CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
3 1924 027 657 158 
 
a Cornell University 
 f Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 9240276571 58 
 
THE HISTORY 
 
 OF 
 
 DON (QUIXOTE 
 
 OF LA MANCHA 
 
BALLANTYNE AND HANSON, EDINBURGH 
 CHANDOS STREET, LONDON 
 
MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA 
 
 THE HISTORY 
 
 OF 
 
 DON QUIXOTE 
 
 OF LA MANCHA 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY MOTTEUX 
 EDITED WITH NOTES AND MEMOIR 
 
 By JOHN G. LOCKHART 
 
 PRECEDED BV A SHORT 
 
 NOTICE OF THE LIFE AND WORKS OF MOTTEUX 
 By HENRI VAN LAUN 
 
 \X\ Sixteen ffitlgCnal lEtci^lngs 6b JR. lie ICos IRios 
 IN FOUR VOLUMES— VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 J. C. NIMMO AND BAIN 
 14, KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND, W.C. 
 1880 
 

CONTENTS 
 
 OP 
 
 VOLUME" FIRST. 
 
 PAGE 
 BlOGKAPHICAL NOTICE OF MoTTEUX xi 
 
 Life of Cervantes • . . . . liii 
 
 The Author's Preface to the Reader 1 
 
 PART I. — BOOK I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The Quality and Way of Living of the renowned Don 
 Quixote de la Mancha, 13 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 Of Don Quixote's first Sally, 21 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 An Account of the pleasant Method taken hy Don Quixote 
 to be dubbed a Knight, 31 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 What befell the Knight after he had left the inn, ... 40 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 A furth^ Account of our Knight's Misfortunes, ... 50 
 
vi CONTENTS. 
 
 FAOE 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 Of the pleasant and curious Scrutiny which the Curate 
 and the Barber made of the Library of our ingenious 
 Gentleman, 56 
 
 CHAPTEE Vn. 
 
 Don Quixote's second Sally in quest of Adventures, . .67 
 
 CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 Of the good Success which the valorous Don Quixote had 
 in the most terrifying and never-to-be-imagined Adven- 
 ture of the Wind-MiUs, with other Transactions worthy 
 to be transmitted to Posterity, 75 
 
 PART I. — BOOK II. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The Event of the most stupendous Combat between tlie 
 brave Biscavan and the valorous Don Quixote, . . .87 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 What farther befell Don Quixote with the Biscayan ; and 
 of the Danger he ran among a parcel of Yanguesiaus, s • 95 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 What passed between Don Quixote and the Goat-herds, . 103 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Story which a young Goat-herd told to those that were 
 with Don Quixote 110 
 
CONTENTS. vii 
 
 FAQEI 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 A Continuation of the Story of Marcella, . . . .119 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The unfortunate Shepherd's Verses, and other unexpected 
 Matters, 132 
 
 PART I. — BOOK III. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Giving an Account of Don Quixote's unfortunate Ren- 
 counter with certain bloody-minded and wicked Yan- 
 guesian Carriers, 142 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 What happened to Don Quixote in the Inn which he took 
 for a Castle - . 152 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 A further Account of the innumerable Hardships which the 
 brave Don Quixote, and his worthy Squire Sancho un- 
 derwent in the Inn, which the Knight unluckily took for 
 a Castle, 163 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Of the Discoiirse between the Knight and the Squire, with 
 other Matters worth relating, 1 75 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 Of the wise Discourse between Sancho and his Master ; as 
 VOL. I. B 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOB 
 
 also of the Adventure of the dead Corpse, and other far 
 mous Occurrences 1"" 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Of a wonderful Adventure achieved by the valorous Don 
 (Quixote de la Mancha ; the Kke never compassed with 
 less danger by any of the most famous Knighta in the 
 World, 201 
 
 CHAPTER VH, 
 
 Of the high Adventure and Conquest of Mambrino's Hel- 
 met, with other Events relating to our invincible Knight, 219 
 
 CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 How Don Quixote set free many miserable Creatures, who 
 were carrying, much against their wills, to a place they 
 did not like 236 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 What befell the renowned Don Quixote in the Sierra Mo- 
 rena, (Black Mountain,) being one of the rarest Adveii- 
 tures in this authentic History, 251 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The Adventure in the Sierra Morena oontinued, . . .268 
 
 Notes, .288 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE 
 
 OF 
 
 PETER ANTHONY MOTTEUX. 
 
