Lord Marquis of Mantua, who is coming sadly wounded, and foi' the Moorish Lord Abindaraez, whom the valorous Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, Alcayde of Antequera, brings prisoner. " At which words they all got out of doors ; and the one finding it to be her uncle, and the other to be her master, and the rest their friend, who had not yet alighted from 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, in the name of mischief!" quoth the house- keeper, "see whether I did not guess right, on which foot my master halted. Come, get you 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, and the curse of curses — I say it again and again a hundred times— light upon those books of chivalry that have put you in this pickle !" Thereupon they carried him to his bed, and searched He led them all towards the village, and trudged a-foot himself, very pensive."-p. 17 DON QUIXOTE DB LA MANCHA. 19 for Ms wounds, but could find none ; and then he told them he was only bruised, having had a dreadful fall from his horse Bozinante, while he was fighting ten giantsrthe most outrageou* and audacious that ever could be found upon the face of the earth/ "How 1" cried the curate; "have we giants, too, in the dance ?^ Nay, then, by the holy sign of the cross, I will bum them all by to-morrow night !" Then did they ask the Don a thousand questions, but to every one he made' no other answer but that they should give him something to eat, and then leave him to his repose— a thing which was to him of the greatest importance. They complied with his desires, and then the curate informed himself at large in what condition the countryman had found him; and having had a full account of every particular, as also of the knight's extravagant talk, both when the fellow found him and as he brought him home, this increased the curate's desire of effecting what he had resolved to do the next morning ; at which time be called upon his friend Master ISTicholas, the barber, and went with him to Don Quix- ote's house. CHAPTER VI. OF THE PLEASANT AND CUEIOUS SCETJTrNT WHICH THE CUEATE AND THE BAEBEE MADE OP THE LIBEAET 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 good number of small ones. As soon as the housekeeper had spied them out, she ran out of the study, and returned immediately with a holy- water pot and a bunch of hyssop. "Here, doctor," cried she, "pray sprinkle every creek 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, in revenge for what we intend to do, in banishing 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 to be committed to the flames. "Oh, by no means," cried the niece; "spare none of them; they all help, somehow, or other, to crack my uncle's brain. I fancy we had best throw them all out of the window into the yard, and lay them together in aheap, and then set them o' 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 Master Nicholas put into his hands was "Amadis de Gaul," in four volumes. "There seems to be some mystery in this book's being the first taken down," cried the curate, as soon as he had looked upon it; "for I have heard it is the first book of knight-errantry that ever was printed in Spain, and the model of all the rest; and therefore I am of opinion that, as the first teacher and author of so per- nicious a sect, it ought to be condemned to the fire without mercy. " "I beg a reprieve for him," cried the barber; "for I have been told 'tis the best book that has been written in that kind; and therefore, as the only good thing of that sort, it may deserve a pardon. " "Well, then," replied the curate, "for this time let him have it. Let's see the other, which lies next to him." "These," said the barber, "are the exploits of Esplan- dian, the lawful-begotten son of Amadis de Gaul." "Terily," said the curate, "the father's goodness shall not excuse the 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 of his fiery trial. "To the next," cried the curate. "This," said the barber, "is Amadis of Greece; and I'm of opinion that all those that stand on this side are of the same family." "Then let them all be sent packing into the yard," replied the curate; "for rather than lose the pleasure of burning Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the Shepherd Darinel with his eclogues, and the confounded unintel- ligible discourses of the author, I think I should burn 20 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANOHA. 21 my own father along with them, if I met him in the disguise of a knight-erraut. " "I am of your mind," cried the barber. " And I, too, " said the niece. "Nay, then," quoth the housekeeper, "let them come, and down with them all into the yard." They were delivered to her accordingly, and many they were ; so that, to save herself the labor of carrying them down stairs, she fairly sent them flying out at the window. "What overgrown piece of lumber have we here?" cried the curate. "Olivante de Laura," returned the barber. "The same author wrote the 'Garden of Flowers,' and, to deal ingenuously with you, I cannot tell which of the two books has the most truth in it; or, to speak more properly, less lies; but this I know for certain, that he shall march into the back yard like a nonsensical, arro- gant blockhead, as he is. " "The next," cried the barber, "is Florismart of Hyr- cania. " "How! my Lord Florismart, is he here?" replied the ourate. "Nay, then, truly, he shall e'en follow the rest to the yard, in spite of his wonderful birth and incred- ible adventures, for his rough, dull, and insipid style deserves no better usage. Come, toss him into the yard, and this other too, good mistress. " "With all my heart," quoth the housekeeper, and straight she was as good as her word. "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 hira, without any more words! " and down he went accordingly. Another book was opened, and it proved to be the "Knight of the Cross." "The holy title," cried the curate, "might in some measure atone for the badness of the book ; but then, as the saying is, 'The devil lurks behind the cross.' To the flames with him!" Then the barber, taking down another book, cried, "Here's the 'Mirror of Knighthood.'" "Oh! I have the honor to know him," replied the curate. "There you will find the Lord Einaldo of Montalban, with his friends and companions, all of them greater thieves than Caous, together with the Twelve Peers of France, and that faithful historian, Turpin. Truly, I must needs say, I am only for con- demning them to perpetual banishment, at least, be- cause their story contains something of the famous Boyardo's invention, out of which the Christian poet Ariosto also spun his web; yet, if I happen to meet with him in this bad company, and speaking in any other language than his own, I'll show him no manner of favor; but if he talks in his own native tongue, I'll treat him with all the respect imaginable. " "I have him at home in Italian," said the barber, "but I cannot understand him." " Neither is it any great matter whether you do or not," replied the curate; "and I could willingly have excused the good captain who translated it that trouble of attempting to make him speak Spanish, for he has deprived him of a great deal of his primitive graces — a misfortune incident to all those who presume to trans- late verses, since their utmost wit and industry can never enable them to preserve the native beauties and genius that shine in the original. For this reason I am for having not only this book, but likewise all those which we shall find here, treating of French affairs, laid up and deposited in some dry vault, till we have maturely determined what ought to be done with them; yet give me leave to except one Bernardo del Carpio, that must be somewhere here among the rest, and another called Eoncesvalles; for whenever I meet with them I Avill certainly deliver them up into the hands of the housekeeper, who shall toss them into the fire." The barber gave his approbation to every jjarticular, well knowing that the curate was so good a Christian, and so great a lover of truth, that he would not have uttered a falsity for all the world. Then opening another volume, he found it to be Pal- merin 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, neighbor, that book deserves particulaj respect for two things — first, for its own excellence; and, secondly, for the sake of its author, who is said to have been a learned king of Portugal ; then all the adventures of the castle of Miraguarda are well and artfully managed, the dialogue very courtly and clear, and the decorum strictly ob- served in equal character, with equal propriety and judgment. Therefore, Master Nicholas," continued he, "with submission to your better advice, this and Ama- dis de Gaul shall be exempted from the Are ; 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 I have in my hands is the famous Don Bellianis." "Truly," cried the curate, "he, with his second, third and fourth i^arts, had need of a dose of rhubarb to purge his excessive choler; besides, his Castle of Fame should be demolished, and a heap of other rubbish removed ; in order to which I give my vote to grant them the beneflt of a reprieve ; and as they show signs of amendment, so shall mercy or justice be used towards them: in the meantime, neighbor, take them into custody, and keep them safe at home ; but let none be permitted to converse with them." "Content," cried the barber; and to save himself the labor of looking on any more books of that kind, he bid the housekeeper take all the great volumes, and throw them into the yard. This was not spoken to one stupid or deaf, but to one who had a greater mind to be burning them than weaving the finest and largest web : 22 DON tmiXOTE DE LA MANCHA. BO that, laying hold of bo less than eight volumes at once, she presently made them leap towards the place of execution; but as she went too eagerly to work, taking more books than she could conveniently carry, she happened to drop one at the barber's feet, which he took up out of curiosity to see what it was, and found it to be the History of the famous Knight Tirante the White. "Good-lack-a-day !" cried the curate; "is Tirante the White here ? oh ! pray, good neighbor, give it to me by all means, for I promise myself to find in it a treasure of delight, and a mine of recreation. There we have that valorous knight, Don Kyrie-Eleison of Montalban, with his brother Thomas of Montalban, and the knight Fonseca; the combat between the valorous Detriante and Alano; the dainty and witty conceits of the damsel Plazerdemivida, with the loves and guiles of the widow Beqosada; together with the lady empress, that was in love with Hippolito, her gentleman-usher. I vow and protest to you, neighbor," continued he, "that in its way there is not a better book in the world : why, here you have knights that eat and drink, sleep, and die natural deaths in their beds, nay, and make their last wills and testaments ; with a world of other things, of which all the rest of these sort of books don't say one syllable. Yet, after all, I must tell you, that for wilfully taking the pains to write so many fool- ish things, the worthy author fairly deserves to be sent to the galleys for all the days of his life. Take it home with you and read it, and then tell me whether I have told you the truth or no. " "I believe you," replied the barber; but what shall we do with all these smaller books that are left?" "Certainly," replied the curate, "these cannot be books of knight-errantry; they are too small; you'll find they are only poets. " And so opening one, it hap- pened to be the Diana of Montemayor; which made him say (believing all the rest to be of that stamp) — "These do not deserve to be punished like the others; for they neither have done, nor can do, that mischief which those stories of chivalry have done, being gener- alla ingenious books, that can do nobody any prejudice. " "Oh! good sir," cried the neice; "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 shep- herd, 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 Montemayor, I am of opinion we ought not to burn it, but only take out that part of it which treats of-the magician Felicia, and the enchanted water, as also all the longer poems; and let the work escape with its prose, and the honor of being the first of that kind." "Here's another Diana," quoth the barber; "the second of that name, by Salmantino (of Salamanca); nay, and a third, too, by Gil Polo." "Pray," said the curate, "let Salmantino increase the number of criminals in the yard ; but as for that by Gil Polo, preserve it as charily as if Apollo himself had wrote it; and go on as fast as you can, I beseech you, good neighbor, for it grows late. " "Here," quoth the barber, "I've a book called the ' Ten Books of the Fortunes of Love,' by Anthony de Lofraco, a Sardinian poet, " "Now, by my holy orders," cried the curate, "I do not think, since Apollo was Apollo, the muses muses, and the poets poets, there ever was a more comical, 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 may safely think he never in his life read anything that was pleasant. Give it me, neigh- bor," continued he, "for I am more glad to have found it than if any one had given me a cassock of the best Florence serge." With that he laid it aside with extraordinary sati«faction, and the barber went on: — "These that follow," cried he, "are the 'Shepherd of Iberia,' the ' Nymphs of Enares,' and the ' Cure of Jealousy.' " "Take them, jailor," quoth the curate, "and never ask me why, or we shall ne'er have done. " "The next," said the barber, "is the Shepherd of Filida." "He's no shepherd," returned the curate, "but a very discreet courtier; keep him as precious jewel. " "Here's a bigger," cried the barber, "called 'The Treasure of Divers Poems.' " "Had there been fewer of them," said the curate, "they would have been more esteemed. 'Tis fit the book should be pruned and cleared of several trifles that disgrace the rest; keep it, however, because the author is my friend, and for the sake of his other more heroic and lofty productions. " "Here's a book of songs by Lopez Maldonado," cried the barber. "He's also my particular friend," said the curate; "his verses are very well liked when he reads them himself ; and his voice is so excellent, that they charm us whenever he sings them. He seems indeed to be somewhat too long in his eclogues; but can we ever have too much of a good thing ? Let him be preserved among the best. What's the nest 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, misfortune 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 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANOHA. 23 ErcUla; the Austriada of Juan Buffo, 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 cele- brated of Italy: reserve them as the most valuable per- formance 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 past. , "Truly," said the curajte, who saw by the title it was the "Tears of Angelica," "I should have wept myself, had I caused such a book to share the condemnation of the rest; for the author was not only one of the best poets in Spain, but in the whole world, and translated some of Ovid's fables with extraordinary success. " CHAPTER VII. DON QUIXOTE'S SECOND SAiLT IN QUEST OF ADVENTURES. While tliey were thus employed, Don Quixote in a raving fit began to talk aloud to himself. "Here, here, valorous knights!" cried he, "now's the time that you must exert the strength of your mighty arms; for, lo! the courtiers bear away the honor of the tournament. " This amazing outcry called away the inquisitors from any further examination of the library; and therefore the housekeeper and the niece being left to their own discretion, it is thought the Carolea and Leo of Spain, with the Deeds of the Emperor, written by Don Lewis d'Avila, which to be sure were part of the collection, were committed to the flames unseen and unheard, with- out any legal trial ; a fate which perhaps they might have escaped, had the curate been there to have weigh- ed what might have been urged in their defence. When they came into Don Quixote's chamber, they found him risen out oi his bed as mad as ever he was, tearing his throat, and making a heavy bustle, laying about him with his sword, back-stroke and fore-stroke, as broad awake as if he had never slept. They ran in upon him, caught him in their arms, and carried him to bed again by main force ; where, after he was somewhat quiet and settled, turning himself to the curate, "Cer- tainly," cried he, "my Lord Archbishop Turpin, 'tis a great dishonor to us, who are called the twelve i)eers, to suffer the knights of the court to bear aware the honor of the tournament without any further opposi- tion, after we, the knight adventurers, had carried it for three days before. " "Be pacified, my good friend," replied the curate; "Fortune may have yet a better success in reserve for you, and they who lose to-day may win to-morrow : at present think on j'our health, for doubtless you must needs be now extremely tired, if not very much wounded. " "Wounded!" replied Don Quixote, "no; but as for being bruised, I will not deny it, for that base-born knight, D^n Orlando, has battered all my limbs with the trunk of an oak, out of mere envy, because he sees that I only dare rival his exploits: but may I no more be called Einaldo of Montalban, if, in spite of his en- chantments, I do not make him severely pay for this as soon as I can leave my bed; and therefore let my dinner be brought in, for 'tis what I want most at this juncture, and then let me alone to revenge this abuse." Accordingly they brought him some victuals, which when he had eaten he fell asleep again, and th y left him, all of them strangely amazed at his uncommon 24 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 25 madness. That night the housekeeper burnt all the books, not only those in the yard, but all those that were in the house; and several suffered in the general calamity, that deserved to have been treasured up in everlasting archives, had not their fate and the remiss- ness of the inquisitors ordered it otherwise. And thus they verified the proverb, that "the good often fare the worse for the bad. " One of the expedients which the curate and the bar- ber thought themselves of in order to their friend's re- covery, was to stop ixp the door of the room where his boolts lay, that he might not find it, nor miss tliem when he rose; for they hoped the effect wovild cease when they had taken away the cause; and they ordered, that if he inquired about it, they should tell him, that a cer- tain enchanter had carried away study, books and all. Two days after, Don Quixote being got up, the first thing he did was to go visit his darling books; and as he could not find the study in the place where he had left it, he went up and down, and looked for it in every room. Sometimes he came to the place where the door used to stand, and then stood feeling and groping about a good while, then cast his eyes, and stared on every side, without speaking a word. At last, after a long deliberation, he thought lit to ask his housekeeper which was the way to his study. "What study," answered the woman, according to her instructions, "or rather, what nothing is it you look for ? Alas ! here's neither study nor books in the house nfrw, for the devil is run away with them all. " "No, 'twas not the devil," said the niece, "but a con- juror, or an enchanter, as they call them, who, since you went, came hither one night mounted on a dragon on the toj) of a cloud, and then alighting, went into your study, where what he did, he and the devil best can tell, for a while after he flew out at the roof of the house, leaving it all full of smoke; and when we went to see what he had done, we could neither find the books nor so much as the very study; only the housekeeper and I very well remember, that when the old thief went away, he cried out aloud, that out of a private grudge which he bore in his mind to the owner of those books, he had done the house a mischief, as we should soon perceive ; and then I think he called himself the sage Muniaton. " "Not Muniaton, but Freston, you should have said," cried Don Quixote. "Truly," quoth the niece, "I can't tell whether it was Freston or Friston, but sure I am that his name ended with a ton." "It is so," returned Don Quixote, "for he is a famous necromancer, and my mortal enemy, and bears me a great deal of malice; for seeing by his art, that in spite of all his spells, in process of time I shall fight and vanquish in single combat a knight whose interests he espouses, therefore he endeavors to do me all manner of mischief; but I dare assure him that he strives against the stream, nor can his power reverse the first decrees of Fate. " "Who doubts of that?" cried the neice: "but, dear uncle, what makes you run yourself into these quarrels? had not you better stay at home, and live in peace and quietness, than go rambling up and down like a vaga- bond, and seeking for better bread than is made of wheat, without once so much as considering that many go to seek wool, and come home shorn tlieraselves?" "Oh, good neice," replied Don Quixote, "how ill thou understandest these matters! know that before I will suffer myself to be shorn, I will tear and pluck off the beards of all those audacious mortals, that shall attempt to profane the tip of one single hair within the verge of these mustachois." To this neither the neice nor the housekeeper thought fit to make any reply, for they perceived the knight to grow angry. Full fifteen days did our knight remain quietly at home, without betraying the least sign of his desire to renew his rambling; during which time there passed a great deal of pleasant discourse between him and his two friends, the curate and the barber; while he main- tained that there was nothing the world stood so much in need of as knigths-errant, wherefore he was resolved to revive the order: in which dispute Mr. Curate some- times contradicted him, and sometimes submitted ; for had he not now and then given way to his fancies, there would have been no conversing with him. In the meantime Don Quixote earnestly solicited one of his neighbors, a country laborer, and a good honest fellow, if we may call a poor man honest, for he was poor indeed, poor in purse, and poor in brains; and, in short, the knight talked so long to him, plied him with so many arguments, and made him so many fair prom- ises, that at last the poor silly clown consented to go along with him, and become his squire. Among other inducements to entice him to do it willingly, Don Quix- ote forgot not to tell him that it was likely such an ad- venture 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) for- sook his wife and children, to be his neighbor's squire. This done, Don Quixote made it his business to fur- nish 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- j)iece and beaver as well as he could, he gave his squire notice of the day and hour when he intended to set out, that he might also furnish himself with what he thought necessary; but, above all, he charged him to provide himself with a wallet ; which Sancho 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 was 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 squire used to ride upon an ass ; but he could not remember any precedent for it; however, he gave him leave at last to bring his ass ; hoping to mount him more honorably with the first ' It was yet early in the morning, at which time the sunbeams did not prove so offensive."— p. 27. DON QUIXOTE DB LA MANCHA. 27 opportunity, by unhorsing the next discorteous knight he should meet. He also furnished himself with shirts, and as many other necessaries as he could conveniently carry, according to the inn-keeper's injunctions ; which being done, Sancho Panza, without bidding either his wife or children good-bye, and Don Quixote, without taking any more notice of his housekeeper or of his neice, stole out of the village one night, nor so much as suspected by anybodj^, 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 knap- sack, or wallet, and his leathern bottle, having a huge desire to see himself governor of the island which his master had promised him. Don Quixote happened to strike into the same road which he took the time before, through the plain of Montiel, over which he travelled with less inconveni- ence than when he went alone, by reason it was yet early in the morning ; at which time the sunbeams being almost x>arallel to the surface of the earth, and not directly darted down, as in the middle of the day, did not prove so offensive. As they jogged on, "I beseech your worship. Sir Knight-errant," quoth Sancho to his master, "be sure you don't forget what you promised me about the island; for I dare say I shall make shift to govern it, let it be never so big. " "You must know, friend Sancho," replied Don Quix- ote, "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 not only resolved to keep up that laudable custom, but even to improve it and outdo my predecessors in gener- osity ; for whereas sometimes, or rather most commonly, other knights delayed rewarding their squires till they were grown old, and worn out with services, bad days, worse nights, and all manner of hard duty, 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 revo- lutions, so sudden and so unforseen, attend the profes- sion of chivalry, that I might easily give thee a great deal more than I have promised. " "Why, should this come to pass," quoth Sancho Panza, "and I be made a king by some such miracle as your worship mentions, then, my good woman, Mary Gutierez would be at least a queen, and my children infantas and princes, an't like your worship!" "Who doubts of that?" 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 farthings to make a queen of; no, countess would be better for her, an't please you; and that too, God help her, will be as much as she can handsomely manage." "Recommend the matter to Providence," returned Don Quixote; "'twill be sure to give what is most expedient for thee; but yet disdain to entertain inferior thoughts, and be not tempted to accept less than the dignity of a viceroy. " "No more I won't, sir," quoth Sancho; "especially since I have so rare a master as your worship, who will take care to give me whatever may be fit for me, and what I may be able to deal with. " CHAPTER VIII. OF THE GOOD SUCCESS WHICH THE VALOROUS DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE MOST TEEBIFYING AND NEVEE- TO-BE-IMAGINED ADVENTURE OP THE WINDMILLS, WITH OTHER TRANSACTIONS WORTHY TO BE TRANS- MITTED TO POSTERITY. As they were thus discoursing, they discovered some thirty or forty windmills, that are in that plain ; and as soon as the knight had spied them, "Fortune," cried he, "directs our affairs better than we ourselves could have wished; look yonder, friend Sancho; there are at least thirty outrageous giants, whom I intend to en- counter; 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," quoth Sancho Panza. "Those whom thou seest yonder," answered Don Quixote, "with their long, extended arms. Some of that detested race have arms of so immense a size, that sometimes they reach two leagues in length." "Pray look better, sir," quoth Sancho; "those things yonder are no giants, but windmills ; and the arms you fancy are their sails, which, being whirled about by the wind, make the mill go. " "'Tis a sign," cried Don Quixote, "that 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 a dreadful unequal combat against them all. " This said, he clapped spurs to his horse Eozinante, without giving ear to his squire Sancho, who bawled out to him, and assured him that they were windmills, and no giants. But he was so fully possessed with a strong conceit of the contrary, that he did not so much as hear his squire's outcry, nor was he sensible of what they were, although he was already very near them ; far from that, "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, which 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 ad- venture; and so covering himself with his shield, and couching his lance, he rushed with Bozinante'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 with it, till down he fell, rolling a good way off in the field. San- cho Panza ran as fast as his ass could drive to help his 28 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 29 master, whom lie found lying, and. not able to stir, sucli a blow be and Bozinante bad received. "Mercy o'me!" cried Sancbo, "did not I give your worsbip fair warn- ing? did not I tell you tbey were windmills, and tbat nobody could tbink otherwise, unless be bad also wind- mills in bis bead?" "Peace, friend Sancbo," replied Don Quixote: "tbere is nothing so stibject to the inconstancy of fortune as war. I am verily persuaded, tbat cursed necromancer Preston, who carried away my study and my books, has transformed these giants into windmills, to deprive me of the honor of the victory; such is bis inveterate malice against me; but in the end, all bis pernicious wiles and stratagems shall jjrove ineffectual against the prevailing edge of my sword. " "Amen, say I," replied Sancbo. And so heaving him up again upon his legs, once more the knight mounted poor Eozinante, tbat was half sbouldered-slipped with bis 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 fre- quented. However, the loss of bis lance, was no small affliction tobim; and as he was making his complaint about it to bis squire, "I have road," said be, "friend Sancbo, that a certain Spanish knight, whose name was Diego Perez de Vargas, having broken his sword in the heat of an engagement, pulled up by the roots a huge oak tree, or at least tore down a massy branch, and did such wonderful execution, crushing and grinding so many Moors with it that day, that be won himself and his posterity the sirname of The Pounder, or Bruiser. I tell thee this, because I intend to tear up the next oak, or holm-tree, we meet; with the trunk whereof I hope to perform such wondrous deeds, tbat thou wilt esteem thyself particularly happy in having bad the honor to behold them, and been the ocular witness of achievements which posterity will scarce be able to believe. " "Heaven grant you may !" cried Sancbo : "I believe it all, because your worship says it. But, an't please yon, sit a little more upright in your saddle; you ride side- ling methinks; but that, I suppose, proceeds from your being bruised by the fall. " "It does so," replied Don Quixote; "and if I do not complain of the pain, it is because a knight-errant must never complain of his wounds, though his bowels were dropping out through them. " "Then I have no more to say," quoth Sancbo; "and yet Heaven knows my heart, I should be glad to bear your worsbip lament a little now and then when some- thing ails you: for my part, I shall not fail to bemoan myself when I suffer the smallest pain, unless indeed it can be proved tbat the rule of not complaining extends to the squires as well as the knights. " Don Quixote could not forbear smiling at the sim- plicity of his squire ; and told him he gave him leave to complain not only when he pleased, but as much as be pleased, whether he bad any cause or no ; for be had never yet read anything to the contrary in any books of chivalry. Sancbo desired him, however, to consider tbat it was high time to go to dinner ; but bis master answered him, tbat he might eat whenever be pleased; as for himself, be was not yet disposed to do it. San- cbo, having thus obtained leave, fixed himself as orderly as he could upon bis ass; and taking some victuals out of his wallet, fell to munching lustily as be rode behind his master; and ever and anon he lifted bis bottle to bis nose, and fetched such hearty pulls, tbat it would have made the best pampered vintner in Malaga a-dry to have seen him. While be thus went on stuflttng and swilling, he did not tbink in the least of all bis master's great promises; and was so far from esteeming it a trouble to travel in quest of adventures, that he fancied it to be the greatest pleasure in the world, though they were never so dreadful. 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 be fixed the bead or spear of that which was broken. But be did not sleep all that night, keeping his thoughts intent on his dear Dulcinea, in imitation of what be had read in books of chivalry, where the knights pass their time, without sleep, in forests and deserts, wholly taken up with the entertaining thoughts of their absent mistresses. As for Sancbo, be did not spend the night at that idle rate; for, having his paunch well stuffed with something more substantial than dan- delion-water, be made but one nap of it; and bad not his master waked him, neither the sprightly beams which the sun darted on his face, nor the melody of the birds, that cheerfully on every branch welcomed the smiling morn, would have been able to have made him stir. As he got \xp, to clear his eye-sight, he took two or three long-winded swigs at his friendly bottle for a morning's draught: but be found it somewhat lighter than it was the night before; which misfortune went to bis very heart, for he shrewdly mistrusted that be was not in a way to cure it of that distemper as soon as be could have wished. On the other side, Don Quixote would not break fast, having been feasting all night on the more delicate and savory thoughts of his mistress; and therefore they went on directly towards the pass of Lajjice, which they discovered about three o'clock. When tbey came near it; "Here it is, brother Sancbo," said Don Quixote, "that we may wanton, and, 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 sbouldst see me in the greatest extremity of danger, thou must not offer to draw thy sword in my defence, unless thou find- est me assaulted by base plebeians and vile scoundrels; for in such a case thou mayst assist thy master: but if those with whom I am fighting are knights, thou must not do it ; for the laws of chivalry do not allow thee to encounter a knight until thou art one thyself. " "Never fear," quoth Sancbo; "I'll be sure to obey your worsbip in that, I'll warrant you ; for I have ever loved peace and quietness, and never cared to thrust myself into frays and quarrels: and yet I don't care to take blows at any one's bands neither; and should any ■ Tlie sail hurled away both knight and horse along with it." — p. 28. DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 31 knight offer to set upon me first, I fancy I should hardly mind your laws; for all laws, whether of God or man, allow one to stand in his own defence, if any offer to do him a mischief." "I agree to that," replied Don Quixote; "but as for helping me against any knights, thou must set bounds to thy natural impulses." "I'll be sure to do it," quoth Sancho; "never trust me if I don't keep your commandments as well as I do the Sabbath." 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. They wore riding-masks, with glasses at the eyes, against the dust, and umbrellas to shelter them from the sun. 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 Biscayau lady, who was go- ing to Seville to meet her husband, that was there in order to embark for the Indies, to take possession of a considerable post. Scarce had Don Quixote 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 fa- mous adventure that ever was known ; for without all question those two black things that move towards us must be some necromancers, that are carrying away by force some princess in that coach ; and 'tis my duty to prevent so great an injury." "I fear me this will prove a worse job than the wind- mills," quoth Sancho. "'Slife, sir, don't you see these are Benedictine friars ? and 'tis likely the coach be- longs to some travellers that are in it: therefore, once more take warning, and don't you be led away by the devil." "I have already told thee, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "thou art miserably ignorant in matters of ad- ventures : what I say is true, and thou shalt find it so presently." This said, he spurred on his horse, and posted himself just in the midst of the road where the monks were to pass. And when they came within hearing, "Diabolical and monstrous race !" cried he, in a loud and haughty tone, "immediately release those high-bom princesses whom you are violently conveying away in the coach, or else prepare to meet with instant death, as the just punishment of your pernicious deeds. " The monks stopped their mules, 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 prin- cesses carried away by force in that coach. " "I am not to be deceived with fair words," replied Don Quixote; "I know you well enough, perfidious caitiffs;" and immediately, without waiting for their reply, set spurs to Eozinante, and ran so furiously, with his lance couched, against the first monk, that if he had not prudently flung himself off to the ground, the knight would certainly have laid him either dead or greviously wounded. The other observing the discorteous usage of his companion, clapped his heels to his over-grown mule's flanks, and scoured over the plain as if he had been running a race with the wind. Sancho Pancha no sooner saw the monk fall, but he nimbly leaped ofi" his ass, and running to him, began to strip him immediately; but then the two muleteers, who waited on the monks, came up to him, and asked why he was stripping 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, seeing Don Quixote at a good distance in deep discourse by the side of the coach, fell upon poor Sancho, threw him down, tore his beard from his chin, thumped and mauled him in every part of his carcase, and there left him sprawling 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, waiting to see the issues of this strange adventure; and being unwilling to stay to see the end of it, they made the best of their way, making more signs of the cross than they had done on any pre- vious occasion. Don Quixote, as I said, was all that while engaged with the lady in the coach. "Lady," cried he, "yoiir discretion is now at liberty to dispose of your beautiful self as you please ; for the presumptuous arrogance of those who attemped to enslave your person lies pros- trate in the dust, overthrown by this my strenuous 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 beaaty, 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. " To this strange talk, a certain Biscayan, the lady's squire, gentleman-usher, or what you will please to call him, who rode along with the coach, listened with great at- tention; and perceiving that Don Quixote not only stopped the coach, but would have it presently go back to Toboso, he bore briskly up to him, and laying hold of his lance, "Get gone!" cried he to him in bad Span- ish and worse Biscayan. "Get gone, thou knight! or by that power that made me, if thou dost not leave the coach, me kill thee now, so sure as me a Biscayan. " Don Quixote, who made shift to understand him well enough, very calmly made him this answer. "Wert thou a cavalier, as thou art not, ere this I would have chastised thy insolence and temerity, thou inconsider- able mortal!" "What! me no gentleman?" replied the Biscayan: "I swear thou say false, as me be Christian. If thou throw away lance, and draw sword, me will make no more of thee than cat does of mouse : me will show thee me be Biscayan, and gentleman by land, gentleman by sea, gen- tleman in spite of you ; and thou lie if thou say contrary. " ' Sancho ran as fast as his ass could drive, to help his master."— p. 28. DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANOHA- 33 "I'll try titles with you, as the man said," replied Don Quixote : and with that, throwing away his lance, he drew his sword, grasped his target, and attacked the Biscayan, fully bent oh his destruction. The Bis- cayan seeing him cgme on so furiously, would gladly have alighted, not trusting to his mule, which was one of those scurvy jades that are let out to hire; but all he had time to do was only to draw his sword, and snatch a cushion out of the coach to serve him instead of a shield; and immediately they assaulted one an- other witb all the fury of mortal enemies. The by- standers did all they could to prevent their fighting; but it was in vain, for the Biscayan swore in his gibber- ish he would kill his very lady, and all those who pre- sumed to hinder him, if they would not let him fight. The lady in the coach being extremely affrighted at these passages, made her coachman drive out of harm's way, and at a distance was an eye-witness of the furious combat. At the same time the Biscayan let fall such a mighty blow on Don Quixote's shoulder over his target, that had not his armor been sword-proof, he would have cleft him down to the very waist. The knight feeling the weight of that nnmeasureable blow, cried out aloud, "Oh! lady of my soul, Dulcinea! flower of all beauty, vouchsafe to succor your champion in this dangerous combat, undertaken to set forth your worth!" The breathing out of this short prayer, the griping fast of his sword! the covering of himself with his shield, and the charging of his enemy, was but the work of a moment; for Don Quixote was resolved to venture the fortune of the combat all upon one blow. 2 DON QUIX. The Biscayan, who read his design in his dreadful countenance, resolved to face him with equal bravery, and stand the terrible shock, with uplifted sword, and covered with the cushion, not being able to manage his jaded mule, who, defying the spur, and not being cut out for such pranks, would move neither to the right nor to the left. While Don Quixote, with his sword aloft, was rushing upon the wary Biscayan, with a full resolution to cleave him asunder, all the spectators stood trembling with terror and amazement, expect- ing the dreadful event of those prodigious blows which threatened the two desperate combatants: the lady in the coach, with her women, were making a thousand vows and offerings to all the images and places of de- votion in Spain, that Providence might deliver them and the squire out of the great danger that threatened them. But here we must deplore the abrupt end of this history, which the author leaves off just at the very point when the fortune of the battle is going to be decided, pretending he could find nothing more recorded of Don Quixote's wondrous achievements than what he had already related. However, the second undertaker of this work could not believe that so curious a history could lie for ever inevitably buried in oblivion; or that the learned of La Mancha were so regardless of their country's glory as not to preserve in their archives, or at least in their closets, some memoirs, as monuments of this famous knight; and therefore he would not give over inquiring after the continuation of this pleasant history, till at last he happily found it. 52.^-= "■I'lsnm. CHAPTER IX. THE EVENT OF THE MOST STUPENDOUS COMBAT BETWEEN THE HEAVE BISCAYAN AND THE VALOROUS DON QUIXOTE. We left the valiant Biscayan and the renowned Don Quixote with their swords lifted up and ready to dis- charge on each other fwo furious and most terrible blows, which, had they fallen directly, and met with no opposition, would have cut and divided the two com- batants from head to heel, and have split them like a pomegranate : but, as 1 said before, the story remained imperfect; neither did the author inform us where we might find the remaining part of the relation. This vexed me extremely, and turned the pleasure which the perusal of the beginning had afforded me, into disgust, when I had reason to despair of ever seing the rest. Yet, after all, it seemed to me no less impossible than unjust that so valiant a knight should have been desti- tute of some learned person to record his incomparable exjiloits; a misfortune which never attended any of his predecessors — I mean, the knights-adventurers — each of whom was provided with one or two learned men, who were always at hand to write not only their wond- rous deeds, but also to set down their thoughts and childish petty actions, were they never so hidden. Therefore, as I could not imagine that so worthy a knight should be so iinfortunate as to want that which has been so profusely lavished even on such a one as Platyr, and others of that stamp, I could not induce myself to believe that so admirable a history was ever left unfinished, and rather chose to think that time. the devourer of all things, had hid or consumed it. On the other side, when I considered that several modern books were found in his study, as the "Cure of Jeal- ousy," and the "Nymphs and Shepherds of Henares," I had reason to think that the history of our knight could be of no very ancient date; and that, had it never been continued, yet his neighbors and friends could not have forgot the most remarkable passages of his life. Full of this imagination, I resolved to make it my business to make a particular and exact inquiry into the life and miracles of our renowned Spaniard, Don Quixote, that refulgent glory and mirror of the knighthood of La Mancha, and the first who, in these depraved and miserable times, devoted himself to the neglected profession of knight-errantry, to redress wrongs and injuries, to relieve widows, and defend the honor of damsels. For this reason and many others, I say, our gallant Don Quixote is worthy everlasting and universal praise; nor ought I to be denied my due commendation for my indefatigable care and diligence in seeking and finding out the continuation of this delightful history; though, after all, I must confess that had not chance or fortune assisted me in the dis- covery, the world had been deprived of two hours' diversion and pleasure, which it is likely to afford to those who will read it with attention. One day, being in the Alcana at Toledo, I saw a young lad offer to sell 34 DON QUIXOTE DE LA' MANCHA. 