 It is an. uncommon occurrence for a man to leave 
 his native land at the age of twenty-five, settle iu 
 a foreign country, and after residing there for a 
 few years, render himself so completely m^aster 
 of its language as to write in it comedies, operas, 
 farces, epilogues, prologues, and poems, which are 
 acknowledged to be as good as most of those which 
 were written by the wits of the times in which he 
 lived. Such a man was Peter Anthony Motteux, a 
 native of France, born at Rouen, in Normandy, on 
 the 18th of February, 1660, who was probably a son 
 of a merchant of that town, Antoine le Motteux \ and 
 who, on the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, in 
 1685, came over to England, where he lived at first 
 with his godfather and relation, Paul Dominique, 
 a merchant of considerable standing in the City, 
 but afterwards is said to have become himself the 
 head of a large East India warehouse in Leadenhall 
 
 ' In EugSne andEmile Haag LaFrtmce Proteatante, 1857, pt. 14, 
 it is said "that in a list of refugees of Bouen, made in 1685, are 
 mentioned several children of a merchant named Antoine le 
 Motteux, who left France at the revooation of the Edict of 
 Kantes." We shall meet the names of some of the male children 
 later on. 
 
Xll " LIFE OF MOTTEUX. 
 
 Street/ and also to have occupied a good place in the 
 foreign department of the Post-office.^ He acquired 
 such an intiuiate knowledge of the English language; 
 that in the year 1691, old style, he already edited 
 a Monthly Miscellany, called The Gentleman's 
 Journal, of which the first number appeared on 
 the 1st of January, This Miscellany was con- 
 tinued for three years, and consisted of " News, 
 History, Philosophy, Poetry, Musick, Translations, 
 &c.," all contained in " A Letter to A Gentleman 
 in the Country." The first volume is dedicated to 
 the Earl of Devonshire, " who so naturally recon- 
 ciling greatness with afiability, and the highest 
 capacity with the nicest gallantry, must be ac- 
 counted an exact pattern even to the most accom- 
 plished, and a kind protector to the meanest Ad- 
 dresser," and contains a goodly number of verses 
 written by Nahum Tate, Prior, Chs. Dryden, Sir 
 Charles Sedley, Durfey, Ths. Brown, Sergeant, 
 John Dennis, and many others, as well as by the 
 editor himself. It is astonishing that a Frenchman 
 like M. Motteux, who had scarcely been six years 
 in England, could write verses like the following, 
 " which were sent on May-day with a Nosegay"^ — 
 
 You that adorn'd the meadows where I rove, 
 And lost in sorrows linger out my days, 
 
 Go, beauteous flowers, go to the Nymph I love. 
 Whilst banish'd here her faithful lover stays. 
 
 ' Sir Walter Scott says in Ms edition of The Works of John 
 Dryden, vol. xi. p. 67, that Motteux was A bookseller. I have seen 
 this nowhere mentioned, and venture to think that Sir Walter 
 must have been mistaken. 
 
 ' A. Chalmers, The General Biographical IHctionary, 1815, 
 vol. xxii. * 
 
 * The Gentleman' a Joumai, May, 1692. 
 
LIFE OF MOTTEUX. Xlll 
 
 Like you, she's blooming, gentle, gay, and sweet. 
 Like you, from Nature she derives each grace ; 
 
 And on her lovely cheeks yourselves you'll meet, 
 For Ease and LUy never leave the place. 
 
 Like Flora, where she comes she makes the Spring, 
 Enamour'd Fauns and Shepherd round her move, 
 
 The pretty birds with tuneful voices sing, 
 And Zephyr in warm sighs declares his love. 
 