36 a parcel of old written papers to a shopkeeper. Now I, being apt to take up the least piece of -written or printed paper that lies in my wayi though it were in the middle of the street, could not forbear laying my hands on one of the manuscripts, to^ see what it was, and I found it to be written in Arabic, which I could not read. This made me look about to see whether I could find a Morisoo that understood Spanish, to read it for me, and give me some account of it; nor was it very difficult to meet with an interpreter there; for had I wanted one for a better and more ancient tongue, that place would have infallibly supplied me. It was my good fortune to find one immediately ; and having informed him of my desire, he no sooner read some lines, but he began to laugh. I asked him what he laughed at. "At a -certain remark here in the margin of the book," said he. I prayed him to explain it; whereupon still laughing, he did it in these words — "This Dulcinea del Toboso, so often mentioned in this history, is said to have had the best hand at salting of pork of any woman in all La Mancha. " I was surprised when I heard him name Dulcinea del Toboso, and presently imagined that those old papers contained the history of Don Quixote. This made me press him to read the title of the book; which he did, turning it thus extemporary out of Arabic : "The His- tory of Don Quixote de la Mancha; written by Oid Hamet Benengeli, an Arabian Historiographer." I was so overjoyed when I heard the title, that I had much ado to conceal it ; and presently taking the bar- gain out of the shopkeeper's hand, I agreed with the young man for the whole, and bought that for half a real which he might have sold me for twenty times as much, had he but guessed at the eagerness of his chap- man. I immediately withdrew with my purchase to the cloister of the great church, taking the Moor with me; and desired him to translate me those papers that treated of Don Quixote, without adding or omitting the least word, offering him any reasonable satisfaction. He asked me but two arrobes of raisins and two bushels of wheat, and promised me to do it faithfully with all expedition ; in short, for the quicker dispatch and the greater security, being unwilling to let such a lucky prize go out of my hands, I took the Moor to my own house, where in less than six weeks he finished the whole translation. ' ' Don Quixote's fight with" the Biscayan was exactly drawn on one of the leaves of the first quire, in the same posture as we left them, with their swords lifted up over their heads, the one guarding himself with his shield, the other with his cushion. The Biscayan's mule was pictured so to the life, that with half an eye you might have known it to be an hired mule. Under the Biscayan was written Don Sancho de Aspetia; and under Rozinante, Don Quixote. Eozinante was so ad- mirably delineated — so slim, so stiff, so lean, so jaded, with so sharp a ridge-bone, and altogether so like one wasted with an incurable consumption — that any one must have owned at first sight that no horse ever better deserved that name. Not far off stood Sancho Panza holding his ass by the halter; at whose feet there was a scroll, in which was written Sancho Oanzas ; and if we may judge of him by his picture, he was thick and short, paunch-bellied, and long-haunched; so that in all likelihood for this reason he is sometimes called Banza and sometimes Oanza in this history. There were some other niceties to be seen in that piece, but hardly worth observation, as not giving any light into this true history, otherwise they had not passed un- mentioned; for none can be amiss so they be authentic. I must only acquaint the reader that if any objection is to be made as to the veracity of this, it is only that the author is an Arabian, and those of that country are not a little addicted to lying; but yet, if we consider tha-t they are our enemies, we should sooner imaginei that the author has rather suppressed the truth, than added to the real worth of our knight; and I am the more inclinable to think so, because it is plain, that where he ought to have enlarged on his praises, he maliciously chooses to be silent — a proceeding unworthy a his- torian, who ought to be exact, sincere, and impartial ; free from passion, and not to be biased either by inter- est, fear, resentment, or affection, to deviate from truth, which is the mother of history, the preserver and eterniser of great actions, the professed enemy of ob- livion, the witness of things passed, and the director of future times. As for this history, I know it will afford you as great a variety as you could wish, in the most entertaining manner; and if in any point it falls short of your expectation, I am of opinion it is more the fault of its. author than the subject; and so let us come to the history, which, according to our transla- tion, began in this manner. Such were the bold and formidable looks of the two enraged combatants, that with uplifted arms, and with destructive steel, they seemed to threaten heaven, earth, and the infernal mansions; while the spectators seemed wholly lost in fear and astonishment. The choleric Biscayan discharged the first blow, and that with such force, and- so desperate a fury, that had not his sword turned in his hand, that single stroke had put an end to the dreadful combat and all our knight's adventures. But Fate, that reserved him for greater things, so ordered it, that his enemy's sword turned in such a manner, that though it struck him on the left shoulder, it did him no other hurt than to disarm that side of his head, carrying away with it a great part of his hfelmet and one half of his ear, which, like a dreadful ruin, fell , together to the ground. Assist me, ye powers! but it is in vain; the fury which then engrossed the breast of our hero of La Mancha is not to be expressed ; words would but wrong it; for what color of speech can be lively enough to give biit a slight sketch or faint image of his unutterable rage ? Exerting all his valor, he raised himself upon his stirrups,. and seemed even greater than himself; and at the same instant griping his sword fast with both hands, he discharged such a tremendous blow full on the Biscayan's cushion and his head, that in spite of so good a defence, as if a whole mountain had fallen upon him, the blood gushed out at his mouth, nose, and ears, all at once ; and he tottered so in his saddle, 36 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. that he had fallen to the ground immediately, had he not caught hold of the neck of his mule : but the dull beast itself being roused out of its stupidity with that terrible blow, began to run about the fields; and the Biscayan, having lost his stirrups and his hold, with two or three winces the mule shook him off, and threw him on the ground. Don Quixote beheld the disaster of his foe with the greatest tran- quility and unconcern imaginable ; and seeing him down, slipped nimbly from his saddle, and running to him, set the point of his sword to his throat, and bid him yield, or he would cut off his head. The Biscayan was so stunned, that he could make no reply; and Don Quix- ote had certainly made good his threats, so provoked was he, had not the ladies in the coach, who with great nneasiness and fear beheld the sad transactions, hastened to beseech Don Quixote very earnestly to spare his life. "Truly, beautiful ladies," said the vic- torious knight, with a great deal of loftiness and gravity, "I am willing to grant your request; but upon condition that this same knight shall pass his word of honor to go to Toboso, and there present himself in my name before the peerless lady Donna Dulcinea, that she may dispose of him as she shall see convenient." The lady, who was frightened almost out of her senses, without considering what Don Quixote enjoined, or inquiring who the lady Dulcinea was, promised in her squire's behalf a punctual obedience to the knight's commands. "Let him live then," replied Don Quixote, "upon your word, and owe to your intercession that pardon which I might justly deny his arrogance. " 5^^ CHAPTER X. WHAT PAETHEE BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH THE BISCAYAN ; AND OF THE DANaEE HE BAN AMONG A PARCEL OF YANGUESIANS. Sancho Panza was got up again before this, not mucli better for the kicks and thumps bestowed on his carcase by the monks' grooms; and seeing his master engaged in fight, he went devoutly to ijrayers, beseech- ing Heaven to grant him victory, that he might now win some island, in order to his being made governor of it, according to his promise. At last, perceiving the danger was over, the combat at an end, and his master ready to mount again, he ran in all haste to help him ; but ere the knight put his foot in the stirrup, Sancho fell on his knees before him, and, kissing his hand, "An't please your worship," cried he, "my good lord Don Quixote, I beseech you make me governor of the island you have won in this dreadful and bloody fight; for though it were never so great, I find myself able to govern it as well as the best that ever went about to govern an island in the world. " "Brother Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "these are no adventures of islands; these are only recounters on the road, where little is to be got besides a broken head, or the loss of an ear: therefore have patience, and some adventure will offer itself, which will not only enable me to prefer thee to a government, but even to something more considerable. " Sancho gave him a world of thanks; and having once more kissed his hand, and the skirts of his coat of armor, he helped him to get upon Eozinante; and then lesk-piag on his ass, he followed the hero, who, without taking leave of those in the coach, put on a good round pace, and rode into a wood that was not far off. Sancho made after him as fast as his ass would trot; but finding Eozinante was like to leave him behind, he was forced to call for his master to stay for him. Don Quixote accordingly checked his horse, and soon gave Sancho leisure to overtake him. "Methinks, sir," said the fearful squire, as soon as he came up with him, "it won't be amiss for us to betake ourselves to some church, to get out of harm's way; for if that same man whom you have fought with should do otherwise than well, I dare lay my life they will get a warrant from the holy brotherhood, and have us taken uj) ; which if they do, on my word it will go hard with us ere we can get out of their clutches. " "Hold thy tongue!" cried Don Quixote : "where didst thou ever read or find that a knight-errant was brought before any judge for the homicides which he com- mitted?" " I can't tell what you mean by your homilies. " replied Sancho; "I do not know that ever I saw one in my born days, not I; but well I wot that the law lays hold on those that go to murder one another in the fields; and for your what d'ye call them's, I've nothing to say to them." "Then be not afraid, good Sancho," cried Don Quix- ote; "for I would deliver thee out of the tiands of the Chaldeans, and with much more ease out of those of the holy brotherhood. But come, tell me truly, dost thou believe that the whole world can boast of another knight that may pretend to rival me in valor? didst thou ever read in history, that any other ever showed more resolution to undertake, more vigor to attack, more breath to hold out, more dexterity and activity to strike, and more art and force to overthrow his ene- mies?" 37 38 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. "Not I, by my troth," replied Sancho; "I never did meet with anything like you in history, for I can neither read nor write ; but that which I dare wager is, that I never in my life served a bolder master than your wor- ship : pray Heaven this same boldness may not bring us to what I bid you beware of. All I have to put you in mind of now is, that you get your ear dressed, for you lose a deal of blood; and by good luck I have here some lint and a little white salve in my wallet." "How needless would all this have been " cried Don Quixote, "had I but bethought myself of making a small bottle-full of the balsam of Fierabras! a single drop of which would have spared us a great deal of time and medicaments. " "What is that same balsam, an't please you ?" cried Sancho. "A balsam," answered Don Quixote, "of which I have the receipt in my head. He that has it may defy death itself, and dally with all manner of wounds: therefore, when I have made some of it, and given it to thee, if at any time thou happenest to see my body cut in two by some unlucky back-stroke, as 'tis common among us knights-errant, thou hast no more to do but to take up nicely that half of me which is fallen to the ground, and clap it exactly to the other half on the saddle before the blood is congealed, always taking care to lay it just in its proper place ; then thou shalt give me two draughts of that balsam, and thou shalt imme- diately see me become whole, and sound as an apple. " "If this be true," quoth Sancho, "I will quit you of your promise about the island this minute of an hour, and will have nothing of yoiir worship for what service 1 have done and am to do you, but the receipt of that same balsam; for, I dare say, let me go wherever I will, it will be sure to yield me three good reals an ounce ; and thus I shall make shift to pick a pretty good live- lihood out of it. But stay, though," continued he, "does the making stand your worship in much, sir?" "Three quarts of it," replied Don Quixote: "may be made for three reals. " "Body of me!" cried Sancho, "why do not you make some out of hand, and teach me how to make it?" "Say no more, friend Sancho," returned Don Quix- ote; "I intend to teach thee much greater secrets, and design thee nobler rewards ; but in the meantime dress my ear, for it pains me more than I could wish." Sancho then took his lint and ointment out of his wallet; bat when Don Quixote perceived the visor of his helmet was broken, he had like to have run stark staring mad; straight laying hold on his sword, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, "By the great Creator of the universe, " cried he; "by every syllable contained in the four holy evangelists, I swear to lead a life like the great Marquis of Mantua, when he made a vow to re- venge the death of his nephew Yaldovinos, which was never to eat bread on a table-cloth, never to lie down in his bed, and other things, which, though they are now at present slipped out of my memory, I comprise in my vow no less than if I had now mentioned them ; and this I bind myself to, till I have fully revenged myself on him that has done me this injury." "Grood j'Our worship," cried Sancho (amazed to hear him take such a horrid oath), "think on what you are doing; for if that same knight has done as you bid him, and has gone and cast himself before my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, I do not see but you and he are quit; and and the man deserves no further punishment, unless he does you some new mischief." "'Tis well observed," replied Don Quixote; "and therefore as to the point of revenge, I revoke my oath ; but I renew and confirm the rest, protesting solemnly to lead the life I mentioned, till I have by force of arms despoiled some knight of as good ahelmet as mine was. Neither do thou fancy, Sancho, that I make this pro- testation lightly, or make a smoke of straw : no, I have a laudable precedent for it, the authority of which will sufBciently justify my imitation; for the very same thing happened about Mambrino's helmet, which cost Sacripante so dear." "Good sir," quoth Sancho, "let all such cursing and swearing alone; there's nothing can be worse for your soul's health, nay, for your bodily health, neither. Be- sides, suppose we should not this good while meet any one with a helmet on, what a sad case should we then be in! Will j'our worship then keep your oath in spite of so many hardshii)S, such as to lie rough for a month together, far from any inhabited place, and a thousand other idle penances which that mad old Marquis of Mantua punished himself with by his vow? Do but con- sider, that we may ride I do not know how long upon this road without meeting any armed knight to jiick a quarrel with ; for here are none but carriers and wag- oners, who are so far from wearing any helmets, that it is ten to one whether they ever heard of such a thing in their lives." "Thou art mistaken, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote ;" for we shall not be two hours this way without meeting more men in arms than there were at the siege of Albraca, to carry off the fair Angelica. " "Well, then, let it be so," quoth Sancho, "and may we have luck to come off well, and quickly win that island which costs me so dear, and then I,do not matter what befalls me." "I have already bid thee not trouble thyself about this business, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "for should we miss of an island, there is either the kingdom of Dinamarque, or that of Sobradisa, as fit for thy pur- pose as a ring to thy finger; and what ought to be no small comfort to thee, they are both upon terra firma. But we'll talk of this in its proper season: at this time I would have thee see whether thou hast anything to eat in thy wallet, that we may afterwards seek for some castle, where we may lodge this night, and make the balsam I told thee; for I protest my ear smarts ex- tremely. " "I have here an onion," replied the squire, "apiece of cheese, and a few stale crusts of bread; but sure such coarse fare is not for such a brave knight as your worship." "Thou art grossly mistaken, friend Sancho," answer- ed Don Quixote: "know that it is the glory of knights- errant to be whole months without eating; and when DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 39 they do, they fall upon the first thing they meet with, though it be never so homely. Hadst thou but read as many books as I have done, thou hadst been better in- formed as to that point; for though I think I have read as manj' histories of chivalry in my time as any other man, I never could find that the knights-errant ever ate, unless it were by mere accident, or when they were invited to great feasts and royal banquets; at other times they indulged themselves with little other food besides their thoughts. Though it is not to be imag- ined they could live without supplying the exegencies of human nature, as being after all no more than mortal men, yet it is likewise to be disposed that, as they spent the greatest part of their lives in forests and deserts, and always destitute of a cook, consequently their usual food was but such coarse country fare as thou now offerest me. Never, then, make thyself uneasy about what pleases me, friend Sancho, nor pretend to make a new world, nor to unhinge the very constitution and ancient customs of knight-errantry. " "I beg your worship's pardon," cried Sancho; "for as I was never bred a scholar, I may chance to have missed in some main point of your laws of knight-hood; but from this time forward I will be sure to stock my wallet with all sorts of dry fruits for you, because your worship is a knight; as for myself, who am none, I will provide good poultry and other substantial victuals. " "I do not say, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that a knight-errant is obliged to feed altogether upon fruit; I only mean, that this was their common food, together with some roots and herbs, which they found up and down the fields, of all which they had a perfect knowl- edge, as I myself have. " "'Tis a good thing to know these herbs," cried San- cho; "for I am much mistaken, or that kind of knowl- edge will stand us in good stead ere long. In the mean- time," continued he, "here's what good Heaven has sent us. " With that he pulled out the provision he had, and they fell to heartily together. But their impatience to find out a place where they might be harbored that night, made them shorten their sorry meal, and mount again, for fear of being benighted; so away they went in search of a lodging. But the sun and their hopes failed them at once, as they came to a place where some goatherds had set up some small huts ; and therefore they concluded to take up their lodging there that night. This was as great a mortification to Sancho, who was altogether for a good town, as it was a pleas- ure to his master, who was for sleeping in the open fields, as believing that as often as he did it he con- firmed his title to knighthood by a new act of possession. ^X'^?^^-^ CHAPTER XI. WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND THE GOATHERDS. The knight was very courteously received by tlie goatherds; aud as for Sancho, after he had set up Ro- zinante and his ass as well as he could, he presently repaired to the attractive smell of some pieces of kid's flesh which stood boiling in a kettle over the lire. The hungry squire would immediately have tried whether they were iit to be removed out of the kettle into the stomach, but was not i)ut to that trouble ; for the goat- herds took them off the fire and spread some sheepskins on the ground, and soon got their rural feast ready, and cheerfully invited his master and him to partake of what they had. iSText, with some coarse compliment, after the country way, they desired Don Quixote to sit down on a trough with the bottom upwards; and then six of them, who were all that belonged to that fold, squatted them down round the skins, while Sancho stood to wait upon his master, and gave him drink in a horn cup which the goatherds used. But he seeing his man stand behind, said to him — "That thou mayest understand, Sancho, the benefits of knight-errantry, and how the meanest retainers to it have a fair prospect of being speedily esteemed and honored by the world, it is my pleasure that thou sit thee down by me, in the company of these good people ; and that there be no difference now observed between thee and me, thy natural lord and master; that thou eat in the same dish, and drink in the same cup ; for it may be said of knight-errantry, as of love, that it makes all things equal." "I thank yovir worship," cried Sancho; "but yet I must needs own, had I but a good deal of meat before me, I'd eat it as well, or rather better, standing, and by myself, than if I sat by an emperor; and, to deal plain- ly and truly with you, I had rather munch a crust of brown bread and an onion in a corner, without any more ado or ceremony, than feed upon turkey at another man's table, where one is fain to sit mincing and chew- ing his meat an hour together, drink little, be always wiping his fingers and mouth, and never dare to cough nor sneeze, though he has never so much a mind to it, nor do a many things which a body may do freely by one's self; therefore, good sir, change those tokens of your kindness which I have a right to, by being your worship's squire, into something that may do me good. As for these same honors, I heartily thank you as much as if I had accepted them, but yet I give up my right to them from this time to the world's end. " "Talk no more," replied Don Quixote, "but sit thee down, for the humble shall be exalted;" and so pulling him by the arms, he forced him to sit by him. 40 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 41 All this while the goatherds, who did not understand this jargon of knights-errant, chivalry, and squires, but who fairly swallowed whole luncheons as big as their fists with a mighty appetite, fed heartily, and said nothing, but stared upon their guests. The first course being over, they brought in the second, consisting of dried acorns, and half a cheese as hard as a brick ; nor was the horn idle all the while, but went merrily round up and down so many times, sometimes full, and some- times empty, like the two buckets of a well, that they made shift at last to drink off one of the two skins of wine which they had there. And now Don Quixote hf.ving satisfied his appetite, he took a handful of acorns, and looking earnestly upon them, "Oh, happy age," cried he, "which our first parents called the age of gold ! not because gold, so much adored in this iron age, was then easily purchased, but because those two fatal words, 'mine' and 'thine,' were distinctions un- known to the people of those fortunate times: for all things were in common in that holy age : men, for their sustenance, needed only to lift their hands, and take it from the sturdy oak, whose spreading arms liberally in- vited them to gather the wholesome, savory fruit; while the clear springs and silver rivulets, with luxuriant plenty, offered them their pure, refreshing water. In hollow trees, and in the clefts of rocks, the laboring and industrious bees erected their little commonwealths, that men might reap with pleasure and with ease the sweet and fertile harvest of their toils. The tough and strenuous cork-trees did of themselves, and without other art than their native liberality, dismiss and im- part their broad light bark, which served to cover those lowly huts, propped up with rough-hewn stakes, that were first built as a shelter against the inclemencies of the air: all then was union, all peace, all love and friendship in the world : as yet no rude ploughshare presumed with violence to pry into the pious bowels of our mother Earth; for she, without compulsion kindly yielded from every part of her fruitful and spacious bosom whatever might at once satisfy, sustain, and iadulge her frugal children. Then was the time when innocent, beautiful young shepherdesses went tripping over the hills and vales ; their lovely hair sometimes plaited, sometimes loose and flowing, clad in no other vestment but what was necessary to cover decently what modesty would always have concealed : the Tyrian dye, and the rich glossy hue of silk, martyred and dissembled into every color, which are now esteemed so fine and mag- nificent were unknown to the innocent plainness of that age ; yet bedecked with more becoming leaves and flowers they might be said to outshine the proudest of the vain- dressing ladies of our age, arrayed in the most magnifi- cent garbs and all the most sumptuous adornings which idleness and luxury have taught succeeding pride: lovers then expressed the passion of their souls in the unaffected language of the heart, with the native plain- ness and sincerity in which they were conceived, and divested of all that artificial contexture which ener- vates what it labors to enforce: imposture, deceit, and malice had not yet crept in, and imposed themselves upon mankind, in the disguise of truth and simplicity ; justice, unbiassed either by favor or interest, which now so fatally pervert it, was equally and impartially dispensed; nor was the judge's fancy law, for then there were neither judges nor causes to be judged. But in this degenerate age, fraud and a legion of ills infecting the world, no virtue can be safe, no honor be secure; while wanton desires, diffused in the hearts of men, corrupt the strictest watches and the closest retreats ; which, though as intricate and unknown as the labyrinth of Crete, are no security for chastity. Thus that primitive innocence being vanished, and oppression daily prevailing, there was a necessity to oppose the torrent of violence : for which reason the order of knighthood-errant was instituted, to defend the honor of virgins, protect widows, relieve orjihans, and assist all the distressed in general. Now I myself am one of this order, honest friends ; and though all people are obliged by the law of nature to be kind to persons of my order, yet since you, without knowing anything of this obligation, have so generously enter- tained me, I ought to pay you my utmost acknowledge- ment; and, accordingly, return you my most hearty thanks for the same. " All this long oration, which might very well have been spared, was owing to the acorns that recalled the golden age to our knight's remembrance, and made him thus hold forth to the goat-herds, who devoutly listened, but edified little, the discourse not being suited to their capacities. Sancho, as well as they, was silent all the while, eating acorns, and frequently visiting the second skin of wine, which for coolaess' sake was hung upon a neighboring cork-tree. As for Don Quixote, he was longer and more intent upon his speech than upon supper. When he had done, one of the goatherds addressed himself to him. "Sir Knight," said he, "that yoa may be sure you are heartily welcome, we will get one of our fellows to give us a song; he is just a-coming; a good, notable young lad he is — I will say that for him — and up to the ears in love. He is a scholar, and can read and write; and plays so rarely upon the rebeck, that it is a charm but to hear him. " No sooner were the words out of the goatherd's mouth, but they heard the sound of the instrument he spoke of, and presently appeared a good, comely young man of about two-and-twenty years of age. The goatherds asked him if he had supped; and he having told them he had — "Then, dear Antonio," says the first speaker, "pray thee sing us a song, to let this gentleman, our guest, see that we have those among us who know somewhat of music, for all we live amidst woods and mountains. We have told him of thee already ; therefore, pray thee, make our words good, and sing us the ditty thy uncle, the prebendary, made of thy love, that was so liked in our town." "With all my heart," replied Antonio; and so with- oiit any further entreaty, sitting down on the stump of an oak, he tuned his fiddle, and very handsomely sung the following song;. — , T' A \ DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 43 ANTONIO'S AMOROUS COMPLAINT. Though love ne'er prattles at your eyes (The eyes those silent tongues of love), Tet sure, Olalia, you're my prize ; For truthj.with zeal, even heaven can move. I think, my-love, you only try, Even while I fear you've sealed my doom: So, though involved in doubts I lie, Hope sometimes glimmers through the gloom. . A flame so fierce, so bright, so pore, No scorn can quench, on art Improve : Thus like a martyr I endure ; Por there's a heaven to crown my love. In dress and dancing I have strove My proudest rivals to outvie ; In serenades I've breathed my love, When all things slept but love and I. I need not add, I speak your praise Till every nymph^s disdain I move ; Though thus a thousand foes I raise, 'Tis sweet to praise the fair I love. Teresa once your charms debased, But I her rudeness soon reproved : In vain her friend my anger faced ; For then I fonght'for her I loved. Dear, cruel fair I why then so coy f Bow can you so much love withstand f Alas I I crave no lawless joy, ,/]• - But with my heart would give my Iiand. Soft, easy, strong is Eymen''B tie : . ' _ Oh, then,..no more the bliss refufie 1 Oh, wed me, or I swear to die, rC Or linger wretched ^nd -reel use t Here Antonio ended his song ; Don Qnixote entreated him to sing another; but Sancho Panza, being more disposed to sleep than to hear the finest singing in the world, was of another mind; and therefore he said to his master — ,\ , , - ' "Good sir, your worship had better go and lie down where yon are to take your rest this night; besides, these good people are tired with their day's la,bor, and rather want to go to sleep, than to sit up all night to hear ballads." i; . ^r\:-.- ■; "I understand thee, Sancho," cried Don Quixote; "and, indeed, I thought thy frequent visiting the bottle would malce thee fonder of sleep than of music." "JMake us thankful 1" cried Sancho; "we all liked the wine well enough." - ' ": / "I do not deny it, " replied Don Quixote; "but go thou and lay thee down where thou pleasest; as for me, it better, becomes a man of my profession to wake than to sleep : yet stay and dress my ear before thou goest, for it pains me extremely." Thereupon one of .the goatherds "beholding the wound, as Sancho-offered tp dress it, desired the knight not to trouble himself,' for he had a remedy that would quick- ly cure him; and tHen fetching a few roseinary leaves, which grew in great plenty thereabout, he bruised them, and mixed a little salt among them, and having applied the medicine to the ear, he^ound it up> assur- ing him he needed no other remedy; w]2iW'»''^( ■' >m:- CHAPTER XII. THE STOEY WHICH A YOUNG GOATHEED TOLD TO THOSE THAT WBEE WITH DON QUIXOTE. A YOUNG FELLOW, wlio used to bring them provis- ions from the next village, hapijened to come while this was doing, and addressing himself to the goatherds, "Hark ye, friends," said he, "d'ye hear the news?" "What news?" cried one of the company. "That fine shepherd and scholar Chrysostome died this morning," answered the other; "and they say it was for love of that untoward lass, Mart'ella, rich Wil- liam's daughter, that goes up and down the country in the habit of a shepherdess. " "For Marcella !" cried one of the goatherds. "Isay for her," replied thefellow; "and what is more, it is reported he has ordered by his will, they should bury him in the fields like any heathen Moor, just at the foot of the rock hard by the cork-tree fountain, where they say he had the first sight of her. Nay, he has likewise ordered many other strange things to be done, which the heads of the parish won't allow of, for they seem to be after the way of the Pagans. But Ambrose, the other scholar who, likewise apparelled himself as a shepherd, is resolved to have his friend Chrysostome's will fulfilled in everything, just as he has ordered it. All the village is in an uproar. But, after all, it is thought 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 ; howsoever, be it what it will, 1 will even go and see it, even though I could not get back again to-morrow. " "We will all go," cried the goatherds, "and cast lots who shall tarry to look after the goats." "Well said, Peter," cried one of the goatherds; "but as for casting lots, I will save you that labor, for I will stay myself, not so much out of kindness to you neither, or want of curiosity, as because of the thorn which stuck into my toe the other day, that will not let me go. " "Thank you, however," quoth Peter. Don Quixote, who heard all this, entreated Peter to tell him who the deceased was, and also to gi\'e him a short account of the shepherdess. Peter made answer, that all he knew of the matter was, that the deceased was a wealthy gentleman, who lived not far oif ; that he had been several years at the university of Salamanca, and then came home mightily improved in his learning. "But above all," qiroth he, "it was said of him, that he had great knowledge in the stars, and whatsoever the sun and moon do in the skies, for he would tell us punctually the clip of the sun and moon." "We call it an eclipse," cried Don Quixote, "and not 44 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANOHA. 45 a clip, wieii either of those two great luminaries are darkened." "He would also," continued Peter, who did not stand upon such nice distinctions, "foretell when the year would be plentiful or estiV "You would say sieril," cried Don Quixote. "Steril or estil," replied the fellow, "that is all one to me : but this I say, that his parents and friends, being ruled by him, grew woundy rich in a short time ; for he would tell them, 'This year sow barley, and no wheat: in this you may sow pease, and no barley : next year will be a good year for oil : the three after that, you shan't gather a drop ;' and whatsoever he said would certainly come to pass." "That science," said Don Quixote, "is called as- trology." "I do not know what you call it," answered Peter, "but I know he knew all this, and a deal more. But, in short, within some few months after he had left the 'versity, 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, a great friend of his, who had been his fellow-scholar also, took upon him to go like a shepherd, and keep him company, which we all did not a little marvel at. I had almost forgot to tell you how he that is dead was a mighty man for making of verses, insomuch that he commonly made the carols which he sung on Christmas-eve, and the plays which the young lads in our neighborhood enact- ed on Corpus Christi Day ; and every one would say, that nobody could mend them. Somewhat before that time Ohrysostome's father died, and left him a deal of wealth, both in land, money, cattle, and other goods, whereof the young man remained dissolute master; and in troth he deserved it all, for he was as good natured a soul as e'er trod on shoe of leather; mighty good to the poor, a main friend to all honest people, and had a face like a blessing. At last it came to be known, that the reason of his altering his garb in that fashion, was only that he might go up and down after that shepherdess Mar- cella, whom oux comrade told you of before, for he was fallen mightily in love with her. And now I will tell you such a thing you never heard the like in your born days, and may not chance to hear of such another while you breathe, though you were to live as long as Sarnahl" "Say Sarah," cried Don Quixote, who hated to hear him blunder thus. "The Sarna, or the itch, for that is all one with us," quoth Peter, "lives long enough too; but if you make me break off my tale at every word, we are not like to have done this twelvemonth." "Pardon me, friend, " replied Don Quixote ; "I only spoke to make thee understand that there is a differ- ence between Sarna and Sarah : however thou sayest well; for the Sarna (that is, the itch) lives longer than Sarah ; therefore pray make an end of thy story, for I will not interrupt thee any more. " "Well, then," quoth Peter, "you must know, good master of mine, that there lived near us one William, a yeoman, who was richer yet than Chrysostome's father; now he had no child in the 'versal world but a daugh- ter; her mother died when she was born (rest her soul!) and 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, the sun on one side, and the moon on the t'other. She was a main house-wife, and did a deal of good among the poor; for which I dare say she is at this minute in Paradise. Alas! her death broke old William's heart; he soon went after her, pioor man! and left all to his little daughter, that Marcella by name, giving charge of her to her uncle, the parson of our parish. Well, the girl grew such a fine child, and so like her mother, that it used to put iis in mind of her every foot; iowever, 'twas thought she'd make a finer woman yet: and so it happened indeed; for, by that time she was 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 whUe her uncle kept her up very close; yet the report of her great beauty and wealth spread far and near, insomuch that she had I don't know how many sweethearts. Almost all the young men in our town asked her of her uncle ; nay, from I don't know how many leagues about us, there flocked whole droves of suitors, and the very best in the country, too, who all begged and sued and teased her uncle to let them have her. But though he'd have been glad to have got fairly rid of her, as soon as she was fit for a husband, yet would not he advise or marry her against her will : for he's a good man, I'll say that for him, and a true Christian every inch of him, and scorns to keep her from marrying to make a benefit of her estate ; and, to his praise be it spoken, he has been mainly commended for it more than once, when the people of our parish meet together. For I must tell you. Sir Errant, that here in the country, and in our little towns, there is not the least thing can be said or done but people will talk and find fault; but let busybodies prate as they please, the parson must have a good body indeed who could bring his whole parish to give him a good word, espec- ially in the country. " "Thou art in the right," cried Don Quixote; "and therefore go on, honest Peter, for the story is pleasant, and thou tellest it with a grace. " "May I never want God's grace," quoth Peter, "for that is most to the purpose. But for our parson, as I told you before, he was not for keeping his niece from marrying, and therefore he took care to let her know of all those that would have taken her to wife, both what they were and what they had, and he was at her, to have her pitch upon one of them for a husband; yet would she never answer otherwise, but that she had no mind as yet to wed, as finding herself too young for the burden of wedlock. With these and such like come- offs, she got her uncle to let her alone, and wait till she thought fit to choose for herself: for he was wont to say, that parents are not to bestow their children where they bear no liking, and in that he spoke like an honest man. And thus it happened, that when we least dreamed of it, that coy lass, finding herself at liberty, 46 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. would needs turn slieperdess; and neither her uncle, nor all those of the village who advised her against it, could work anything upon her, biit 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, that I cannot tell how many spruce gallants, both gentlemen and rich farmers, changed their garb for love of her, and fol- lowed her up and down in shepherd's guise. One of them, as I have told you, was this same Ohrysostome, who now lies dead, of whom it is said, he not only loved, but worshipped her. Howsoever, I would not have you think or surmise, because Marcella took that course of life, and was as it were tinder no manner of keeping, that she gave the least token of naughtiness or light behavior ; for she ever was, and is still, so coy, and so watchful to keep her honor pure and free from evil tongues, that among so many wooers who suitor her, there is not one can make his brags of having the least hope of ever speeding with her ; for though she does not shun the company of shepherds, but uses them courteously, so far as they behave themselves handsomely, yet whensoever any one of them does but offer to break his mind to her, be it ever so well meant, and only in order to marry, she casts him away from her, as with a sling, and will never have any more to say to him. "And thus this fair maiden does more harm in this country than the plague would do ; for her oourt«ous- ness and fair looks draw on everybody to love her; but then her dogged, stubborn coyness breaks their hearts, and makes them ready to hang themselves; 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'd hear these hills and valleys ring again with the doeful moans of those she has denied, who yet can- not, for the blood of them, give over sneaking after her. We have a place not far off, where there are some two dozen of beach-trees, and on them all you may find, I don't know how many, Marcellas cut in the smooth bark. On some of them there is a crown carved over the nii.me, as much as to say that Marcella bears away the cri)wn. and deserves the garland of beauty. Here sighs one shepherd, there another whines; here is one singing doleful ditties, there another is wringing his hands and making woful complaints. Ton shall have one lay him down at night at the foot of a rock, or some oak, and there lie w eping and wailing, without a wink of sleep, and talking to himself till the sun finds him the next morning; you shall have another lie stretched upon the hot, sandy ground, breathing his sad lamentations to Heaven, without heeding the sultry heat of the sum- mer sun. And all this while the hard-hearted Marcella ne'er minds any one of them, and does not seem to be the least concerned for them. We are all mightily at a loss to know what will be the end of all this pride and coyness ; who shall be the happy man that shall at last tame her, and bring her to his lure. Now because there is nothing more certain than all this, I am the more apt to give credit to what our comrade has told us, as to the occasion of Chrysostome's death; and therefore I would needs have you go and see him laid in his grave to-morrow ; which I believe will be worth your while, for'he Lad 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 th ee many thanks for the extra- ordinary satisfaction this story has afforded me. " "Alas! Sir Knight;" replied he goatherd, "I have not told you half the mischiefs this proud creature hath done here, but to-morrow mayhap we shall meet some shepherd by the way that will be able to tell you more. Meanwhile it won't be amiss for you to take your rest in one of the huts; for the open air is not good for your wound, though what I've put to it is so special a medi- cine that there's not much need to fear but 'will do well enough." Sancho, who was quite out of patience with the goat- herd's long story, and wished him further for his pains, at last prevailed with him to lie down in Peter's hut, where Don Quixote, in imitation of Marcella's lovers, devoted the remainder of the night to amorous expos- tulations with his dear Dulcinea. As for Sancho, he laid himself down between Bozinante and his ass, and slept it out, not like a disconsolate lover, but like a man th at had been soundly kicked and bruised in the morning. 'ciS£:^r^^=:-i~^=:^^= CHAPTER XIII. A CONTINTJATION OF THE STOET OF MAECBLLA. SOAECE haxi 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 his resolution of going to the funeral, whither they were ready to bear him company. Thereupon the knight, who desired nothing more, presently arose, and ordered Sancho to get Eozinante and the ass 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 towards them, 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 gen- tlemen on horseback, attended by three young lads on foot, came immediately after them ; as they drew near, they saluted one another civilly, "and after the usual question, "Which way d'ye travel?" they found they were all going the same way, to see the funeral : and so they all joined company. "I fancy, Sefior Vivaldo," said one of the gentlemen, addressing himself to the other, "we shall not think our time misspent in going to see this famous funeral, for it must of necessity be very extraordinary, accord- ing to the account which these men have given us of the dead shepherd and his murdering mistress." "I am so far of j^our opinion," answered Vivaldo; "that I would not stay one day, but a whole week, rather than miss the sight. " This gave Don Quixote occasion to ask them what they had heard concerning Chrysostome and Marcella. One of the gentlemen made answer, That having met that morning with these shepherds, they could not for- bear inquiring of them why they wore such a mournful dress; whereupon one of them acquainted them with the sad occasion, by relating the story of a certain shep- herdess, named Marcella, no less lovely than cruel, whose coyness and disdain had made a world of unfor- tunate lover's, and caiised the death of that Chrysostome to whose funeral they were going. In short, he repeat- ed to Don Quixote all that Peter had told him the night before. 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, sump- tuous dresses, and downy ease were invented for effem- inate courtiers ; but labor, vigilance, and arms are the portion of those whom the world calls knights-errant, of which number I have the honor to be one, though the most unworthy and the meanest of the fraternity." He needed to say no more to satisfy them his brains were out of order; however, that they might the better 47 48 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. understand the nature of his folly, Vivaldo asked him what he meant by a knight-errant. "Have you not read," cried Don Quixote, "the An- nals and History of Britain, where are recorded the famous deeds of King Arthur, who, according to the ancient tradition in that kingdom, never died, but was turned into a crow by enchantment, and shall one day resume his former shape, and recover his kingdom again?. For which reason, since that time, the people of Great Britain dare not offer to kill a crow. In this good king's time, the most noble order of the Knights of the Round Table was first instituted, and then also the amours between Sir Lancelot of the Lake and Queen Guinever were really transacted, as that history relates ; they being managed and carried on by the mediation of that honorable matron, the Lady Quintaniona, which produced that excellent history in verse so sung and celebrated here in Spain — ' There never was on earth a knight So waited on by ladies fair, As once was he Sir Lanceiot hight, When first he left his country dear:* and the rest, which gives so delightful an account both of his loves and feats of arms. From that time the or- der of knight-errantry began by degress to dilate and extend itself into most parts of the world. Then did the great Amadis de Gaul signalize himself by heroic exploits, and so did his offspring to the fifth generation. The valorous Felixmart of Hyrcania then got immortal fame, and that undaunted knight, Tirante the White, who never can be applauded to his worth. Nay, had we but lived a little sooner, we might have been blessed with the conversation of that invincible knight of our modern times, the valorous Don Belianis of Greece. And this, gentlemen, is that order of chivalry which, sinner though I am, I profess, with a due observance of the laws which those brave knights observed before me ; and for that reason I choose to wander through these solitary deserts, seeking adventures, fully re- solved to expose my person to the most formidable dan- gers which Fortune can obtrude on me, that by the strength of my arm I may relieve the weak and the dis- tressed. " After all this stuff, you may be sure the travellers were sufflciently 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. However, Vi- valdo, who was of a gay disposition, had no sooner made the discovery, but he resolved to make the best advanta.ge of it that the shortness of the way would allow him. Therefore, to give him further occasion to divert them with his whimsies, "Methinks, Sir Knight-errant, " said he to him, "you have taken up one of the strictest and most mortifying professions in the world. I don't think but that a Carthusian friar has a better time on't than you have. " "Perhaps," answered Don Quixote, "the prolession of a Carthusian may be as austere, but I am within two fingers' breadth of doubting whether it may be as ben- eficial to the world as ours. For, if we must speak the truth, the soldier, who puts his captain's command in execution, may be said to do as much at least as the caj)tain who commanded him. The application is easy : for, while those religious men have nothing to do, but with all quietness and security to say their prayers for the prosperity of the world, we knights, like soldiers, execute what they do but pray for, by the strength of our arms, and at the hazard of our lives, 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 sub- ject 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 valor 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 emergen- cies, they would have been strangely disappointed of their mighty expectations. " "I am of the same opinion," replied Yivaldo. "But one thing among many others, which I can by no means approve in your profession, is, that when you are just going to engage in some very hazardous adventure, where your lives are evidently to be much endangered, you never once remember to commend yourselves to God, as every good Christian ought to do on such occa- sions, but only recommend yourselves to your mistresses, and that with as great zeal and devotion as if you wor- shipped no other deity; a thing which, in my opinion, strongly relishes of paganism." "Sir," replied Don Quixote, "there is no altering that method; for should a Icnight-errant do other- wise, he would too mvich deviate from the ancient and established customs of knight-errantry, which in- violably oblige him just in the moment when he is rushing on, to have his mistress still before his eye.s, by a strong and lively imagination, and with soft, amorous, and energetic looks, imploring her favor and protection in that perilous circumstance. Nay, even if nobody can hear him, he is obliged to whisper, or speak between his teeth, some short ejacu- lations, to recommend himself with all the fervency imaginable to the lady of his wishes; and of this we have innumerable examples in history. Nor are you for all this to imagine that knights-errant omit recom- mending themselves to Heaven, for they have leisure enough to do it even in the midst of the combat." "Sir," replied Vivaldo, "you must give me leave to tell you, I am not yet thoroughly satisfied on this point: for I have often observed in my reading, that two knights-errant, having first talked a little together, have fallen out presently, and been so highly provoked, that, having turned their horses' heads to gain room for the career, they have wheeled about, and then with all speed run full tilt at one another, hastily recom- BON QUIXOTE DE LA MANOHA. 49 ntending themselves to their mistresses in the midst of their career; and the next thing has commonly been, that one of them has been thrown to the ground over the crupper of his horse, fairly run through and through with his enemy's lance; and the other forced to catch hold of his horse's mane to keep himself from falling. Now, I cannot apprehend how the knight that was slain had any time to recommend himself to Heaven, when his business was done so suddenly. Me- thinks those hasty invocations, which in his career were directed to his mistress, should have been direct- ed to Heaven, as every good Christian would have done. Besides, I fancy every knight-errant has not a mistress to invoke, nor is every one of them in love. " "Tour conjecture is wrong," replied Don Quixote; "a knight-errant cannot be without a mistress. 'Tis not more essential for the skies to have stars, than 'tis to us to be in love; insomuch, that I dare affirm that no history ever made mention of any knight-errant that was not a lover : for were any knight free from the im- pulses of that generous passion, he would not be allow- ed to be a lawful knight, but a misborn intruder, and one who was not admitted within the pale of knight- hood at the door, but leaped the fence, and stole in like a robber and a thief. " "Yet, sir," replied the other, "I am much mistaken, or I have read that Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis, never had any certain mistress to recommend himself to, and yet for all that he was not the less esteemed. " "One swallow never makes a summer," answered Don Quixote. "Besides, I know that knight was privately very much in love ; and as for his making his addresses wherever he met with beauty, this was an effect of his natural inclination, which he could not easily restrain. But after all, 'tis an undeniable truth, that he had a favorite lady, whom he had crowned em- press of his will; and to her he frequently recommend- ed himself ir. private, for he did not a little value him- self upon his discretion and secrecy in love. " "Then, sir," said Vivaldo, "since 'tis 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 as much as Don Galaor did, 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 mistress, the place of her birth, and the charms of her person. For, without doubt, the lady cannot but esteem herself happy in being known to all the world to be the object of the wishes of a knight so ac- complished 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 honors with her residence. As for her quality, it cannot be less than princess, seeing she is my mistress and my queen. Her beauty trans- cends all the united charms of her whole sex; even 3 DON QUIX. those chimerical perfections which the hyperbolical imaginations of poets in love have assigned to their mistresses cease to be incredible descriptions when ap- plied 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 hands ivory; and snow would lose its whiteness near her bosom. " "Pray, sir," cried Vivaldo, "oblige us with an account of her parentage, and the place of her birth, to complete the description. " " Sir, " replied Don Quixote, " she is not descended from the ancient Ourtius's, Caius's, nor Scipios of Eome, nor from the more modern Colonas nor Ursinis; nor from the Moncadas and Eequesenes, of Catalonia; nor from the Rebillas and Villanovas of Valencia; nor from the Palafoxes, Nucas, Eocabertis, Corellas, Lunas, Ala- gones, ITrreas, Fozes, or Gurreas of Arragon ; nor from the Cerdas, Manriques, Mendozas, and Gnzmans of Cas- tUe; nor from the Alencastros, Pallas, and Menezes of Portugal ; but she derives her great original from the family of Toboso in La Mancha — a race, which, though it be modern, is sufficient to give a noble beginning to the most illustrious progenies of succeeding ages. And let no man presume to contradict me in this, unless it be upon those conditions which Zerbin fixed at the foot of Orlando's armor: *' ' Let none bat he these arms displace, Who dares Orlando's fury face.' " "I draw my pedigree from the Cachopines of Laredo, " replied Vivaldo; "yet I dare not make any comparisons with the Tobosos of La Mancha; though, to deal sincere- ly with you, 'tis a family I never heard of till this moment. " "'Tis strange," said Don Quixote, "you should never have heard of it before. " All the rest of the company gave great attention to this discourse; and even the very goatherds and shep- herds were now fully convinced that Don Quixote's brains were turned topsy-turvy. But Sancho Panza believed every word that dropped from his master's mouth to be truth, as having known him from his cradle to be a man of sincerity. Tet that which somewhat staggered his faith was this story of Dulcinea of Toboso ; for he was sure he had never heard before of any such princess, nor even of the name, though he lived hard by Toboso. As they went on thus discoursing, they saw upon the hollow road between the neighboring mountains, about twenty shepherds more, all accoutred in black skins, with garlands on their heads, which, as they afterwards perceived, were all of yew or cypress ; six of them carried a bier covered with several sorts of boughs and flowers: which one of the goatherds espying— "Those are they," cried he, "that are carrying poor Chrysostome to his grave ; and 'twas in yonder bottom j that he gave charge they should bury his corpse. " 50 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. This made them all double their pace, that they might get thither in time ; and so they arrived just as the bearers had set down the bier npon the ground, and four of them had begun to open the ground with their spades, just 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 appeared about thirty years old; and, dead as he was, it was easily perceived that both his face and shape were extraordinarily handsome. Within the bier were some books and papers, some open, and the rest folded up. This doleful object so strangely filled all the company with sadness, that not only the beholders, but also the grave-makers, and all the mourning shepherds, remained a longtime silent; till at last one of the bearers, addressing himself to one of the rest — "Look, Ambrose," cried he, "whether this be the jilace which Chrysostome meant, since you must needs have his will so punctually i>erformed." " This is the very place," answered the other; " there it was that 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 Marcella last denied, shunned him, and drove him to that extremity of sorrow and despair that hastened the sad catastrophe of his tragical and miserable life; and there it was that, in token of so many misfortunes, he desired to be committed to the bowels of eternal obli- vion." 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 enriclied with the greatest part of its most valuable graces. This is the body of that Chrysostome who was unrivalled in wit, matchless in courteousness, incom- parable in gracefulness, a phoBuix in friendship, gener- ous and magniiicent without ostentation, prudent and grave without pride, modest without aifectation, pleasant and complaisant without meanness ; in a word, the first in every estimable qualification, and 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 ap- pear more cruel to them than their exasperated, un- happy parent. Consider, sir, 'tis not consistent with dis- cretion, nor even with justice, so nicely to perform the request of the dead, when 'tis repugnant to reason. Augustus Caesar himself would have forfeited his title to wisdom, had he permitted that to have been effected, which the divine Virgil had ordered by his will. There- fore, sir, now that you resign your friend's body to the grave, do not hurry thus the noble and only remains of that dear unhappy man to a worse fate, the death of oblivion. What though he has doomed them to perish in the height of his resentment, you ought not indis- creetly 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 j-our friend's virtue and Marcella's ingratitude, as a warning to others, that they may avoid such tempting snares and enchanting destruc- tions; for not only to me, but to all here present, is well known tlie history of your enamored and desperate friend: we are no strangers to the friendship that was between you, as also to Marcella's cruelty, which occa- sioned his death. Last night we were informed that he was to be buried here to-day ; and so, 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 in the name of all the company, like me, deeply aifected with a sense of Chrysostome's extra- ordinary merit, and his unhappy fate, and desirous to prevent such deplorable disasters for the future, 1 beg that you will permit me to save some of these papers, whatever j'ou 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 reso- lution of burning them. " Vivaldo said no more; but being impatient to see what tliose papers were, which 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 re- duced him, read it aloud, I beseech you, sir, while the grave is making. " "With all my heart," replied Vivaldo: and so the company, having the same desire, presently gathered round about him, and he read the following lines. CHAPTER XIV. THE TJNFOETUNATE SHEPHEBD'S TERSEtS, AND OTHER UNEXPECTED MATTERS. THE DESPAIKING LOVER. JlBLENLEsa tyrant of my heart, Attend, and hear thy slave impart The matchless story of hia pain. In vain I labor to conceal What my extorted groans reveal ; Who can be racked, and not complain f But, ohl who duly can express Thy cruelty, and my distress? E^o human heart, no human tODgue. Then fiends assist, and rage infuse f A raving fury be my muse, And Pluto teach the dismal sougl Though still I moan in dreary caves, To desert rocks and silent graves My loud complaints shall wander far ; Borne by the winds they shall survive, By pitying echoes kept alive, And fill the world with my despair. Love's deadly cure is fierce disdain. Distracting fear a dreadful pain. And jealousy a matchless woe ; Absence is death ; yet while it kills, 1 live with all these mortal ills, Scorned, jealous, loath'd, and absent, too. JHo dawn of hope e'er cheer'd my heart, Ho pitying ray e'er soothed my smart ; All, all the sweets of life are gone I Then come despair, and frantic rage. With instant fate my pain assuage, And end a thousand deaths by one But even in death let love be crown'd, My fair destruction guiltless found. And I be thought with justice scom'd, Thus let me fall unloved, unbless'd. With all my load of woes oppressM, And even too wretched to be monm'd. Oh! thou by whose destructive fate I'm hurried to this doleful fate, When I'm no more, thy pity spare! I dread thy tears ; oh I spare them, then — But, ohl I rave, I was too vain; My death can never cost a tear And thou, my song, sad child of woe, When life is gone, and I'm below, For thy lost parent cease to grieve. With life and thee my woes increase, And should they not by dying cease. There are no pains like those I leave. These verses were well approved by all the com- pany; only Vivaldo observed, that the jealousies and fears of which the shepherd complained did not very- well agree with what he had heard of Marcella's un- spotted modesty and reservedness. But Ambrose, who had been always privy to the most secret thoughts of his friend, informed him that the unhappy Chrysostome wrote those verses when he had torn himself from his adored mistress, to try whether absence, the common cure of love, would relieve him and mitigate his pain. And as everything disturbs an absent lover, so did 51 52 DON QUTXOTE DB LA MANCHA. Chrysostome perplex himself with jealousies and sus- picions, which had no ground but in his distracted imagination; and therefore whatever he said in those uneasy circumstances could never affect, or in the least prejudice, Marcella's virtuous character, upon whom, setting aside her cruelty and her disdainful haughti- ness, envy itself could never fix the least reproach, Tivaldo being thus convinced, they were going to read another pajier, when they were unexpectedly ijrevented by a kind of apparition that offered itself to their view. It was Marcella herself, who appeared at the top of the rock, at the foot of which they were digging the grave; but so beautiful, that fame seemed rather to have lessened than to have magnified her charms; 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, with anger and indignation in his heart, he cried out — "What makest thou there, thou fierce, thou cruel basilisk of these mountains? comest thou to see whether the wounds of this murdered wretch will bleed afresh at thy presence? or comest thou, thus mounted aloft, to glory in the fatal elfects of thy native inhumanit5', like another Nero at the sight of flaming Borne? or is it to trample on this unfortunate corpse, as Tarquin's un- grateful daughter did her father's? Tell us quickly why thou comest, and what thou yet desirest? for since I know that Ohrysostome's whole study was to serve and please thee while he lived, I am willing to dispose all his friends to pay thee the like obedience now he is dead." "I came 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 misfortunes and Ohrysostome's death to my charge: therefore, I entreat you all who are here at this time to hear me a little. 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 endeavors to the contrary: and for the sake of that love, you say, I ought to love you again. Now, thou;;h 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 different 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 or captivate the heart. Alas! if whatever is beautiful were to beget love and enslave the mind, mankind's desires would ever run confused and wan- dering, 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 must be voluntary and un- forced. This being granted, why would you have me force my inclinations for no other reason but that you say you love me! Tell me, I beseech you, had Heavea formed me as ugly as it has made me beautiful, could I justly comjilain of you for not loving me? Pray con- sider also, that I do not possess those charms by choice ;, such as they are, they were freely bestowed on me by Heaven : and as the viper is not to be blamed for the- poison with which she kills, seeing it was assigned her by Nature, so I ought not to be censured for that beauty which I derive from the same cause; for beauty in a virtuous woman is like a distant flame, or a sharp-edged sword, and only burns and wounds those who approach too near it. Honor and virtue are the ornaments of the soul, and that body that is destitute of them cannot b& esteemed beautiful, though it be naturally so. If, then, honor be one those endowments which must adorn the body, why should she that is beloved for her beauty expose herself to the loss of it? 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 mj'looking-glas.ses. To the trees and to the waters, I communicate my thoughts and my beauty. I am a distant flame, and a sword far off: those whom the sight of me has enamored. I have undeceived with my words; and as I never gave any encouragement to Chrysostome, nor to any other, it may well be said it was rather his own obstinacy than my cruelty that shortened his life. If you tell me that his intentions, were honest, and therefore oug'ht 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 en- joy the spoils of my beauty; and if, after all the admo- nitions I gave him, he would persist in his obstinate pursuit, and sail against the wind, what wonder is it he should perish in the waves of his indiscretion! Had I ever encouraged him, or amused him 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 ta judge whether I ought to be blamed for his suft'erings. If I have deceived any one, let him complain; if I have broke my promise to any one, let him despair; if I en- courage any one, let him presume; if I entertain any one, let him boa.st: but let no man call me cruel or mur- deress, until I either deceive, break mj^ jiromise, en- courage, or entertain him. Heaven has not yet been pleased to show whether it is its will I should love by destiny ; and it is vain to think I will ever do it by choice ; so let this general caution serve every one of those who make their addresses to me for their own ends. And if any one hereafter dies on my account, let not their jeal- ousy, nor my scoru or hate, be thought the cause of their death; for she who never pretended to love cannot make any one jealous, and a free and generous declara- tion of our fixed resolution ought not to be counted DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANOHA. 53 hate or disdain. In short, 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 liate any one: the innocent conversation of the neigh- "boring shepherdesses, and the care of my flocks, help me to pass away my time, without either coquetting with this man or practising arts to ensnare that other. My thoughts are limited by these mountains; and if they wander further, it is only to admire the beauty of heaven, and thus by steps to raise my soul towards her original dwelling." As soon as she had said this, without staying for any answer, she left the place, and ran into the thickest of the adjoining wood, leaving all that heard her charmed with her discretion as well as with her beauty. How- ever, so prevalent were the charms of the latter, that some or the company, who were desperately struck, could not forbear offering to follow her, without being 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 furious displeasure. She 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, in- stead of being importuned and persecuted, she ought to be esteemed and honored by all good men, as beingper- haps the only woman in the world that ever lived with such a virtuous reservedness. " Kow, whether it were that Don Quixote's threats terrified the amorous shepherds, or that Ambrose's per- suasion prevailed with them to stay and see their friend interred, none of the shepherds left the place, till the grave was made, and the papers burnt, the body was deposited into the bosom of the earth, not without many tears from all the assistants. They covered the grave with a great stone, till a monument was made, which Ambrose said he designed to have set up there, with the following epitaph upon it : — CHBTSOSTOME'S EPITAPH. ' Here of a wretched fiwaln ■ The frozen body's laid, Eill'd by the cold disdalD Of an angratef 111 maid. Here first love's power he tried. Here first his pains expresB'd ; Here first he was denied, Here first he chose to rest. Ton who the shepherd moom. Prom coy Marcella fly ; Who Chrysostome conld scorn. May all mankind destroy. The shepherds strewed the grave with many flowers and boughs; and everyone having condoled a while with 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 goatherds, that had entertained him, and to the two travellers who desired him to go with them to Seville, assuring him there was no place in the world more fertile in adventures, every street and every cor- ner there producing some. Don Quixote returned them thanks for their kind in- formation; but told them, "he neither would nor ought to go to Seville, till he had cleared all those mountains of the thieves and robbers which he heard very 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, sufficiently supplied with matter to discourse on, from the story of Marcella and Chrysostome, and Don Quixote's follies. As for him, he resolved to find out the shepherdess Marcella, if pos- sible, to offer her his service to protect her to the utmost of his power: but he happened to be crossed in his de- signs, as you shall hear in the sequel of this true history. CHAPTER XV. GrITING AN ACCOUNT OF DON QTTIXOTE'S UNFOETUNATE RECOUNTER WITH CERTAIN BLOODY-MINDED AND WICKED YANGUESIAN CAERIEES. The sage Oid Hamet Benengeli relates, that when Don Quixote had taken leave of all those that were at Ohrysostome's funeral, he and his squire went after Marcella into the wood ; and having ranged it above two hours without being able to find her, they came at last to a meadow, whose springing green, watered with a delightful and refreshing rivulet, invited, or rather pleasantly forced theni, to alight and give way to the heat of the day, which began to be , very violent : so leaving the ass and Bozinante to graze at large, they ransacked the wallet, and without ceremony the master and the man fell to, and, fed loviogly on what they found. Now Sancho had not taken care to tie up Eozinante, knowing him to be a horse of great sobriety.. But for- tune so ordered it, that a good number of Galician mares, belonging to some Tanguesian carriers, were then feeding in the same valley] it being the custom of those men, about the hottest time of the day, to stop wherever they met with grass and water, to refresh their cattle ; nor could they have found a fitter place than that where Don Quixote was. Now Eozinante was all of a sudden' taken with a fancy for going to flirt with the mares ; so, forsaking his nat- ural gravity and reservedness, and without asking his master's leave, away he trots it briskly to them: but they, who it seems had more mind to feed than to be merry, received him so rudely, with their heels and teeth, that in a trice they broke his girths and threw down his saddle, and left him disrobed of all his equip- age^' And for an addition to his misery, the carriers perceiving the violence that was offered to their mares, flew to their relief with poles and pack-staves, and so belabored poor Eozinante, that he soon sunk to the ground 'under the weight of their unmerciful blows. Don Quixote and Sanchoj perceiving at a distance the ill-usage of Eozinante, ran with all speed to his rescue ; and as they came near the place, panting, and almost out of breath — "Friend Sancho," cried Don Quixote, "I perceive these are no knights, but only a pack of scoundrels, and fellows of the lowest rank. I tell thee this, because thou mayest lawfully help me to revenge the injury they have done Eozinante before our faces. " "What are you saying about revenge ?" quoth San- cho; "we are likely to revenge ourselves finely! you see they are above twenty, and we are but two ; nay, perhaps but one and a half." "I alone am worth a hundred," replied Don Quixote; and then, without any more words, he drew his sword, and flew upon the Yanguesians. Sancho, encouraged by his master's example, did the like; and with the first blow which Don Quixote gave one of them, he cut through his leathern doublet, and gave him a deep slash in the shoulder. The Yanguesians, seeing themselves thus rudely handled by two men only, betook themselves to their levers and paok-staveSj and then all at once surround- ing the valiant knight and his trusty squire, tliey charged them and laid on with great fury. At the sec- ond round, they brought poor Sancho to the ground, and then Don Quixote himself, who, as chance would have it, fell at the feet of Eozinante, that had not yet recovered his legs; whence we may learn how unmerci- fully pack-staves will bruise, when in rustic and wrath- ful hands. The Yanguesians, fearing the ill consequence of the mischief they had done, made all the haste they could to be gone, leaving our two adventurers in a woful con- dition. The first that recovered his senses was Sancho Panza, who, finding himself near his master, called to him thus, with a weak and doleful voice : " Ah, master ! master ! Sir, Sir Knight 1 " "'What is the matter, friend Sancho?" asked; the knight, in the same feeble and lamenting tone.. "I could wish," replied Sancho, "that youx worship would help me to two good draughts of the liquor you talk of, if you have any by you; perhaps it is as good to cure broken bones as it is to heal outward wounds." "Oh! that I had some of it here now," cried Don Quixote; "we could not then be said to want anything: 55 • The Yanguesians betook themselves to their levers and pack-staves. " — p. 55. DON QriXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 57 but I swear to tiee, honest Sancho, by the faith of a knight-errant, that within these two days (if no other disaster prevent me) I will have some of it at my dis- posal, or I shall have lost the use of my hands. " "Two days, sir 1" replied Sancho: "why, pray how many days do you think it wUl be before we are able to stir our feet?" " As for myself, " answered the bruised Don Quixote, " I must own I could not exactly state how many. But it is I who am the fatal cause of all this mischief; I ought not to have drawn my sword against a company of fellows, upon whom the honor of knighthood was never conferred ; and I do not doubt but that the Lord of hosts suffered this punishment to befal me for trans- gressing thus the laws of chivalry. Therefore, friend Sancho, observe what I am going to tell thee, for it is a thing that highly concerns the welfare of us both ; it is that for the future, whenever thou perceivest us to be any ways abused by such inferior fellows, thou art not to expect I should offer to draw my sword against them; for I will not do it in the least: no, do thou then draw and chastise them as thou thinkest fit; but if any knights come to take their parts, then wUl I be sure to step between thee and danger, aiid assault them with the utmost vigor and intrepidity. Thou hast already had a thousand proofs of the great- ness of my valor, and the prevailing strength of my most dreadful arm. " So arrogant the knight was grown since his victory over the bold Biscayan. But Sancho was not so well pleased with his master's admonitions, as to forbear answering. "Sir," says he, "I am a peaceful man, a harmless, quiet fellow, d'ye see; I can make shift to pass by an injury as well as any man, as having a wife to maintain, and children to bring up ; and therefore pray take this from me by the way of advice (for I will not offer to command my master), that I wUl not in any wise draw my sword neither against knight nor clown, not I; and that, from this time forward, I freely forgive all mankind, high and low, rich and poor, lords and beggars, whatever wrongs they ever did or may do me, without the least exception. " "Sancho," said his master, hearing this, "I heartily wish I had breath enough to answer thee effectually, or that the pain which I feel in one of my short ribs would leave me but for so long as might serve to convince thee of thy error. Oome, suppose, thou silly wretch, that the gale of fortune, which has hitherto been so contrary to us, should at last turn favorable, swelling the sails of our desires, so that we might with as much security as ease arrive at some of those islands which I have promised thee; what would become of thee, if, after I had conquered one of them, I were to make thee lord of it ? Thou wouldst certainly be found not duly qualified for that dignity, as having abjured all knight- hood, all thoughts of honor, and all intention to revenge injuries, and defend thy own dominions. Por thou must understand, that in kingdoms and provinces newly conquered, the hearts and minds of the inhabitants are never so thoroughly subdued, or wedded to the inter- ests of their new sovereign, but that there is reason to fear they will endeavor to raise some commotions to change the face of aifairs, and, as men say, once more try their fortune. Therefore it is necessary that the new possessor have not only understanding to govern, but also valor to attack his enemies, and defend himself on all occasions. "I would I had had that volor and understanding you talk of," quoth Sancho, "in this that hath now befallen us ; but now, sir, I must be free to tell you, I have more need of a surgeon than of a preacher. Pray try whether you can rise, and we will help Eozinante, though he does not deserve it; for he is the chief cause of all this beating. Por my part, I could never have believed the like of him. In short, it is a true saying, that ' a man must eat a peck of salt with his friend, before he knows him;' and that 'there is nothing sure in this world:' for who would have thought, after the dreadful slashes you gave to that knight-errant, such a terrible tempest of pack-staves would so soon have fallen upon our should- ers?" "As for thine," replied Don Quixote, "I expect they are used to endure such sort of tempests; but mine, that were nursed in soft linen, wUl most certainly be longer sensible of this misfortune; and were it not that I imagine — (but why do I say imagine ?) — were it not that I am positively sure that aU these inconveniences are inseparable from the profession of chivalry, I would abandon myself to grief, and die of mere despair on this very spot. " "I beseech you, sir," quoth Sancho, "since these rubs are the veils of your trade of knighthood, tell me whether they are to come often, or whether we may look for them at set times ? for, I fancy, if we meet but with two such harvestSj we shall never be able to reap a third, unless God, of his infinite mercy, assist us." "Know, friend Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "that the lives of knights-errant are subject to a thousand hazards and misfortunes: but on the other side, they may at any time suddenly become kings and emperors, as experience has demonstrated in many knights, of whose histories I have a perfect knowledge. Thus I may well bear my misfortune patiently, since those which so many greater persons have endured may he said to outdo it: for I would have thee know, that these wounds that are given with the instruments and tools which a man happens to have in his hand, do not really disgrace the person struck. We read expressly in the laws of duels, ' That if a shoemaker strike another man with his last which he held in his hand, though it be of wood, as a cudgel is, yet the party who was struck with it shall not be said to have been cudgelled.' I tell thee this, that thou mayest not think we are in the least dishonored, though we have been horribly beaten in this encounter; for the weapons which those men used were but instruments of their profession, and not one of them, as I very well remember, had either tuck, or sword, or dagger. " "They gave me no leisure," quoth Sancho, "to exam- ine things so narrowly; for I had no sooner drawn my cutlass, than they crossed my shoulders with such a wooden blessing, as settled me on the ground without DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 69 sense or motion, where you see me now lying, and where I don't trouble my head whether it be a disgrace to be mauled with cudgels or with pack-staves; let them be what they will, I am only vexed to feel them so heavy on my shoulders, where I am afraid they are imprinted as deep as they are on my mind. " "For all this," replied Don Quixote, "I must inform thee, friend Sancho, that there is no remembrance which time will not efface, nor no pain to which death will not put a period." " Thank you for nothing, " quoth Sancho ; " what worse can befall us, than to have only death to trust to? Were GUI' affliction to be cured with a plaster or two, a man might have some patience ; but for aught I see, all the salves in an hospital won't set us on our best legs again. " "Come, no more of this," cried Don Quixote, "take courage, and make a virtue of necessity; for it is what I am resolved to do. Let us see how it fares with Eoz- inante; for if I am not mistaken, the poor creature has not been the least sufferer in this adventure. " "No wonder at that," quoth Sancho, "seeing he's a knight-errant, too : I rather wonder how my ass has escaped so well, while we have fared so ill. " "In our disasters," returned Don Quixote, "fortune leaves always some door open to come at a remedy. I say it, Sancho, because that little beast may now supply the want of Eozinante, to carry me to some castle where I may get cured. Nor do I esteem this kind of riding dishonorable, for I remember that the good old Silenus, tutor and governor to the jovial god of wine, rode very fairly on a goodly ass, when he made his entry into the city with a hundred gates. " "Ay," quoth Sancho, "it will do well enough, could you ride as fairly on your ass as he did on his; but there is a deal of difference between riding and being laid across the pummel like a sack. " "The wounds which are received in combat," said Don Quixote, "rather add to our honor than deprive us of it; therefore, good Sancho, trouble me with no more replies, but as I said, endeavor to get up, and lay me as thou pleasest upon thy ass. " "But, sir," cried Sancho, "I have heard you say that it is a common thing among you knights-errant to sleep in the fields and deserts the best part of the year, and that you look upon it to be a very happy kind of Ufe. " "That is to say," replied Don Quixote, "when we can do no better, or when we are in love ; and this is so true, that there have been knights who have dwelt on rocks exposed to the sun, and other inclemencies of the sky, for the space of two years, without their lady's knowledge. But setting these discourses aside, pr'y- thee dispatch, lest some mischief befall the ass, as it has done Eozinante." "That would be a calamity indeed," replied Sancho; and so, breathing out some thirty lamentations, three- score sighs, and a hundred and twenty plagues on those that had decoyed him thither, he at last got upon his legs, yet not so but that he went stooping, with his body bent like a Turk's bow, not being able to stand upright. Tet in this crooked posture he made a shift to harness his ass. After this, he helped up Eozinante, who, could his tongue have expressed his sorrows, would certainly not have been outdone by Sancho and his master. After many bitter "Oh's!" and screwed faces, Sancho laid Don Quixote on the ass, tied Eozinante to its tail, and then leading the ass by the halter, he took the nearest way that he could guees to the high road; to which he luckily came, before he had travelled a short league, and then he discovered an inn ; which, in spite of all he could say, Don Quixote was pleased to mistake for a castle. Sancho swore it was an inn, and his master was as positive of the contrary. In short, their dispute lasted so long that before they could de- cide it they reached the inn door, where Sancho straight went in, with all his train, without troubling himself any farther about the matter. CHAPTER XVI. WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE IN THE INN WHICH HE TOOK FOE A CASTLE. The innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote Ij'ing athwart the ass, asked Sancho what ailed him? Sanoho answered it was nothing, only his master had got a fall from the top of a rock to the bottom, and had bruised his sides a little. The innkeeper had a wife, very different from the com- mon sort of hostesses, for she was of a charitable na- ture and very compassionate of her neighbors' affliction ; which made her immediately take care of Don Quixote, and call her daughter (a good, handsome girl) to set her helping hand to his cure. One of the servants in the inn was an Asturian girl, a broad-faced flat-headed, saddle-nosed dowdy ; blind of one eye, and the other almost out: however, the activity of her body supplied all other defects. She was not above three feet high from her heels to her head; and her shoulders, which some- what loaded her, as having too much flesh upon them, made her look downwards oftener than she could have wished. This charming original likewise assisted the mistress and the daughter, and with the latter helped to make the knight's bed, and a sorry one it was; the room where it stood was an old cock-loft, which by man- ifold signs seemed to have been, in the days of yore, a repository for chopped straw. Somewhat farther, in a corner of that garret, a carrier had his lodging; and though his bed was nothing but the pannels and cover- ings of his mules, it was much better than that of Don Quixote, which only consisted of four rough-hewn boards laid upon two uneven tressels, a flock-bed that, for thinness, might well have passed for a quilt, and was full of knobs and bunches, which, had they not peeped out through many a hole, and shown themselves to be of wool, might well have been taken for stones. The rest of that extraordinary bed's furniture was a pair of sheets, which rather seemed to be of leather than of linen-cloth, and a coverlet whose every indi- vidual thread you might have told, and never have missed one in the tale. In this ungracious bed was the knight laid, to rest his belabored carcass, and presently the hostess and her daughter anointed and plastered him all over, while Maritcnnes (for that was the name of the Asturian girl) held the candle. The hostess, while she greased him, wondering to see him so bruised all over, " I fancy," said she, "those bumps look much more like a dry beating ihan a fall." " It was no dry beating, mistress, I promise you," quoth Sancho, " but the rock had I know not how many cragged ends and knobs, whereof every one gave my master a token of his kindness. And by the way, for- sooth," continued he, " I beseech you to save a little of that same tow and ointment forme too, for I don't know what is the matter with my Ijack, but I fancy I stand mainly in want of a little greasing too." "What ! I sui)pose youfell too ?" quoth the landlady. "Not I," quoth Sancho, "but the very fright that I took to see my master tumble, down the rock, has so wrought upon my body, that I am as sore as if I had been sadly mauled. " "It may well be as you say," cried the innkeeper's daughter; "for I have dreamed several times that I have been falling from the top of a high tower without ever coming to the ground; and, when I waked, I have found myself as out of order, and as bruised, as if I had fallen in good earnest. " 60 ' He verily believed his last hour was come." — p. 62. 62 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. "That ise'enmy case, mistress, " quoth Sancho; "only ill luck would have it so, that I should find myself e'en almost as battered and bruised as my lord Don Quixote, and yet all the while he is broad awake as I am now." "How do you call this same gentleman? " quoth Maritornes. "He is Don Quixote de la Mancha," replied Sancho; and he is a knight-errant; and one of the primest and stoutest that ever the sun shone on." "A knight-errant! " cried the girl; "pray, what is that ? " "Heigh-day ! " cried Sancho, "does she know no more of the world than that comes to ? Why, a knight-errant is a thing which in two words you see well cudgelled, and then an emperor. To-day there is not a more wretched thing upon the earth, and yet to-morrow he'll have two or three kingdoms to give away to his squire. " "How comes it to pass, then," quoth the landlady, "that thou, who art this great person's squire, hast not yet got thee at least an earldom ?" "Fair and softly goes far," replied Sancho. "Why, we have not been a month in oiir gears, so that we have not yet encountered any adventure worth the naming; besides, many a time we look for one thing, and light on another. But if my lord Don Quixote happens to get well again, and I escape remaining a cripple, I'll not take the best title in the land for what I am sure will fall to my share. " Here Don Quixote, who had listened with great at- tention to all these discourses, raised himself up in his bed with much ado, and taking the hostess in a most obliging manner by the hand — "Believe me," said he "beautiful lady, you may well esteem it a happiness that you have now the opportu- nity to entertain my person in your castle. Self-praise is unworthy a man of honor, and therefore I shall say no more of myself, but my squire will inform you who I am; only thus much let me add, that I will eternally preserve your kindness in the treasury of my remem- brance, and study all occasions to testify my gratitude. And I wish," continued he, "the powers above had so disposed my fate, that I were not already love's devoted slave, and captivated by the charms of the disdainful beauty who engrosses all my softer thoughts ! for then would I be proud to sacrifice my liberty to this beauti- ful damsel." The hostess, her daughter, and the kind-hearted Ma- ritornes, stared at one another, quite at a loss for the meaning of this high-flown language, which they under- stood full as well as if had been Greek. Yet, conceiv- ing these were words of compliment and courtship, they looked upon him and admired him as a man of an- other world: and, so having made him such returns as innkeepers' breeding could afford, they left him to his rest; only Maritornes stayed to rub down Sancho, who wanted her help no less than his master. "Sancho" said Don Quixote presently, "I pray thee rise, if thou canst, and desire the governor of the castle to send me some oil, salt, wine and rosemary, that I may make my healing balsam that will cure us in the twink- ling of an eye ; for truly I want it extremely. " Sancho then got up as fast as his aching bones would let him, and with much ado made shift to crawl out of the room to look for the innkeeper ; and, stumbling by the way on an offlcer belonging to that society which they call the Holy Brotherhood of Toledo, whose chief office it is to look after thieves and robbers, and who happened that night to lodge in the inn — "Sir," quoth he to him, "for Heaven's sake do so much as help us to a little oil, salt, wine and rosemary, to make a medicine for one of the best knights-errant that ever trod on Shoe of leather, who lies yonder grievously wounded. " The officer, hearing him talk at this rate, took him to be one out of his wits: but he opened the inn-door, and told the innkeeper what Sancho wanted. The host pre- sently provided the desired ingredients, and Sancho crept back with them to his master, whom he found holding his head, and sadly complaining of the pain which he felt there. The knight took all the ingredients, and, having mixed them together, he had them set over the fire, and there kept them boiling till he thought they were enough. That done, he asked for a phial to put this precious liquor in: but there being none to be got, the innkeeper presented him with an old earthen jug, and Don Quixote was forced to be contented with that. Then he mumbled over the pot above fourscore Paternosters, and as many Ave Marias, Salva Reginas, and Credos, mak- ing the sign of the cross at every word by way of bene- diction ; at which ceremony Sancho, the innkeeper, and the officer were present. This blessed medicine being made, Don Quixote resolved to make an immediate exper- iment of it ux^on himself: and to that [purpose he took off a good draught of the overplus, which the pot would not hold : but he had scarce gulped it down, when it set him a-vomiting so violently, that you would have thought he would have cast up his heart; and his retching and straining put him into such a sweat, that he desired to be covered up warm, and left to his repose. With that they left him, and he slept three whole hours ; and then waking, found himself so wonderfully eased, that he made no question but he had now the right bal- sam of Fierabras; and therefore he thought he might safely undertake all the most dangerous adventures in the world, without the least hazard of his person. Sancho, encouraged by the wonderful effect of the balsam on his master, begged that he would be pleased tfl give him leave to sip up what was left in the pot, which was no small quantity ; and the Don having con- sented, honest Sancho lifted it up with both his hands, and with a strong faith, and better will, poured every drop down his throat. Now the man's stomach not be- ing so nice as his master's, the drench did not set him a-vomiting after that manner : but caused such a rum- bling in his stomach, such a bitter loathing, kecking, and retching, and such grinding pangs, with cold sweats and swoonings, that he verily believed his last hour was come. "Friend," said Don Quixote, s»eing him in that con- dition, "I begin to think all this pain befalls thee, only iiw^v,r;3--::j|fii[i(v; ,.' ,-xi> « ■E\JKN . " I have nothing to do with all this," cried the innkeeper ; " pay your reckoning." — p, 64. 64 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. because thou hast not received the order of knighthood ; for it is my opinion, this balsam ought to be used by no man that is not a professed knight. " "What did you mean then by letting me drink it?" quoth Sancho. "Why did you not tell me this before ?" But Don Quixote, as we have said, found himself at ease and whole; and his active soul loathing an inglo- rious repose, he presently was impatient to depart to perform the duties of his adventurous profession : for he thoiight those moments that were trifled away in amusements, or other concerns, only a blank in life ; and all delays a-depriving distressed persons, and the world in general, of his needed assistance. Thus carried away by his eager thoughts, he saddled Eozinante himself, and then put the pannel uijon the ass, and his squire upon the pannel, after he had helped him to huddle on his clothes: that done, he mounted his steed; and hav- ing spied a javelin that stood in a corner, he seized and appropriated it to himself, to supply the want of his lance. Above twenty people that were in the inn were spectators of all these transactions; and among the rest the innkeeper's daughter, from whom Don Quixote had not power to withdraw his eyes, breathing out at every glance a deep sigh from the very bottom of his heart; which those who had seen him so mortified the night before, took to proceed from the pain of his bruises. And now, being ready to set forwards, he called for the master of the house, and with a grave delivery, "My lord governor," cried he, "the favors I have re- ceived in your castle are so great and extraordinary, that they bind my grateful soul to an eternal acknowl- edgment: therefore, that I may be so happy as to dis- chiirge part of the obligation, think if there be ever a proud mortal breathing on whom you desire to be re- venged for some affront or other injury, and acquaint me with it now ; and by my order of knighthood, which binds me to protect the weak, relieve the oppressed, and punish the bad, I promise you I'll take effectual care that you shall have ample satisfaction. " "Sir Knight," answered the innkeeper, with an aus- tere gravity, "I shall not need your assistance to re- venge any wrong that may be offered to my person; for I am able to do myself justice, whenever any man pre- sumes to do me wrong: therefore all the satisfaction I desire is, that you will pay your reckoning for horse- meat and man's meat, and all your expenses in my inn." "How!" cried Don Quixote is this an inn?" "Yes," answered the host, "and one of the most noted and of the best repute upon the road." "How strangely have I been mistaken, then!" cried Don Quixote; "upon my honor I took it for a castle, and a considerable one, too; but if it be an inn, and not a castle, all I have to say is, that you must excuse me from paying anything; for I would by no means break the laws which we knights-errant are bound to observe ; uor was it ever known that they paid in any inn what- soever; for this is the least recompense that can be al- lowed them for the intolerable labors they endure day and night, winter and summer, on foot and on horse- back, pinched with hunger, choked with thirst, and exposed to all the injuries of the air, and all the incon- veniences in the world. " "I have nothing to do with all this," cried the inn- keeper: "pay your reckoning, and don't bother me with your foolish stories of a cock and a bull; I can't afford to keep house at that rate. " "Thou art both a fool and a knave of an inkeeper!" replied Don Quixote: and with that, clapping spurs to Eozinante, and brandishing his javelin at his host, he rode out of the inn without any opposition, and got a good way from it, without so much as once looking be- hind him to see whether his squire came after him. The knight being marched off, the host ran to demand his due from Sancho Panza. However, he swore he would not pay ; for the selfsame law that acquitted the knight acquitted the squire. This put the innkeeper into a great passion, and made him threaten Sancho very hard, telling him if he would not pay him by fair means, he would have him laid by the heels that moment. Sancho swore by his master's knighthood, he would sooner part with his life than his money on such an account: nor should the squires in after ages ever have occasion to upbraid him with giving so ill a pre- cedent, or breaking their rights. But as ill luck would have it, there happened to be in the inn four Segovia clothiers, three Cordova point-makers, and two Seville hucksters, all brisk, gamesome, arch fellows; who agree- ing all in the same design, encompassed Sancho, and pulled him off his ass, while one of them went and got a blanket. Then they put the unfortunate squire into it, and observing the roof of the place they were in to be somewhat too low for their purpose, they carried him into the back yard, which had no limits but the sky, and there they tossed him for several times together in the blanket, as they do dogs on Shrove Tuesday. Poor Sancho made so grevious an outcry all the while, that his master heard him, and imagined those lamen- tations were of some person in distress, and consequent- ly the occasion of some adventure : but having at last distinguished the voice, he made to the inn at a lumber- ing gallop ; and finding the gates shut, he rode about to see whether he might not find some other way to get in. But he no sooner came to the back yaid wall, which was none of the highest, than he was an eye-witness to the scurvy trick that was put uijon his squire. There he saw him ascend and descend, and frolic and caper in the air with so much nimbleness and agility, that it is thought the knight himself could not have forborne laughing, had he been anything less angry. He did his best to get over the wall, but, alas! he was so bruised, that he could not so much as alight from his horse. This made him fume and chafe, and vent his passion in a thousand threats and revilings, so strange and various, that it is impossible to repeat them. But the more he stormed, the more they tossed and laughed; Sancho on his side begging, and howling, and threaten- ing, to as little purj^ose as his master, for it was weari- ness alone could make the tossers give over. Then they charitably put an end to his high dancing, and set him upon his ass again, carefully wrapped in his mautle. •• The more he utormed, the more they tossed and laughed.'"— p. 64. 66 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. But Maritornes' tender soul made her pity a male creature in such tribulation; and thinking he had danced and tumbled enough to be a-dry, she was so generous as to help him to a draught of water, which she purposely drew from the well that moment, that it might be the cooler. Sancho clapped the pot to his mouth, but his master made him desist. "Hold, hold!" cried he, "son Sancho; drink no water, child, it will kill thee: behold, I have here the most holy balsam, two drops of which will cure thee effectually." "Ha!" replied Sancho, shaking his head, and looking sourly on the knight with a side-face; "have you again forgot that I am no knight? Keep your brewings for yourself, and let me alone." With that he lifted up the jug to his nose, but find- ing it to be mere element, he spirted out again the little he had tasted, and desired the girl to help him to some liquor: so she went and fetched him wine, to make him amends, and paid for it, too, out of her own pocket. As soon as Sancho had tipped off his wine, he visited his ass's ribs twice or thrice with his heels, and, free egress being granted him, he trooped off", mightily satisfied that he had jsaid nothing, and had carried his point, though at the expense of his shoulders, his usual sureties. It is true, the innkeeper kept his wallet for the reckoning ; but the poor squire was so dismayed, and in such haste to be gone, that he never missed it. The host was for shutting the inn-doors after him, for fear of the worst; but the tossers would not let him, being a sort of fellows that would not have mattered Don Quixote a straw, though he had really been one of the Knights of the Bound Table. 7>-^"^ CHAPTER XVII. OF THE DISCOURSE BETWEEN THE KNIGHT AND THE SQUIEE, WITH OTHEB MATTERS WOETH EELATING. Sanoho overtook his master, but so pale, so dead- hearted, and so mortified, that he was hardly able to sit his ass. "My dear Sancho," said Don Quixote, seeing him in that condition, "I am now fully convinced that this castle, or inn, is enchanted; for what could they be that made themselves such barbarous sport with thee, liut spirits and people of the other world? and I the rather believe this, seeing that when I looked over the Tvall, and saw thee thus abused, I strove to get over it, but could not stir, nor by any means alight from Kozi- nante. For, by my honor, could I either have got over the wall or dismounted, I would have revenged thee so effectually on those discourteous wretches, that they should never have forgot the severity of their punish- ment, though for once I had infringed the laws of chivalry, which, as I have often informed thee, do not permit any knight to lay hands on one that is not knighted, unless it be in his own defence, and in case •of great necessity. " "Nay," quoth Sancho, "I would have paid them home myself, whether knight or no knight, but it was not in my power; and yet, I dare say, those that made them- selves so merry with my carcass were neither spirits nor enchanted folks, as you will have it, but mere flesh and blood, as we be. I am sure they called one another by their Christian names and surnames, while they made me vault and frisk in the air: one was called Pedro Martinez, the other Tenorio Hernandez ; and as for our dog of an host, I heard them call him Juan Palomeque, the left-handed. Then pray don't you fancy that your not being able to get over the wall, nor -to alight, was some enchanter's trick. It is a folly to make many words; it is as plain as the nose in a man's face, that these same adventures which we hunt for up and down are like to bring us at last into a peck of troubles, and such a plaguy deal of mischief, that we shan't be able to set one foot afore the other. The short and the long is, I take it to be the wisest course to jog home and look after our harvest, and not to run rambling from Ceea to Mecca, lest we leap out of the frying-pan into the fire, or out of God's blessing into the warm sun. "Poor Sancho," cried Don Quixote; "how ignorant thou art in matters of chivalry! Come, say no more, and have patience : a day will come when thou shalt be convinced how honorable a thing it is to follow this employment. For, tell me, what satisfaction in this world, what pleasure can equal that of vanquishing and triumphing over one's enemy? None, without doubt." "It may be so, for aught I know," quoth Sancho, "though I know nothing of the matter. However, this I may venture to say, that ever since we have turned knights-errant — your worship, I mean, for it is not for such scrubs as myself to be named the same day with such folk — not any fight have you had the better in, unless it be that with the Biscayan: and in that, too, you came ofl' with the loss of one ear and the vizor of your helmet. And what have we got ever since, pray, but blows, and more blows; bruises, and more bruises? besides this tossing in a blanket, which fell all to my share, and for which I cannot be revenged, because they were hobgoblins that served me so forsooth, though I hugely long to be even with them, that I may know the pleasure you say there is in vanquishing one's enemy." "I find, Sancho," cried Don Quixote, "thou and I are both sick of the same disease ; but I will endeavor with all .speed to get me a sword made with so much art, that no sort of enchantment shall be able to hurt who- soever shall wear it, and perhaps fortune may put into my hand that which Amadis de Gaul wore when he styled himself the Knight of the Burning Sword, which was one of the best blades that ever was drawn by knight; for, besides the virtue I know mentioned, it had an edge like a razor, and would enter the strongest armor that ever was tempered or enchanted. " 67 (-.8 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. "I will lay anything," qnoth Sanclio, "when you have found this sword, it will prove just such another help to me as your balsam; that is to say, it will stand no- body in any stead but your dubbed knights; as for the poor squires, they may shift how they can." "Fear no such thing," replied Don Quixote; "Heav- en will be more propitious to thee than thou ima- ginest." Thus they went on discoursing, when Don Quixote perceiving a thick cloud of dust arise right before them in the road— "The day is come," said he, turning to his squire; "the day is come, Sancho, that shall usher in the happiness which fortune has reserved for me; this day shall the strength of my arm be signalized by such exploits as shall be transmitted even to the latest pos- terity. See'st thou that cloud of dust, Sancho? it is raised by a prodigious army marching this way, and composed of an infinite number of nations. " "Why, then, at this rate,^ quoth Sancho, "there should be two armies; for yonder is as great a dust on the other side. " With that Don Quixote looked, and was transported with joy at the sight, firmly believing that two vast armies were ready to engage each other in that plain; for his imagination was so crowded with those battles, enchantments, surprising adventures, amorous thoughts and other whimsies which he had read of in romances, that his strong fancy changed everything he saw into what he desired to see; and thus he could not conceive that the dust was only raised by two large flocks of sheep that were going the same road from different parts, and could not be discerned till they were very near: he was so positive that they were two armies, that Sancho firmly believed him at last. "Well, sir," quoth the squire, "what are we to do, I beseech you?" "What shall we do," replied Don Quixote, "but assist the weaker and injured side? for know, Sancho, that the army which now moves towards us is command- ed by the great Alifanfaron emperor of the vast island of Taprobaua: the other that advances behind us is his enemy, the King of the Garamantians, Pentapolin of the naked armj' ; so called, because he always enters into battle with his right arm bare. " "Pray, sir," quoth Sancho, "why are these two great men going together by the ears?" "The occasion of their quarrel is this," answered Don Quixote; "Alifanfaron, a strong pagan, is in love with Pentapolin 's daughter, a very beautiful lady and a Christian : now her father refuses to give her in mar- riage to the heathen prince, unless he abjure his false belief and embrace the Christian religion." "Burn my beard," said Sancho, "if Pentapolin be not in the right on it; I will stand by him and help him all I may." "I commend thy resolution," replied Don Quixote; "it is not only lawful, but requisite; for there is no need of being a knight to fight in such battles. " "I guessed as much," quoth Sancho; "but where shall we leave my ass in the meantime, that I may be sure to find him again after the battle? for I fancy you never heard of any man that ever charged upon such a beast." "It is true," answered Don Quixote; "and therefore I would have thee turn him loose, though thouwert sure never to find him again ; for we shall have so many horses after we have got the day, that even Eozinante himself will be in danger of being changed for another. " Then mounting on the top of a hillock, whence they might have seen both the flocks, had not the dust ob- structed their sight — "Look yonder, Sancho!" cried Don Quixote; "that knight whom thou see'st in the gilded arms, bearing in his shield a crowned lion couchant at the feet of a lady, is the valiant Laurcalco, lord of the Silver Bridge. He in the armor powdered with flowers of gold, bearing three crows argent in a field azure, is the formidable Micocolembo, great Duke of Quiracia. That other of a gigantic size, that marches on his right is the undaunted Brandabarbaran of Bo- liche, sovereign of the three Arabias; he is arryedin a serpent's skin, and carries instead of a shield a huge gate, which they say belonged to the temple which Samson pulled down at his death, when he revenged himself upon his enemies. But cast thy eyes on this side, Sancho, and at the head of the other army see the victorious Timonel of Carcaxona, Prince of New Biscay, whose armor is quartered azure, vert, or an argent, and who bears in his shield a cat or, in a field gules, with these four letters, MiAU, for a motto, being the begin- ing of his mistress's name, the beautiful Miaulina, daughter to Alpheniquen, Duke or Algarva. That other monstrous load upon the back of yonder wild horse, with arms as white as snow, and a shield without device, is a Frenchman, now created knight, called Piei're Papin, Baron of Utrique : he whom you see jirick- ing that pied courser's flanks with his armed heels, is the mighty Duke of Nervia, Espartafilardo of the wood, bearing in his shield a field of pure azure, powdered with asparagus {Esparrago) with this motto in Castilian: Rastrea mi suetre — ' Thus trails, or drags my fortune.' " And thus he went on, naming a great number of others in both armies, to every one of whom his fertile imagination assigned arms, colors, devices, and mottoes, as readily as if they had really been that moment ex- tant before his eyes. "Thatvast body," said he, "that is just opposite to us is composed of several nations. There you see those who drink the pleasant stream of the famous Xanthus ; there the mountaineers that till the Massilan fields; those that sift the pure gold of Arabia Felix ; those that inhabit the renowned and de- lightful banks of Thermodon. Yonder, there are those who so many ways sluice and drain the golden Pactolus for its precious sand; the Numidians, unsteady and careless of their promises; the Persians, excellent archers; the Medes and Parthians, who fight flying; the Arabs, who have no fixed habitations; the Scythians, cruel and savage, though fair-complexioned; the sooty Ethiopians, that bore their lips; and a thousand other nations, whose countenances I know, though I have for- gotten their names. On the other side come those whose country is watered with the crystal streams of Betis, shaded with olive-trees; those who bathe their >.