 Go, haste, this day perhaps she may be kind ; 
 
 Now Phoebus smiles, so may her radiant eyes. 
 Gently (lest you displease) the Nymph remind 
 
 Of an unhappy wretch who for her dies. 
 
 You see, my love, my torments, and my cares. 
 Describe 'em feelingly, and let her know 
 
 You owe your birth to my continual tears. 
 
 And strive my languishment by yours to show. 
 
 Tell her, her beauty soon like yours will faide, 
 Like yours, alas ! no more to bloom again. 
 
 To bless our eyes alone you were not made, 
 But to impart your sweets and ease our pain. 
 
 Die on that breast whose killing charms outdo 
 Yours, and whate'er mistaken men admire: 
 
 Whilst here in vain (not half so blest as you) 
 I wish that at her feet I may expire. 
 
 At the beginning of the second number there is 
 an " Advertisement," in which it is said that " the 
 Rigor of the Weather, and the Author's indisposi- 
 tion, have kept back this journal a week at least, 
 you may expect the next in the first week of every 
 month duely. The Author . . . cannot insert such 
 things as any ways reflect on particular Persons, or 
 are either against Religion, or good manners." 
 
XIV LIFK OP MOTTEUX. 
 
 And then, with a humonr which can even now 
 be understood, the "Advertisement" finishes as 
 follows : " Such persons as have anything to com- 
 municate, may be pleas'd to send it at the Black- 
 boy Coffeehouse in Ave Mary Lane, not forgetting 
 to discharge the postage/' 
 
 Each number of the first volume of this Mis- 
 cellany has about from twenty- six to thirty-six 
 pages, one or more songs with the music, and was 
 probably sold for a shilling. Some of the tales and 
 verses appear rather tainted with the spirit of the 
 age, and very few of the poetical riddles and fables 
 could even be quoted at the present time. But the 
 short account of the foreign political and literary 
 news is very fairly compiled, and was most likely 
 written by M. Motteux himself. 
 
 The second volume of the Miscellany consists of 
 four hundred and twenty-eight pages, and is divided 
 in monthly parts, and paginated all through ; it has 
 for its device a hand holding a bunch of flowers, 
 with the Latin motto, "E pluribus unum." It is 
 dedicated to Charles Montague, one of the Lords 
 Commissioners of their Majesties Treasury, and the 
 dedication ends in the following words : "As I 
 cannot imagine any good quality that is requisite 
 to the accomplishment of a gentleman which is ^ot 
 already conspicuous in you, beyond the power of 
 my expressing, I must content myself to join with 
 the rest of your admirers, and beg to subscribe 
 myself, sir, your most humble and most obedient 
 servant, Peter Motteux." This volume, as well as 
 the third, which has only two hundred and fifty- 
 
LIFE OF MOTTEUX. XV 
 
 eight pages, is inferior to the first, and even broader 
 in the tendency of many of its inserted pieces. In 
 the last number of the second volume there is a 
 very free paraphrase of Ovid's fi.fth elegy of the first 
 book. 
 
 In the year 1693, our author published in 
 London, at R. Bentley's, a parody, in French, on 
 Boileau's Ode on the Taking of Namur by Louis XIV., 
 in 1692, which shows that he had not yet forgotten 
 his own language. Whenever the French satirist 
 praises Louis XIV., M. Motteux lauds William of 
 Orange, or ridicules the French King. For ex- 
 ample, Boileau begins : 
 
 Quelle douce et sainte ivresse 
 Aujoiird'hui me fait la loi, 
 Chastes Nymphes du Pernease 
 N'est-ce pas vous que je vo si? 
 Aocourez, troupe savante, 
 Des sons que ma lyre enfante 
 Ges arbres sont r^jouis, 
 Marquez en bien la cadence ; 
 Et vous, vents, faltes silence : 
 Je vais parler de Louis. 
 
 and M. Motteux writes : 
 
 Grand Druide, quelle ivresse 
 A ta muse fait la loi ? 
 Quel avorton du Permease, 
 Quelle Ode est-ce que je vois ? 
 Cette Montague savants 
 De la souris qu'elle enfante 
 Va r^galer nos cSteaux ; 
 Boileau marque la cadence ; 
 Vieux Gaulois, faites silence, 
 Je vais parler en Despr6 au.^. 
 
Xvi LIFE OF MOTTEUX. 
 
 And ■when Boileau, in another couplet, says of the 
 French King : 
 
 N'en doiite point, c'est Lui-m§me, 
 
 Toiit brille en lui, tout est Roi, 
 
 Dans Bruxelles Nassau bleme 
 
 Commence k trembler pour toi. (Namur) 
 
 En vain il voit le Batave, 
 
 D^sormais docile esclave, 
 
 Eang6 sous ses ^tendards. 
 
 En vain au lioa Belgique 
 
 11 voit I'aigle Germanique 
 
 Uni sous les Leopards.. 
 
 M. Motteiix parodies this stanza as follows : 
 
 C'est Guillaume, c'est lui-mSme ; 
 Tout brille en lui, tout est Roi ; 
 Dans Versailles Louis bl§me 
 Commence a trembler pour toi. 
 II craint de voir le Batave, 
 Au Erangais docile esclavej 
 Arracher les ^tendards ; 
 II craint le lion Belgique, 
 II craint I'aigle Germanique, 
 Mais surtout les Leopards. 
 
 In the year 1694 Motteux edited Sir Thomas 
 Urquhart's translation of Rabelais' Heroic Deeds 
 and Sayings of Gargantua and Pantagruet, and 
 dedicated this edition to Admiral Russell, after- 
 wards Earl of Orford. He also wrote a preface to 
 Urquhart's translation, which has become a classiQ^l 
 introduction to this author, even in his own native 
 country, Prance. Nahum Tate, Pittis, Oldys, Drake, 
 and Motteux printed some verses in praise of Rabe- 
 lais, after the preface, of which those of the editor 
 have certainly a strong Pantagruelistic flavour. 
 
 M. Motteux published, the following year, a 
 translation from the French of An Account of Ma- 
 
LIFE OF MOTTETJX. XVll 
 
 racco, written by M. Piolia de Saint Olon, who was 
 Preneli ambassador in that country in 1693. Accord- 
 m'g to the dedication to Sir Wm. TrumbaU,one of the 
 Lords Commissioners of His Majesty's Treasury, the 
 author seems at that time not to have been very 
 wealthy, for he speaks of Sir William's "obliging 
 goodness, singular humanity, or rather charity, 
 which, as it extends to many of our unhappy 
 Eefugees, has made me (him) a sharer in the effects 
 of your (his) bounty." 
 
 Mary, the daughter of James. II., and the wife 
 of WiUiam III., died on the 28th of December, 1694, 
 and was buried on the 5th of March of the follow- 
 ing year. Motteux came out that year with a 
 poem, called Maria, occasioned by the death of 
 Her Majesty, and addressed to three persons of 
 honour. This poem has the usual number of loyal 
 lamentations, and begins, of course, as follows ; 
 
 Weep, Britons, ease your pangs of grief; 
 
 Your breasts, o'erswoln with unborn sighs, 
 
 Now heave and labour for relief ; 
 
 The melting vapours claim a passage through your eyes. 
 
 He manages to praise "Noble Montague," the 
 Marquess of Normandy, and the "immortal Dorset," 
 and imitates and paraphrases the fourteenth Ode 
 of Horace, of which we give the beginning : 
 
 Vaui is our hope, and vain our strife, 
 
 To stem the rapid stream of life ; 
 
 None can that Flux of Moments, Time, control ; 
 
 Driv'n down the boisterous Torrent all 
 
 Im,petuously we roll ; 
 
 Into that boundless Ocean sure to fall 
 
 Where, as Time ends, Eternity begins. 
 
 And man is ever lost, or endless pleasure wins. 
 
Sym LIFE OF MOTTEUX. 
 
 There are a few smart, epigrammatic sayings in 
 this monody, for Mottenx cannot long put on a 
 mourning countenance. He remarks, for example: 
 
 The King still courted, while the Husband swayed, 
 The Queen commanded, and the wife obeyed. 
 Her Royal hands, above debasing pride, 
 Could wield a sceptre, yet a needle guide. 
 