>.-^- ' He cliarged the squadron of slieep." — p. 70. 70 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. limbs in the rich flood of the golden Tagus; those whose mansions are laved by the profitable stream of the divine Genii ; those who range the verdant Tartesian meadows; those who indulge their luxurious temper in the delicious pastures of Xerez; the wealthy inhab- itants of Mancha, crowned with golden ears of corn ; the ancient offspring of the Goths, cased in iron; those who wanton in the lazy current of Pisverga; those who feed their niimerous flocks in the ample plains where the Guadiana, so celebrated for its hidden course, pur- sues its wandering race; those who shiver with extrem- ity of cold on the woody Pyrenean hills, or on the hoary tops of snowy Apennine: in a word all that Europe includes within its spacious bounds — half a world in an army." It is scarce to be imagined how many countries he had run over, how many nations he had enumerated, distinguishing every one by what is peculiar to them, with an incredibile vivacity of mind, and that still in the puffy style of his fabulous books. Sancho listened to all this romantic muster-roll as mute as a fish with amazement ; all that he could do was now and then to turn his head on this side and t'other side, to see if he could discern the knights and giants whom his master named. But at length, not being able to dis- cover any — "Why," cried he, "yoii had as good tell me it snows ; not any knight, giant, or man can I see, of all those you talk of now : who knows but all this may be witchcraft and spirts, like yesternight?" "How!" replied Don Quixote; "dost thou not hear their horses neigh, their trumpets sound, and their drums beat?" "Not I!" quoth Sancho. "I prick up my ears like a sow in the beans, and yet hear nothing but the bleating of sheep." Sancho might well say so, for by this time the flocks were very near. "Thy fear disturbs thy senses," said Don Quixote, "and hinders thee from hearing and seeing right. But it is no matter; withdraw to some place of safety, since thou are so terrified; for I alone am sufficient to give the victory to that side which I shall favor with my assistance." "With that he couched his lance, clapped spurs to Bozinante, and darted like a thunder- bolt into the plain. Sancho bawled after him as loud as he could: "Hold, sir ! for Heaven's sake, come back ! What do you mean ? as sure as I am a sinner, those you are going to maul are nothing but poor, harmless sheep. Oome back, I say ! Are you mad, sir ? there are no giants, no knights, no cats, no asparagus-gardens, no golden quar- ters, nor what d'ye call thems. What can possess you ? you are leaping over the hedge before you come at the gtiie— you are taking the wrong sow by the ear. Oh, that I was ever born to see this day !" But Don Quixote, still riding on, deaf and lost to good advice, out-roared his expostulating squire. "Courage, brave knights!" cried he; "march up, fall on, all you who fight under the standard of the valiant Pentapolin with the naked arm: follow me, and you shall see how easily I will revenge him on that infidel, Alifanfaron of Taprobana!" and so saying, he charged the squadron of sheep with that gallantry and resolu- tion, that he pierced, broke, and put it to flight in an instant, charging through and through, not without a great slaughter of his mortal enemies, whom he laid at his feet, biting the ground and wallowing in their blood. The shepherds, seeing their sheep go to wrack, called out to him; till, finding fair means ineffectual, they un- loosed their slings, and began to ply him with stones as big as their fists. But the champion, disdaining such a distant war, spite of their showers of stones, rushed among the routed sheep, trampling both the living and the slain in a most terrible manner, impatient to meet the general of the enemy, and end the war at once. "Where, where art thou," cried he, "proud Alifan- faron ? Apijear ! see here a single knight who seeks thee everywhere, to try now, hand to hand, the boasted force of thy strenuous arm, and deiirive thee of life, as a due j)unishment for the unjust war which thou hast audaciously waged with the valiant Pentai^olin ! " Just as he had said this, while the stones flew about his ears, one unluckily hit upon his small ribs, and had like to have buried two of the shortest deep in the middle of his body. The knight thought himself slain, or at least desperately wounded ; and therefore calling to mind his precious balsam, and pulling out his earth- en jug, he clapped it to his mouth: but before he had swallowed a sufiBcient dose, souse comes another of those bitter almonds, that spoiled his draught, and hit him so pat upon the jug, hand, and teeth, that it broke the first, maimed the second, and struck out three or four of the last. These two blows were so violent, that the boisterous knight, falling from his horse, lay upon the ground as quiet as the slain; so that the shepherds, fearing he was killed, got their flock together with all speed, and carrying away their dead, which were no less than seven sheep, made what haste they could out of harm's way, without looking any farther into the matter. All this while Sancho stood upon the hill, mortified at the sight of this mad adventure. There he stamped and tore his beard for madness, and cursed the moment he first knew his master: but seeing him at last knocked down and settled, the shepherds having scampered off, he thought he might venture to come down; when he found him in a very ill plight, though not altogether senseless. "Ah ! master," quoth he, "this comes of not taking my counsel. Did I not tell you it was a flock of sheep, and no anny ?" "Friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "know it is an easy matter for necromancers to change the shapes of things as they please : thus that malicious enchanter, who is my inveterate enemy, to dei^rive me of the glory which he saw me ready to acquire, transformed in a moment the routed squadrons into sheep. If thou wilt not believe me, Sancho, yet do one thing for my sake ; do but take thy ass, and follow those supposed sheep at a distance, and I dare engage thou shalt soon see them resume their former shapes, and appear such as I described them. " Thereupon Don Quixote got np with much ado, and clapping his left hand before his mouth, that the rest of his loose teeth might not drop out, he laid his right DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANOHA. 71 hand on Kozinante's bridle (for such was the good na- ture of the creature, that he had not budged a foot from his master) ; then he crept along to Squire Sancho, who stood lolling on his ass's pannel, with his face in the hollow of both his hands, in a doleful, moody, melan- choly fit. "Friend Sancho," said he, "learn of me, that one man is no more than another, if he do no more than what another does. All these storms and hurricanes are but arguments of the approaching calm : better suc- cess will soon follow our past calamities : good and bad fortune have their vicissitudes; and it is a maxim, that nothing violent can last long: and therefore we may well promise ourselves a speedy change in our fortune, since our afflictions have extended their range beyond their usual stint : besides, thou oughtest not to afflict thyself so much for misfortunes, of which thou hast no share, but what friendship and humanity bid thee take." "How!" quoth Sancho, "have I no other share in them ? was not he that was tossed in the blanket this morning the son of my father ? and did not the wallet, and all that was in it, which I have lost, belong to the son of my mother ?" "How," asked Don Quixote, "hast thou lost thy wallet ?" "I don't know," said Sancho, "whether it is lost or no ; but I'm sure I can't tell what is become of it. " "Nay, then," replied Don Quixote, "I find we must fast to-day. " "Ay, marry must we," quoth Sancho, "unless you take to gather in these fields some of those roots and herbs which I have heard you say you know, and which used to help such unlucky knights-errant as yourself at a dead lift." "For all thatj" cried Don Quixote, "I would rather have at this time a good luncheon of bread, or a cake and two pilchards' heads, than all the roots and simples inDioscorides' herbal, and Doctor Laguna's supplement and commentary: I pray thee, therefore, get upon thy ass, good Sancho, and follow me once more ; for God's providence, that relieves every creature, will not fail us, especially since we are about a work so much to his -service ; thou seest he even provides for the little fly- ing insects in the air, the wormlings in the earth, and the spawnlings in the water; and, in his mercy, he makes his sun shine on the righteous and on the unjust, and rains upon the good and the bad." "Your worship," quoth Sancho, "would make abetter preacher than a knight-errant. " "Knights-errant," replied Don Quixote, "ought to know all things: there have been such in former ages, that have delivered as ingenious and learned a sermon at the head of an army, as if they had taken their de- grees at the University of Paris : from which we may infer, that the lance never dulled the pen, nor the pen the lance. " "Well, then," quoth Sancno, "let it be as you would have it; let us even leave this unlucky place, and seek out a lodging, where I pray there may be neither blank- ets nor blanket-heavers, nor hobgoblins, nor enchanted Moors." "Leave all things to Providence," replied Don Quix- ote, "and for once lead which way thou pleasest, for I leave it wholly to thy discretion to provide us a lodg- ing. But first, I pray thee, feel a little how many teeth I want in my upper jaw on the right side, for there L feel most pain. " With that Sancho, feeling with his finger in the knight's mouth— "Pray, sir," quoth he, "how many grinders did your worship use to have on that side ?" "Four," answered Don Quixote; "besides the eye- tooth, all of them whole and sound. " "Think well on what you say," cried Sancho. "I say four," replied Don Quixote, "if there were not five ; for I never in all my life have had a tooth drawn, or dropped out, or decayed, or loosened by rheum. " "Bless me 1" quoth Sancho, "why, you have in this nether jaw on this side but two grinders and a stump ; and in that part of your upper jaw never a stump, and never a grinder. Alas ! all is levelled there as smooth as the palm of one's hand." "Oh, unfortunate Don Quixote!" cried the knight; "I had rather have lost an arm, so it were not my sword arm; for a mouth without cheek-teeth is like a mill without a millstone, Sancho ; and every tooth in a man's head is more valuable than a diamond. But we that profess this strict order of knight-errantry are all sub- ject to these calamities; and therefore, since the loss is irretrievable, mount, my trusty Sancho, and go thy own pace ; I will follow thee. " Sancho obeyed, and led the way, still keeping the road they were in, which being very much beaten, promised to bring him soonest to a lodging. Thus pacing along very softly, for Don Quixote's gums and ribs would not sufi'er him to go faster, Sancho, to divert his uneasy thoughts, resolved to talk to him all the while of one thing or other, as the next chapter will inform you. CHAPTER XVIII. OF THE WISE DISCOtTESE BETWEEN SANCHO AND HIS MASTER ; AS ALSO OF THE ADVENTUEE OF THE DEAD COEPSE, AND OTHER FAMOUS OCCUERENCES. "Now, sir, "quoth Sancho, "I can't help thinking but that all the mishaps that have befallen us of late are a just judgment for the grevious sin you have committed against the order of knighthood, in not keeping the oath you swore, not to eat bread at board, and I know not what more, until you had won — what d'je call him? — the Moor's helmet, I think you named him." "Truly," answered Don Quixote, "thou art much in the right, Sancho; and to deal ingeniously with thee, I wholly forgot that: and now thou may'st certainly as- sure thyself, thou wert tossed in a blanket for not re- membering to put me in mind of it. However, I will take care to make due atonement; for knight-errantry has ways to conciliate all sorts of matters. " "Why," quoth Sancho, "did lever swear to mind you of your vow?" "It is nothing to the purpose," replied Don Quixote, "whetlier thou swarest or no: let it suifice that I think thou art not very clear from being accessory to the breach of my vow ; and therefore, to prevent the worst, there will be no harm in providing for a remedy." "Hark you, then," cried Sancho, "be sure you don't forget your atonement, as you did your oath, lest those hobgoblins come and maul me, and mayhap you too, for being a stubborn sinner. " Insensibly night overtook them before they could dis- cover any lodging; and, what was worse, they were almost hunger-starved, all their provision being in the wallet which Sancho had unluckily left behind; and, to complete their distress, there happened to them an ad- venture, or something that really looked like one. While our benighted travellers went on dolefully in the dark, the knight very hungry, and the squire very sharp set, what should they see moving towards them but a great number of lights, that appeared like so many wandering stars. At this strange apparition, down sunk Sancho's heart ping up the linen and the t)ther things into the bag where he kept the victuals. "I fancy," said Don Quixote, "that some person hav- lost his way in these mountains, has been met by rob- bers, who have murdered him, and buried his body somewhere hereabouts. " "Sure your worship's mistaken," answered Sancho, "for had they been highwaymen, they would never have left such a booty behind them. " "Thou art in the right," replied Don Quixote; "and therefore I cannot imagine what it must be. But stay, I will examine the table-book; perhaps we shall find something written in that, which will help us to dis- cover what I would know." "With that he opened it, and the first thing he found was the following rough draught of a sonnet, fairly enough written to be read with ease ; so he read it aloud, that Sancho might know what was in it as well as himself. THE RESOLVE. A SONNET. Love is a god ne'er knows our pain, Orcrnelty'B hie darling attribute; Else he'd ne'er force me to complain, And to his spite my raging pain impute. ' Gines, who was a straEger both to gratitude and humanity, resolved to ride away with Sancho's ass.'" — p. 98 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. But sure, if Love's a god, he must Have knowledge equal to his power; And 'tis a crime to think a god unjust: Whence then the pains that now my heart devour? From Phyllis? No: why do I pause? Such cruet ills ne'er boast so sweet a cau^e; Nor from the gods such torments we do bear. Let death, then, quickly be my cure: When thus we ills unknown endure, 'Tis shortest to despair. "There's not much can be picked out of this," quoth Sancho, "unless you can tell who that same Phyll is." "I did not read Phyll, but Phylliss," said Don Quix- ote. "Oh, then, mayhap, the man has lost his iilly-foal." "Phyllis," said Don Quixote, "is the name of a lady that is beloved by the author of this sonnet, who truly seems to be a tolerable poet, or I have but little judg- ment. " "^Yhy, then," quoth San cho, "belike your worship understands how to make verses too?" "That I do," answered Don Quixote, "and better than thou imaginest; as thou shalt see when I shall give thee a letter written all in verse to carry to my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso : for I must tell thee, friend San- cho, all the knights-errant, or at least the greatest part of them, in former times, were great poets, and as great musicians; those qualifications, or, to speak better, those two gifts, or accomplishments, being almost in- seperable from love adventures : though I must confess the verses of the knights in former ages are not alto- gether so polite, nor so adorned with words, as with thoughts and inventions. " "Good sir," quoth Sancho, "look again into the pocket-book ; mayhap you will find somewhat that will inform you of what you would know. " With that, Don Quixote turning over the leaf, "Here's some prose," cried he, "and I think it is the sketch of a love-letter. " "Oh! good yourworship," quoth Sancho, "read it out by all means, for I delight mightily in hearing of love- stories. " Don Quixote read it aloud, and found what follows. "The falsehood of your promises, and my despair, hur- ry me from you forever; and you shall sooner hear the news of my death than the cause of my complaints. Tou have forsaken me, ungrateful fair, for one more wealthy indeed, but not more deserving than your abandoned slave. Were virtue esteemed a treasure equal to its worth by your unthinking sex, I must presume to say, I should have no reason to envy the wealth of others, and no misfortune to bewail. What your beauty has raised, your actions have destroyed; the first made me mistake you for an angel, but the last convince me you are a very woman. However, oh ! too lovely disturber of my peace, may uninterrupted rest and downy ease engross your happy hours ; and may forgiving Heaven still keep your husband's perfidiousness concealed, lest it should cost your repenting heart a sigh for the in- justice you have done to so faithful a lover, and so I should be prompted to a revenge which I do not desire to take. Farewell." "This letter," quoth Don Quixote, "does not give us any further insight into the things we would know ; all I can infer from it is, that the person who wrote it was a betrayed lover. " And so turning over the remaining leaves, he found several other letters and verses, some of which weie legible, and some so scribbled that he could make no- thing of them. As for those he read, he could meet with nothing in them but accusations, complaints and expostulations, distrusts and jealousies, pleasures and discontents, favors and disdain — the one highly valued, the other as mournfully resented. And while the knight was poring on the table-book, Sancho was rum- maging the portmanteau and the seat of the saddle with that exactness, that he did not leave a corner un- searched, nor a seam unripped, nor a single lock of wool unpicked; for the gold he had found, which was above a hundred ducats, had but whetted his greedy appetite, and made him wild for more. Yet, though this was all he could find, he thought himself well paid for the more than Herculean labors he had undergone ; nor could he now repine at his being tossed in a blanket, the straining and griping operation of the balsam, the benedictions of the pack-staves and leavers, the fisti- cuffs of the carrier, the loss of his cloak, his dear wal- let, and of his dearer ass, and all the hunger, thirst, and fatigue which he had suffered in his kind master's service. On the other side, the Knight of the Woful Figure strangely desired to know who was the owner of the portmanteau, guessing by the verses, the letter, the linen, and the gold, that he was a person of worth, whom the disdain and unkindness of his mistress had driven to despair. At length, however, he gave over the thoughts of it, discovering nobody through that vast desert; and so he rode on, wholly guided by Rozi- nante's discretion, which always made the grave, saga- cious creature choose the plainest and smoothest way: the master still firmly believing that in those woody, uncultivated forests he should infallibly start some wonderful adventure. And indeed, while these hopes possessed him, he spied upon the top of a stony crag just before him a man that skipped from rock to rock, over briers and bushes, with wonderful agility. He seemed to him naked from the waist upwards, with a thick black beard ; his hair long and strangely tangled; his head, legs, and feet bare; on his hips a pair of breeches, that appeared to be of sand-colored velvet, biit so tattered and torn, that they discovered his skin in many places. These particulars were observed by Don Quixote while he passed by, and he followed him, endeavoring to overtake him, for he presently guessed this was the owner of the portman- teau. But Eozinante, who was naturally slow and phlegmatic, was in too weak a case besides to run races with so swift an apparition : yet the Knight of the Wo- ful Figure resolved to find out that unhappy creature, though he were to bestow a whole year in the search ; and to that intent he ordered Sancho to beat one side of the mountain, while he hunted the other. "In good sooth," quoth Sancho, "your worship must excuse me as to that ; for if I but offer to stir an inch Don Quixote was transported with joy to find himself where he might flatter his ambition with the hopes of fresh adventures. — p. 96 100 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. from you, I am almost friglited out of my seven senses : and let this serve you hereafter for a warning, that you may not send me a nail's breath from your pres- ence." "Well," said the knight, " I will take thy case into consideration; and it does not displease me, Sancho, to see thee thus rely upon my valor, which I dare assure thee, shall never fail thee, though thy very soul should be scared out of thy bodj'. Follow me, therefore, step by step, with as much haste as is consistent with good speed ; and let thy eyes pry everywhere while we search every part of this rock, where, it is probable, we may meet with that wretched mortal, who doubtless is the owner of the portmanteau. " "Odsnigs, sir," quoth Sancho, "I had rather get out of his way ; for, should we chance to meet him, and he lay claim to the portmanteau, it is a plain case I shall be forced to part with the money : and therefore I think it mudh better, without making so much ado, to let me keep it boni fide, till we can light on the right owner some more easy way, and without dancing after him ; which may not happen till we have spent all the money ; and in that case I am free from the law, and he may go whistle for it. " "Thou art mistaken, Sancho," cried Don Quixote; "for, seeing we have some reason to think that we know who is the owner, we are bound in conscience to en- deavor to find him out, and restore it to him; the rather, because should we not now strive to meet him, yet the stronger presumption we have that the goods belong to him, would make us possessors of them male fide, and render us as guilty as if the party whom we suspect to have lost the things were really the right owner; there- fore, friend Sancho, do not think much of searching for him, since, if we find him out, it will extremely ease my mind. " With that he spurred Eozinante; and Sancho, not very well pleased, followed him, comforting himself, however, with the hopes of the three asses which his master had iiromised him. So when they had rode over the greatest part of the mountain, they came to a brook, where they found a mule l.\iiig dead, with her saddle and bridle about her, and herself half devoured l)y beasts and birds of prey ; which discovery further con- firmed them in their suspicion, that the man who fled so nimbly from them was the owner of the mule and portmanteavi. Now as they paused and pondered upon this, they heard whistling, like that of some shep- herd keeping his flocks; and presently after, upon their left hand, they spied a great number of goats with an old herdsman after them, on the top of the mountain. Don Quixote called out to him, and de- sired him to come down; but the goatherd, instead of answering him, asked them in as loud a tone how they came thither in those deserts, where scarce any living creatures resorted except goats, wolves, and other wild beasts ? Sancho told him they would satisfy him as to that point if he would come where they were. With that the goatherd came down to them; and seeing them look upon the dead mule, "That dead miile," said the old fellow, "has lain in that very place this six months; but pray' tell me, good people, have you not met the master of it by the way ?" "We have met nobody," answered Don Quixote; "but we found a portmanteau and a saddle cushion not far from this place. " "I have seen it too," quoth the goatherd, "but I never durst meddle with it, nor so much as come near it, for fear of some misdemeanor, lest I should be charged with having stolen somewhat out of it: for who knows what might happen ? the devil is subtle, and sometimes lays baits in our way to tempt us, or blocks to make us stumble. " "It is just so with me, gaffer," quoth Sancho; "for I saw the portmanteau too, d'ye see, but I would not come within a stone's throw of it; no, there I found it, and there I left it; i'faith, it shall e'en lie there still for me. He that steals a bellweather shall be discovered by the bell." "Tell me, honest friend, " asked Don Quixote, "dost thou know who is the owner of those things ?" "All I know of the matter," aswered the goatherd, "is, that it is now six months, little more or less, since to a certain sheep-fold, some three leagues off, there came a young, well-featured, projier gentleman in good clothes, and under him this same mule that now lies dead here, with the cushion and cloak-bag, which you say you met, but touched not. He asked us which was- the most desert and least frequented part of these mountains; and we told him this where we are now: and in that we spoke the plain truth, for should you venture to go but half a league further, you would hardly be able to get back again in haste; and I marvel liow you could get even thus far, for there is neither liighway nor foot-path that may direct a man this way. Now, as soon as the young gentleman had heard our answer, he turned about his mule, and made to the place we showed him, leaving us all with a great liking to his comliness, and strangely marvelling at his de- maud, and the haste he made towards the middle of the mountain. After that we heard no more of him for a gre.'it while, till one day bj' chance one of the shep- herds coming by, he fell upon him, without saying why or wherefore, and beat him without mercj': after that he Avent to the ass that carried our victuals, and, tak- ing away all the bread and clieese that was there, he trix^ped back again to the mountain with wondrous speed. Hearing this, a good number of us togetner resolved to iind him out; and when we had spent the best part of two days in the thickest of the forest, we found him at last lurking in the hollow of a huge cork- tree, from whence he came forth to meet us as mild as could be. But then he was so altered, his face was so dis- figured, wan, and sun-burnt, that, had it not been for his attire, which we made shift to know again, though it was all in rags and tatters, we could not have thought it had been the same man. He saluted us cour- teously, and told us in few words, mighty handsomely put together, that we were not to marvel to see him in that manner, for that it behooved him so to be, that he might fulfill a certain penance enjoined him for the great sins he had coromitted. We prayed him to tell ' The first thing he found was the rough draught of a sonnet; so he read it aloud." — j). 96. 102 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. US who he was, but he would by no means do it: we like- wise desired him to let us know where we might find him, that whensoever he wanted victuals we might bring him some, which we told him we would be siire to do, for otherwise he would be starved in that barren place ; requesting him, that if he did not like that mo- tion neither, he would at least come and ask us for what he wanted, and not to take it by force as he had done. He thanked us heartily for our offer, and begged pardon for that injury, and promised to ask it henceforward as an alms, without setting upon any one. As for his place of abode, he told us he had none certain, but wherever night caught him, there he lay : and he ended his discourse with such bitter moans, that we must have had hearts of flint had we not had a feeling of them, and kept him company therein ; chiefly considering we beheld him so strangely altered from what we had seen him before : for, as I said, he was a very fine, comely young man, and by his speech and behavior we could guess him to be well born, and a courtlike sort of a body : for though we were but clowns, yet such was his genteel behavior, that we could not help being taken with it. Now as he was talking to us, he stopped of a sudden, as if he had been struck dumb, fixing his eyes steadfastly on the groirnd; whereat we all stood in amaze. After he had thus stared a good while, he shut his eyes, then opened them again, bit his lips, knit liis brows, clutched his fists; and then rising from the ground, whereon he had thrown himself a little before, he flew at the man that stood next to him with such a fury, that if we had not pulled him off by main force, he would have bit and thumped him to death ; and all the while he cried out, 'Ah! traitor Ferdinand, here, here thou shalt pay for the wrong thou hast done me ; I must rip up that false heart of thine ; ' and a deal more he added, all in dispraise of that same Ferdinand. After that he flung from us without saying a word, leaping over the bushes and brambles at such a strange rate, that it was impossible for us to come at him ; from which we gathered, that his madness comes on him by fits, and that some one called Ferdinand had done him an ill turn, that hath brought the poor youg man to this pass. And this hath been confirmed since that many and many times: for when he is in his right senses, he will come and beg for victuals, and thank us for it with tears; but when he is in his mad fit, he will beat us though we proffer him meat civilly: and to tell you the truth, sirs," added the goat-herd, "I, and four others, of whom two are my men, and the other two my friends, yesterday agreed to look for him till we should find him out, and either by fair means or by force to carry him to Almodover town, that is but eight leagues off; and there we will have him cured, if possible, or at least we shall learn who he is when he comes to his wits, and whether he has any friends to whom he may be sent back. This is all I know of the matter; and I dare assure you that the owner of those things which you saw in the way, is the self-same body that went so nim- Wy by you;" for Don Quixote had by this time ac- quainted the goatherd of his having seen that man skip- ping among the rocks. The knight was wonderfully concerned when he had heard the goatherd's story, and renewed his resolution of finding out that distracted wretch, whatever time and pains it might cost him. But Fortune was more propitious to his desires than he could reasonably have expected: for just as they were speaking, they spied him right against the place where they stood, coming towards them out of the cleft of a rock, mutter- ing somewhat to himself, which they could not well have itnderstood had they stood close by him, much less could they guess his meaning at that distance. His apparel was such as has already been said, only Don Quixote observed, when he drew nearer, that he had on a buff doublet, torn in many places, which yet the knight found to be perfumed with amber; and by this, as also by the rest of his clothes, and other conjectures, he judged him to be a man of some quality. As soon as the imhappy creature came near them, he saluted them very civilly, but with a hoarse voice. Don Quix- ote returned his civilites, and, alighting from Eozi- nante, accosted him in a very graceful manner, and hugged him close in his arms, as if he had been one of his intimate acquaintance. The other, whom we may venture to call the Knight of the Ragged Figure, as well as Don Quixote the Knight of the Woful Figure, having got loose from that embrace, coiild not forbear stepping back a little, and laying his hands on Don Quixote's shoulders, he stood staring in his face, as if he had been striving to call to mind whether he had known him before, probably wondering as much to be- hold Don Quixote's countenance, armor, and strange figiire, as Don Quixote did to see his tattered condition : but the first that opened his mouth after this pause was the ragged knight, as you shall find by the sequel of the story. ' He spied upon the top of a, stony crag just before him a man that skipped from rook to rock with wonderful agility,"— p. CHAPTER XXIII. THE ADVENTURE IN THE SIEEEA-MOEENA — continued. The history relates that Don Quixote listened with great attention to the ragged Knight of the Mountain, who made him the following compliment: — "Truly, sir, whoever you be (for I have not the honor to know you), I am muoh obliged to you for your expressions of civ- ilty and friendship; and I could wish I were in a con- dition to convince you otherwise than by words of the deep sense I have of them: but my bad fortune leaves me nothing to return for so many favors, but unprofit- able wishes. " "Sir," answered Don Quixote, "I have so hearty a desire to serve you, that I was fully resolved not to depart these mountains till I had found you out, that I might know from yourself whether the discontents that have urged you to make choice of this unusual course of life might not admit of a remedy : for if they do, assure yourself I will leave no means untried, till I have purchased you that ease which I heartily wish you; or if your disasters are of that fatal kind that exclude you for ever from the hopes of comfort or relief, then will I mingle sorrows with you, and, by sharing your load of grief, help you to bear the op- pressing weight of affliction; for it is the only comfort of the miserable to have partners in their woe. If, then, good intentions may plead merit, or a grateful requital, let me entreat you, sir, by that generous nature that shoots through the gloom with which adversity has clouded your graceful outside ; nay, let me conjure you by the darling object of your wishes, to let me know who you are, and what strange misfortunes have urged you to withdraw from the converse of your fellow-creatures, to burjf yourself alive in this horrid solitude, where you linger out a wretched being, a stranger to ease, to all mankind, and even to your very self. And I sol- emnly swear," added Don Quixote, "by the order of knighthood, of which I am an unworthy professor, that if you so far gratify my desires, I will assist you to the utmost of my capacity, either by remedying your dis- aster, if it is not past redress, or at least I will become your partner in sorrow, and strive to ease it by a soci- ety in sadness. " The Knight of the Wood, hearing the Knight of the Woful Figure talk at that rate, looked upon him stead- fastly for a long time, and viewed and re-viewed him from head to foot ; and when he had gazed a great while upon him, "Sir," cried he, "if you have anything to eat, for Heaven's sake give it me, and when my hunger is abated, I shall be better able to comply with your 104 ' They came to a brook where they found a mule lying dead."— jj. 100. 106 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. desires, which yonr great civilties and undeserved offers oblige me to satisfy. " Sancho and the goatherd, hearing this, presently took out some victuals, the one out of his bag, the other out of his scrip, and gave it to the ragged knight to allay his hunger, who immedi- ately fell on with that greedy haste, that he seemed rather to devour than feed ; for he used no intermission between bit and bit, so greedily he chopped them up; and all the time he was eating, neither he nor the by- standers spoke the least word. When he had assuaged his voracious appetite, he beckoned to Don Quixote and the rest to follow him; and after he had brought them to a neighboring meadow, he laid himself at his ease on the grass, where the rest of the company sitting down by him, neither he nor they having yet spoke a word since he fell to eating, he began in this manner : — "Gentlemen," said he, "if you intend to be informed of my misfortunes, you must iiromise me beforehand not to cut off the thread of my doleful narration with any questions, or any other interruijtion ; for in the very instant that any of you does it, I shall leave off abruptly, and will not afterwards go on with the story. " This preamble put Don Quixote in mind of Sancho's ridiculous tale, which by his neglect in not telling the goats was brought to an untimely conclusion. "I only use this precaution," added the ragged knight, "be- cause I wovild be quick in my relation, for the verv remembrance of my former misfortune proves a new one to me; and yet, I promise you, I will endeavor to omit nothing that is material, that you may have as full an account of my disasters as I am sensible you desire." Thereupon Don Quixote, for himself and the rest, having promised him uninterrupted attention, he pro- ceeded in this manner : — "My name is Oardenio, the place of my birth one of the best cities in Andalusia: my descent noble, my parents wealthy, but my misfortunes are so great, that they have doubtless filled my relations with the deep- est of sorrows : nor are they to be remedied with wealth, for goods of fortune avail but little against the anger of Heaven. In the same town dwelt the clinrm- ing Lucinda, the most beautiful creature that ever Na- ture framed, equal in descent and fortune to myself, but more happy and less constant. I loved, nay, adored her almost from her infancy; and from her tender years she blessed me with us kind a return as is suitable with the innocent freedom of that age. Our parents were conscious of that early friendship ; nor did they oppose the growth of this inoffensive passion, which they per- ceived could have no other consequences than a happy union of our families by marriage— a thing which the equality of our births and fortunes did indeed of itself almost invite us to. Afterwards our loves so grew up with our years, that Lucinda's father, either judging our usual familiarity prejudicial to his daughter's honor, or for some other reasons, sent to desire me to discon- tinue my frequent visits to his house : but this restraint proved but like that which was used by the parents of that loving Thisbe, so celebrated by the poets, and but added flames to flames, and impatience to desires. As our tongues were now debarred their former privilege, we had recourse to our pens, which assumed the greater freedom to disclose the most hidden secrets of our hearts; for the presence of the beloved object often heightens a certain awe and bashfulness, that disorders, confounds, and strikes dumb even the most passionate lover. How many letters have I written to that lovely charmer ! how many soft, moving verses have I ad- dressed to her ! what kind yet honorable returns have I received from her ! the mutual pledges of our secret love, and the innocent consolations of a violent passion. At length, languishing and wasting with desire, de- prived of that reviving comfort of my soul, I resolved to remove those bars with which her father's care and decent caution obstructed my only happiness, by de- manding her of him in marriage. He very civilly told me that he thanked me for the honor I did him, but that I had a father alive, whose consent was to be ob- tained as well as his, and who was the most proper per- son to make such a proposal. I thanked him for his civil answer, and thought it carried some show of rea- son, not doubting but my father would readily consent to the proposal. I therefore immediately went to wait on him with a design to beg his approbation and assist- ance. I found him in his chamber with a letter opened before him, which, as soon as he saw me, he put into my hand, before I could have time to acquaint him with my business. ' Oardenio,' said he, ' you will see by this letter the extraordinary kindness that Duke Eicardo has for you.' I suppose I need not tell yoii, gentlemen, that this Duke Kicardo is a grandee of Spain, most of whose estate lies in the best part of Andahisia. I read the letter, and found it contained so kind and advanta- geous an offer, that my father could not but accept of it with thanlvfulness; for the duke entreated him to send me to him with all speed, that I might be the com- panion of his eldest son, promising withal to advance me to a post answerable to the good oi)inion he had of me. "This unexpected news struck me dumb; but my surprise and disappointment were much greater when I heiird my father say to me, ' Oardenio, you must get ready to be gone in two days: in the meantime give Heaven thanks for opening you a way to that prefer- ment which I am so sensible you deserve.' After this he gave me several wise admonitions, both as a father and a man of business, and then he left me. The day fixed for my journey quickly came ; however, the night that preceded it I spoke to Lucinda at her window, and told her what had happened. I also gave her father a visit, and informed him of it too, beseeching him to preserve his good opinion of me, and defer the bestow- ing of his daughter till I had been with Duke Ricardo, which he kindly promised me : and then, Lucinda and I, after an exchange of vows, and protestations of eter- nal fidelity, took our leaves of each other with all the grief which two tender and passionate lovers can feel at a separation. "I left the town, and went to wait upon the duke, who received and entertained me with that extraordi- nary kindness and civility that soon raised the envy of his greatest favorites. But he that most endearingly DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANOHA. 107 caressed me was Don Ferdinand, the duke's second son, a young, airy, handsome, generous gentleman ; he seemed to be overjoyed at my coming, and in a most obliging manner told me he would have me one of his most intimate friends. In short, he so really convinced me of his affection, that though his elder brother gave me many testimonies of love and esteem, yet could I easily distinguish between their favors. Now, as it is common for bosom friends to keep nothing secret from each other, Don Ferdinand, relying as much on my fidelity as I had reason to depend on his, revealed to me his most private thoughts; and among the rest, his being in love with the daughter of a very rich farmer, who was his father's vassal. The beauty of that lovely country maid, her virtue, her discretion, and the other graces of her mind, gained her the admiration of all those who approached her: and those uncommon endow- ments had so charmed the soul of Don Ferdinand, that he resolved to marry her. I thought myself obliged, by all the ties of gratitude and friendship, to dissuade him from so unsuitable a match ; and therefore I made use of such arguments as might have diverted any one but so confirmed a lover from such an unequal choice. At last finding them all ineffectual, I resolved to inform the duke, his father, of his intentions : but Don Ferdi- nand was too clear-sighted not to read my design in my great dislike of his resolutions; and dreading such a discovery, which he knew my duty to his father might well warrant, in spite of our intimacy, since I looked npon such a marriage as highly prejudicial to them both, he made it his business to hinder me from betray- ing his passion to his father, assuring me there would be no need to reveal it to him. To blind me the more effectually, he told me he was willing to try the power of absence, that common cure of love, thereby to wear out and lose his unhappy passion; and that in order to this, he would take a journey with me to my father's house, pretending to buy horses in our town, where the best in the world are bred. No sooner had I heard this plausible proposal but I approved it, swayed by the in- terest of my own love, that made me fond of an opportu- nity to see my absent Lucinda. "Having obtained the duke's leave, away we posted to my father's house, where Don Ferdinand was enter- tained according to his quality ; and I went to visit my Lucinda, who, by a thousand innocent endearments, made me sensible that her love, like mine, was rather heightened than weakened by absence, if anything could heighten a love so great and so perfect. I then thought myself obliged, by the laws of friendship, not to conceal the secrets of my heart from so kind and in- timate a friend, who had so generously entrusted me with his; and therefore, to my eternal ruin, I unhappily discovered to him my passion. I praised Lucin- da's beauty, her wit, her virtue; and praised them so like a lover, so often, and so highly, that I raised in him a great desire to see so accomplished a lady; and, to gratify his curiosity, I showed her to him by the help of a light, one evening, at a low window, where we used to have our inter- views. She proved but too charming, and too strong a temptation to Don Ferdinand; and her prevailing im- age made so deep an impression on his soul, that it was sufQcient to blot out of his mind all those beauties that had till then employed his thoughts. He was struck dumb with wonder and delight, at the sight of the ravishing apparition: and, in short, to see her and to love her proved with him the same thing: and when I say to love her, I need not add to desperation, for there is no loving her but to an extreme. If her face made him so soon take fire, her wit quickly set him all in a flame. He often importuned me to communicate to him some of her letters, which I indeed would never expose to any eyes but my own; but, unhappily, one day he found one, wherein she desired me to demand her of her father, and to hasten the marriage. It was penned with such tenderness and discretion that, when he had read it, he presently cried out that the charms which were scattered and divided among other beau- ties were all divinely centred in Lucinda, and in Lu- cinda alone. Shall I confess a shameful truth ? Lucin- da's praises, though never so deserved, did not sound pleasantly to my ears out of Don Ferdinand's mouth. I began to entertain I know not what distrusts and jealous fears, the rather, because he would be still in- sensibly turning the discourse he held of other mat- ters, to make her the subject, though never so far- fetched, of our constant talk. Not that I was appre- hensive of the least infidelity from Lucinda: far from it; she gave me daily fresh assurances of her inviola- ble affection; but I feared everything from my malig- nant stars ; and lovers are commonly industrious to make themselves uneasy. "It happened one day that Lucinda, who took great delight in reading books of knight-errantry, desired me to lend her the romance of Amadis de Gaul " Scarce had Oardenio mentioned knight-errantry, when Don Quixote interrupted him. "Sir," said he, "had you but told me, when you first mentioned the Lady Lucinda, that she was an admirer of books of knight-errantry, there had been no need of using any amplification to convince me of her being a person of uncommon sense; yet, sir, had she not used those mighty helps, those infallible guides to sense, though indulgent Nature had strove to bless her with the rich- est gifts she can bestow, I might justly enough have doubted whether her perfections could have gained her the love of a person of your merit; but now you need not employ your eloquence to set forth the greatness of her beauty, the excellence of her worth, or the depth of her sense, for, from this account which I have of her taking great delight in reading books of chivalry, I dare pronounce her to be the most beautiful, nay, the most accomplished lady in the universe; and I heartily could have wished that, with Amadis de Gaul, you had sent her the worthy Don Eugel of Greece ; for I am certain the Lady Lucinda would have been extremely delighted with Daryda and Garaya, as also with the discreet shepherd Darinel, and those admirable verses of his bucolics, which he sung and repeated with so good a grace. But a time may yet be found to give her the satisfaction of reading those master-pieces, if you 108 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. •will do me the honor to come to my house, for there I may supply you with above three hundred volumes, which are my soul's greatest delight, and the darling comfort of my life; though now I remember myself, I have just reason to fear there is not one of them left in my study, thanks to the malicious envy of wicked enchanters. I beg your pardon for giving yon this in- terruption, contrary to my promise ; but when I hear the least mention made of knight-errantry, it is no more in my power to forbear speaking than it is in the sunbeams not to warm, or in those of the moon not to Impart her natural humidity; and therefore, sir, I be- seech you to go on. " While Don Quixote was running on with this impert- inent digression, Cardeuio hung down his head on his breast with all the signs of a man lost in sorrow ; nor could Don Quixote, with repeated entreaties, persuade him to look up, or answer a word. At last, after he had stood thus a considerable while, he raised his head, and, suddenly breaking silence, "I am positively con- vinced," cried he, "nor shall any man in the world ever persuade me to the contrary; and he's a blockhead who says otherwise than that great villain. Master Elisabat, compromised Queen Madasima. " "It is false ! " cried Don Quixote, in a mighty heat; "by all the powers above, it is all scandal and base de- traction to say this of Queen Madasima ! She was a most noble and virtuous lady; nor is it to be piexumed that so great a princess would ever debase herself so far as to fall in love with a quack. Whoever dares to say she did, lies like an arrant villain ; and I'll make him acknowledge it either a-foot or a-horseback, armed or unarmed, by night or by day, or how he pleases." Cardeuio very earnestly fixed his eyes on Don Quix- ote, while he was thus defying him, and taking Queen Madasima's part, as if she had been his true and law- ful princess; and being provoked by these abuses into one of his mad fits, he took up a great stone that lay by him, and hit Don Quixote such a blow on his breast with it, that it beat him down backwards. Sancho, seeing his lord and master so roughly handled, fell upon the mad knight with his clenched fists; but he beat him off at the first onset, and laid him at his feet with a single blow, and then fell a-trampling on his stomach like a baker in a dough-trough. Nay, the goatherd, who was offering to take Sancho's part, had like to have been served in the same manner. So, the ragged knight, having tumbled them one over another, and beaten them handsomely, left them, and ran into the wood, without the least opposition. Sancho got up when he saw him gone; and being very much out of humor to find himself so roughly handled without any manner of reason, began to pick a quarrel with the goatherd, railing at him for not fore- warning them of the ragged knight's mad fits, that they might have stood upon their guard. The goatherd answered he had given them warning at first, and if he could not hearit wasnofault of his. To this Sancho re- plied, and the goatherd made a rejoinder, till {lom pro's and cons thej" fell to a warmer way of disputing, and went to fisty-cuflfs together, catching one another by the beards, and tugging, hauling, and belaboring one an- other so unmercifully, that, had not Don Quixote part- ed them, they would have pulled one another's chins off. Sancho, in great wrath, [still keeping his hold, cried to his master, "Let me alone, Sir Knight of the AVoful Figure: this is no dubbed knight but an ordi- nary fellow like myself; I may be revenged on him for tlie wrong he has done me ; let me box it out, and fight him fairly hand to fist, like a man !" "Thou maye.st fight him, as he is thy equal," answer- ed Don Quixote; "but thou oughtest not to do it, since he has done us no wrong." After this he pacified them, and then, addressing him- self to the goatherd, asked him whether it was possible to find out Cardeuio again, that he might hear the end of his story. The goatherd answered that, as he al- ready told him, he knew of no settled place he used, but that if they made any stay thereabouts, he would be sure to meet with him, mad or sober, some time or other. CHAPTER XXIV. OF TEE STEANGrE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO THE TAilANT KNIGHT OF LA MANCHA IN THE BLACK MOUNTAIN ; AND OF THE PENANCE HE DID THEEE, IN IMITATION OF BBLTENEBEOS OE THE LOYELT OBSCUEE. " Don Quixote took leave of the goatherd, and having mounted Eozinante, commanded Sancho to follow him, which he did, but with no very good will, his master leading him into the roughest and most craggy part of the mountain. Thus they travelled for a while without speaking a word to each other. Sancho, almost dead, and ready to burst for want of alittle chat, waited with great impatience till his master should begin, not dar- ing to speak first, since his strict injunction of silence. But at last, not being able to keep silence any longer, "good your worship," quoth he, "give me your bless- ing and leave to be gone, I beseech you, that I may go home to my wife and children, where I may talk till I am weary, and nobody can hinder me! for I must needs tell you, that for you to lead me a jaunt through hedge and ditch, over hills and dales, by night and by day, without daring to open my lips, is to bury me alive. Could beasts speak, as they did in -Slsop's time, it would not have been half so bad with me ; for then might I have communed with my ass as I pleased, and have for- got my ill-fortune : but to trot on in this fashion, all the days of my life, after adventures, and to light on noth- ing but thumps, kicks and cuffs, and be tossed in a blanket, and after all, forsooth, to have a man's mouth sewed up, without daring to speak one's mind — I say it again, no living soul can endure it. " "I understand thee, Sancho," answered Don Quix- ote; "thou art impatient to exercise thy talking faculty. Well, I am willing to free thy tongue from this restraint that so cruelly pains thee, upon condition that the time of this license shall not extend beyond that of our con- tinuance in these mountains." "A match!" quoth Sancho. "Let us 'make hay while the sun shines;' I wUl talk whilst I may; what I may do hereafter Heaven knows best! " And so, begin- ning to take the benefit of his privilege, "Pray, sir," quoth he, "what occasion had you to take so hotly the part of Queen Magimasa, or what do you call her?" "Upon my honor, friend Sancho," replied Don Quix- ote, "didst thou but know, as well as I do, what a vir- tuous and eminent lady Queen Madasima was, thou wouldst say I had a great deal of patience, seeing I did 109 110 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. not strike that profane wretch on the mouth, out of ■which such blasphemies proceeded : for, in short, it was the highest piece of detraction to sa}- that a queen was familiar with a barber-surgeon: for the truth of the story is, that this Master Elisabat, of whom the madman spoke, was a person of extraordinary prudence and sagacity, .and physician to that queen, who also made ■use of his advice in matters of importance ; neither can I believe that Cardenio knew what he said, when he charged the queen with that debasing guilt; for it was plain that his raving fit had disordered the seat of his understanding. " "Why, there it is," quoth Sancho; "who but a mad- man would have minded what a madman said ? What if the flint that hit you on the breast had dashed out your brains ? we had been in a dainty pickle for taking the part of that same lady. Nay, and Cardenio would lave come off too, had he knocked you on the head; for the law has nothing to do with madmen. " "Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "we knights-errant are obliged to vindicate the honor of women of what quality soever, as well against madmen as against men in their senses ; much more queens of that magnitude and extraordinary worth as Queen Madasima, for whose Tare endowments I have a peculiar veneration ; for she ■WHS a most beautiful lady, discreet and prudent to ad- miration, and behaved herself with an exemplary patience in all her misfortunes. It was then that the company and wholesome counsels of Master Elisabat proved very useful to alleviate the burden of her afflic- tions : from which the ignorant and ill-meauing vulvar took occasion to invent scandals. But I say once more, they lie, and lie a thousand times, whoever they be, that shall i)resumptuou.sly report, or hint, or so much as think or surmise so base a Ciilumny." "Why," quoth Sancho, "I neither say nor think one ■way nor the t'other, not I: let them that say it eat the lie, and swallow it with their bread. I never trust my nose into other men's jiorridge. It is no bread and l)utter of mine : ' every maji for himself, and God for us air say I; for he that buys and lies, finds it in his purse. Let him that owns the cow take her by the tail. Naked came I into the world, and naked must I go out. Many think to find flitches of bacon, and find not so much as the racks to lay them on; but who can hedge in a cuc- koo ? ' Little said is soon mended-' It is a sin to belie the devil: but misunderstanding brings lies to town, and there is no padlocking of people's mouths; for a close mouth catches no flies. " "Bless me!" cried Don Quixote, "what a catalogue of musty proverbs hast thou run through! what a heap of frippery ware hast thou threaded together, and how wide from the purpose! Pray thee have done, and for the future let thy whole study be to spur thy ass; nor do thou concern thyself with things that are out of thy sphere ; and with all thy five senses remember this, that whatsoever I do, have done, and shall do, is no more than what is the result of mature consideration, and strictly conformable to the laws of chivalry, which I understand better than all the knights that ever pro- fessed knight-errantry. " "Ay, ay sir," quoth Sancho; "but pray is it a good, law of chivalry that says we shall wander up and down, over bushes and briars, in this rocky wilderness, where there is neither foot-path nor horse-way, running after a madman, who, if we may light on him again, may chance to make an end of what he has begun — not of his story, I mean, but of belaboring you and me thor- oughly?" "Once more, I pr'ythee, have done," said Don Quix- ote; "I have business of greater moment than the find- ing this frantic man : it is not so much that business detains me in this barren and desolate wild, as a desire I have to perform a certain heroic deed that shall im- mortalize my fame, and make it fly to the remotest regions of the habitable globe; nay, it shall seal and confirm the most complete and absolute knight-errant in the world. " "But is not this same adventure very dangerous?" asked Sancho. "Not at all," replied Don Quixote; "though, as for- tune may order it, our expectations may be baffled by disappointing accidents: but the main thing consists in thy diligence." "My diligence?" quoth Sancho. "I mean," said Don Quixote, "that if thou returnest with all the speed im.nginable from the place whither I design to send thee, my pain will soon be at an end, and my glory begin. And because I do not doubt thy zeal for advancing thy master's interest, I will no long- er conceal my design from thee. Know, then, my most faithful squire, that Amadis de Gaul wns one of the most accomplished knights-errant; nay, I should not have said he was one of them, but the most perfect, the chief and prince of them all. And let not Don Belianis, nor any others, pretend to stand in competition with him for the honor of jiriority; for, to my knowledge, should they attempt it, thej' would be egregiously in the wrong. I must also inform thee, that when a painter studies to excel and grow famous in his art, lie takes care to imitate the best originals; which rule ought likewise to be observed in all other arts and sciences that serve for the ornament of well-regulated commonwealths. Thus he that is ambitious of gaining the reputation of a prudent and patient man, ought to pro- pose to himself to imitate Ulysses, in whose person and troubles Homer has admirably delineated a perfect jiat- tern and prototype of wisdom and heroic patience. So Virgil, in his ^neas, has given the world a rare example of filial piety, and of the sagacity of a valiant and experi- enced general ; both the Greek and Roman poets repre- senting their heroes, not such as they really were, but such as they should be, to remain examples of virtue to ensuing ages. In the same manner, Amadis having been the polar star and sun of valorous and amorous knights, it is him we ought to set before our eyes as our great exemplar, all of us that fight under the banner of love and chivalry ; for it is certain that the adventurer who shall emulate him best shall consequently arrive near- est to the perfection of knight-errantry. Now, Sancho, I find that among the things which most displayed that champion's prudence and fortitude, his constancy and "Bat pray, sir, quotli Sancho, "is it a good lawof cliivalry that says we shall wander up and down, over hushes and hriars."— p. 110. 112 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. love, and his other heroic virtues, none was more re- markable than his retiring from his disdainful Oriana, to do penance on the Poor Eock; changing his name into that of Beltenebros, or the Lovely Obsciire, a title certainly most significant, and adapted to the life which he then intended to lead. So I am resolved to imitate him in this, the rather because I think it a more easy task than it would be to copy his other achievements, such as cleaving the bodies of giants, cutting off the heads of dragons, killing dreadful monsters, routing whole armies, dispersing navies, breaking the force of magic spells. And since these mountainous wilds offer me so fair an opportunity, I see no reason why I should neglect it, and therefore I will lay hold on it now. " "Very well," quoth Sancho; "but pray, sir, what is it that you mean to do in this fag end of the world. " "Have I not already told thee," answered Don Quixote, "that I intend to copy Amadis in his madness, despair, and fury? nay, at the same time I will imitate the valiant Orlando Furioso's extravagance when he ran mad; at which time, in his frantic despair, he tore up trees by the roots, troubled the waters of the clear fountains, slew the shepherds, destroyed their flocks, fired their huts, demolished houses, drove their horses before him, and committed a hundred thousand other extravagances, worthy to be recorded in the eternal register of fame. Fot that I intend, however, in all things to imitate Eoldan, or Orlando, or Eotoland (for he had all those names), but only to make choice of such frantic effects of his amorous despair, as I shall think most essential and worthy imitation. Nay, per- haps I shall wholly follow Amadis, who, without launch- ing out into such destructive and fatal ravings, and only expressing his anguish in complaints and lamenta- tions, gained nevertheless, a reuown equal, if not superior, to that of the greatest heroes." "Sir," quoth Sancho, "I dare say the kuight who did these penances had some reason to be mad ; but what need have you to be mad too? what lady has sent you a-packing, or so much as slighted you? when did you ever find that my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso did other- wise than she should do?" "Why, there is the point," cried Don Quixote: "in this consists the singular perfection of my undertaking ; for, mark me, Sancho, for a knight-errant to run mad upon any just occasion, is neither strange nor meritor- ious; no, the rarity is to run mad without a cause, with- out the least constraint or necessity: there is a refined and exquisite passion for you, Saucho! for thus my mistress must needs have a vast idea of my love. But besides, I have but too just a motive to give a loose to my raving grief, considering the long date of my ab- sence from my ever supreme Lady Dulcinea del Toboso ; for as the shepherd in Matthias Ambrosio has it — " Poor lovers, absent from the darling fair, All ills not only dread, but bear." Then do not lavish any more time in striving to divert me from so rare, so happy, and so singular an imitation. I am mad, and will be mad, until thy return with an answer to the letter which thou must carry from me to the Lady Dulcinea; and if it be as favorable as my un- shaken constancy deserves, then my madness and my penance shall end ; but if I find she repays my vows and services with ungrateful disdain, then will I be emphatically mad, and screw up my thoughts to such an excess of distraction, that I shall be insensible of the rigor of my relentless fair. Thus what return soever she makes to my passion, I shall be eased one way or other of the anxious thoughts that now divide my soul ; either entertaining the welcome news of her reviving pity with demonstrations of sense, or else showing my insensibility of her cruelty by the height of my dis- traction. But in the meantime, Sancho, tell me, hast thou carefully preserved Membrino's helmet? I saw thee take it up the other day, after that monster of in- gratitude had spent his rage in vain endeavors to break it, which, by the way, argues the most excellent temper of the metal." "Body of me," quoth Sancho, "SirKnight of the Wo- ful Figure, I can no longer bear to hear you run on at this rate ! Why, this were enough to make any man believe that all your bragging and bouncing of your knight-errantry, your winning of kingdoms, and be- stowing of islands, and Heaven knows what, upon your squire, are mere flim-flam stories, and nothing but shams and lies; for who can hear a man call a barber's basin a helmet, nay, and stand to it, and vouch it four days to- gother, and not think him that says it to be stark mad, or without brains ? I have the basin safe enough here in my pouch, and I'll get it mended for my own use, if ever I have the luck to get home to my wife and children." "Now as I love bright arms," cried Don Quixote, "I swear thou art the shallowest, silliest, and most stupid fellow of a squire that ever I heard or read of in my life ! How is it possible for thee to be so dull of appre- hension, as not to have learnt in all this time that thou hast been in my service, that all the actions and adven- tures of us knights-errant seem to be mere chimeras, follies, and impertinences ? Not that they are so in- deed, but appear so, either through the ofBcious care or the malice and envy of those enchanters that always haunt and persecute us unseen, and by their fascinations change the appearance of our actions into what they please, according to their love or hate. This is the very reason why that which I plainly perceive to be Mam- brino's helmet seems to thee to be only a barber's basin, and perhaps another man may take it to be something else. And in this I can never too much admire the prudence of the sage who espouses my interests, in making that inestimable helmet seem a basin ; for did it appear in its proper shape, its tempting value would raise me as manj^ enemies as there are men in the uni- verse, all eager to snatch from me so desirable a prize : but so long as it shall seem to be nothing but a barber's basin, men will not value it; as is manifest from the fellow's leaving it behind him on the ground; for had he known what it really was, he would sooner have parted with his life. K' ep it safe then, Sancho, for I have no need of it at present, far from it; I think to put off my armor, and strip myself as naked as I came DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 113 into the world, in case I determine to imitate Orlando's fury, rather than the penance of Amadis. " This discourse brought them to the foot of a high rock that stood by itself, as if it had been hewn out, and divided from the rest; by the skirt of it glided a l)urling stream, that softly took its winding course through an adjacent meadow. The verdant freshness of the grass, the number of wild trees, plants, and flow- ers that feasted the eyes in that pleasant solitude, in- vited the Knight of the Woful Figure to make choice of it to perform his amorous penance ; and therefore as soon as he had let his ravished sight rove a while over the scattered beauties of the place, he took possession of it with the following speech, as if he had utterly lost the small share of reason he had left. "Behold, oh ye heavens !" cried he, "this is the place which an unhappy lover has chosen for bemoaning the deplorable state to which yon have reduced him: here shall my flowing tears swell the liquid veins of this crystal rill, and my deep sighs perpetually move the leaves of these shady trees, in testimony of the anguish and pain that harrows up my soul. Ye rural deities, whoever ye be, that make these unfrequented deserts your abode, hear the complaints of an unfortunate lover, whom a tedious absence, and some slight impres- sions of a jealous mistrust, have driven to these re- gions of despair, to bewail his rigorous destiny, and deplore the distracting cruelty of that imgrateful fair, who is the perfection of all human beauty. Te pitying Napaen Nymphs and Dryades, silent inhabitants of the woods and groves, assist me to lament my fate, or at least attend the mournful story of my woes; so may no designing satyrs, those just objects of your hate, ever have power to interrupt your rest. O Dulcinea del Toboso ! thou sun that turnest my gloomy night to day ! glory of my pain ! north star of my travels, and reigning planet that controll'st my heart ! pity, I con- jure thee, the unparalleled distress to which thy ab- sence has reduced the faithfuUest of lovers, and grant to my fidelity thg,t kind return which it so justly claims; so may indulgent Pate shower on thee all the blessings thou ever canst desire, or Heaven grant. Ye lonesome trees, under whose spreading branches I come to linger out the gloomy shadow of a tedious being, let the soft language of your rustling leaves, and the kind nodding of your springing boughs, satisfy me that I am welcome to your shady arbors. Oh, thou, my trusty squire, the inseparable companion of my adventures, diligently observe what thou shalt see me do in this lonely retreat, that thou mayest inform the dear cause of my ruin with every particular. " As he said this, he alighted, and presently taking off his horse's bridle and saddle, "Go, Rozinante," saitb he; "he that has lost his freedom, gives thee thine, thou steed as renowned for thy extraordinary actions as for thy misfortunes; go rear thy awtul front where- ever thou pleasest, secure that neither the Hypogry- phon of Astolpho, nor the renowned Frontino, which Bradamante purchased at so high a price, could ever be thought thy equ.als." "Well fare him," cried Sancho, "that saved me the trouble of sending my ass to grass too ; poor thing I had I him here, he should not want a fine speech in his praise, while I took ofi' his pannel. But stay, now I think on it. Sir Knight of the Woful Figure, if your worship is resolved to be mad, and send me away in good earnest, we must even clap the saddle again on Kozinante's back; for to tell you the truth, I am but a sorry foot-man, and if I do not ride home, I do not know when I shall be able to come back again. " "Do as thou thinkest fit for that, Sancho," answered Bon Quixote, "for I design thou shalt set forward about three days hence. In the meanwhile, thou shalt be a witness of what I will do for my lady's sake, that thou mayest give her an account of it." "Bless me!" quoth Sancho, "what can I see more than I have seen already?" "Thou has seen nothing yet," answered Don Quixote; "thou must see me throw away my armor, tear my clothes, knock my head against the rocks, and do a thousand other things of that kind, that will fill thee with astonishment." "For goodness sake, sir," quoth Sancho, "take heed how you quarrel with those ungracious rocks; you may chance to get such a crack on the crown at the very first rap, as may spoil your penance at one dash. No, I do not like that way, by no means; if yon must needs be knocking your noddle, to go through with this ugly job, seeing it is all but a mockery, or as it were between jest and earnest, why cannot you as well play your tricks on something that is softer than these uncon- scionable stones ? You may run your head against water, or rather against cotton, or this stuffing of Eozinante's saddle, and then let me alone with the rest: I will be sure to tell my Lady Dulcinea that you be- bumped your poll against the point of a rock that is harder than a diamond. " "1 thank thee for thy goodwill, dear Sancho," replied Don Quixote; "but I assure thee that all these seeming extravagances that I must run through are no jests; far from it: they must all be performed seriously and sol- emnly ; for otherwise we should transgress the laws of chivalry, that forbid us to tell lies upon pain of degra- dation; now to jiretend to do one thing, and effect another, is an evasion, which I esteem to be as bad as lying. Therefore the blows which I must give myself on the head oitght to be real, substantial, sound ones, without any tiick or mental reservation; for which reason I would have thee leave me some lint and salve, since Fortune has deprived us of the sovereign balsam which we lost. " "It was a worse loss to lose the ass," qtioth Sancho, "for with him we have lost bag and baggage, lint and all: but no more of your drench, if you love me; the very thotights on it are enough not only to tirrn my stomach, but my soul ; such a rumbling I feel at the name of it. Then as for the three days yon would have me loiter here to mind your mad tricks, you had as good make account they are already over ; for I hold them for done, tinsight unseen, and will tell wonders to my lady : wherefore write yoti your letter, and send me going with all haste; for let me be hanged if I do not long al- 114 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. ready to be back, to take you out of this purgatory wberein I leave jou. " "Well, be it so," said the Knight of the Woful Figure: "but how shall I do to write this letter!" "And the order for the three asses?" added Sancho. "I will not forget it," answered Don Quixote; but since we have here no pajiei-, I must be obliged to write on the leaves or bark of trees, or on wax, as they did in ancient times; yet now I c-nusider on it, we are here as ill provided with wax as with paper: but stay, now I remember, I have Cardeuio's ])ocket-book, which will supply that want in this exigence, and then thou shalt get the letter fairly transcribed at the first village where thou canst meet with a sch(jolmaster ; or, for want of a schoolmaster, thou mayest get the clerk of the parish to do it; but by no means give it to any notary or scrivener to be written out; for they commonh" write such execrable hands, that no one on earth is able to read it. " "Well," quoth Sancho, "but what shall I do for want of your name to it'r'" " Why, " answered Don Quixote, " Amadis never used to subscribe liis letters. " "Ay," replied Sancho, "but the bill of exchange for the three asses must be signed; for should I get it copied out afterwards, they would say it is not your hand, and so I shall go without the asses. " "I will write and sign the order for them in tlie pocket-book," answered Don Quixote: "and as soon as my niece sees the hand, she will never scruple the de- livery of the asses: and as for the love-letter, when thou gettest it transcribed, thou must get it thus under- written, ' Yours till death, the Knight of the Woful Figure.' It is no matter whether the letter and sub- scription be written by the same hand or no ; for as I remember, Dulcinea can neither read nor write, nor did she ever see any of my letters, nay, not so much as any of my writing in her life: for my love and hers have always been purely Platonic, never extending beyond the lawful bounds of a look; and that, too, so very seldom, that I dare .safely swear that though for these twelve years she has been dearer to my soul than light to my eyes, yet I never sa,w her four times in my life ; ane perhaps of those few times that I have seen her, she has scarce perceived once that I beheld her; so strictly and so discreetly Lorenzo Oorchuelo, her father and Aldonza Nogales, her mother, have kept and educated her." "Heighday!" (jnoth Sancho; "did you ever here the like? and is my lady Dulcinea del Toboso at last the daughter of Lorenzo Oorchuelo, she that is otherwise called Aldonza Lorenzo?" "The same," answered Don Quixote; "and it is she that merits to be sovereign the mistress of the universe. " "Udsniggers?" quoth Sancho, "I know her full well; it is a strapping wench, i'faith, and pitches the bar with e'er a luste young fellow in our parish. By the mass, it is a notable, strong-built, sizable, sturdy, manly lass, and one that will keep her chin out of the mire, I war- rant her; nay, and hold the best knight-errant to it that wears a head, if ever he venture near her. Body of me, what a pair of lungs and a voice she has, when she sets up her throat? I saw her one day perched up o'top of of our steeple, to call some ploughmen that were at work in a fallow-field : and though they were half a league off, they heard her as plain as if they had been in the churchyard under her. Thebestof her is, thatsheis neither coy nor frutnpish ; she is a tractable lass, and fit for a courtier, for she will play with you like a kitten, and jibes and jokes at everybody. And now, in good truth, Sir Knight of the "NVoful Figure, you may e'en play at your gambols as you please; you may run mad, you may hang yourself for her sake; there is nobody but will say you e'en took the wisest course. Now am I even wild to be gone, though it were for nothing else but to see her, for I have not seen her this many a day; I fancy 1 shall hardly know her again, for a woman's face strangely alters by her being always in the sun, and drudging and moiling in the open fields. Well, I must needs own I have been mightily mistaken all along; for I durst have sworn this Lady Dulcinea had been some great princess with whom you were in love, and such a one as deserved those rare gifts you bestowed on her, as the Biscayan, the galley-slaves, and many others, that, for aught I know, you may have sent her before 1 was your squire. I cannot choose but to laugh to think how my Lady Aldonza Lorenzo (mj' Lady Duliinea del Toboso, I should have said) would behave herself, should any of those men which you have sent, or may send to her, chance to go and fall down on their marrow-bones before her: for it is ten to one they may happen to find her a-carding of flax, or threshing in the barn, and then how finely baulked they will be ! as sure as I am alive, they must needs think fortune owed them a shame; and she herself will but flout them, and mayhap be somewhat nettled at it. " "I have often told thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and I tell thee again, that thou ough test to bridle or immure thy saucy, prating tongue; for though thou art but a dull-headed dunce, yet now and then thy ill- mannered jests bite too sharp. But that I may at once make thee sensible of thy folly and my discretion, pr'ythee tell me, dost thou think the jiocts, who, every one of them, celebrate the praises of some lady or other, had all real mistresses? or that the Amaryllises, the Phyllises, the Sylvias, the Dianas, the Galateas, the Alidas, and the like, which you shall find in so manj- poems, romances, songs, and ballads, upon every stage, and even in every barber's shop, were creatures of flesh and blood, and mistresses to those that did and do cel- ebrate them? No, no, never think it; for I dare assure tliee, the greatest part of them were nothing but the mere imaginations of the poets, for a groundwork to exercise their wits upon, and give to the world occasion to look on the authors as men of a gallant disposition: and so it is sufficient for me to imagine that Aldonza Lorenzo is beautiful and chaste ; as for her birth and parentage, they concern me but little ; for there is no need to make an inquiry about a woman's jiedigree, as there is of us meUj when some badge of honor is be- stowed on US: and so she is to me the greatest princess in the world: for thou ough test to know, Sancho — if DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 115 thou knowest it not alreadj- — that there are but two things that chiefly excite lis to love a woman — an at- tractive beauty and unspotted fame. Now these two endowments are happily reconciled in Dulcinea; for as for the one, she has not her equal, and few can vie with her in the other: but to cut off all objections at once, I imagine that all I say of her is really so, without the least addition or diminution: I fancy her to be just such as I would have her for beauty and quality. Helen cannot stand in competition with her; Lucretia cannut rival her; and all the heroines which antiquity has to boast, whether Greeks, Eomans, or barbarians, are at once outdone by her incomparable perfections. There fore let the world say what it will ; should the ignorant vulgar foolishly censure me, I please myself with the assurances I have of the approbation of men of the strictest morals and the nicest judgment. " "Sir," quoth Sanclio, "I knock under: you have reason on your side in all you say, and I own myself an ass. Nay, I am an. ass to talk of an ass ; for it is ill talking of halters in the house of a man that was hang- ed. But where is the letter all this while, that I may be jogging ? With that Don Quixote pu.lled out the pocket-book, and, retiring a little aside, he very seriously began to write the letter; which he had no sooner finished, but he called Sancho, and ordered him to listen while he read it over to him, that he might carry it as well in his memory as in his pocket-book, in case he should have the ill luck to lose it by the way ; for so cross was For- tune to him, that he feared every accident. "But, sir," said Sancho, "write it over twice or thrice there in the book, and give it me, and then I will be sure to deliver the message safe enough, I warrant ye : for it is a folly to think I can get it hj heart. Alas! mj' memory is so bad, that many times I forget my own name ; but yet for all that, read it out to me, I beseech you, for 1 have a great mind to hear it. I dare say, it is as fine as though it were in print. " "Well, then, listen," said Don Quixote. Don Quixote de la Mancha to Dulcinea del Toboso. "High and Sovereign Lady! "He that is stabbed to the quick with the poniard of absence, and wounded to the heart with love's most piercing darts, sends you that health which he wants himself, sweetest Dulcinea del Toboso. If your beauty reject me, if your virtue refuse to raise my fainting hopes, if your disdain exclude me from relief, I must at last sink under the pressure of mj' woes, though much inured to sufferings : for my pains are not only too violent, but too lasting. My trusty squire Sancho will give you an exact account of the condition to which love and you have reduced me, too beautiful ingrate! If you relent at last, and pity my distress, then I may say I live, and you preserve what is yours. But if you adandon me to despair, I must patiently submit, and, by ceasing to breathe, satisfy your cruelty and my jiassion. — Yours, till death. "The Knight of the Woful Figure." "By the life of my father," quoth Sancho, "if I ever saw a finer thing in my born days! How neatly and roundly you tell your mind, and how cleverly you bring in at last, 'The Knight of the Woful Figure! ' Well, I say it again in good earnest, there is no kind of thing in the 'versal world but what you can turn your hand to." "A man ought to have some knowledge of every- thing," answered Don Quixote, "if he would be duly qualified for the employment I profess." " Well, then, " quoth Sancho, " do so much as write the warrant for the three asses on the other side of that leaf; and pray write it mighty plain, that they may know it is your hand at first sight." "I will," said Don Quixote; and with that he wrote it accordingly, and then read it in this form : — "My dear Mece, "Upon sight of this my first bill of asses, be pleased to deliver three of the five which I left at home in your custody to Sancho Panza, my squire, for the like number received of him here in tale ; and this, together with his acquaintance, shall be your discharge. Given in the very heart of the Sierra Morena, the 22nd of August, in the present year. " "It is as it should be," quoth Sancho: "there only wants your name at the bottom. " "There is no need to set my name," answered Don Quixote, "I will only set the two first letters of it, and it will be as valid as if it were written at length, though it were not onlj' for three asses, but for three hundred. " "I dare take your worship's word," quoth Sancho. "And now I am going to saddle Rozinante, and then you shall give me your blesssing, for I intend to set out presently, without seeing any of yoiir mad tricks; and I will relate that I saw you perform so many, that she can desire no more." "Nay," said Don Quixote, "I will have thee stay a while, Sancho; "it is absohitely necessary thou should st see me practice some twenty or thirty mad gambols. I shall have dispatched them in less than half an hour, and when thou hast been an eye-witness of that essay, thou mayest with a safe conscience swear thou hast seen me plaj' a thousand more ; for I dare as- sure thee, for thy encouragement, thou never canst ex- ceed the number of those I shall perform." "Good sir," quoth Sancho, "as you love me, do not let me stay to see you ! it will grieve me so to the heart, that I shall cry my eyes out; and I have blub- bered and howled but too much since yesternight for the loss of my ass ; my head is so sore with it, I am not able to cry any longer; but if you will needs have me see some of your antics, pray do them out of hand, and let them be such as are most to the purpose ; for the sooner I go, the sooner I shall come back, and the way to be gone is not to stay here. I long to bring you an answer to your heart's content, and I will be sure to do it, or let the Lady Dulcinea look to it; for if she does not answer it as she should do, I protest solemnly I will •He gave two or tliree frisks in the air, and then pitching on his hands, he fetched his heels over his head twice together." — p. 117 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 11/ force an answer out of her by dint of good kicks and fisticuffs ; for it is not to be endured that so notable a inight-errant as your worship is should thus run out of bis wits without knowing why or wherefore, for such a — odsbobs, I know wliat I know ; she had best not provoke me to speak it out; for, if she does, I shall let fly, and out with it by wholesale, though it spoil the mar- ket." . "I protest, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "I think thou art as mad as myself." "Nay, not so mad neither," replied Sancho, "but somewhat more choleric. But talk no more of that. Let us see how you will do for victuals when I am gone? Do you mean to do like tlie other madman yonder, rob upon the the highway, and snatch the goatherds' vic- tuals from them by main force ?" "Never let that trouble thy head," replied Don Quixote, "for though I had all the dainties that can feast a luxurious palate, I would feed upon nothing but the herbs and fruits which this wilderness will afford me; for the singularity of my present task consists in fasting and half starving myself, and in the perform- ance of other austerities. " "But there is another thing come into my head," quoth Sancho; "how shall I do to find the way hither again ? it is such a bye-place. " "Take good notice of it beforehand," said Don Quix- ote, "and I will endeavor to keep hereabouts till thj- leturn ; besides, about the time when I may reasonably expect thee back, I will be sure to watch on the top of yonder high rock for thy coming. But now I bethink myself of a better expedient: thou shalt ctit down a good number of boughs, and strew them in the way as thou ridest along, till thou gettest to the plains, and this will serve thee to find me again at thy return, like Perseus's clue to the labyrinth in Crete." "I will go about it out of hand," quoth Sancho. With that he went and cut down a bundle of boughs, then came and asked his master's blessing, and, after a shower of tears shed on both sides, mounted Kozimnte, which Don Quixote very seriously recommended to his care, charging him to be as tender of that excellent steed as of his own person. After that he set forward toward the plains, strewing several boughs as he rode, according to order. His master importuned him to stay and see him do two or three of his antic x^ostures before he went, but he could not prevail with him: however, before he was got out of sight, he considered of it and ■ rode back. "Sir," quoth he, "I have thought better of it, and believe I had best take your advice, that I may swear with a safe conscience I have seen you play your mad tricks; therefore I would see you do one of them at least, though I think I have seen you do a very great one already — I mean, your staying by yourself in this desert. " "I had advised thee right," said Don Quixote; "and therefore stay but while a man may repeat the Creed, and I will show thee what thou wouldst see." With that, stripping himself to the waist, he gave two or three frisks in the air, and then pitching on his hands, he fetched his heels over his head twice together. Whereupon Sancho made haste to turn his horse's head, and rode away full satisfied, that he might swear his master was mad. And so we will leave him to make the best of his way till his return, which will be more speedy than might be imagined. CHAPTER XXV. A CONTINUATION OF THE REFINED EXTRAVAGANCES BY WHICH THE GALLANT KNIGHT OF LA MANCHA CHOSE TO EXPRESS HIS LOVE IN THE SIERRA MORENA. The history relates, that as soon as the Knight of the Woful Figure saw himself alone, after he had taken his frisks and leaps, the prelude to his amorous penance, he ascended the top of a high rook, and there began seriously to consider with himself what resolution to take in that nice dilemma, which had already so per- plexed his mind; that is, whether he should imitate Orlando in his wild ungovernable fury, or Amadis in his melancholy mood. To which jiurpose, reasoning with himself, "I do not much wonder," said he, "at Orlando's being so very valiant, considering he was en- chanted in snch a manner, that he could not be slain, but by the thrust of a long pin through the bottom of his foot, which he sufficiently secured, always wearing seven iron soles to his shoes ; and yet this availed him nothing against Bernardo del Carpio, who, understand- ing what he depended upon, squeezed him to death be- tween his arms at Roncevalles. But, setting niside his valor, let us examine his madness; for that he was mnd, is an unquestionable truth ; nor is it less certain that his frenzy was occasioned by the assurances he had that the fair Angelica had fallen in love with Medoio, that young Moor with curled locks, who was p;i,£re to Agramont. Now, after all, seeing he was too well convinced of his lady's infidelity, it is not to be admired he should run mad: but how can I imitate him in his furies, if I cannot imitate him in their occasion? for I dare swear my Dulcinea del Toboso never saw a downright Moor in his own garb since she first beheld light, so that I should do her a great injury, should I entertain any dishonorable thoughts of her behavior, and fall into such a kind of madness as that of Orlando Furioso. On the other side I find that Amadis de Gaul, without punishing himself with such distraction, or expressing his resentment in so boisterous and raving a manner, got as great a reputa- tion for being a lover as any one whatsoever: for what I find in history as to his abandoning himself to sorrow is only this: he found himself disdained, his lady Oriana having charged him to get out of her sight, and not to presume to appear in her presence till she ga-s-e him leave; and this was the true reason why he retired to the Poor Eock with the hermit, where he gave up him self wholly to grief, and wept a deluge of tears, tdl pitying Heaven at last, commiserating his afBction, sent him relief in the height of his anguish. Now, then, since this is true, as I know it is, what need have I to tear off my clothes, to rend and root up those harmless trees, or trouble the clear water of these brooks, that must give me drink when I am thirsty? No, long live the memory of Amadis de Gaul, and let him be the great exemplar which Don Quixote de laMauchn chooses to imitate in all things that will admit of a parallel. So may it be said of the living copy, as was said of the dead original, that, if he did not perform great things, yet no man was more ambitious of undertaking them than he ; and though I am not disdained nor discarded bj'' Dulcinea, yet it is sufficient that I am absent from her. Then it is resolved: and now, ye famous actions of tlie great Amadis, recur to my remembrance, and be my trusty guides to follow his example." This said, he called to mind that the chief exercise of that hero in his retreat was prayer; to which purpose our modern Amadis presently went and made himself a rosiiry of galls or acorns instead of beads; but he was extremely troubled for want of a hermit to hear his confession, and comfort him in his affliction. However, he entertained himself with his amorous contemplations, walking up and down in the meadow, and writing some poetical conceptions in the smooth sand, and upon the barks of trees, all of them expressive of his sorrows, and the praises of Dulcinea ; but, unhappily, none were found entire and legible but these stanzas as follow : — Te lofty treeB, with spreading arms, The pride and shelter of the plain ; Te humbler shrubs, andflow'ry charms, Which here in springing glory reign! If my complaints may pity move, Hear the sad story of my love! While with me here you pass your honrs. Should yon grow faded with my cares, I'll bribe you with refreshing showers, You shall be watered with my tears, nistant though present in idea, I mourn my absent Dulcinea Del Toboso. Love's truest slave desparing chose This lonely wild, this desert plain, The silent witness of the woes which he, though guiltless, must sustain . Unknowing why those pains he hears, Ue groans, he raves, and he despairs; With ling'ring fires love racks my soul, In vain I grieve, in vain lament ; 118 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 119 Like tortur'd flende, I weep, I howl, And burn, yet never can repent. Distant, tbongh present in idea, I mourn my absent Dulcinea Del Toboso. While I through honor's thorny ways, In search of distant glory rove, Malignant Fate my toil repays With endless woes and hopeless love. Thus I on barren rocks despak. And curse my stars, yet bless my fair. Love arm'd with snakes has left his dart, And now does like a fury rave, And scourge and eting in every part, And into madness lash his slave. Distant, though present in idea, I mourn my absent Dulcinea Del Toboso. This addition of Del Toboso to the name of Dulcinea made those who found these verses laugh heartily; and they imagined, that when Don Quixote made them, he was afraid those who should hajipen to read them would not understand on whom the^- were made, should he omit to mention the place of his mistress's birth and residence; and this was indeed the true reason, as he himself afterwards confessed. With this employment did our disconsolate knight beguile the tedious hours; sometimes also he expressed his sorrows in prose, sigh- ed to the winds, and called upon the Sylvan gods, and Fauns, the Naiads, the Nymphs of the adjoining groves, and the mournful Echo, imploring their atten- tion and condolement with repeated supplications : at other times he employed himself in gathering herbs for the support of languishing nature, which decayed so fast, what with his slender diet, and what with his studied anxiety and intenseness of thinking, that had Sancho stayed but three weeks from him, whereas by good fortune he stayed but three days, the Knight of the Woful Figure would have been so disfigured, that his mother would never have known her own child. But now it is necessary we should leave him a while to his sighs, his sobs, and his amorous expostulations, and see how Sancho Panza behaved himself in his em- bassy. He made all the haste he could to get out of the mountain, and then taking the direct road to Tobo- so, the next day he arrived near the inn where he had been tossed in a blanket. Scarce had he descried the fatal walls, when a sudden shivering seized his bones, and he fancied himself to be again dancing in the air, so that he had a good mind to have rode farther before he baited, though it was dinner-time, and his mouth watered strangely at the thoughts of a hot bit of meat, the rather, because he had lived altogether on cold victuals for a long while. This greedy longing drew him near the inn, in spite of his aveisicm to the place: but yet when he came to the gate he had not the cour- age to go in, but stopped there, not knowing whether he had best enter or no. While he sat musing, two men happened to come out, and believing they knew him, "Look, master doctor," cried one to the other, "is not that Sancho Panza, whom the housekeeper told us her master had inveigled to go along with him ? "The same," answered the other; "and more than that, he rides on Don Quixote's horse." Now these two happened to be the curate and the barber, who had brought his books to a trial, and pass- ed sentence on them ; therefore they had no sooner said, this, but they called to Sancho, and asked him where he had left his master. The trusty squire presently knew them, and, having no mind to discover the place and condition he had left his master in, told them he wass taken up with certain business of great consequence at a certain place, which he durst not discover for his life. "How, Sancho!" cried the barber; "you must not think to put us off with a flim-flam story, if you will not tell us where he is, we shall believe you have murdered him, and robbed him of his horse ; therefore either satis- fy us where you have left him, or we will have you laid by the heels. " "Look you, neighbor," quoth Sancho, "I am not afraid of words, do 5'ou see; I am neither a thief nor a manslayer; 1 kill nobody, so nobody kill me; 1 leave every man to fall by his own fortune, or by the hand of Him that made him. As for my master, I left him frisk- ing and doing penance in the midst of yon mountain, to his heart's content. " After this, without any further entreaty, he gave them a full account of that business, and of all their adventures; how he was then going from his mafster to carry a letter to my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, Lorenzo Corchuelo's daughter, with whom he was up to the ears in love. The curate and barber stood amazed, hearing all these particulars; and though they already knew Don Quix- ote's madness but too well, they wondered more and more at the increase of it, and at so strange a cast and variety of extravagance. Then they desired Sancho to show them the letter. He told them it was written in a pocket-book, and that his master had ordered him to get it fairly transcribed upon pai)er at the next vil- lage he should come at. Whereupon the curate prom- ising to write it out fairly himself, Sancho put his hand into his bosom to give him the pocket-book ; but though he fumbled a great while for it, he could find none of it; he searched and searched again, but it had been in vain though he had searched till doomsday, for he came away from Don Quixote without it. This put him in a cold sweat, and made him turn as pale as death; he fell a- searching all his clothes, turned his pockets inside out- wards, fumbled in his bosom agiiin: but being at last convinced he had it not about him, he fell a-niving and .stamping, and cursing himself like a madman ; he rent his beard from his chin with both hands, beflsted his own forgetful skull, and his blubber cheeks, and gave himself a bloody nose in a moment. The curate and barber asked him what was the matter with him, and why he punished himself at that strange rate. "I deserve it all," quoth Sancho, "like a blockhead as I am, for losing at one cast no less than three asses, of which the least was worth a castle." "How so ?" quoth the barber. "Why," cried Sancho, "1 have lost that same pocket- book, wherein was written Dulcinea's letter, and a bill of exchange drawn bj- my master upon his niece for three of the five asses which he has at home; "and with that he told them how he had lost his own ass. But the curate cheered him up, and promised him to get another bill of exchange from his master written upon 120 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. paper, whereas that in the pocket-book, not being in due form, would not have been accepted. With that Sancho took courage, and told them if it were so, he cared not a straw for Dulcinea's letter, for he knew it almost all by rote. "Then prithee let us hear it," said the barber, "and we will see and write it. " In order to this Sancho paused, and began to study for the words; presently he fell a-scratching his head, stood first upon one leg, and then upon another, gaped sometimes upon the skies, sometimes upon the ground; at length, after he had gnawed away the top of his thumb, and quite tired out the curate and barber's patience, "Before George," cried he, "Mr. Docter, may I be choked if I tan remem- ber a word of this letter, but only that there was at the beginning, 'High and subterreue lady.'" "Sovereign or superhuman lady, you would say, quoth the barber. "Ay, ay," quoth Sancho, "you are in the right; but stay, now I think I can remember some of that which followed: ho! I have it, I have it now— ' He that is wounded, and wants sleeps, sends you the dagger — which he wants himself that stabbed him to the heart and the hurt man does kiss your ladyship's hand ' and at last, after a thousand hum's and ha's, ' Sweetest Dulcinea del Toboso; ' and thus he weut ou rambling a good while with I do not know what more of fainting, and relief, and sinking, till at last he ended with 'Yours till death, the Knight of the Woful Figure.'" The curate and the barber were mightily pleased with Sancho's excellent memory, insomuch that they desired him to repeat the letter twice or thrice more, that they might also get it by heart, and write it down, which Sancho did very freely, but every time he made many odd alterations and additions as pleasant as the first. Then he told them many other things of his master, but spoke not a word of his own beiug tossed in a blanket at that very iun. He also told them, that if he brought a kind answer from the Lady Dulcinea, his master would forthwith set out to see aud make himself an emperor, or at least a king; for so they two had agreed between themselves, he said; and that, after all, it was a mighty easy matter for his master to become one, such was his prowess, aud the strength of his arm; which being done, his master would marry him to one of the empress's damsels, and that fine lady was to be heiress to a large country on the main land, but not to any island or islands, for he was out of conceit with them. Poor Sancho spoke all this so seriously, and so feelingly, ever and anon wiping his nose, and stroking his beard, that now the curate and the barber were more surprised than they were before, considering the prevalent influences of Don Quixote's folly upon that silly, credulous fellow. However, they did not think it worth their while to iindeceive him yet, seeing only this was a harmless delusion, that might divert them a while; and therefore they exhorted him to pray for his master's health and long life, seeing that it was no im- possible thing, but that he might in time become an emperor as he said, or at least an archbishop, or some- what else equivalent to it. "But, pray, good Mr. Doctor," asked Sancho, "should my master have no mind to be an emperor, and