 And a little further on he writes : — 
 By her example Industry was blest, 
 E'en City Matrons darling Sloth disclaim, 
 And sleeping Deans awake at "Great Maria's name. 
 
 But his flattery is as fulsome as that with which 
 Louis XIX. was bespattered, and if the taciturn 
 Dutchman ever read Motteux's lines, he must have 
 grimly smiled in being addressed as " godlike Wil- 
 liam," and in being called " dauntless like a god." 
 
 The same year, Motteux, Nahum Tate, Eichard- 
 son, and other literary men, wrote some verses 
 before a skit, The History of the Athenian Society for 
 the resolving all nice and curious questions, in which 
 the real Society of that name was ridiculed by 
 Charles Gildon, under the name of " a gentleman, 
 who got secret intelligence of their whole proceed- 
 ings." M. Motteux also added a Latin translation 
 of his own English verses. The Athenian Society 
 was an association of wits, established in 1690-1691, 
 by John Dunton, an author and bookseller, ' to 
 answer curious queries in divinity, physic, law, 
 philosophy, poetry, mathematics, trade, &c.j review 
 all publications, and insert all interesting experi- 
 ments in their weekly paper, the Athenian Mercury, 
 which extended to twenty volumes, and which gave 
 rise to a great deal of ridicule. In 1691, Swift, 
 who was then living at Sir William Temple's place, 
 
LIFE or MOTTETJX. XIX 
 
 Moor Park, addressed in sober earnest to the 
 Society a very dull ode, which, according to Dr. 
 Johnson, was the cause of Swift's malevolence to 
 Dryden, because the latter, on perusing these verses, 
 is credited with having said, " Cousin Swift, you 
 win never be a poet.'' 
 
 In 1696, was acted at the Theatre, Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields, a comedy, in five acts, called Love's a Jest, 
 by Motteux, and his first attempt to write for 
 the stage. This play, dedicated to Charles, Lord 
 Chfibrd, of Lanesborough, in the usual fulsome 
 style of that time, was printed with a Preface, 
 admitting its great success, and in which the 
 audience is thanked for its indulgence to a stranger. 
 The author states frankly that he "would borrow 
 from his own countrymen, but Moli^re, and most 
 of 'em have been so gleaned, that there's scarce 
 anything left," and that he has "far'd better 
 among the Italians, for he must own himself in- 
 debted to 'em for the hint of the two last scenes, 
 where Love is made in Jest, and also for some speeches 
 and thoughts here and there." He also says that he 
 will freely use, and as freely acknowledge, whatever 
 he takes from foreign plays ; admits that Th. Shad- 
 well is right when, in his Preface to The Miser, he 
 states that English dramatists borrow from foreigners 
 out of laziness, and not out of poverty of wit,° and 
 ends his Preface as follows : 
 
 5 Shadwell, whose Miser was acted in 1671, says more than this 
 in the Prologue : 
 
 French plays in which true wit 's as rarely found, 
 
 Aa mines of silver are on English ground .... 
 
 For our good-natured nation tliinks it fit 
 
 To count French toys good wares ; French nonsense, wit. 
 
XX LIFiE ,OF MOTIECX. 
 
 " Nor will I value the .base and aotoriou^y felse 
 insinuations of envious impotent Po.6tast©?s, and, 
 least of all, those .of a pitiful, conceitedj noisy, 
 scribling, would-be quack, below naming ; one whose 
 wretched riddles, songs, Sec, were denied a place in 
 my late Miscellanies, though, like otherthhtgsofhis, 
 BCcommiended by Mmself, as if written by a lady. 
 Such an insiduous traducer is well coupled with an 
 idle, shiBirping, dialogue-monger, whose zany he is ; 
 like him, so base as to detract in the most bar- 
 barous manner, from those who never wrong'id him, 
 and so cowardly as to deny it. But they might as 
 w,ell oharge those of Tuining themselves l^ marria^, 
 Wiho have not yet committed that folly, as of ruining 
 a ibookselier by books, by which he owns he was a 
 gainer. Had I but room I would stigmatise that 
 brace of libellers; for, how despicable soever such 
 scoundrels may be, they are to be feared as well as 
 hated ; for 'what is more to be hated than a professed 
 liar, or more to be feared than a public slajiderer." 
 