take a fancy to be an archbishop, I would fain know what your archbishops-errant are wont to give their squires ?" "Why," answered the curate, "they use to give them some parsonage, or sinecure, or some such other bene- fice, or church living, which, with the i)roflts of the altar, and other fees, brings them in a handsome revenue. " "Ay, but," says Sancho, "to put in for that, the squire must be a single man, and know how to answer, and assist at mass at least; and how shall I do that, seeing I have the ill luck to be married ? uaj', and besides I do not so much as know the -first letter of my Christ Church Row. What will become of me, should it come into my master's head to make himself an archbishop, and not an emperor, as it is the custom of knights- errant?" " Do not let that trouble thee, friend Sancho, " said the barber; "we will talk to him about it, and advise him, nay, urge him to it as a point of conscience, to be an emperor, aud not an archbishop, whicli will be better for liim, by reason he has more courage than learning." "Troth, I am of your mind," quoth Sancho, "though he is such a headpiece, th.it 1 dare say he can turn himself to anything; nevertheless, I mean to make it the burthen of my prayers, that Heaven may direct him to that which is best for him, and what may enable him to reward me most." "You speak like a wise man and a good Christian," said the curate: "but all we have to do at present is to see how we shall get your master to give over that severe, unprofitable isenance which he has undertaken; and therefore let us go in to consider about it, and also to eat our dinner, for I fancy it is ready about this time." "Do you two go in, if you please," quoth Sancho; "but as for me, I had rather stay without; and anon I'll tell you why I don't care to go in a' doors; however, jiray send me out a piece of hot victuals to eat here, and some provender for Rozinante. " With that they went in, and a while after the barber brought him out some meat; aud returning to the curate, they consulted liow to compass their design. At last the latter luckily bethought himself of an expedient that seemed most likely to take, as exactly fitting Don Quixote's humor; which was, that he should disguise himself in the habit of a damsel-errant, and the barber should alter his dress as well as he could, so as to pass for a squire or gentle- man-visher. "In that equipage," added he, "we will go to Don Quixote, and feigning myself to be a dis- tressed damself, I will beg a boon of him, which he, as a valorou.s knight-errant, will not fail to promise me. By this means I will engage him to go with me to re- dress a very great injury done me by a false and dis- courteous knight, beseeching him not to desire to see my face, nor ask me anything about my circumstances till he has revenged me of that wicked night. This bait will t;ike, I dare engage, and by this stratagem we will decoy him back to his own house, where we will try to cure him of his romantic frenzy. " CHAPTER XXVI. HOW THE CURATE AND BAEBEE PUT THEIE DESIGN IN EXECUTION ; WITH OTHEE THINGS WOETHY TO BE EECOEDED IN THIS IMPORTANT HISTOEY. The curate's project was so well liked by the barber that they instantly put it into ])ractice. First, they borrowed a complete woman's apparel of the hostess, leaving her in pawn a new cassock of the curate's; and the barber made himself a long beard with a grizzled ox's tail, in which the innkeeper used to hang his combs. The hostess being desirous to know what they intended to do with those things, the curate gave her a short account of Don Quixote's distraction, and their design. Whereupon the innkeeper and his wife pres- ently guessed this was their romantic knight, that made the precious balsam; and accordingly they told them the whole story of Don Quixote's lodging there, and of Sancho's being tossed in a blanket: which done, the hostess readily fitted out the curate at such a rate, that it would have pleased anyone to have seen him; for she dressed him up in a cloth gown trimmed with borders of black velvet, the breadth of a span, all pinked and jagged ; and a green velvet bodice, with sleeves of the same, and faced with white satin; which accoutrements probably had been in fashion in old King Wamba's days. The curate would not let her encumber his head with a woman's head-gear, but only clapped upon his crown a white quilted cap which he used to wear a-nights, and bound his forehead with one of his garters, that was of black taffety, making himself a kind of muffler and vizard ma.sk with the other: then he had half buried his head uuder hat, pulling it down to squeeze in his ears; and as the broad brim flapped down over his eyes, it seemed a kind of umbrella. This done, he wrap])ed his cloak about him, and seated himself on his mule sideways, like a woman: then the barber clapped on his ox-tail beard, half-red and half-grizzled, which hung from his chin down to waist; and, having mounted his mule, they took leave of their host and hostess, as also of the good-conditioned Maritornes, who vowed, though she was a sinner, to tumble her beads, and say a rosary to the success of so arduous and truly Christian an un- dertaking. But scarce were they got out of the inn, when the curate began to be troubled with a scruple of con- science about his putting on woman's apparel, being apprehensive of the indecency of the disguise in a l)riest, though the goodness of his intention might well warrant a dispensation from the strictness of decorum: therefore he desired the barber to change dresses, for that in his habit of a squire he shoiild less profane his own dignity and character, to which he ought to have a greater regard than to Don Quixote; withal as- suring the barber, that unless he consented to this ex- change, he was absolutely resolved to go no further, though it were to save Don Qixote's soul. Sancho came up with them just upon their demur, and was ready to split his sides with laughing at the sight of the strange masqueraders. In short, the barber consented to be the damsel, and to let the curate be the squire. Now, while they were thus changing sexes, the curate ottered to tutor him how to behave himself in that female attire, so as to be able to wheedle Don Quixote out of his penance; but the barber desired him not to trouble himself about that matter, assuring him that he was well enough versed in female affairs to be able to act a damsel without any directions : however, he said he would not now stand Addling and managing his pins, to prink himself up, seeing it would be time enough to do that when they came near Don Quixote's hermitage ; and, therefore, having folded up his clothes, and the curate his beard, they spurred on, while their guide Sancho entertained them with a rela- tion of the mad, tattered gentleman whom thej- had met in the mountain — however, without mentioning a word of the portmanteau or of the gold; for, as much fool as he was, he loved money, and knew how to keep it when he had it, and was wise enough to keep' his own counsel. They got the next day to the jilace where Sancho had strewed the boughs to direct them to Don Quixote; and, therefore, he advised them to put on their dis- guises, if it were, as they told him, that their design was only to make his master leave that wretched kind of life, in order to become an emperor. Thereupon they charged him on his life not to take the least notice who they were. As for Dulcinea's letter, if Don Quix- ote asked him about it, they ordered him to say he had delivered it; but that by reason she could neither write nor read, she had sent him her answer by word of mouth ; which was, that, on pain of her indignation, he should immediately put an end to his severe penance, and repair to her presence. This, thev told Sancho, 121 122 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. together with what they themselves designed to say, •was the only way to oblige his master to leave the de- sert, that he might prosecnte his design of making himself an emperor; assuring him that he should not entertain the least thought of an archbishopric. Sancho listened with great attention to all these in- structions, and treasured them up in his mind, giving the curate and the barber a world of thanks for their good intention of advising his master to become an em- Xieror and not an archbishop ; for, as he said, he imag- ined in his simple judgment, that an emperor-errant was ten times better than an archbishop-errant, and could reward his squire a great deal better. He likewise added that he thought it would be pro- per for him to go to his master somewhat before them, and give him an account of his lady's kind answer; for perhaps that alone would be sufflcient to fetch him out of that place, without putting them to any further trouble. They liked his proposal very well, and there- fore agreed to let him go, and wait there till he came back to give them an account of his success. With that Sancdo rode away, and struck into the clefts of the rock, in order to find out his master, leaving the curate and the barber by the side of a lirook, where the neighboring hills and some trees that grew along its banks combined to malce a cool and pleasant shade. There they sheltered themselves from the scorching beams of the sun, that commonly shines intolerably hot in those parts at that time, being about the middle of August, and hardly three o'clock in the afternoon. Wliile they quietly refreshed themselves in that de- lightful place, where they agreed to stay till Saucho's return, they heard a voice, which, though unattended with any instrument, ravished their ears with its melo- dious sound: and what increased their surprise and admiration was, to hear such artful notes and such del- icate music in so unfrequented and wild a place, where scarce any rustics ever straggled, much less skilful songsters, as the person whom they heard unquestion- ably was; for though the poets are pleased to fill the fields and woods with swains and shepherdesses that sing with all the sweetness and delicacy imnginable, yet it is well enough known that those gentlemen deal more in fiction than in truth, and love to embellish the descriptions they make with things that liave no exist- ence but in their own brain. Kor could our two listen- ing travellers think it the voice of a peasant, when they began to distinguish the words of the song, for they seemed to relish more of a courtly style than a rural composition. These were the verses: — What makes me languish and complain ? Oh, 'tis disdain. What yet more fiercely tortures me ? 'Tig jealousy. How have I my patience lost? By absence crost. Then hopes farewell, there's no relief; 1 sink beneath oppressing grief; Nor can a wretch, without despair, Scorn, jealousy, and absence bear. II. What in my breast this anguish drove? Intruding love. Who could such mighty ills create? Blind Fortune's hate. What cruel powers my fate approve? The powers above. Then let me bear and cease to moan ; 'Tis glorious thus to be undone; When these invade, who dares oppose? Heaven, Love, and Portnne are my foes. III. Where shall I find a speedy cure? Death is sure. No milder means to set me free? Inconstancy. Can nothing else my pains assuage? Distracting rage. What! die or change? Lucinda lose? Or, rather let me madness choose! But judge, ye gods, what we endnre. When death or madness are a cure! The time, the hoiar, the solitariness of the place, the voice and agreeable manner with which the unseen musician sung, so tilled the hearers' minds with wonder and delight, that they were all attention; and when the voice was silent, they continued so too a pretty while, watching with listening ears to catch the expected sounds, expressing their satisfaction best by that dumb applause. At last, concluding the person would sing no more, they resolved to find out the channing song- ster: but as they were going so to do, they heard the wished-for voice begin another air, which fixed them where they stood till it had sung the following sonnet: — A SONNET. Oh, 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! From thee, diffusive good below. Peace and her train of joys we trace; But falsehood with dissembled show Too oft usurps thy sacred face. Bless'd genius, then resume thy seat! Destroy imposture and deceit. Which in thy dress confound the ball I Harmonious peace and truth renew, Show the false friendship from the true. Or Nature must to Chaos fall. This sonnet concluded with a deep sigh, and such doleful throbs, that the curate and the barber, now out of pity, as well as curio.sity before, resolved instantly to find out who this mournful songster was. They had not gone far, Avheu, by the side of a rock, they discov- ered a man, whose shape and aspect answered exactly to the description Sancho had given them of Cardenio. They observed he stopped short as soon as he spied them, yet without any signs of fear; only he hung down his head, like one abandoned to sorrow, never so much as lifting up his eyes to mind what they did. The curate, who was a good and a well-spoken man, presently guessing him to be the same of whom Sancho had given them an account, went towards him, and, ad- dres.sing himself to him with great civility and discre- tion, earnestly entreated him to forsake this desert, and a course of life so wretched and forlorn, which endan- gered his title to a better, and from a wilful misery might make him fall into greater and everlasting woes. DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 123 Cardenio was then free from the distraction that so often disturbed his senses; yet seeing two persons in a garb wholly ditt'erent from that of those few rustics who frequented these deserts, and hearing them talk as if they were no strangers to his concerns, he was some- what suri)rised at first; however, having looked upon them earnestly for some time, "Gentlemen," said he, "whoever ye be, I find Heaven, pitying my misfortunes, has brought ye to these solitary regions, to retrieve me from this frightful retirement, and recover me to the society of men : but because you do not know how un- happy a fate attends me, and that I never am free from one affliction but to fall into a greater, you perhaps take me for a man naturally endowed with a very small stock of sense, and, what is worse, for one of those wretches who are altogether deprived of reason. And, indeed, I cannot blame any one that entertains such thoughts of me ; for even I myself am convinced that the bare re- rembrance of my disasters often distracts me to that degree, that, losing all sense of reason and knowledge, I irnman myself for the time, and launch into those ex- travagances which nothing but height of frenzy and madness would commit: and I am the more sensible of my being troubled with this distemper, when i)eople tell me what I have done during the violence of that terrible accident, and give me too certain proofs of it. And, after all, I can allege no otlier excuse but the cause of my misfortune, which occasionetl that frantic rage, and, therefore, tell the story of my hard fate to as many as have the patience to hear it: for men of sense, i)erceiving the cause, will not wonder at the effects; and though they can give me no relief, yet, at least, they will cease to condemn me ; for a bare relation of my wrongs must needs make them lose their resent- ments of the effects of my disorder into a compassion of my miserable fate. Therefore, gentlemen, if you came here with that design, I beg that before you give your- selves the trouble of reproving and advising me, you will be pleased to attend to the relation of my calam- ities; for perhaps when you ha-\e heard it, you will think them past redress, and so will save yourselves the labor you would take." The curate and the barber, who desired nothing more than to hear the story from his own mouth, were ex- tremely glad of his proffer ; and , having assured him they had no design to aggravate his miseries with pretending to remedy them, nor would they cross his inclinations in the least, they entreated him to begin his relation. The unfortunate Cardenio then began his story, and went on with the first part of it almost in the same words, as far as when he related it to Don Quixote and the goatherd, wliea the Icnight, out of superstitious niceness to observe the decorum of chivalry, gave an interruption to the relation of quarrelling about Mr. Elisabat, as we have already said. Then he went on with that passage concerning the letter sent him by Lucinda, which Don Ferdinand had unluckily found, hajipening to open the book of Amadis de Gaul first, when Lucinda sent it back to Cardenio, with that letter in it between the leaves, which Cardenio told them was ri- Tately desired to delay my return. "This was so displeasing an injunction, that I was ready to come away without the money, not being able to live so long absent from my Lucinda, principally considering in what coiidition I had left her. Yet, at last, I forced mj'self to stay, and my respect for my friend prevailed over my impatience; but, ere four tedious days were expired, a messenger brought me -a letter, which I presently knew to be Luoinda's hand. I opened it with trembling hands and an aching heart, justly imagining it was no ordinary concern that could urge her to send thither to me ; and, before I read it, I asked the messenger who had given it him. He an- swered me that, ' going by accidentally in the street, about noon, in our town, a very handsome lady, all in tears, had called him to her window, and, with great precipitation, "Friend," said she, "if you be a Christian, as you seem to be, take this letter, and deliver it with all speed into the person's own hand to whom it is directed. I assure you, in this yon will do a very good action ; and that you may not want means to do it, take what is wrapped up in this. " And, saying so, she threw a handkerchief, wherein I found a hundred reals, this gold ring which you see, and the letter which 1 now brought you; which done, I having made her signs to let her know I would do as she desired, without so much as staying for an answer, she went from the grate. This reward, biit much more that beautiful lady's tears and earnest prayers, made me post away to you that very miniite ; and so, in sixteen hours, I have travelled eighteen long leagues. ' While the messenger spoke, I was seized with sad apprehensions of some fatal news; and such a trembling shook my limbs, that I could scarce support myself. At length, however, I ven- tured to read the letter, which contained these words: — " 'Don Ferdinand, according to his promise, has de- sired your father to speak to mine ; but he has done that for himself which you had engaged him to do for you, for he has demanded me for his wife; and my father, allured by the advantages which he expects from siich an alliance, has so far consented that two days hence the marriage is to be performed, and with such privacy, that only Heaven and some of the family are to be witnesses. Judge of the affliction of my sonl by that concern, which, I guess, fills your own; and therefore haste to me, my dear Cardenio. The issue of this business will show you how much I love you: and grant, propitious Heaven! this may reach your hand ere mine is in danger of being joined with his who keeps his promises so ill!' "I had no sooner read the letter," added Cardenio, "but away I flew, without waiting for my dispatch; for then I too plainly discovered Don Ferdinand's treach- ery, and that he had only sent me to his brother to take advantage of my absence. Eevengc, love, and impa- tience gave me wings, so that 1 got home priA-ately the next day, just when it grew diiskish, in good time to speak with Lucinda; and, leaving my mule at the honest man's house who brought me the letter, 1 went to wait upon my mistress, whom I luckily found at the window — the only witness of our loves. She presentlj'^ knew me, and I her, but she did not welcome me as I expected, nor did I find her in such a dress as I thought suitable to our circumstances. But what man has as- surance enough but to pretend to know thoroughly the riddle of a woman's mind, and who could ever hope to fix her mutable nature? 'Cardenio,' said Lucinda to me, 'my wedding-clothes are on, and the perfidious Ferdinand, with my covetous father and the rest, stay for me in the hall, to perform the marriage rites. But they shall sooner be witness of my death than of my nuptials. Be not troubled, my dear Cardenio, but rather strive to be present at that sacrifice. I iiromise thee, if entreaties and words cannot prevent it, I have a dagger that shall do me justice; and my death, at least, shall give thee uudeniabe assurances of my love and fidelity.' 'Do, madam,' cried I to her, with precii)i- tation, and so disordered that I did not know what I said; ' let your actions verify your words; let us leave nothing unattempted which may serve our common in- terests; and, I assure you, if my sword does not defend them well, I will turn it upon my own breast rather than outlive my disappointment.' I cannot tell whether Lucinda heard me, for she was called away in great haste, the bridegroom impntiently expecting her. My spirit forsook me when she left me, and my sorrows and confusion cannot be expressed. Methought I saw the sun set for ever; and my eyes and senses partaking of my distraction, I could not so much as spy the door to go into the house, and seemed rooted to the place where I stood. But at last, the consideration of my love having roused me out of this stuiiefying astonish- ment, I got into the house without being discovered, everything being there in a hurry; and, going into the hall, I hid myself behind the hangings, where two pieces of tapestry met, and gave me liberty to see with- out being seen. "\'\'ho can describe the various thoughts, the doubts, the fears, the anguish that perplexed and tossed my soid while I stood waiting there ? Don Fer- dinand entered the hall not like a bridegroom, but in his usual habit, with only a cousin-german of Lucinda's ; the rest were the people of the house. Some time after came Lucinda herself, with her mother and two waiting- women. I perceived she was as richly dressed as was consistent with her quality, and the solemnity of the DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 125. ceremony; but the distraction that possessed me lent me no time to note particularly the apparel she had on. I only marked the colors, that were carnation and white, and the sijleudor of the jewels that enriched her dress in many places: but nothing equalled the lustre of her beauty, that adorned her person much more than all those ornaments. Oh, memory! thou fatal enemy of my case! why dost thou now so faithfully represent to the eyes of my mind Lncinda's incomparable charms ? why dost thou not rather show me what she did then, that, moved by so provoking a wrong, I may endeavor to revenge it, or at least to die ? Forgive me these tedious digressions, gentlemen; alas! my woes are not such as can or ought to be related with brevity, for to me every circumstance seems worthy to be enlarged upon. " The curate assured Oardenio that they attended every word with a mournful jjleasure, that made them greedy of hearing the least passage. With that Oardenio went on. "All parties being met," said he, "the priest entered, and, taking the young couple by the hands, he asked Lucinda whether she were willing to take Don Ferdinand for her wedded husband ? With that, I thrust out my head from between the two pieces of tapestry, listening with anxious heart to hear her au- swer, upon which depended my life and happiness. Dull, heartless wretch that I was! Why did I not then show myself ? why did I not call to her aloud, ' Oon- sider what thou dost, Lucinda; thou art mine, and canst not be another man's: nor canst thou now speak the fatal Yes, without injuring Heaven, thyself, and me, and murdering thy Oardenio ? And thou, perfidious Ferdinand, who darest to violate all rights, both human and divine, to rob me of my treasure ! canst thou hope to deprive me of the comfort of my life with impunity ? Or thinkest thou that any consideration can stifle my resentment when my honor and my love lie at stake ?' Fool that I am I now that it is too late, and danger is far distant, I say what I should have done, and not what I did then. After I have suffered the treasure of my soul to be stolen, I exclaim against the thief whom I might have punished for the base attempt, had I had but so much resolution to revenge as I have now to complain. Then let me rather accuse my faint heart, that durst not do me right, and let me die here like a wretch, void both of sense and honor, the outcast of society and nature. The priest stood waiting for liu- cinda's answer a good while before she gave it; and all that time I expected she would have pulled out her dagger, or unloosened her tongue to plead her former engagement to me. But, alas ! to my eternal disap- pointment, I heard her at last, with a feeble voice, pro- nounce the fatal Yes; and then Don Ferdinand saying the same, and giving her the ring, the sacred knot was tied, which death alone can dissolve. Then did the faithless bridegroom advance to embrace his bride; but she, laying her hand upon her heart, in that very mo- ment swooned away in her mother's arms. Oh ! what confusion seized me ! what pangs, what torments rticked me, seeing the falsehood of Lucinda's promises, all my hopes shipwrecked, and the only thing that made me wish to live for ever ravished from me ! Confounded and despairing, I looked upon myself as abandoned by Heaven to the cruelty of my destiny ; and the violence of my griefs stifling my sighs and denying a passage to my tears, I felt myself transfixed with killing anguish, and burning with jealous rage and vengeance. In the meantime the whole company was troubled at Lucinda's- swooning; and as her mother unclasped her gown before to give her air, a folded paper was found in her bosom, which Don Ferdinand immediately snatched; then, stepping a little aside, he opened it, and read it by the light of one of the tapers; and as soon as he had done» he as it were let himself fall upon a chair, and there he sate with his hand np(m the side of his face, with all the signs of melancholy and discontent, as unmindful of his bride as if he had been insensible of her accident. For my own part, seeing all the house thus in an up- roar, I resolved to leave the hated place, without caring whether I were seen or not, and in case I were seen, I resolved to act such a desperate part in punishing the traitor Ferdinand, that the world should at once be in- formed of his perfidiousness and the severity of my just resentment; but mj' destiny, that i)reserved me for greater woes (if greater can be), allowed me then the use of the small remainder of my senses, which after- wards quite forsook me, so that I left the house, with- out revenging myself on my enemies, whom I could easily have sacrificed to my rage in this unexpected disorder; and I chose to inflict upon myself, for my credulity, the punishment which their infidelity de- served. I went to the messenger's house where I had left my mule, and without so much as bidding him adieu, I mounted, and left the town like another Lot, without turning to give it a parting look ; and as I rode along the fields, darkness and silence round me, I vented my passion in excrations against the treacherous Ferdinand, and in as loud complaints of Lucinda's breach of vows and ingratitude. I called her cruel, ungrateful, false, but above all, covetous and sordid, since the wealth of my enemy was what had induced her to forego her vows tome.' 'But then, again,' said I to myself, 'it is no strange thing for a young lady, that was so strictly educated, to yield herself up to the guidance of her father and mother, who had provided her a husband of that quality aud fortune. But yet, with truth and jus- tice she might have pleaded that she was mine before.' In fine, I concluded that ambition had got the better of her love, and made her forget her promises to Oardenio. Thus abandoning myself to these tempestuous thoughts, I rode on all night, and aboirt break of day I struck into one of the passes that lead into these mountains, where I wandered for three days together, without keeping any road, till at last, coming to a certain valley that lies somewhere hereabouts, I met some shepherds, of whom I enquired the way to the most craggy and inaccessible part of these rocks. They directed me, and I made all the haste I could to get thither, resolved to linger out my hated life far from the converse of false, ungrateful mankind. When I came among these deserts, my mide, through weariness and hunger, or rather te get rid of so useless a load as I was, fell down dead; and I myself was so weak, so tired and dejected, 126 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. being almost famisliecl, and withal destitute and care- less of relief, that I soon laid mj'self down or rather fainted on the gronnd, where I lay a considerable while, I do not know how long, extended like a corpse. AVhen I came to myself again, I got up, and could not perceive I had any appetite to eat: I found some goatherds by me, who, I supi)ose, had given me some sustenance, though I was not sensible of their relief; for the}' told me in what a wretched condition they found me — star- ing, and talking so strangelj', that they judged I had quite lost my senses. I have indeed since that had but too much cause to think that my reason sometimes leaves me, and that I commit those extravagances which are are onlj^ the effects of senseless rage and frenzy ; tear- ing my clothes, howling through these deserts, tilling the air with curses and lamentations, and idly repeating a thousand times Lucinda's name; all my wishes at that time being to breathe out my soul with the dear word upon my lips : and when I come to mj'^self, I am commonly so weak and so weary, that I am scarce able to stir. As for my place of abode, it is usually some hol- low cork-tree, into which I creep at night; and there some few goatherds, whose cattle browse on the neigh- boring mountains, out of pity and Christian charity, sometimes leave some victuals for the support of my miserable life; for, even when my reason is absent, nature performs its animal functions, and instinct guides me to satisfj"^ it. Sometimes these good people meet me in my Uioid intervals, and chide me for taking that from them l)y force and surprise which they are always so ready to give me willingly : for which violence I can make no other excuse but the extremity of my distrac- tion. Thus must I drag a miserable being, until Heaven, pitying my aiHictions, will either put a period to my life or blot out of ray memory perjured Lucinda's beaut;s and ingratitude and Ferdinand's perfldiousuess. Could I but be so happy ere I die, I might then be able, in time, to compose my frantic thoughts; but if I must despair of such a favor, I have no other way but to recommend my soul to Heaven's mercy; for I am not able to extri- cate my body or my mind out of that misery into which I have unhappily plunged myself. "Thus, gentlemen, I have given you a faithful account of my misfortunes. Judge now whether it was possible I should relate them with less concern. And pray do not lose time to prescribe remedies to a patient who will make use of none. I will, and can, have no health without Lucinda; since she forsakes me, I must die. She has convinced me, by her infidelity, that she de- sires my ruin; and by my unparalleled sufferings to the last, I will strive to convince her I deserved a better fate Let me then suffer on, and may I be the only un- happy creature whom despair could not relieve, while the imi>ossibility of receiving comfort brings cure to so many other wretches." Here Cardenio made an end of his mournful story ; and just as the curate was preparing to give him his best advice and consolation, he was i)reveuted by a voice that saluted his ears, and in mournful accents pronounced what will be rehearsed in the following pages of this narration. CHAPTER XXVII. THE PLEASANT NEW ADVENTUEE THE CUEATE AND BAEBEE MET WITH IN SIEEEA MOEENA, OE BLACK MOUNTAIN. Most fortunate and happy was the age that ushered into the world that most daring knight, Don Quixote de la Mancha ! for from his generous resolution to re- vive and restore the ancient order of knight-errantry, that was not only wholly neglected, but almost lost and abolished, our age, barren in itself of pleasant recrea- tions, derives the pleasure it reaps from his true his- tory, aud the various tales and episodes thereof, in some respects no less pleasing, artful, and authentic than the history itself. We told you that as the curate was preparing to give Cardenio some seasonable con- solation, he was prevented by a voice, whose doleful complaints reached his ears. "Oh, heavens!" cried the unseen mourner,"is it possi- ble I have at last found out a place that will afford a private grave to this miserable body, whose load I so repine to bear? Yes, if the silence and solitude of these deserts do not deceive me, here I may die con- cealed from human eyes. Ah! me; ah! wretched crea- ture! to what extremity has affliction driven me, re- duced to think these hideous woods and rocks a kind retreat! It is true, indeed, I may here freely complain to Heaven, and beg for that relief which I might ask in vain of false mankind; for it is vain, I find, to seek be- low either counsel, ease, or remedy:" The curate and his company, who heard all this dis- tinctly, justly conjectured they were very near the person who thus expressed his grief, and therefore rose to find him out. They had not gone about twenty paces, before they spied a youth in a country habit, sitting at the foot of a rock behind an ash-tree ; but they could not well see his face, being bowed almost upon his knees, as he sat washing his feet in a rivulet that glided by. They approached him so softly that DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 127 lie did not perceive them; and, as he was gently pad- dling in the clear water, they had time to discern that his legs were as white as alabaster, and so taper, so cnriously proportioned, and so line, that nothing of the kind could appear more beautiful. Our observers were amazed at this discovery, rightly imagining that such tender feet were not used to trudge in rugged ways, or measure the steps of oxen at the plough, the common employments of people in sucli apparel ; and therefore the curate, who went before the rest, whose cviriosity was heightened by this sight, beckoned to them to step aside and hide themselves behind some of the little rocks that were by; which they did, and from thence making a stricter observation, they found he had on a grey double-skirted jerkin, girt tight about his body with a linen towel. He wore also a pair of breeches, and gamashes of grej' cloth, and a grey huntsman's cap on his head. His gamashes were now pulled up to the middle of his leg, which really seemed to be of snowy alabaster. Having made an end of washing his beauteous feet, he immediately wiped them with a handkerchief, which he pulled out from under his cap; and with that, looking up, he discovered so charming a face, so accomplished a beauty, that Cardenio could not forbear saying to the curate, that since this was not Lucinda, it was certainl3' no human form, but an angel. And then the youth, taking off his cap, and shaking his head, an incredible quantity of lovely hair flowed down upon his shoulders, and not alone covered them, but almost all his body ; bj' which they were now con- vinced, that what they at flrst took to be a country lad was a young woman, and one of the most beautiful creatures in the world. Cardenio was not less sur- prised than the other two, and once more declared that no face could vie with hers but Luciiida's. To part her dishevelled tresses, she only used her slender fingers, and at the same time discovered so fine a pair of arms, and hands so white and lovely, that our three admiring gazers grew more impatient to know who she was, and moved forward to accost her. At the noise they made, the pretty creature started; and peeping through her hair, which she hastily removed from before her eyes with both 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, hastening to help her, "Stay, madam," cried the curate, "whoever you be, you have no reason to fly ; we have no other design but to do you service." With that, approaching her, he took her by the hand, and perceiving she was so disordered with fear and confusion that she could not answer a word, he strove to compose her mind with kind expressions. "Be not afraid, madam," continued he; "though your hair has betrayed what your disguise concealed from us, we are but the more disposed to assist you, and do you all manner of service. Then pray tell us how we may best do it. 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 misforfcu^nes; since there are none which reason and time will not at l;ist surmount; and therefore, madam, if you have not absolutely renounced all human comfort, I beseech you tell us the cause of your affliction, and assure yourself we do not ask this out of mere curiosity, but a real desire to ser\'e you, and either to condole or assuage your grief." While the curate endeavored thus to remove the trembling fair one's apprehension, she stood amazed, without speaking a word, staring sometimes upon one, sometimes upon 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 eivil entreaties, she fetched a deep sijjh, and then unclosing her lips, broke silence in this manner: — "Since this desert has not been able to conceal me, and my hair has betrayed me, it would be needless now for me to dissemble with jou; and since you desire to hear the story of my misfortunes, I cannot in civilty 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, con- sidering 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 offers and pressing solicitations: and then they modestly let her retire a moment to some distance to put herself in decent order, which done, she returned, aud being all seated on the grass, after she had used no small violence to smother her tears, she thus began her story : — "I was born in a certain town of Andalusia, from which a duke takes his title, that makes him a grandee of Spain. This duke has 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 the treach- ery of Vellido and the deceitfulness of Galalon. My father, who is one of his vassals, is but of low degree; but so very rich, that had fortune equalled his birth to his estate, he could have wanted nothing more, and I, perhaps had never been so miserable ; for I verily be- lieve my not being of noble blood is the chief occasion of my ruin. True it is my parents are not so meanly born as to have cause to be ashamed of their original, nor so high as to alter the opinion I have that my misfortune proceeds from their ' They spied a youth in a country habit, sitting at the foot of a rock behind an ash-tree."— p. 126. DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 129 lowness. It is true they have been fanners from father to son, yet -without any mixture or stain of infamous or scandalous blood. They are old rusty Christians (as we call our true ' primitive Spaniards), and the antiquity of their family, together with their large possessions, and the port they live in, 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 ever loved me with all the tenderness of indulgent parents ; and their great affection made them esteem themselves happier in their daughter, than in the peaceable enjoy- ment of their large estate. Now, as it was my good fortune to be possessed of their love, they were pleased to trust me with their substance. The whole house and estate was left to my management, and I took such care not to abuse the trust reposed in me, that I never for- feited their good opinion of my discretion. The time I had to spare from the care of the family, I commonly employed in the usual exercises of young women, some- times making bone-lace, or at my needle, and now and then reading some good book, or playing on the harp; having experienced that music was very proper to recreate the wearied mind : and this was the innocent life I led. I have not descended to these particulars out of vain ostentation, but merely that when I come to relate my misfortunes, you may observe that I do not owe them to my ill conduct. While I thus lived the life of a nun, 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 hid in a veil that I could scarce find my way; notwithstanding all the care that was taken to keep me from being seen, it was unhappily rumored abroad that I was handsome, and to my eternal disquiet, love intruded into my peace- ful retirement. Don Ferdinand, second son to the duke I have mentioned, had a sight of me " Scarce had Cardenio heard Don Ferdinand named, but he changed color, 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 co^e 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 p.iiy notice of the alteration of his countenance. y", » "No sooner had he seen me," saifl. she, "but, as he since told me, he felt in his breast that violent passion of which he afterwards gave me so majiy proofs. But, not to tire you with a needless' relation jof every partic- ular, I will pass over all the means he usec^ to inform me of his love: he purchased the good- will; of all our servants with private gifts'; he made my fatlier a thou- sand kind offers of servic^ : ,every day seemed a day of rejoicing in our neighboi'ho'od, every evening ushered in some serenade, and the continual music w.as even a disturbance in the night. He got a number' of love- letters transmitted to me, I do not know by whiit means, every one full of the tenderest exj^ressions, X)romises, 9 DON QUIX. vows, and protestations. But all this assiduous court- ship was so far from inclining my heart to a kind return, that it rather moved my indignation; inso- much, that I looked upon Don Ferdinand as my greatest enemy, and one wholly bent on my ruin: not but that I was well enough pleased with his gallan- try, and took a secret delight in seeing myself thus courted by a person of his quality. Such demonstra- tions 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 disproportion between our qualities was too great to suffer me to entertain any reasonable hopes, and his gallantry too singular not to offend me. Besides, my father, who soon made a right construction of Don Ferdinand's pretensions, with his prudent ad- monitions concurred with the sense I ever had of my honor, and banished from my mind all favorable thoughts of his addresses. However, like a kind parent, perceiving I was somewhat uneasy, and imag- ining the flattering prospect of so advantageous amatch might still amuse me, he told me one day he reposed the utmost trust in my virtue, esteeming it the strongs est obstacle he could oppose to Don Ferdinand's dis- honorable designs; yet 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 ; 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 Ferdinand 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 reserved- ness, far from tiring out his passion, strengthened it the more. In short, Dpiju Ferdinand, either hearing or suspecting I wa^ to be married, thought of a contri- vance to cross a design that was likely to cut off all his hopes. , One night, therefore, when I was in my cham-, ber,,iiobody with me but my maid, and the door double- l&cked and bolted, that I might be secured against the attempts of Don Ferdinand, whom I took to be a nian who would stick at nothing to compass his. designs, un- expectedly I saw him just before me ; which amazing sight so surprised me, that I was struck dumb, and fainted away with fear. So I had not power to call for help, nor do I believe he would 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 much address, and pretended tenderness and sincerity, that I did not dare to cry out when I came to myself. His sighs, and yet more his tears, seemed to me undeniable proofs of his vowed integrity ; and I being but young, bred up in perpetual retirement . from all society but my virtuous parents, and inexperi- enced in those affairs in which even the most knowing are apt to be mistaken, my reluctancy abated by de- grees, and I began to have some sense of compassion, yet none but what was consistent with my honor. How- ever, when I was pretty well recovered from my first J^'^I:^!!^^ ^I^Vf'^''' ' -1 ;■,• 1 -JBih ^^.!^^ f , "^1 J\^ #4"^- ^1 rr '^'^ J \ I I ' He got a number of love-letters transmitted to me. every one ful 1 of tbe tenderest expiessious."— p. 129. DON QUIXOTE DB LA MANCHA. 131 fright, my former resolution returned; and then with more courage than I thought I should have had, ' My loid,' said I, 'if at the same time that you offer me your love, and give me such strange demonstrations of it, you would also offer nie poison, and leave to take my choice, I would soon resolve upon which to accept, and convince you by my death that my honor is dearer to me than my life. To be plain, I can have no good opinion of a presumption that endangers my reputa- tion ; and unless you leave me this moment, I will so effectually make you know how much you are mistaken in me, that if you have but the least sense of honor left, you will prevent the driving me to that extremity as long as you live. I was born your vassal, but not your slave; nor does the greatness of your birth privilege you to injure your inferiors, or exact from me more than the duties which all 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 ; 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 dis- posal, and I will not entertain any man as a lover, but by his appointment. Therefore, my lord, as you would bave me believe you so sincerely love me, give over your vain and injurious pursuit; suffer me peaceably to enjoy the benefits of life in the free possession of my bonor, the loss of which for ever embitters all life's sweets; and since you cannot be my hugband, do not expect from me that affection which I cannot pay to -any other.' ' What do you mean, charming Dorothea?' eried the perfidious lord. ' Cannot I be yours by the sacred title of husband? Who can hinder me, if you'll but consent to bless me on those terms? Too happy if I can have no other obstacle to surmount, I am yours this moment, beautiful Dorothea: see, I give you here my hand to be yours alone for ever: and let all -seeing Heaven, and this holy image here on your oratory, wit- ness the soleinn truth.'" Oardenio, hearing her call herself Dorothea, was now fully satisfied she was the person whom he took her to be; however, he would not interrupt her story, being impatient to hear the end of it; only addressing him- Ii- comicona, lawful heiress to the vast kingdom of Mioom- ioon, disordered with so many misfortunes, and per- plexed 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 your- self, and be able to proceed. " "I hope so, too," said the lady, "and I will try to go through with my story, without any 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 Xaramilla, ray mother, should die before him, that he himself should not sur- vive 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 oc- casioned by a certain giant, lord of a great island near the confines of my kingdom; his name Pandafilando, surnamed of the G-loomy Sight; because, though his eye-balls are seated in their due place, yet he affects to squint and look askew, on purpose to fright those on whom he stares. My father, I say, knew that this giant, hearing of his death, would one day invade my king- dom with a powerful army, and drive me out of my ter- ritories, without leaving me so much as the least village for a retreat; though 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 really any other giant in the world, how immeasurably great and mighty soever he were. My father, therefore, charged me patiently to bear my misfortunes, and aban- don 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 immense 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-errant, whose fame should at that time be spread over all the kingdom; and his name, my father said, should be, if I forget not, Don Azote, or Don Gigote." "An' it please you, forsooth," quoth Saucho, "you would say Don Quixote, otherwise called the Knight of the Woful Figure." "You are right," answered Dorothea; "and my father also described him, and said he should be a tall, thin- faced man, and that on his right side, under the left shoulder, or somewhere thereabouts, he shoidd have a tawiiy mole, overgrown with a tuft of hair, not much unlike that of a horse's mane." With that Don Quixote calling for his squire to come to him, "Here," said he, "Saucho, help me off with my clothes, for I am resolved to see whether I be the knight of whom the necromantic king has prophesied." "Pray, sir, wiiy would you pull off your clothes?" cried Dorothea. "To see whether I have such a mole about me as your father mentioned," replied the knight. "Your worship need not strip to know that," quoth Saucho; "for, to my knowledge, you have just such a mark as my lady says, on the small of your back,which betokens you to be a strong-bodied man." "That's enough," said Dorothea; "friends may be- lieve one another without such a .strict examination; and whether it be on the shoulder or on the back-bone, it is not very material. In short, I find my father aimed right in all his predictions, and so do I in recommend- ing myself to Don Quixote, whose stature and appear- ance so well agree Avith my father's description, and whose renown is so far spread, not onlj' in Spain, but over all La Mancha, that I had no sooner lauded at Ossuna, but the fame of his prowess reached my ears; so that I was satisfied in myself he was the 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 sea-port town?" "Doubtless, sir," said the curate, before Dorothea could answer for herself, "the princess wonld say, that after she landed at Malaga, the first iilace where she heard of your feats of arms was Ossuna." "That is what I would have said," replied Dorothea. "It is easily understood," said the curate; "then pray let your majesty be pleased to go on with your story. " "I have nothing more to add," answered Dorothea, "but that Fortune has at last so far favored me, as to make me find the noble Don Quixote, by whose valor I DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANOHA. 145 look upon myself as already restored to the throne of my ancestors; since he has so courteously and magnan- imously vouchsafed to grant me the boon I begged, to go with me wheresoever I should guide him. For all I bave to do is to show him this Pandafllando 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 will certainly be done with the greatest ease in the world, since it was foretold by Tinacrio the Sage, my good and royal father, who has also left a prediction written in either Chaldean or Greek characters (for I cannot read them), which denotes that after the knight of the prophecy has cut off the giant's head, and re- stored me to the possesion of my kingdom, if he should ask me to marry him, I should by no means refuse him, but instantly put him in possession of my person and kingdom. " "Well, friend Sancho," said Don Quixote, hearing this, and turning to the squire, "what thinkest thou now? Dost thou not hear how matters go? Did not I tell thee as much before? See now, whether we have not a kingdom which we may command, and a queen whom we may espouse." "Ah! marry you have,'' replied Sancho; and to show his joy, he cut a couple of capers in the air, and turn- ing 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 for laughter, having a sight of the master's madness, and the servant's simxilicity. In short, Dorothea was obliged to comply with his entreaties, and promised to make him a grandee, when Fortune should favorher 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 misrortunes, this only has escaped a recital, that not one of the numerous attendants I brought from my kingdom has survived the ruins of my fortune, but this good squire with the long beard ; the rest ended their days in a great storm, which dashed our ship to pieces in the very sight of the harbor; 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 afflctions, be they ever so intense and diflcult," said Don Quixote, "shall never deter me ; most virtuous and high -bom 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 T will bear you company, though to the end of the world, in search of this im- placable enemy of yours, till I shall find him; whose insulting head, by the help of Heaven, and my own in- vincible arm, I am resolved to cut off, with the edge of this (I will not say good) sword; a curse on Gines de Passamonte, who took away my own!" This he spoke murmuring to himself, and then prosecuted his discourse in this manner: "And after I have divided it from the body, and left you quietly possessed of yout throne, it shall be left at your own choice to dispose of your per- son, as you shall think convenient: for as long as I shall have my memory full of her image, my will capti- vated, 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. "Body o' me. 