 These are " brave words,^^ as Fluellen says, but 
 thiey certainly do not seem ,to be written by a 
 Frenchman. The names of the two gentleqi£i^ 
 whom Motteux so fiercely attacks, wiU now hajsdly 
 be discovered, and perhaps it is as well that they 
 should remain in oblivion, if only half of what ^ 
 irate dramatist saySj i« true. The author's sneer at 
 marriage appears to prove that he was stiU a 
 bachelor, though this is no conclusive evidence, for 
 in nearly all his works, as wdl as in most of iihose 
 which were wri,tten about that time, marriage is 
 attacked in coarse and obscene language. 
 
 The j)j;olo^ne to Love's a Jest describes more 
 
LIFE OF MOTTEUX. XXI 
 
 energetically than elegantly the crowd on the road 
 to Epaonij and ends with the following lines : 
 
 At the least hiss you'd swear his (the authoi's) soul 
 
 were fled,, 
 But a sound clap can raise him from thp dead ; 
 He's oock-a-hoop, and scarce can talk to you, 
 E'gad, he cries, I knew the play would do. 
 But if another hiss his ears but reaches, 
 Down sinks at once his heart into his breeches. 
 Yet scorns our writer threatening foes to fear ; 
 The generous Britons will a stranger spare ; 
 Thus low the iPrenchman bows — ^thea learns of you to 
 
 .dare. 
 His satire bites but like a lover's kiss, 
 And none of you, he's sure, can take 't amiss. 
 
 The " stranger " can at least write well enough 
 to please the "generous Britons," and in the 
 epilogue spoken by Mr. Mynns, as one of Gipsies, 
 and in which the fortunes of the audience are told 
 in language which cannot even be quoted, he claims 
 the applause of the ladies because he " spared your 
 (their) blushes here to-day.'' The ladies of that 
 time must haTe laid on their paint very thickly, so 
 that their blushes could not be seen ; but, in any 
 case^ the dramatist has not spared them as he pre- 
 tends to have done. The .luitrigue of the .comedy 
 turns chiefly upon the jpermi«sion given to Lord 
 Lovewell to marry Mi-ss Francelia Gaymood, a per- 
 mission which is afterwards withdrawn by iher 
 father. Sir Thomas, because Squire lUbred offers to 
 take her without any dowry. There is an uinder- 
 plot in which Prankly, the lover of Miss Kitty, a 
 sister of Lady Single, dresses himself as a chamber- 
 maid, to get admission into the house, and is made 
 love to by youug Gaymoo^ a character which is 
 
XXU LIFE OF MOTTEUX. 
 
 very well drawn, though not better than that 
 of his friend Kailmore. The last scene of the 
 fourth act in which Railmore persuades Lady Single 
 to love, is cleverly written. Squire Illbred marries 
 Prankly, whom he believes to be a woman, biit in 
 the end everything comes right, and all the lovers 
 marry their beloved fair. The song of the smith 
 and his wife in the first act, and of the girl and 
 boy in the last, are filthy in the extreme. 
 
 In 1696, Namur was retaken from the French by 
 William III., and Motteux, to show his loyalty, 
 wrote the words of a short cantata, sung at a 
 musical entertainment at the theatre, Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields, which has very little merit, but in which 
 he gives vent to his feelings by saying : 
 
 Haste, Loyal Britons, haste, prepare ; 
 William, Victorious William comes, 
 Sound, sound ye trumpets, beat ye drums; 
 A martial sound best greets a martial ear. 
 Haste, loyal Britons, haste prepare ; 
 William, victorious William comes. 
 