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, sir, Fortune will put such dainty bits in your way at every comer? Is my Lady Dulcinea handsomer, do you think? No, marry, she is not half so handsome: I could almost say she is not worthy to tie this lady's shoe-latches. I am likely, indeed, to get the earldom I have fed myself with hopes of, if you spend your time in fishing for mushrooms in the bot- tom of the sea. Marry, marry out of hand: Lay hold of the kingdom which is ready to leap into your hands; and as soon as you are a king, e'en make me a marquis or a peer of the land; and afterwards let things go at sixes and sevens; it will be all a case to Sancho." Don Quixote, quite divested of all patience at the words which were spoken against his Lady Dulcinea, could bear with him no longer; and therefore, without so much as a word to give him notice of his displeasure, gave him two such blows with his lance that poor Sancho measured his length on the ground, and had certainly there breathed his last had not the knight desisted, through the persuasions of Dorothea. "Thinkest thou," said he, after a considerable pause, "most infamous peasant, that I shall always have leisure and disposition to put up with thee; 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 profanation of the peerless Duloinea's name), and art thou not assured, vile slave and ignominious vagabond, that I should not have strength sufiacient to kill a flea, did not she give strength to my nerves, and infuse vigor into my sinews? Speak, thou villian 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 this as done already), but the power of Dulcinea, who makes use of my arm as the instrument of her act in me? She fights and overcomes in me, and I live and breathe in her, holding life and being from her. Thou base-born wretchl art £46 DON QUIXOTE DE LA. MANCiHA. tliou not poseessecl of the utmost ingratitude, thou who seest thyself exalted from the very dregs of the earth to noltility and honor, and yet dost repny so great a benefit with obloquies against the person of thy bene- factress?" Siiiicho was not so mightily hurt but he could hear what his master said well enough; wlierefore, getting upon his legs in all haste, he ran for shelter behind Dorothea's palfrey, and being got thither, "Hark you, sir," cried he to him, "if you have no thought of marry- ing this same lady, it is a clear case that the kingdom will never be yours; and if it be not, what good can j'ou be able to do me? Then let any one judge •\\hether 1 have not cause to cumplaiu, Therefore, good your worship, marry lier once for all, now we have her rained down, as it were, from heaven to us. As for beauty, do you see, I'll not meddle nor make; for, if I must say the truth, I like both the gentlewomen well enough in conscience; though now I think on it, I have never seen the Lady Dulcinea. " "How! not seen her, blasphemous traitor!" replied Don Quixote; "when just now thou broughtest me a message from her!" "I say," answered Sancho, "I liave not seen lier so leisurely as to talce notice of her features and good parts one by one; but yet, as I saw them at a blush, and all at once, methought I had no reason to find fault with them." "Well, I pardon thee now," (|uoth Don Quixote, "aud thou must excuse me for what I have done to thee; for the first motions are not in our power." "1 perceive that well enough," said Sancho, "and that is the reason my first motions are always in my tongue; and I cannot for my life helii speaking wliat comes uppermost." "However, friend Sancho," said Don Quixote, "thou had st best think before thou speakest; for the pitcher never goes so oft to the well— I need say no more. " "Wall, wli^fit must be must be," answered Sancho; "there is one above who sees all, aud will one day judge which has most to answer for, whether I for speaking amiss or you for doing so." "No more of this, Saucho," said Dorothea; "but run and kiss your lord's hands, ami 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 for your own part, trust in Heaven ; for you shall infallibly have a lordship, which shall en- able you to live like a prince. " Sancho shrugged up his shoulders, and in a sneaking posture Avent and asked his master for his hand, which he held out to him with a grave countenance ; and after the squire had kissed the back of it, the knight gave him his blessing, and told him he had a word or two with him, bidding him come nearer, that he might have the better convenience of speaking to him. Sancho did as his master commanded, and going a little from the company with him— "Since thy return," said Don Quixote, applying himself to him, "I have neither had time nor opportunity to inquire into the particulars ot thy embassy, and the answer thou hast brought; and therefore, since Fortune has now befriended us with convenience and leisure, deny me not the satisfaction thou mayest give me by the rehearsal of thy news." "Ask what you will," cried Sancho, "and you shall not want for an answer; but, good your worship, for the time to come, I beseech j'ou y the looks of the gipsy found out the visage of his ass; as really it was the very same which Gines had 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 languages 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 him, "Ah! tliou 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 enjoj- a moment's ease: away from my Dapple, away from my comfort; take to thy heels, thou villian; hence, thou 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." And then he stroked and slobbered 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 com- DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 147 pany came up with him, and paid their compliments of congratulation to Sanoho for the recovery of his ass, especially Don Quixote, who told him that though he had found his ass again, yet would not he revoke the warrant he. had given him for three asses; for which favor Sancho returned him a multitude of thanks. While they were travelling together and discoursing after this manner, the curate addressed himself to Dorothea,' and gave her to understand that she had excellently discharged herself of what she had under- taken, as well in the management of the history itself, as in her brevity, and adapting her style to the particu- lar terms made use of in books of knight-errantry. She returned for answer, that she had frequently con- versed with such romances, but that she was ignorant of the situation of the provinces and the sea-ports, which occasioned the blunder she had made by saying that she had landed at Ossuna. "I perceived it," replied the curate, "and therefore I put in what you heard, which brought matters to rights again. But is it not an amazing thing to see how ready this unfortunate gentleman is to give credit to these fictitious reports, only because they have the air of the extravagant stories in books of knight-errantry?" Cardenio said that he thought this so strange a mad- ness, that he did not believe the wit of man, with all the liberty of invention and fiction, capable of hitting so extraordinary 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 humor, 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 thy last displeasure, how, when, and where didst thou find my Lady Dulcinea ? What was she doing when thou first paidst thy respects to her ? How didst thou express thyself to her 1 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, lies, or flattery. On the other side, take care thou losest not a tittle of the whole matter by abbreviating it, lest thou rob me of part of that delight which I propose to myself from it. " "Sir," answered Sancho, "if I must speak the truth, and nothing but the truth, nobody copied out the letter for me ; for I carried none at all. " "That's right," cried Don Quixote, "for I found the l)ocket-book in which it was written two days after thy departure, which occasioned exceeding grief in me, be- cause 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 writ it out for me word for word so purely, that he swore, 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 was. " " And dost thou still retain the memory of it, my dear Sancho?" 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, I would say, sovereign lady;' and at the bottom, 'Tours until death, the Knight of the Woful Figure;' and I put between these two things, three hundred souls and lives and dear eyes. " CHAPTER XXX. THE PLEASANT DIALOGXJE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIEE CONTINUED, WITH OTHEE ADVENTURES. "All THIS is mighty well," said Don Quixote; "pro- ceed 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 knight; was it not so, my Sancho?" "No, faith," answered the squire; "I found her win- nowing 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 honor of touching it with her divine hand. Didst thou observe the quality of the wheat ? was it not of the finest sort ?" "Very indifferent, I thought," said the squire. "Well, this at least you must allow; it must make the finest whitest bread, if .sifted by her white hands. But go on; when j'ou delivered my letter, did she kiss it ? Did she treasure it in her bosom, or what cere- mony did she use worthy of such a letter? How did she behave herself?" "AVhy, truly sir," answered Saucho, "when I offered her the letter, she was very busy handling her sieve; ' and pr'ythee, honest friend,' said she, ' do so much a.s lay that letter dowu upon that sack there; I cannot read it till I have winnowed out what is in my hands.' " "Oh, unparalleled discretion ! " cried Don Quixote; "she knew that aperusal 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? What did she ask about her knight, and what did you reply? Say all, say all, my dearest Siincho; let not the smallest circumstance es- cape the tongue ; speak all that thought can frame, or pen describe." "Her questions were easily answered, sir," said San- cho, "for she asked me none at all: I tjld her, indeed, in what a sad pickle I had left you for her sake, naked to the waist; that you ate 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 swearing and cursing your fortune. " "There you mistook," replied Don Quixote; "I rather bless my fortune, and always shall, while life affords me breath, since I am thought to merit the esteem of so high a lady as Dulcinea del Toboso." "There you hit it," said Sancho; "she is a high lady indeed, sir, for she is taller than I am by a foot and a half. " "Why, how now, Sancho," said the knight ; "hast thou measured with her?" "Ah! marry did I, .sir," said the squire; "for yon must know that she desired me to lend her a hand in lifting a sack of wheat on an ass; so we buckled about it, and I came so close to her that I found she was taller than I am by a full span at least." "Eight," answered Don Quixote; "but thou art also conscious that the uncommon stature of her person is adorned with innumerable graces and endowments of soul. But, Sancho, supposing the corn winnowed and dispatched 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 penance was enough; to make short now, she gave her service to yon, and said she hud rather see you thau hear from you; and she prayed you, if ever you loved her, upon sight of me, forthwith to leave j'our madness among the bushes here, and come straight to Toboso (if you be at leisure), for she has something to say to j'ou, and has a great de- sire to see yiin: she had liked to burst with laughing, when I called you the Knight of the Woful Figure- She told me the Biscayan whom you mauled so was tliere, and that he was a very honest fellow; but that she heard no news at all of the galley-slaves." "Thus far all goes well," said Don Quixote; "but tell me, pray, what jewel did she present you at your de- parture, as a reward for the news you brought ? for it is a cust(3m of ancient standing among knights and ladies errant, to bestow on squires, dwarfs, or damsels, who bring them good news of their ladies or servants, some xDrecious jewel as a grateful reward of their wel- come 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's no ill luck in it), the cheese was made of sheep's milk." 148 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 149 "It is stiiinge," said Don Quixote, "for she is liberal, even to profuseness ; and if she presented thee not a jewel, she had certainly none about her at that time; but what is deferred is not lost, ' sleeves are good after Easter.' I shall see her, and matters shall be accommo- dated. Knowest thou, Sancho, what raises my aston- ishment? it is thy sudden return; for, proportioning thy short absence to the length of thy journey, Toboso being, at least, thirfy leagues distant, thou must have ridden on the wing. Certainly the sagacious enchanter, who is my guardian and friend (for doubtless such a one there is and ought to be, or I should not be a true knight-errant), c rtainly, 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 succor one another in their most dangerous moments when and where they please. For instance, suppose me fighting in the moun- tains of Armenia, with some fearful monster, some dreadful sprite, or fierce gigantic knight, where per- haps I am like to be worsted (such a thing may happen), when just in the very crisis of my fate, when I least expect it, I behold on the top of a flying cloud, or riding in a flaming chariot, another knight, my friend, who, but a minute before, was in England, perhaps — he sus- tains me, delivers me from death, and returns that night to his own lodging, where he sups with a very good appetite after his 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 dispatch in your late journey." "I believe, indeed,'' answered Sancho, "that there was witchcraft in the case, for Eozinante went without spur all the way, and was as mettlesome as though he had been a gipsy's ass, with quicksilver in his ears. " "Quicksilver! you coxcomb," said the knight, "aye, and a troop of devils besides; and they are the best horse-coursers in nature, you must know, for they must needs go whom the devil drives; but no more of that. What is thy advice as to my lady's commands to visit her ? I know her power should regulate my will. But then my honor, 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 t'other "way: on this side Dulcinea's strict commands, on the other my promised faith ; but it is resolved. I'll travel night and day, cut off 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 conde- scend to excuse my absence, when I convince her it was for fame and glory ; since the past, present, and future success of my victorious arms depends wholly on the gracious influences of her favor, and the honor of being her knight." "Oh, sad! oh, sad!" said Sancho; "I doubt your wor- ship'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 her by the first priest you meet: here is our own curate can do the job most curiously. Come, master, I have hair enough in my beard to make a counsellor, and my advice is as fit for you as your shoe for your foot; ' a bird in hand is worth two in the bush,' and ' He that will not when he may, When he woald, he ehall have nay.' " "Thou advisest me thus," answered Don Quixote, "that I may be able to promote thee according to my promise; but that I can do without marrying this lady; for I shall make this the condition of entering into battle, that after my victory, without marrying the 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 subjects, 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 dare swear it will yield you a good market. " "I am fixed in thy opinion," said Don Quixote; "but I admonish thee not to whisper to any person the least hint of our conference; for since Dulcinea is so cautious and secret, it is proper that I and mine should follow her example. " "Why, then," said Sancho, "should you send every- body you overcome packing to Madam 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?" "How dull of apprehensien and stupid thou art!" said the knight; "hast thou not sense to find that all this redounds to her greater glory? Know that, in pro- ceedings of chivalry, a lady's honor is calculated from the number of her servants, whose services must not tend to any reward but the favor of her acceptance and the pure honor of performing them for her sake, and being called her servants. " • "I have heard our curate," answered Sancho, "preach up this doctrine of loving for love's sake, and that we ought to love our Maker so for his own sake, without either hope of good or fear of pain. " "Thou art an unaccountable fellow," cried Don Quixote; "thou talkest sometimes with so much sense, that one would imagine thee to be something of a scholar. " "A scholar, sir!" answered Sancho; "lack-a.day, I do not know, as I am an honest man, a letter in the book. " 150 BON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. Master Nicholas, seeing them so rleep in discourse, called to them to stop and drink at a little Ibnntain by the road. Don Quixote halted, and Sancho was very glad of the interruption, his stuck of lies being almost spent, and he stood in danger besides of being trapped iij his words, for he had never seen Dulcinea, though he knew she lived at Toboso. Oardenio by tliis 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 oif. They all stopped at the fountain, and fell aboard the curate's provision, which was but a .snap among so many, for they were all very hungry. AVhile they sat refreshing themselves, a young lad, travelling that way, o))served them, and, looking ear- nestly on the whole company, ran suddenly and fell down before Don Quixote, addressing him in a very doleful maner. "Alas! good sir," said he; don't you know me ? don't you remember poor Andrew, whom you caused to be untied from the tree?" With that the knight knew him; and, raising him up, turned to the company: "That you may all know," said he, "of how grea,t importance, to the redressing of injuries, punishing vice, and the universal benefit of mankind, the business of Icnight-errantry may be, you must understand that, riding through a desert some days ago, I heard certain lamentable shrieks and out- cries. Prompted by the misery of the afflicted, and borne away by the zeal of my profession, I follo\^ed the voice, and found this boy, wliom you all see, bound to a great oak: I am glail he is present, because he can attest the truth of my relation. I found him, as I told you, bound to an oak ; naked from the waist upwards, and a cruel 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 ser- vant, whom he thus used for some faults that argued him more knave than fool. 'Good sir,' said the boy, ' he can lay nothing to ray charge, but demanding my wages.' His master made some reply, which I would not allow as a just excuse, and ordered him immediate- ly 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, Andrew ? 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 uece.s.sary the vocation of knights-errant is up and down the high roads. " "All you have said is true enough," answered Andrew; "but the business did not end after that manner you and I hoped it would." "How!" said the knight; "has not the peasant paid you?" "Ay, he has paid me with a vengence," said the boy; "for no sooner was your back turned, but he tied me again to the same tree, and lashed me so cursedly, that 1 looked like St. Bartholomew flayed alive; and at every blow he had some joke or another to laugh at you ; atiA had he not laid me on 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 an hospital, where I have lain ever since to get cured, so AvofuUy the tyrant had lashed me. And now, I may thank you for this, for had you rid on your journey, and neither meddled nor made, seeing nobody sent for you, and it was none of your bu,siuess, 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 was so huffy, and called him so many names, that it made him mad, and so he vented all his' spite against you upon my poor back, as soon as yours was turned, insomuch that I fear I shall never be mine own man again. " "The miscarriage," answered the knight, "is onl5- chargeable on my departure before 1 saw my orders ex- ecuted; fori might by experience have remembered that the word of a peasant is regulated not by honor, but by profit. But you remember, Andiew, how I swore, if he disobeyed, that I would return and seek him through the universe, and find him, though hid ia a whale's belly." "Ah! sir," answered Andrew, "but that's no cure for my poor shoulders. " "You shall be redressed," answered the knight, starting fiercely up, and commanding Sancho immedi- ately to bridle Eozinante, who was Ijaiting as fa.st as the rest of the company. Dorothea asked what he intended to do: he answereon 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 XXXI. WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE AND HIS COMPANY AT THE INN. When they had eaten plentifully, thej' left that place and travelled all that day and the next, without meeting anything worth notice, till they came to the inn, which was so frightful a sight to poor Sauclio, that he would willingly not have gone in, but could by no means avoid it. The innkeeper, the hostess, her daugh- ter, and Maritornes met Don Quixote and his squire with a very hearty welcome. The knight received them with a face of gravity and approbation, liidding them prepare him a better bed than their last enter- tainment afforded him. "Sir," said the hostess, "pay us better than you did then, and you shall have abed 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 Hew suddenly at the barber, and, catching him by the beard, "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, and my tail will I have, sir." The barber held tug with her till the curate advised him to return it, telling him that he might now undis- giiise himself, and tell Don Quixote that after the gal- ley-slaves had pillaged him, he fled to that inn; and if he should ask for the princess's squire, he should pre- tend that he was dispatched to her kingdom before her, to give her subjects an account of lier arrival, and of the power she brought to free them all from slavery. The barber, thus schooled, gave the hostess her tail, with the other trinkets which he had borrowed, to de- coy Don Quixote out of the desert. Dorothea's beauty and Cardenio's handsome shape surprised everybody. The curate bespoke supper, and the host, being pretty sure of his reckoning, soon got them a tolerable enter- tainment. They would not disturb the knight, who slept very soundly, for his distemper wanted rest more than meat ; but they diverted themselves with the hostess's account of his encounter with the carriers, and of Sancho's being tossed in a blanket. Don Quix- ote's unaccountable madness was the principal subject of their discourse; upon which the curate insisting, and arguing it to proceed from his reading roman<'es, the innkeeper took him up. "Sir," said he, "you cannot make me of your opin- ion ; 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 have really kept me, and many others, alive. In harvest time, a great many of the reapers come to drink here in tlie 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 sor- row 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 briskiness that I could frighten away old age. I could sit and hear them from morning till night." "I wish you would husband," said tlie hostess; "for then we should have some rest; for at all other times you are so out of humor, and so snappish, that we lead a dreadful life with you." "That is true enough," said Maritornes; "and, for my part, I think there are mighty pretty stories in those books, which I would often forego my dinner and supper to hear." "And Avhat think yon of this matter, young miss? " said the curate to the innkeeper's daughter. " Alack-a-day, sir ! " said she; "1 tlo not understand those things, and yet I love to hear tliem; but I do not like that frightful ugly fighting that so pleases my father. Indeed, the sad lamentations of the poor knights, for the loss of their mistresses, sometimes makes me cry like anything. " "I suppose, then, young gentlewoman," said Doro- thea, "you will be tender-hearted, and will never let a lover die for you." "I do not Icnow what may happen as to that," said the girl; "but this I know, that I will never give any- body reason to call me tigress and lioness, and I do not know how many other ugly names, as those ladies are " How Felixmarte cut off five giants by the middle." — p. 151. 154 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 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 the sight of them. What signifies all their fiddling and coyness ? If they are civil ■women, why do not they marry them ? for that is all their knights would he at. " "Hold your prating, mistress, " said the hostess; "how came you to know all this? It is not for such as you to talk of these matters. " "The gentleman only asked me a question," said she, "and it would be uncivil not to answer him." "Well," said the curate, "do me the favor, good land- lord, to bring out these books, that I may have a sight of them. " "With all my heart," said the innkeeper; and with that, stepping to his chamber, he opened a little port- manteau that shut with a chain, and took out three large volumes, with a parcel of manuscripts, in a fair legible letter. The title of the first was "Don Oiron- gilio of Thrace;'' the second, "Pelixmarte of Hircania:" and the third was the "History of the great Captain Gonzalo Hernandes de Oorduba," and the "Life of Diego Garcia de Paredes, " bound together. The curate, reading the titles, turned to the barber, and told him they wanted now Don Quixote's house- keeper and his niece. "I shall do as well with these books," said the barber, "for I can find the way to the back-yard or to the chim- ney : there is a good fire that will do their business. " "Business!" said the innkeeper: "I hope you would not burn my books?" "Only two of them," said the curate; "this same Don Cirongilio and his friend Felixmarte." "I hope, sir," said the host, "they are neither heretics nor phlegmatics. " " Schismatics, you mean, " said the barber. "I mean so," said the innkeeper; "and if you must burn any, let it be this of 'Gonzalo 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, purchased immortal fame, and the name of the Great General by the universal consent of mankind; the other, Diego Garcia de Peredes, was of noble extrac- tion, 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 a great army. Several other great actions are related in the memoirs of his life, but all with so much modesty and unbiased 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, Achilles, and Orlandos, with all their heroic exploits. " "That's a fine jest, faith!" said the innkeeper ; "my father could have told you another tale, sir. Holding a mill-wheel! why, is that such a mighty matter? Odds fish, 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 millioi/ and six hundred thousand fighting men, all armed cap a-pee, and routed them all like so many sheep. An.( 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 pal- ace, and such pleasant gardens, that it was a wonder ; and straight the serpent turned into a very old man, and told him such things as were never heard nor spoken. 'Sow, a tig for your Great Captain, and you) Diego Garcia. " Dorothea, hearing this, said softly to Ca zlenio, that the host was capable of making a second part to Don Quixote. "I think so too," cried Cardenio, "foi it is plain he believes every tittle contained in those Looks; nor can all the Carthusian friars in the world persuade him otherwise." "I tell thee, friend, "^^said the curate, "there were never any such persons as your books of chivalry men- tion, upon the face of the earth ; your Felixmarte of Hircania, and your Cirongilio of Thrace are all but chimeras, and fictions of idle and luxuriant wits, who wrote them for the same reason that you read them, be- cause they had nothing else to do. " "Sir," said the innkeeper, "you must angle with an- other bait, or you will catch no fish ; I know what's, what, as well as another; I can tell where my own shoe pinches me; and you must not think, sir, to catch old birds with chaff. A pleasant jest, faith ! that you should pretend to persuade me now that these notable books- I are lies and stories; why, sir, are they not in print? Are they not published according to order ? licensed by authority from the Privy Council ? And do you think that they would permit so many untruths to be printed, and such a number of battles and enchant- ments, to set us all a-madding ?" "I have told you already, friend," replied the curate, "that this is licensed for our amusement in our idle hours ; for the same reason that tennis, billiards, chess,, and other recreations are tolerated, that men may find a pastime for those hours they cannot find employment for. Neither could the Government foresee this incon- venience 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 favor of such writings ; and how, with some regulations, they might be made both DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 155 inBCruotive and diverting. Bnt 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 of 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 c ut of doors." About the middle of their discourse San oho Panza came running out of Don Quixote's chamber in a ter- rible 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 le}it him such a sliver, that whip off went the giant's liead, as round as a turnip." "You are mart, Sancho !" said the curate, interrupted in his conversation; "is thy master such a hero as to fight a giant at two thousand leagues' distance?" Upon this they presently heard a noise and bustle in the chamber, and Don Quixote bawling out, "Stay, vil- lain, robber ! stay ; since I have thee here, thy scimitar shall but little avail thee;" and with this they heard him strike with his sword, with all his force, against the walls. " Good folks, " said Sancho, "my master does not want your hearkening; why do not you run in and help him? though I believe it is after meat mustard, for sure the giant is by this time gone to pot, and giving an account of his ill life ; for I saw his blood run all about the house, and his head sailing in the middle on it; but such a head ! it is bigger than any wine-skin in Spain. " "I will be cut like a cucumber," cries the innkeeper, "if this Don Quixote has not been hacking my wine- skins that stood filled at his bed's head : and this cox- comb has taken the spilt liquor for blood !" Then run- ning with the whole company into the room, they found the poor knight in the most comical i)osture imaginable. He wore on his head a little greasy cast night-cap of the innkeeper's; he had wrapped one of the best blank- ets about his left arm for a shield; and wielded his drawn sword in the right, laying about him pell-mell, with now and then a start of some military expression, as if he had been really engaged with some giant. But the best jest of all, he was alj 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 des- perately, that he set the whole chamber afloat with good wine. The innkeeper, enraged to see the ha-\oc, flew at Don Quixote with his fists; and had not Carde- nio and the curate taken him off, he had proved a giant indeed against the knight. All this could not wake the poor Don, till the barber, throwing a bucket of cold water on him, wakened him from his sleep, though not from his dream. Sancho ran up and down the room searching for the giant's head, till, finding his labor fruitless, "Well, well," said he, "now I see plainly that this house is haunted, for when I was here before, in this very room was I beaten like any stock-fish, but knew no more than the man in the moon who struck me ; and now the giant's head that I saw cut off with these eyes is vanished; and and I am sure I saw the body spout blood like a pump. " " What a prating and a nonsense does this fellow keep about blood and a jiump, and I know not what !" said the innkeeper: "I tell you, rascal, it is my wine-skins that are slashed, and my wine that runs about the floor here; and I hope to see him that spilt it swinging on a gibbet for his pains. " "Well, well," said Sancho, "do not trouble me; I only tell you that I cannot find the giant's head, and my earldom is 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 wLen asleep. Theinkeeper was almost mad to see the foolish squire harp so oijthe same string with his frantic master, and swore they should not come off now as before ; that their chivalry should be no satisfaction for his wine, but that they should pay him sauce for the damage, and for the very leathern patches which the wounded wine-skins would want. Don Quixote, in the meanwhile, believing he had finished his adventure, and mistaking the curate, that held him by the arms, for the Princess Micomicona, fell on his knees before him, and with a respect due to a royal presence: "Kow 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 favor 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 j)ut the giant in pickle? Here are the bulls, and I am an earl. " The whole company (except the innkeeper, who was too vexed to laugh), were like to split at the extravagances of master and man. 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 all, forsooth, because he was seeking adventures. What have I to do with his statutes of chivalry? If they oblige him not to pay, they should oblige him not to eat neither. It was upon this score that the t'other 156 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANflHA. fellow took away my good tail; it is clear spoiled, the hair is all torn off, and my husband can never use it again. And now to come upon me again, with destroy- ing wine-skins and spilling my liquor! may somebody spill his heart's Wood for it for me! But I will be paid, so I will, to the last maravedis, or I will disown my name and forswear the mother that bore me." Her honest maid, Maritornes, seconded her fury ; but Master Curate stopped their mouths by promising that he ■would see them satisiled for their wine and their skins, but especially for the tail which they kept up 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 disposal. With this he buckled up again and swore that he him- self had seen the giant's head, by the same token that it had a beard that reached down to his middle; and if it could not be found it mn.st be hid by witelicraft, 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 spiiits, for all things would be well. All parties being quieted the company retired to rest. CHAPTER XXXII. CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF MANY SURPRISING ACCIDENTS IN THE INN. In the morning the iniikeei)er, who stood at the door, seeing company coming, "More guest," cried he; "a brave, jolly troop, on my word. If they stop here we may sing, 'Oh, be joyful!'" "What are they?" said Cardenio. "Pour men, " said the host, "on horseback, a la Gi/iefa, with black masks on their faces and armed with lances and targets; a ladj', too, all in white, that rides single and masked; and two running footmen; and they are just at the door. " Hearing this, Dorothea veiled herself, and Cardenio had just time enough to step into the next room, where Don Quixote lay, when the strangers came into the yard. The four horsemen, who made a very genteel appearance, dismounted and went to help down the lady, whom one of them, taking in his arms, carried into the house; where he seated her in a chair ))y the chamber-door into which Cardenio had withdrawn. All this was done without discovering their faces, or speak- ing a word; only the lady, as she sat down in the chair, breathed out a deep sigh, and let her arms sink down in a weak and fainting posture. The curate, marking their odd behavior, which raised in him a curiosity to know who they were, went to their servants in the stable, and asked what their masters were. "We know no more of her than the rest," answered one of them; "for we could never see her face all the time, and it is impossible we should know her or them any otherwise. They picked us up on the road, my comrade and myself, and prevailed with us to wait on them to Andalusia, promising to pay us well for our trouble ; so that, bating the two days' travelling in their company, they are utter strangers to us. " "Could you not hear them name one another all this time ?" asked the curate. "No, truly, sir," answered the footman, "for we heard them not speak a syllalile all the way; the poor lady, indeed, used to sigh and grieve so piteously, that we are persuaded she has no stomach to this journey: whatever may be the cause we know not; by her garb she seems to be a nun, but bj- her grief and melancholy one might guess they are yoing to make her one, wlien perhaps the poor girl has not a bit of nun's flesh about her. " "Very likely," said the curate; and with that, leav- ing them, he returned to the place where he left Doro- thea, who, hearing the masked lady sigh so frequently, moved liy the natural pity of the soft sex, could not for- bear inquiring the cause of her sorrow. "Pardon me, madam," said she, "if I beg to know your grief ; and assure yourself that my request does not proceed from mere curiosity, but an earnest incli- nation to sei've and assist you, if your misfortune be any such as our sex is naturally .subject to, and in the power of a woman to cure. " The melancholy lady made no return to her compli- ment, and Dorothea i»ressed her in vain with new reasons, when the gentleman, whom the footboy signi- fied to be the chief of the company, interposed; "Madam," said he, "do not trouble yourself to throw away any generous offer on that ungrateful womaUi whose nature cannot return an obligation ; neither ex. pect any answer to your demands, for her tongue is a stranger to truth." "Sir,'' said the disconsolate lady, "my truth and honor have made me thus miserable, and my sufferings! are sufficient to prove you the falsest and most base of men." Cardenio being only parted from the company by Don Quixote's chamber-door, overheard these last words very distinctly; and immediately cried out, "Good Heave.iT what do I hear ? what voice struck my ear just now ?'' DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANOHA. 157 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 on her, to prevent her, which so disordered the lady that her mask fell off, and discovered an in- comparable face, beautiful as an angel's, though very pale, and strangely discomposed, her eyes eagerly roll- ing on every side, which made her appear distracted. Dorothea and the rest, not guessing what her eyes sought by their violent motion, beheld her with grief and wonder. She struggled so hard, and the gentle- man was so disordered by holding her, that his mask dropped off too, and discovered to Dorothea, who was assisting to hold the lady, the face of her husband, Don Ferdinand. Scarce had she known him, when, with a long and dismal "Oh!" she fell in a swoon, and would have reached the floor with all her weight, had not the barber, by good fortune, stood behind and sup- ported her. The curate ran presently to help her, and pulling off her veil to throw water in her face, Don Ferdinand 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 Dorothea'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 Ferdinand holding Lucinda, who presently knew him. They were all struck dumb with amazement : Dorothea gazed on Don Ferdinand; Don Ferdinand on Cardenio ; and Cardenio and Lucinda on one another. At last Lucinda broke silence, and addressing Don Ferdinand, "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 unex- pected means. Ton have a thousand instances to con- vince 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 x^roud to lose it, since my death may convince him of my un- shaken love and honor, till the last minute of my life. " Dorothea by this time recovered, and finding by Lucinda's discourse who she was, and that Don Ferdi- nand would not loose 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 honor of calling you her own : I am she who, once confined to peaceful innocence, led a con- tented life, till your importunity, your show of honor, 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 dishonorable ends, but purely by de- spair 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 will not admit a partner. It is easier far, my lord to recall your wandering desires, and fix them upon her that adores you, than to draw her to love who hates you. Eemember how you did solicit my humble state, and conscious of my meanness, you paid a veneration to my innocence, which joined with the honorable condition of my yielding to your desires, pronounce me free from ill design or dishonor. Consider these undeniable truths: have some regard to your honor; remember you are a Christian. Why should you, then, make her life end so miserably, whose beginning your favor 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 never shall com- plain, let me not be exposed to the slandering reflec- tions of the censorious world by so cruel a separation from my lord: afflict not the declining years of my poor parents, whose faithful services to you and yours have merited a more suitable return. If you imagine the current of your noble blood would be defiled by mixing with mine, consider how many noble houses have run in such a channel; besides, the woman's side is not essentially requisite to ennoble descent; but chiefly think on this, that virtue is the truest nobility, which if you stain by basely wronging me, you bring a greater blot upon your family than marrying me could cause. In fine, my lord, you cannot, must not disown me for your wife: to attest which truth, I recall your own words, which must be true, if you prize yourself for honor, and that nobility whose want you so despise in me. Witness your oaths and vows, witness that Heaven which you so oft invoked to ratify your prom- ises; and if all these should fail, I make my last appeal to your own conscience, whose sting will always repre- sent my wrongs fresh to your thoughts, and disturb your joys amidst your greatest pleasures. " These, with many such arguments, did the mournful Dorothea urge, appearing so lovely in her sorrow, that Don Ferdinand's friends, as well as all the rest, sympa- thised with her; Lucinda, particularly, as much admir- ing 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 Ferdinand's arms that stUl held her prevented it. He stood full of confusion, with his eyes fixed attentively on Dorothea a great while ; at last, opening his arms, he quitted Lucinda. "Thou hast conquered," cried he, "charming Dorothea; thou hast conquered me : it is impossible to resist so many united truths and charms. " Lucinda was still so disordered and weak that she 158 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. would have fallen when Ferdinand quitted her, had not Cardeuio, without regard to his safety, leaped forward and caught her in his arras, and embracing her with eagerness and joy, "Thanks, gracious Heaven!" cried lie aloud; "my dear, my faithful wife! thy sorrows are now ended ; for where canst thou rest more safe than in my arms, which now support thee, as once they did when iny blessed fortune first made thee mine?" Lucinda then opening her eyes, and finding herself in the arms of her Cardeuio, without regard to cere- mony, threw her arms about his neck, and, laying her face to his, " Yes," said she, "thou art he, thou art my lord indeed! It is even you yourself, the right owner of this poor, harassed captive. Now, fortune, act thy worse ; nor fears nor threats shall ever part me from the sole support and comfort of my life. " This sight was very surprising to Don Ferdinand and the other spectators. Dorothea perceiving, by Don Ferdinand's change of countenance, and laying his hand to his sword, that he was preparing to assault Cardenio, fell suddenly on her knees, and, with anj en- dearing embrace, held Don Ferdinand's legs so fast, that he could not stir. " What means," cried she, all in tears, "the only refuge of my hope? See here tliy own and dearest wife at thy feet, and her you would enjoy in her true husband's arms. Think then, my lord, how unjust is your attempt to dissolve that knot which Heaven has tied so fast. Can you ever think or hope for success in your design on her who, contemning all dangers, and confirmed in strictest constancy and honor, before your face lies bathed in tears of joy and passion in her true lovers bosom? For Heaven's sake I entreat yon, by your own words I conjure you, tomitigiiteyour anger, and permit that faithful pair to consummate their joys, and 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 sub- jection. " All this while C^irdenio, thongh he still held Lucinda in his arms, had a watchful eye on Don Ferdin:md; re- solving, if he ha es, and there read a thou- sand farther excuses; lint I promise henceforth never to disturb her quiet; and may she livelong and con- tented with her dear Cardenio, as I hope to do with ray dearest Dorothea. " Thus concluding, he embraced her again so lovingly, that it was with no small difliculty that he kept in his tears, which he endeavored to conceal, being ashamed to discover so eti'eminate a proof of his remorse. Cardenio, Lucinda, and the greatest part of the com- pany could not so well command their passions, but all wept for joy; even Sancho I'anza himself shed tears, though, as he afterwards confessed, it was not for downriglit grief, but liecause he found Dorothea not to be Queen of Micomicona, as he supposed, and of whom he expected so many favors and prefeiments. Car- denio and Lucinda fell at Don Ferdinand's feet, giving htm thanks, with the strongest expressicjus which grat- itude could suggest; he raised them up, and received their acknowledgments with much modesty; then he begged to be informed by Dorothea how she came to that place. She related to him all she had told Car- denio, but with such a grace, that what were misfor- tunes to her proved an inexpressible pleasure to those that heard her relation. When she had done, Don Ferdinand told all that had befallen him in the city, after he fotind the x)aper in Lncinda's bosom, which de- clared Cardenio to be her husband ; how he would have killed her, had not her parents prevented him; how afterwards, mad with shame and anger, he left the city, U) wait a more convenient opportunity of revenge ; how in a short time he learned that Lucinda was fcl to a / ii . •? ■;>'-■' ^ i*^/« I-"' •5# 'a ' t1 ?»' * ** > ,1 .' f// ' Laclnda, finding herself in his power, fell into a swoon." — p. i 160 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. nunnery, resolving to end her days there, if she could not spend them with Cardenio; that, having desired those three gentlemen to go with him, they went to the nunnery, and, waiting till they found the gate open, he left two of the gentlemen to secure the door, while he, with the other, entered the house, where they found Lucinda talking with a nun in the cloister. They forc- ibly brought her thence to a village, where they dis- guised themselves for their more convenient flight, which they more easily brought about, the nunnery being situate iu the fields, distant a good way from any town. He likewise added how Lucinda, finding herself in his power, fell into a swoon; and that after she came to herself she continually wept and sighed, but would not speak a syllable ; and that, accompanied with silence only and tears, they travelled till they came to that inn, which proved to him as his arrival at heaven, having put a happy conclusion to all his earthly mis- fortunes. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE HISTORY OF TPIE FAMOUS PRINCESS MFCOMICONA CONTINUED, WITH OTHER PLEASANT ADVENTURES. The joy of the whole company was unsi)eakable by the happy conclusion of this perplexed business. Doro- thea, Cardenio, and Lucinda thought the sudden change in their affairs too surprising to be real; and through a disuse of good fortune, could hardly be induced to believe their happiness. Don Ferdinand thanked Heaven a thousand times for its propitious contluct in leading him out of a labyrinth, in which his honor and virtue were like to have been lost. The curate, as he was very instrumental in the general reconciliation, had likewise no small share in the general joy; and that no discontent might sour their universal satisfaction, Cardenio and the curate t'ugaged to see the hostess satisfied for all the damages committed liy Don Quix- ote: only poor Sancho drooped pitifully. He found his lordship and liis hopes vanished into smoke, the Prin- cess Micomicoiia was changed to Dorothea, and the giant to Don Ferdiuand. Thiis, very musty and melan- choly, he slipped into his master's chamber, who had slept on, and was just awakened, little thinking of what bad happened. "I hope your early rising will do you no hurt," said he, "Sir Knight of the "Woful Figure; but yon may now .sleep on till doomsday if you will; nor need you trouble your head any longer about killing any giant, or re- storing the princess, for all that is done to your hand." "That is more than probable," answered the knight; "for I have had the most extraordinary, the most pro- digious 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 thwack 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 broached wine-skin; and the blood some thirty gallons of tent which it held in its belly; and so confusion take both giant and head, and all together, for Sancho." "What sayest thou, madman?" said the Don; "thou art frantic, sure!" "Bise, rise, sir," said Sancho, "and see what fine work you have cut out for yourself; here is the wine to pay for, and your great queen is 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 ruled by enchantment." "1 should believe it," qnoth Sancho, "had my toss- ing in a blanket been of that kind ; but sure it was the likest the 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 wi.sh, I will say that for him; so that after all I begin to smell a rat, and do perilously 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. " While Sancho made him readj-, the curate ga\'e Don Ferdinand and the rest an account of Don Quixote's madness, and of the device he used to draw him from the Poor Eock, to which the supposed disdain of his mis- tress had banished him in imagination. Sancho 's ad- ventures made also a part of 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 trick should be found to decoy him home. Cardenio offered his service in this affair, and that Lucinda should personate Dorothea. "No, no," answered Don Ferdinand; "Dorothea shall humoi the jest still, if this honest gentleman's habitation be not very far off. " "Only two days' journey," said the curate. "I would ride twiie as far," said Don Ferdinand, "foi the pleasure of so good and charitable an action." DON QUIXOTE DE LA ilANCIIA. 