 In the following year, Motteux wrote The Loves of 
 Mars and Venus, a musical piece in three acts, which 
 was represented with Eavenscroft's Anatomist, or the 
 Sham Doctor, to which he also added two pro- 
 logues and an epilogue. Each of its acts conclude^ 
 with an act of Motteux's Masque, supposed to be 
 exhibited for the amusement of the characters in 
 the Anatomist, and which relates to the well-known 
 history of Vulcan, Venus, and Mars. It has not 
 much to recommend itself but the music and a few 
 songs which are rather too sprightly to be quoted. 
 We give, as a sample, the song of Vulcan and the 
 
LIFE OF MOTTEUX. XXIU 
 
 chorus of Cyclops striking the anvil, to be found in 
 the second act of the play. 
 
 Come, away ; strike and sing, 
 Ting, ting, ting, terryterre, terry ting, &e. 
 Let us make the caves ring. 
 Ting, ting, ting, ting, ting, ting. 
 While we forge thunderbolts for Heaven's King 
 Ting, ting, ting. 
 Steropes, one of the Cyclops, holding a red-hot holt, 
 
 This he'll fling, ting, ting, ting, 
 At cowards at sieges, and atheists at prayers ; 
 At a husband, who by his wife's chastity swears. 
 « Chorus of Cyclops. 
 
 This he'll fling, ting, ting, ting. 
 
 At promising courtiers, and fools that believe 'em ; 
 At poor rogues that give bribes and rich rogues that 
 This he'll fling, &o. £receive 'em ; 
 
 At a weathercock priest who ne'er thinks as he teaches. 
 At a Cit in his Buff with his heart in his breeches. 
 This he'll fling, &c. 
 
 At beaux who protest they of favours ne'er boast, 
 Yet drink the fair's health ev'ry night with a toast 
 This he'll fling, &o. 
 
 At masks, who at fifty would foUow Love's trade ; 
 At a female of twenty that swears she's a maid. 
 This he'll fling, &o. 
 
 At a couple who swear that they never repented, 
 At a Briton who says he can long live contented. 
 This he'U fling, &c. 
 
 At a ninny who finds a gaUant with his wife, 
 Then begs both their pardons for making a strife. 
 This he'll fling, &c. 
 
 This musical piece contains the usual praise of 
 roL I. c 
 
XXIV . LIFE OF MOTTEUX. 
 
 William III., which seems all the greater because 
 it is Mars, the god of War, who says : 
 
 Let future Heroes there appear ; 
 
 Place Greece's, Rome's, and brave Britannia's there. 
 
 Let Alexander, Csesar, Arthur meet 
 
 And all their Laurels lay at greater William's feet. 
 
 William, more God-like, and as brave, 
 
 Shall only fight th' endanger'd world to save : 
 
 William, my other self shall be ; 
 
 Inspired by Themis and by me. 
 
 Of course broad inuuendoes, and something more, 
 are not wanting. The printed play of Mars and Venus 
 is dedicated to Colonel Codrington, " becausie," says 
 Motteux, " I cannot more effectually enforce the 
 moral of this piece, which exposes the frailty of a 
 warrior, than by prefixing to it the name of one 
 who, with the bravery and gallantry of Mars, has 
 no alloy of its vices. You formerly reapt the 
 Muses' laurels, and now those of Mars/'* 
 
 A short time after the joint efforts of Kavens- 
 
 croft and Motteux, was brought out in the same 
 
 theatre of Lincoln's Inn Fields a play called The 
 
 Novelty, or Every Act a Play, of which the first 
 
 act is a short pastoral called Thyrsis, written by 
 
 Oldmixon, the second apt a comedy taken from the 
 
 ' This Colonel was probably a certain Christopher Codringtdi^ 
 bom at Barbadoes in 1668, elected in 1689 a probationer Fellow of 
 All Souls' College, Oxford, who afterwards entered the army, was 
 at the siege of Namnr in 1695, became at the conclusion of the 
 peace of Ryswiek captain-general and govemor-in-chief of the 
 Leeward Caribbee islands, and died in 1701. He is interred in 
 All Souls' College, Oxford, of which college he was a great bene- 
 factor, and where his statue is in the library. And was the 
 colonel whose name appeared about twenty years later, in \Tht 
 Original Weekly Jowmal, March 15th, 1718, in the following ad- 
 vertisement, any relative of Christopher? "Last Wednesd^ 
 Colonel Codrington, a Gloucestershire gentleman, was married to 
 Mrs. Elizabeth" Bethell, niece to the Lord Cadogan, who givei 
 ^£4,000 portion with her," 
 