161 By thisi Dou Quixote had sallied out, armed cap-a-pie, Mambrino's helmet (with a great hole in it) on his head; his shield on his left arm, and witlx his right he leaned on iiis lance His meagre, yellow, weather-beaten face, of half a league in length; the unaccountable medley of his armor, together with his grave and solemn port, struck Don Ferdinand and his companions dumb with admiration; while the champion, casting his eyes on Dorothea, with great gravity and solidity, broke silence with these words: — "I am informed bj' this my squire, beautiful lady, that your greatness is annihilated, and your majesty reduced to nothing; for of a queeu 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 reinstating you, has occasioned this change, I must tell him that he is no conjurer in these matters, and does not know one half of his trade; nor is he skilled in the revolutions of chivalry ; for had he been 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; 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 exijected. " "Hold there," said the host; "it was with two wine- skins, but no giant that you fought." Don Ferdinand silenced the innkeeper, and bid him by no means interrupt Don Quixote, who thus went on: — "To conclude, most high and disinherited lady, if your father, for the causes 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 whicli is your lawful inheritance." Here Don Quixote stopped, waiting the princess's answer; she, assured of Don Ferdinand's consent to carry on the jest, till Don Quixote was got home, and assuming a face of gravitj', "Whosoever," answered she, "has informed yon, valorous Knight of the Woful Figure, that I have altered or changed my condition, has imposed upon you; for 1 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 hopes; but I am neither changed in my person nor altered in my resolution of employing the force of your redoubtable and invincible arm in my favor. I there- fore apply mj-self to your usual generosity, to have these words spoken to my father's dishonor recalled, and believe these easy and infallible means to rediess my wrongs, the pure effects of his wisdom and policy, as the good fortune I now enjoy, has been the conse- quence of your surprising deeds, as this noble presence can testify. What should hinder us then from setting 11 DON Qurx. forward to-morrow morning, depending for a happy and successful conchrsion on the will of Heaven, and the power of your unparalleled courage?" The ingenious Dorothea having concluded, Don Quix- ote turning to Sancho, with all the signs of fury imag- inable: "Now must I tell thee, poor, paltry, hang- dog," said he, "thou art the veriest rascal in all Spain; tell me, rogue, scoundrel, did not you just now inform me that this princess was changed into a private damsel called Dorothea, with a thousand other absurdities? Now, by all the powers of Heaven," looking up and grinding his teeth together, "I have a mind so to use thee as to make thee appear a miserable examjile to all succeeding squires that shall dare to tell a knight- errant a lie. " • "Good enough, your worship," cried Sancho, "have patience, I beseech you: majhap I am mistaken or so about my lady Princess Micomicona's concern there; but that the giant's head came off the wine-skin's shoulders, and that the blood was as good tent as ever was tipped over tongue, I will take my corporal oath on it; why, sir, are not the skins all hacked and slashed within there at j'our bed's head, and the wine all in a puddle in your chamber? But 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 com- pos ; I theiefore pardon thee, and have done. " "It is enough," said Don Ferdinand; "we, therefore, in pursuance of the princess's orders, will this night refresh ourselves, and to-morrow we will all of us set out to attend the lord Don Quixote, in the prosecution of this important enterprise he has undertaken, being all impatient to be eye-witnesses of his celebrated and matchless courage. " "1 shall be proud of the honor of serving and waiting upon you, my good lord," replied Don Quixote, "and reckon myself infinitely obliged by the favor and good opinion of so honorable a company ; which I shall en- deavor to improve and confirm, though at the expense of the last drop of my blood." Many other compliments had passed between Don Quixote and Don Ferdinand, when the arrival of a stranger interrupted them. His dress represented him as a Christian newly returned from Barbary: he was clad in a short-.skirted coat of blue cloth, with short sleeves and no collar; his breeches were of blue linen, with a cap of the same color, a pair of date-colored stockings, and a Turkish scimitar hung by a scarf, in manner of a .shoulder belt. There rode a woman in his company, clad in Moorish dress; her face was covered with a veil ; she had on a little cap of gold-tissue, and a Turkish mantle that reached from her shoulders to her feet. The man was well-shaped and strong, his age about forty, his face somewhat tanned, his mus- tachios long, and his beard handsome. In short, his gentle mien and person were too distinguishable to let the gentleiman be hid by the meanness of his habit. He called presently for a room, and, being an.swered that 162 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. all were full, seemed a little troubled ; iowever, he went to the woman who came along with him, and took her down from her ass. The ladies, being all surprised at the oddness of the Moorish dress, had the curiosity to flock about the stranger; and Dorothea, very dis- creetly imagining that both she and her conductor were tiled, and took it ill that they could not have a cham- ber, "I hope, madam, you will bear your ill fortune pa- tiently," said she; "for want of room is an inconve- nience incident to all public inns; but if you please, madam, to take up with us," pointing to Luciuda, "you may perhaps find that you have met with worse enter- tainment on the road than what this place affords." The unknown lady made her no answer, but rising up, laid her hands across her breast, bowed her head, and inclined her body, as a sign that she acknowledged, the favor. By her silence they conjectured her to be un- doubtedly a Moor, and that she could not speak Spanish. Her companion was now come back from the stable, and told them, "Ladies, I hope you will excuse this gentlewoman from answering any questions, for she is very much a stranger to our language." "We are only, sir," answered Lucinda, "making her an offer which civility obliges us to make to all strangers, especially of our own sex, that she would make us happy in her company all night, and fare as we do : we will make very much of her, sir, and she shall want for nothing that the house affords." "I return you humble thanks, dear madam, " answered the stranger, "in the lady's behalf and my own; and I inflnitely prize the favor, which the present exigence and the worth of the donors make doubly engaging." "Is the lady, pray, sir, a Christian or a Moor?" asked Dorothea. " Our charity would make us hope she were the former ; but by her attire and silence, we are afraid she is the latter. " "Outwardly, madam," answers he, "she appears and is a Moor, but in her heart a zealous Christian, which her longing desires of being baptised have expressly testified. I have had no opportunity of having her christened since she left Algiers, which was her habi- tation and native country; nor has any imminent dan- ger of death as yet obliged her to be brought to the font, before she be better instructed in the principles of our religion; but I hope, by Heaven's assistance, to have her shortly baptised with all the decency suiting her quality, which is much above what her equipage or mine seems to promise. " These words raised in them all a curiosity to be farther informed who the Moor and her conductor were ; but they thought it improper then to put them upon any more particular relation of their fortunes, because they wanted rest and refreshment after their journey. Dorothea, placing the lady by her, begged her to take off her veil. She looked on her companion, as if she required him to let her know what she said; which, when he had let her uiulerstand in the Arabian tongue, joining his own re(iuest also, she discovered so charm- ing a face, that Dorothea imagined her more beautiful thanLucinda; she, on theother hand, fancied her hand- somer than Dorothea; and most of the company be lieved her more beautiful than both of them. As beauty has always a i)rerogative, or rather charm, to attract men's inclinations, the whole company dedicated their desires to serve the lovely Moor. Don Ferdinand asked the stranger her name ; he answered, "Lela Zoraida;" she, hearing him, and guessing what they asked, sud- denly replied with great concern, though very grace- fully, "No, no Zoraido; Maria, Maria;" giving them to understand that her name was Maria, and not Zoraida. These words, spoken with so much eagerness, raised a concern in everybody, the ladies especially, whose natural tenderness showed itself by their tears; and Lucinda, embracing her very lovingly, "Ay, ay," said she, "Maria, Maria;" which words the Moorish lady repeated byway of answer. "Zoraida macange," add- ed she, as much as to say, "Is^ot Zoraida, but Maria. " The night coming on, and the innkeeper, by order of Don Ferdinand's friends, having made haste to provide them the best supper he could, the ch)th was laid on a long table, there being neither round nor square in the house. Don Quixote, after much ceremony, was pre- vailed upon to sit at the head; he desired the Lady Micoraicona to sit next him; and the rest of the cojn- pany having placed themselves according to their rank and convenience, they ate their supper very heartily. Don Quixote, to raise the diversion, never minded his meat, but inspired with the same spirit that moved him to preach so much to the goatherds, he began to hold forth in this manner: — "Certainly, gentlemen, if we rightly consider it, tliose who make knight-errantry their profession often meet with most surprising and stupendous adventures. For what mortal in the world,- at this time entering within this castle, and seeing us sit together as we do, will imagine and believe us to be the same ijcrsons which in reality we are? Who is there that can judge that this lady by my side is the great queen we all know her to be, and that I am that Knight of the 'Woful Figure, so universally made known by fame ? It is then no longer to be doubted but that this exercise and jirdfession surpasses all others that have been invented by man, and is so much the more honorable as it is more exposed to dangers. Let none liresume to tell me that the pen is preferable to the sword; for be they who they will, I shall tell them they know not what they say: for the reason they give, and on which chiefly they rely, is, that the labor of the mind exceeds that of the body, and that the exercise of arms depends wholly on the body, as if the use of them were the business of porters, which requires nothing but much strength ; or, as if this, which we who profess it call chivalry, did not include the acts of fortitude, which depend very much upon the understanding; or else, as if that warrior, who commands an army or defends a city besieged, did not labor as much with the mind as with the body. If this be not so, let experience teach us whether it be possible by bodily strength to discover or guess the intentions of an enemy. The forming de- signs, the laying of stratagems, overcoming of difficul- ties, and shunning of dangers are all works of the un- derstanding, wherein the body has no share. It being I therefore evident that the exercise of arms requires the DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 163 help of the. mincl as well as learning, let us see, in the next place, whether the scholar's or the soldier's mind undergoes the greatest labor. Now this may be the better known by regarding the end each of them aims at; for that intention is to be most valued which makes the noblest end its object. The scoi)e and end of learn- ing, I mean human learning (in this place I speak not of divinity, whose aim is to guide souls to heaven, for no other can equal a design so iuliuite as that), is to give a perfection to distributive justice, bestowing up- on every one his due, and to procure and cause good laws to be observed; an end really generous, great, and worthy of high commendation; but yet not equal to that which knight-errantry tends to, whose object and end is peace, which is the greatest blessing man can wish for iu this life. And therefore the first good news that the world received was that the angels brought in the night, which was the beginning of our day, when they sang in the air, ' Glory to God on high, peace upon earth, and to men good-will.' And the only manner of salutation taught by the best Master in heaven or upon earth, to his friends and followers, was, that entering any house they should say, ' Peace be to this house.' And at other times he said to them, ' My peace I give to you, my peace I leave to you, peace be among you:' a jewel and a legacy worthy of such a donor — a jewel so precious, that without it there can be no happiness either in earth or heaven. This peace is the true end of war; for arms and war are one and the same thing. Allowing, then, this truth, that the end of war is peace, and that in this it excels the end of learning, let us now weigh the bodily labors the scholar undergoes against those the warrior suffers, and then see which are greatest. " The method and language Don Quixote used in de- livering himself were siich, that none of his hearers at that time looked upon him as a madman. But, on the contrary, most of them being gentlemen, to whom the use of arms properly appertains, they gave him a will- ing attention; and he proceeded in this manner: — "These, then, I say, are the sufferings and hardships a scholar endures. First, poverty (not that they are all po(jr, but to urge the worst that may be ia this case) ; and having said he endures poverty, methinks nothing more need be urged to express his misery; for he that is poor enjoys no happiness, but labors under this p6v- erty in all its parts, at one time in hunger, at another in cold, another iu nakedness, and sometimes in all of them together, yet his poverty is not so great but still he eats, though it be later than the usual hour, and of the scraps of the rich, or, which is the greatest of a scholar's misf(jrtuucs, what is called among them going a-sopping; neither can the scholar miss of somebody's stove or fireside to sit by, where, though he be not thor- oughly heated, yet he may gather warmth, and at last sleep away the night under a roof. I will not touch upon other less material circumstances, as the want of linen and scarcity of shoes, thinness aud baldness of their clothes, and their surfeiting when good fortune throws a feast in their way : this is the difficult and un- couth path they tread, often stumbling and falling, yet rising again and pushing on, till they attain the prefer- ment they aim at; whither being arrived, we have seen many of them, who, having been carried by a fortunate gale through all these quicksands, from a chair govern the world; their hunger being changed into satiety, their cold into comfortable warmth, their nakedness into magnificence of apparel, aud the mats they used to lie upon into stately beds of costly silks and softest linens — a reward due to their virtue. But yet their sufferings being compared to those the soldier endures, appear much inferior, as I sball in the next place make out." CHAPTER XXXIV. A CONTINUATION OF DON QUIXOTE'S CUEIOUS DISCOUESE UPON AEMS AND LEAENING. "Since, speaking of the scholar, we began with his poverty, and its several parts, " continued Don Quixote, "let us now observe whether the soldier be any richer than he; and we shall find that poverty itself is not poorer; for he depends on his miserahle pay, which he receives but seldom, or perhaps neA'er; or else on that he makes by marauding, with the hazard of his life, and trouble of his conscience. Such is sometimes his want of apparel, that a slashed buff coat is all his holiday raiment and shirt; and in the depth of winter, being in the open field, he has nothing to cherish him against the sharpness of the season but the breath of his mouth. which, issuing from an empty place, I am ijersuaded is itself cold, though contrary to the rules of nature. But now see how he expects night to make amends for all these hardships in the bed prepared for him, which, unless it be his own fault, never proves too narrow ; for he may freely lay out as much of the ground as he pleases, and ttimble to his contents without danger of losing the sheets. But, above all, when the day shall come wherein he is to put in practice the exercise of his profession, and strive to gain some new degree; when the day of battle shall come, then, as a mark of lionor, shall his head be dignified with a cap made of 164 DON QUIXOTE DE LA JIANCHA. lint, to stop a hole made by a bullet, or be perhaps car- ried off maimed, 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 encoun- ters and battles, nay, always come off victorious, to ob- tiiin some little preferment; and these miracles, too, are rare. But, I pray tell me, gentlemen, if ever you made it your observation, how few are those who obtain due rewards in war, in comparison of those numbers that perish? Doubtless you will answer that there is no parity between them — that the dead cannot be reckoned up, whereas those who live and are rewarded may be numbered with three figures. It is quite otherwise 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 thou- sand scholars than thirty thousand soldiers, because the former are recompensed at the expense of the public, by giving them employments, which of necessity must be allowed on those of their profession, but the latter cannot be gratified otherwise than at the cost of the master that employs them; yet this very difficulty makes good my argument. But let us lay this matter aside as a point diflicult to be decided, and let us return to the preference due to arms above learning, a subject as yet in debate, each party bringing strong reasons to make out their pretensions. Amojig others, learning urges that without it warfare itself could not subsist; because war, as other things, has its laws, and is gov- erned by them, and laws are the province of learning and scholars. To this objection the soldiers make an- swer, that without them the laws cannot be maintained, for it is by arms that commonwealths are defended, kingdoms supported, cities secured, the highway made safe, and the sea delivered from i)irates. In short, were it not for them, commonwealths, kingdoms, mon- archies, cities, the roads by land, and the waters of the sea would be subject to the ravages and confusion that attend war while it lasts, and is at liberty to make use of its imbouuded xjower and prerogative. Besides, it is past all controversy, that what costs dearest is, and ought to be, most valued. Now for a man to attain 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; be- cause he is every moment in danger of his life. To what danger or distress can a scholar be reduced equal to that of a soldier, who, being besieged in some strong place, and at his post or upon guard in some ravelin or bastion, perceives the enemy carrying on a mine under him, and yet miist upon no account remove from thence, or shun the danger which threatens him so near? All he can do is to give notice to his commander that he may countermine, but must himself stand still, fearing an . 171. DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 171 not obliged to go out to work as tlie others do, except their ransom stays too long before it comes ; for then, to hasten it, they make them work, and fetch wood with the rest, which is no small labor. I was one of those who were to be ransomed; for when they knew I had been a captain, though I told them the impossibility I was in of being ransomed, because of my iioverty, yet they put me among the gentlemen that were to be ran- somed, and to that end they put me on a slight chain, rather as a mark of distinction than to restrain me by it; and so I passed my life in that bagnio, with several other gentlemen of quality who expected their ransom; and, though liunger and nakedness might, as it did often, afflict us, yet nothing gave us such affliction as to hear and see the excessive cruelties with which our master Tised the other Christian slaves. He would hang one one day, then impale another, cut off the ears of a third; and this upon such slight occasions that often the Turks would own that he did it only for the pleas- ure of doing it, and because he was naturally an enemy to mankind. Only one Spanish soldier knew how to deal with him: his name was Saavedra; who, though he had done many things which will not easily be forgot- ten by the Turks, yet all to gain his liberty, his master never gave him a blow, nor used him ill, either in word or deed; and yet we were always afraid that the least of his pranks would make him be impaled; nay, he himself sometimes was afraid of it too: and, if it were not for taking up too much of your time, I could tell such x'assages of him as would divert the company much better than the relation of my adventures, and cause more wonder in them. "But to go on. I say that the windows of a very rich Moor's house looked upon the court of our prison; which, indeed, according to the custom of the countrj', were rather peeping holes than windows, and yet they | had also lattices or jalousies on the inside. "It happened one day that being upon a kind of ter- race of our prison, with only three of my comrades, diverting ourselves as well as we could, by trying who could leap farthest in his chains, all the other Christians being gone out to work, I chanced to look up to those windows, and saw that out of one of them there ap- peared a long cane, and to it was a bit of linen tied ; and tbe cane was moved up and down, as if it was expected that some of us should lay hold of it. We all took notice of it, and one of us went and stood just under it, to see if they would let it fall; but just as he came to it the cane was drawn up, and shook to and fro sideways, as if they had made the same sign as people do with their head when they deny. He retired upon that, and the same motion was made with it as before. Another of my comrades advanced, and had the same success as the former; the third man was used just as the rest; which I seeing, resolved to try my fortune too ; and as I came under the ca,ne it fell at my feet. Im- mediately I untied the linen, within which was a knot, which, being opened, showed us about ten zianins, which is a sort of gold of base alloy used iiy the Moors, each of which is worth about two crowns of our money. It is not to be much questioned whether the discovery was not as pleasant as surprising; we were in admira- tion, and I more particularly, not being able to guess whence this good fortune came to us, especially to me; for it was plain I was more meant than any of my com- rades, since the cane was let go to me when it was re- fused to them. I took my money, broke the cane, and going ujDon the terrace, saw a very fine white hand that opened and shut the window with haste. By this we imagined that some woman who lived in that house had done us this favor; and, to return our thanks, we bowed ourselves after the Moorish fashion, with our arms across our breasts. A little after there appeared out of the same window a little cross made of cane, which imme- diately was pulled in again. This confirmed us in our opinion that some Christian woman was a slave in that house, and that it was she that took pity onus; but the whiteness of the hand, and the richness of the bracelets upon the arm, which we had a glimpse of, seemed to destroy that thought again; and then we be- lieved it was some Christian woman turned Mahom- etan, whom their masters often marry, and think them- selves very happy; for our women are more valued by them than the women of their own country. But in all this guessing we were far enough from finding out the truth of the case ; however, we resolved to be very dil- igent in observing the window, which was our north star. There passed above fifteen days before we saw either the hand or cane, or any other sign whatsoever; though in all that time we endeavored to find out who lived in that house, and if there were in it any Chris- tian woman who was a renegade ; yet all we could dis- cover amounted to only this, that the house belonged to one of the chief Moors, a very rich man, called Agi- morato, who had been Alcayde of the Bata, which is an oftice much valued among them. But when we least expected our golden shower would continue, out of that window we saw on a sudden the cane appear again with another piece of linen and a bigger knot; and this was just at the time when the bagnio was without any other of the slaves in it. We all tried our fortunes as the first time, and it succeeded accordingly, for the cane was let go to none but me. I untied the knot, and found in it forty crowns of Spanish gold, with a paper written in Arabic, and at the top of the paper was a great cross. I kissed the cross, took the crowns, and, returning to the terrace, we all made our Moorish rev- erences; the hand appeared again, and I having made signs that I would read the paper, the window was shut. We remained all overjoyed and astonished at what had happened, and were extremely desirous to know the contents of the i)aper; but none of us under- stood Arabic, and it was yet more difficult to find out a proper interiireter. At last I resolved to trust a rene- gade of Murcia, who had shown me great proofs of his kindness. We gave one another mutual assurances, and on his side he was obliged to keep secret all that I should reveal to him; for the renegades, who have thoughts of returning to their own country, use to get certificates from such persons of quality as are slaves in Barbnry, in which they make a sort of an affidavit that such a one, a renegade, is an honest man, and has 172 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. always been kind to the Christians, and has a mind to make his escape on the first occasion. Some there are who procure these certificates with an honest design, and remain among Christians as long as they live; but others get them on purpose to make use of them when they go a-pirating on the Christian shores; for then if they are shipwrecked or taken, they show these certifi- cates, and say that thereby may be seen the intention with which they came in the Turks' company — to wit, to get an opportunity of returning to Christendom. By this means they escape the first fury of the Christians, and are seemingly reconciled to the Church without being hurt; afterwards they take their time, and return to Barbary to be what they were before. "One of these renegades was my friend, and he had certificates from us all, by which we gave him much commendation ; but if the Moors had caught him with those papers about him they would have burnt him alive. I knew that not only he understood the Arabic tongue, but also that he could both speak and write it fluently. But yet, before I resolved to trust him entire- ly, I bid him read me that paper, which I had found by chance. He opened it, and was a good while looking ui^on it, and construing it to himself. I asked him if he understood it. He said 'Yes, very well ; and that if I would give him pen, ink, and paper, he would trans- late it word for word.' We furnished him with what he desired, and he went to work. Having finished his translation, he said, ' All I have here put into Spanisri is word for word what is in the Arabic; only where the paper says Lela Marien, it means our Lady the Virgin Mary.' The contents were thus: — "'When I was a child my father had a slave who taught me in my tongue the Christian worship, and told me a great many things of Lela Marien. The Christian slave died, and I am sure she went not to the fire, but is with Allah, for I have seen her twice since; and she bid me go to the land of the Christians to see Lela Marien, who had a great kindness for me. I do not know what is the matter; but though I have seen many Christians out of this window, none has appeared to me so much a gentleman as thyself. I am very hand- some and young, and can carry with nie a great deal of money and other riches. Consider whether thou canst bring it to pass that we may escape together, and then thou Shalt be my husband in thy own country, if thou art willing ; but if thou art not, it is all one ; Lela Marien will provide me a husband. I wrote this myself. Have a care to whom thoir givest it to read; do not trast any Moor, because they are all treacherous. And in this I am much perplexed, and could wish there were not a necessity of trusting any one; because, if my father should come to know it, he would certainly tlirow me into a well, and cover me over with stones. I will tie a thread to a cane, and with that thou mayest fasten thy answer ; and if thou canst not find any one to write in Arabic, make me understand thy meaning by signs, for Lela Marion will Iielp me to guess it. She and Allah keep thee, as well as this cross, which I often kissv as the Christian slave bid me do.' "You may imagine, gentlemen, that we were in admi- ration at the contents of this iiajier, and withal over- joyed at them, which we expressed so openly that the renegade came to understand that the paper was not found by chance, but that it was really written by some one among us; and accordingly he told us his susincion, • and desired us to trust him entirely, and that he would venture his life with us to procure us our libei'ty. Hav- ing said this, he pulled a brass crucifix out of his bosom, and, with many tears, swore by the God which it repre- sented, and in whom he, though a wicked sinner, did firmly believe, to be ti'ue and faithful to us, with all se- crecy in what we should imjiart to him; for he guessed that by the means of the woman who had written that letter, we might all of u.s recover our lost liberty; and he, in particular, might obtain what he had so long wished for, to be received again into the bosom of his mother the Church, from wliom, for his sins, he had been cut off as a rotten member. Tlie renegade pro- nounced all this with so many tears, and such signs of repentance, that we w ere all of opinion to trust him, and tell him the whole truth of the btisiness. We showed him the little window out of which the cane used to ajipear, and he fiom thence took good notice of the house, in order to inform himself who lived in it. We next agreed that it would be necessary to answer the Moorish lady's note. So immediately the renegade wrote down what I dictated to him, which was exactly as I shall relate ; for I have not forgot the least material circumstance of this adventure, nor can forget them as long as I live. The words then were these: — "'The true Allah keep thee, my dear lady, and that blessed Virgin, which is the true mother of God, and has inspired thee with the design of going to the land of the Christians. Do thou pray her that she would be pleased to make thee understand how thou shalt exe- cute what she has commanded thee; for she is so good that she will do it. On my part, and on that of the Christians who are with me, I offer to do for thee all we are able, even to the hazard of our lives. Fail not to write to me, and give me notice of thy resolution, for I will always answer thee; the great Allah having given us a Christian slave who can read and write thy language, as thou, mayest perceive by this letter; so that thou mayest, without fear, give us notice of all thy intentions. As for what thou sayest, that as soon as thoii shalt arrive in the land of the Christians thou de signest to be my wife, I promise thee, on the word of a good Christian, to take thee for my wife ; and thou may- est be assured that the.CIiristians perform their prom- ises better than tlie Moors. Allah and his mother Mary Ite thy guard, my dear lady.' "Having written and closed this note, I waited two days till the bagnio was empty, and then I went up on the terrace, the ordinary place of our conversation, to see if the cane appeared, and it was not long before it was stirring. As soon as it appeared I showed my note, that the thread might be i)ut to the cane, but I found that was done to my hand; and the cane DON QUIXOTE DB LA MANCHA. 173 being let down, I fastened the note to it. Not long after the knot was let fall, and I, taking it up, found in it several pieces of gold and silver, above fifty crowns, which gave us infinite content, and fortified our hopes of obtaining at last our liberty. That even- ing our renegade came to us, and told us he had found out that the master of that house was the same Moor we had been told of, called Agimorato, extremely rich, and who had one only daughter to inherit all his estate ; that it was the report of the whole city that she was the handsomest maid in all Barbary; having been de manded in marriage by several bassas and viceroys, but that she had always refused to marry. He also told us that he had learned she had had a Christian slave who was dead, all which agreed with the contents of the letter. We immediately held a council with the rene- gade about the manner we shoiild use to carry off tlie Moorish lady, and go all together to Christendom ; when at last we agreed to wait for the answer of Zoiaida — for that is the name of the lady who now desires to be called Mary — as well knowing she could best advise the overcoming all the difficulties that were in our way ; and after this resolution, the renegade assured us again that he would lose his life or deliver us out of captivity. "The bagnio was four days together full of people, and all that time the cane was invisible ; but as soon as it returned to its solitude, the cane a])peared, with a knot much bigger than ordinary ; having untied it, I found in it a letter, and a hundred crowns in gold. The renegade happened that day to be with us, and we gave him the letter to read, which he said contained these words : — "' 1 cannot tell, sir, how to contrive that we may go together to Spain ; neither has Lela Marien told it me, tlioiigh I have earnestly asked it of her. All I can do is to furnish you out of this window with a great deal of riches. Buy your rausom and j'our friends' with that, and let one of you go to Spain, and buy a barque there, and come and fetch the rest. As for me, you shall find me in my father's garden out of town, by the seaside, not fax from the Bab-Ayoun gate, where I am to pass all the summer witli my father and my maids ; from which you may take me without fear, in the night- time, and carry me to your barque ; but remember thou art to be my husband, and if thou failest in that I will desire Lela Marien to chastise thee. If thou canst not trust one of thy friends to go for the barque, pay thy own ransom and go thyself; for I trust thou wilt return sooner than another, since thou art a gentleman and a Christian. Find ont my father's garden, and I will take care to watch when the bangio is empty, and let thee liuve more money. Allah keep my dear lord.' "These were the contents of the second letter we received. Upon the reading of it every one of us offered to be the man that should go and buy the barque, prom- ising to return with all speed; but the renegade opposed that proposition, and said he would never consent that any one of us should obtain his liberty before the rest, because experience had taught him that people once free do not perform what they promise when captives, and that some slaves of quality had often used that remedy to send one either to Valencia or Majorca, with money to buy a barque, and come back and fetch the rest, but that they never returned ; because the joy of having obtained their liberty, and the fear of losing it again, made them forget what they had promised, and cancel the memory of all obligations. To confirm which he related to us a strange story, which had happened in those parts, where every day the most surprising and wonderful things come to pass. After this he said that all that could be done was for him to buy a barque with the monej' which should redeem one of us; that he could buy one in Algiers, and pretend to turn merchant, and deal between Algiers and Tetuan; by which means he, being master of the vessel, might easily find out some way of getting us out of the bagnio, and taking us on board; and especially if the Moorish lady did what she promised, and gave us money to pay all our ransoms; for, being free, we might embark even at noon-day ; but the greatest difficulty would be, that the Moors do not permit renegades to keep any barques but large ones, fit to cruise upon Christians; for they believe that a renegade, particularly a Spaniard, seldom buys a barque but with a design of returning to his own country. That, however, he knew how to obviate that difficulity, by taking a Tagarin Moor for his part- ner both in the barque and trade, by which means he should still be master of her, and then all the rest would be easy. We durst not oppose this opinion, though we had more inclination every one of us to go to Spain for a barque, as the lady had advised; but were afraid that if we contradicted him, as we were at his mercy, he might betray us, and bring our lives to danger, particidarly if the business of Zoraida should be discovered, for whose liberty and life we would have given all ours; so we determined to put ourselves under the protection of God and the renegade. At the same time we answered Zoraida, telling her that we would do all she advised, which was very well, and just as if Lela Marien herself had instructed her; and that now it depended on her alone to give us the means of bring- ing this design to pass. I promised her once more to be her husband. After this, in two days that the bagnio happened to be empty, she gave us, by the means of the cane, two thousand crowns of gold, and withal a letter, in which she let us know that the next Juma, which is their Friday, she was to go to her father's garden, and that, before she went, she would give us more money; and if we had not enough, she would, upon our letting her know it, give us what we should think sufficient; for her father was so rich that he would hardly miss it, and so much the less, because he entrusted her with the keys of all his treasure. We presently gave the rene- gade five hundred crowns to buy the barque, and I paid my own ransom with eight hundred crowns, which I put into the hands of a merchant of Valencia, then in Al- giers, who made the bargain with the king, and had me to his house upon parole, to pay the money upon the arrival of the first barque from Valencia; for if he had 174 DON QtriXOTE DE LA MANCHA. paid down the money immediately, the king might have suspected the money had been ready, and lain some time in Algiers, and that the merchant for his own profit had concealed it; and, in short, I dnrst not trust my master with ready money, knowing his distrustful and malicious nature. The Thursday preceding that Friday that Zoraida was to to go the garden, she let us have a thousand crowns more ; desiring me, at the same time, that if I paid my ransom, I would find out her father's garden, and contrive some way of seeing her there. I answered in afewword.s, thati would do as she desired, and she should only take care to recommend us to Lela Marien, by those prayers which the Christian slave had taught her. Having done this, order was given to have the ransom of my three friends paid also ; lest they, seeing me at liberty, and themselves not so, though there was money to set them free, should be troubled in mind, and give way to the temptation of the devil, in doing some- thing that might redound to the prejudice of Zoraida; for though the consideration of their quality ought to have given me security of their honor, yet I did not think it proper to run the least hazard in the matter; so they were redeemed in the same manner, and l>y the same merchant, that I was, who had the money before- hand; but we never discovered to him the remainder of our intrigue, as not being willing to risk the danger there was in so doina." CHAPTER XXXVII. THE ADVENTUEES OF THE CAPTIVE CONTINUED. OtTE renegade had in a fortnight's time bought a very good barcjue, capable of carrying above thirty people; and, to give no siispicion of any otlier design, he undertook a voj'age to a place upon the coast called Sargel, about thirty leagues to the eastward of Algiers towar^^^ *M jilll" I ,!ii, "^ Srraaiiffiw ,|| II §mrm Mi T ' f f ':i '' ji 'rl';' '^ 'J if'' 1^ I' ll, I ^ ' 'lii'lii . U'' ii i ' 1 " li '"■' i*/,i ,ii I ' ' ,iii,ij V''l%i|| l;^ ' i^ 1 1 I ii'ii'iiiiiii II i( jiA ,' Ji i| V" r • > ^ * ,„ .1 1 'ff*. I I III I I I I f, * '|i^ ll'L Vr''! DON QUIXOTE DB LA MANCHA. 183 They then consulted what to do with us: some were of opinion to throw us overboard, wrapped up in a sail, because they intended to put into some of the Spanish ports, under the notion of being of Brittany; and if they carried us with them they might be punished, and their roguery come to light: but the captain, who thought himself rich enough with Zoraida's plunder, said he would not touch at any port of Spain, but make his way through the Straits by night, and so return to Rochelle from whence he came. This being resolved, they bethought themselves of giving us their long boat, and what provision we might want for our short passage. As soon as it was day, and we had descried the Spanish shore — at which sight, so desirable a thing is liberty, all our miseries vanished from our thoughts in a moment — they began to prepare things, and about noon they put us on board, giving us two barrels of water, and a small quantity of biscuit ; and the captain, touched with some remorse for the lovely Zoraida, gave her, at parting, about forty crowns in gold, and would not suffer his men to take from her those clothes which now she has on. We went aboard, showing ourselves rather thankful than complaining. They got out to sea, mak- ing for the Straits, and we, having the land before us for our north star, plied our oars, so that about sunset we were near enough to have landed before it was quite dark; but considering the moon was hid in clouds, and the heavens were growing dark, and we ignorant of the shore, we did not think it safe to venture on it, though many among us were so desirous of liberty, and to be out of all danger, that they would have landed, though on a rock ; and by that means, at least, we might avoid all little barques of the pirates of the Barbary coast, such as those of.Tetuan, who come from home when it is dark, and by morning are early ux)on the Spanish coast, where they often make a prize, and go home to bed the same day. But the other opinion prevailed, which was to row gently on, and, if the sea and shore gave leave, to land quietly where we could. We did accordingly, and about midnight we came under a great hill, which had a sandy shore, convenient enough for our landing. Here we ran our boat in as far as we could, and, being got on land, we all kissed it for joy, and thanked God with tears for our deliverance. This done, we took out the little provision we had left, and climbed up the mountain, thinking ourselves more in safety there; for we could hardly persuade ourselves nor believe that the land we were upon was the Chris- tian shore. "We thought the day long a-coming, asnd then we got to the top of the hill, to see if we could discover any habitations; but we could nowhere descry either house, or person, or path. We resolved, however, to go farther on, thinking we could not miss at last of somebody to inform us where we were. That which troubled me most was to see my poor Zoraida go on foot amoiig the sharp rocks, and I would sometimes have carried her on my shoulders; but she was as much concerned at the pains I took as she could be at what she en- dured, so, leaning on me, she went on with much patience and content. When we were gone about a quarter of a league we heard the sound of a little pipe, which we took to be a certain sign of some flock near us; and, looking well about, we perceived at last, at the foot of a cork-tree, a young shepherd who was cutting a stick with his knife with great attention and serious- ness. We called to him, and he, having looked up, ran away as hard as he could. It seems, as we afterwards heard, the first he saw were the renegade and Zoraida, who, being in the Moorish dress, he thought all the Moors in Barbary were upon him ; and, running into the wood, cried all the way as loud as he could, 'Moors, Mr ors 1 arm, arm ! the Moors are landed !' We, hear- ing this outcry, did not well know what to do; but, considering that the shepherd's roaring would raise the country, and the horse-guard of the coast would be up- on us, we agreed that the renegade should pull off his Turkish habit, and put on a slave's coat, which one of us lent him, though he that lent it him remained in his shirt. Thus, recommending ourselves to God, we went on by the same way that the shepherd ran, still expect- ing when the horse would come upon us; and we were not deceived, for in less than two hours, as we came down the hills into a plain, we discovered about fifty horse coming up on a half-gallop towards us: when we saw that, we stood still, expecting them. "As soon as they came up, and, instead of so many Moors, saw so many poor Christian captives, they were astonished. One of them asked us if we were the occa- sion of the alarm that a young shepherd had given the country. ' Yes,' said I, and upon that began to tell him who we were, and whence we came; but one of our company knew the horseman that had asked us the question, and, without letting me go on, said, ' God be praised, gentlemen, for bringing us to so good a part of the country, for, if I mistake not, we are near Velez Malaga; and if the many years of my captivity have not taken my memory from me too, I think that you, sir, who ask us these questions, are my uncle Don Pe- dro Bustamente.' "The Christian slave had hardly said this, but the gentleman, lighting from his horse, came hastily to em- brace the young slave, saying, 'Dear nephew ! my joy ! my life ! I know thee, and have often lamented thy loss, and so has thy mother and thy other relations, whom thou wilt yet find alive. God has preserved them that they may have the pleasure of seeing thee. We had heard thou wert in Algiers, and, by what I see of thy dress, and that of all this company, you must all have had some miraculous deliverance.' 'It is so,' replied the young man ; ' and we shall have time enough now to tell all our adventures.' "The rest of the horsemen, hearing we were Chris- tians escaped from slavery, lighted likewise from their horses, offering them to us to carry us to the city of Velez Malaga, which was about a league and a half off. Some of them went where we had left our boat, and got it into the port, while others took us up behind them; and Zoraida rode behind the gentleman, uncle to our captive. All the people, who had already heard something of our adventure, came out to meet us. They did not wonder to see captives at liberty, nor :•*'¥"' I ' II ill, I'l, 'I 'M' ''|l|"l|l|li 1,1,, f ^h Jllllli I' 1 1(1 i 'I'lil J If '' ' I I I I ' li fill 1 Ml fli .T1 V- .illlfllllR I ill ^'l! !■■'*■ i ' ■nil If 'III',' II m¥ I, II .1,11 III I. I'll" '„''j,o ,, w//f' T/ F I ft 1 1 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANOHA. 185 Moors prisoners, for on all that coast they are used to it; but they were astonished at the beauty of Zoraida, which at that instant seemed to be at its point of per- fection ; for, what with the agitation of travelling, and what with the joy of being safe in Christendom, with- out the terrible thought of being re-taken, she had such a beautiful color in her countenance, that were it not for fear of being too partial, I durst say there was not a more beautiful creature in the world, at least that I had seen. We went straight to church, to thank God for his mercy to us; and when we came into it, and Zoraida had looked upon the pictures, she said there were several faces there that were like Lela Marien's. We told her they were her pictures, and the renegade explained to her, as well as he could, the story of them ; and she, who has a good and clear understanding, com- prehended immediately all that was said about the ' pictures and images. "After this we were dispersed, and lodged in differ- ent houses of the town ; but the young slave of Velez carried me, Zoraida, and the renegade to his father's house, where we were accommodated pretty well, ac- cording to their ability, and used with as much kind- ness as their own son. After six days' stay at Velez, the renegade, having informed himself of what was needful for him to know, went to Granada, there to be re-admitted by the Holy Inquisition into the bosom of the Church. The other Christians, being at liberty, went each whither he thought fit. Zoraida and I re- mained without other help than the forty crowns the pirate gave her, with which I bought the ass she rides on, and, since we landed, have acted towards her as a father and a friend: We are now going to see whether my father be alive, or if either of my brothers has had better fortune than I; though, since it hath pleased Heaven to give me Zoraida, and make me her compan- ion, I reckon no better fortune could befall me. The patience with which she bears the inconvenience of poverty, the desire she shows of being made a Christian, do give me subjects of continual admiration, and oblige me to serve and love her all the days of my life. I con- fess the expectation of being hers is not a little alloyed with the uncertainties of knowing whether I shall find in my country any one to receive us, or a corner to pass my life with her ; and perhaps time will have altered the affairs of our family, that I shall not find anybody that will know me, if my father and brothers are dead. "That is, gentlemen, the sum of my adventures, which, whether or no they are entertaining, you. are best judges." CHAPTER XXXVIII. AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT HAPPENED IN THE INN "WITH SEVERAL OTHEE OCCUREENCES WOETH NOTICE. Here the stranger ended his story, and Don Perdi- nand, by way of compliment, in the behalf of the whole company said, "Truly, captain, the wonderful and surprising turns of your fortune are not only entertain- ing, but the pleasing and graceful manner of your re- lation is as extraordinary as the adventures themselves. We are all bound to pay you our acknowledgements, and I believe we could be delighted with a second re- cital, though it were to last till to-morrow, provided it it were made by you. " Cardenio and the rest of the companyjoined with him in offering their utmost service in the re-establishment of his fortune, and that with so much sincerity and earnestness, that the captain had reason to be satisfied of their affection. Don Ferdinand particularly pro- posed to engage the marquis, his brother, to stand god- father to Zoraida, if he would return with him; and, further, promised to provide him with all things neces- sary to support his figure and quality in town: but the captain, making them a very handsome compliment for their obliging favors, excused himself from accepting those kind offers at that time. It was now growing towards the dark of the evening, when a coach stopped at the inn, and with it some horse- men, who asked for a lodging. The hostess answered they were as full as they could pack. "Were you ten times fuller," answered one of the horseman, "there must be room made here for my Lord Judge, who is in this coach. " The hostess, hearing this, was xerj much concerned : said she, "The case, sir, is plain: we have not one bed empty in the house ; but if his lordship brings a bed with him, as perhaps he may, he shall command my house with all my heart, and I and my husband will quit our own chamber to serve him. " "Do so, then," said the man; and by this time a gen- tleman alighted from the coach, easily distinguishable for a man of dignity and ofBce, by his long gown and great sleeves. He led a young lady by the hand, about sixteen years of age, dressed in a riding suit; her beauty and charming air attracted the eyes of every- body with admiration, and had not the other ladies been present, any one might have thought it difficult to have matched her outward graces. Don Quixote, seeing them come near the door, "Sir," said he, "you may enter undismayed, and refresh your- self in this castle, which, though little, and indifferently provided, must nevertheless allow a room, and afford 186 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. aucommodation to arms and learning ; and more espec- ially to arms and learning ttat, like yours, bring beauty for their guide and conductor. For, certiiiuly, at tbe approach of this lovely damsel, not only castles ought to open and expand their gates, but even rocks divide their solid bodies, iiud mountains bow their ambitious crests and stoop to entertain her. Come in, tlierefore, sir; enter this paradise, where you shall find a bright constellation worthy to shine in conjunction with that heaven of beauty which you bring. Here shall you find arms in their height, and beauty in perfection." Don (Quixote's speech, mien, and garb put the judge to a strange nonplus; and he was not a little surprised, on the other hand, at the sudden apxiearance of the three ladies, who being informed of tlie judge's coming, and the young lady's beauty, were come out to see and entertain her. But Don Ferdinand, Oardenio, and the curate, addressing him in a style very different from the knight, soon convinced him that he had to with gentleraeu, and persons of note, though Don (Juixote's figure and behavior put him to a stand, and not being- able to make any reasonable conjecture of his extrava- gance. Alter the usual civilities passed on both sides, tliey found, upon examination, that the women must all lie togetlicr in Don Qui.xote's apartment, and the men remain without to guard them. The judge ciiusented that his daugliter should go with the ladies, and so, with his own bod, and what with tlie innliceiicr's, he and the gentlemen made a shift to iiass the night. Tlie captain, upoii the iirst sight of the judge, had a strong presumption that he was one of his brothers, and presently asked one of his servants his name and conn- try. The fellow told him his name wag Juan I'eres de Viedma, and that, as he was informed, he was born in the Highlands of Leon. This, with his own observa- tion, conhrmed his opinion that this was the brother who hai