lilPE OF MOTTEUX. XX'V 
 
 French, called All Without Money, in wliicli are 
 depicted the attempts of a poor beau, Needmore, 
 and his saucy valet. Speedwell, to prevent a lady 
 from coming to supper, as they have no money to buy 
 provisions, and to which comedy Garrick was greatly 
 indebted for his Lying Valet; the third act, a very 
 poor masque, called Hercules; the fourth, aj 
 tragedy. The Unfortunate Couple, abbreviated' 
 and slightly altered from The Unnatural Brother, a 
 tragedy of Filmer's, in five acts, which was repre- 
 sented in the beginning of the year in the same 
 theatre, but without any success ; whilst the fifth act, 
 which is by far the best, is called Natural Magic, 
 a farce in the Italian manner, with a Pantaloon 
 and a Columbine, and in which ajl sorts of prac- 
 tical jokes are played to frighten the first gen- 
 tleman, who is an " old miser." It is strange that the 
 name of Isabella, the heroine of the farce, is forgotten 
 to be printed in the list of personages. The Novelty 
 is said to have been written " by M. Motteux and 
 other hands," but, with the exception of Oldmixon 
 and Filmer, the rest seems to have been penned 
 by M. Motteux himself. On the title-page, the 
 printed play is dedicated to Charles Csesar, and the 
 dedication is signed Peter Motteux, who certainly 
 wrote the prologue and epilogue. 
 
 On the occasion of the Peace of Ryswick, con- 
 cluded in the month of September, 1697, Motteux 
 published a musical interlude and a panegyric poem, 
 spoken by way of prologue, which were both per- 
 formed the same year at the theatre, Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields. 
 
 In that theatre was played, the following year, a 
 
XXVi LIFE OF MOTTEUX. 
 
 tragedy in blank verse, and in five acts, by Motteux, 
 called Beauty in Distress, with a plot -which is 
 rather complicated, but based on the old French 
 unities of time, action, and place. This tragedy 
 seems to have been a great success, and is dedicated to 
 the Honourable Henry Heveningham, a gentleman 
 of an old Norfolk family, of whom Motteux says "that 
 your ancestors can be traced up . . . long before the 
 Conquest .... enriching your scutcheon in the 
 Holy Wars by extraordinary achievements of honour, 
 .... one particularly, killing, in single combat, the 
 champion of the Saracens before the King and the 
 whole army."' The author boasts in the preface 
 of its "being the happy occasion of recommending 
 me to her Royal Highnesses (the Princess Royal, 
 afterwards Queen Anne) Bounty, her princely gift 
 alone outweighing the benefit of a sixth repre- 
 sentation.'^ And then he goes on to say : " This 
 most excellent and pious princess being pleased 
 to encourage thus an inoffensive writer, doubt- 
 less that he may still keep to strict morality, even 
 in the circumstances of a melancholic fortune." 
 
 M. Motteux speaks of " keeping to strict 
 morality," but he has certainly not done so in 
 any of his plays ; and the mention of " a melan- 
 cholic fortune" seems also to prove that the author 
 was not then in very good circumstances. At the 
 end of the Preface the poet gives a character of 
 
 ' No mention is made of this valiant slayer of the Saracens' 
 champion in F. Blomefield's Topographical Bistory of the County of 
 Norfolk, vol. v., though he gives an account of the Heveningham 
 family, in speakiog of Keteringham Manor. A relative of Mot- 
 teux's patron, and probably his father or uncle, was Sir William 
 Heveningham, who died in 1678, and was one of the judges of 
 ehailea the First. 
 
LIFE OP MOTTECX. XXVU 
 
 himself in verse, "inscribed to a reverend clergyman," 
 in which he seems to draw for facts more upon his 
 imagination than upon truth, expresses a wish : 
 
 Oh ! that my Muse in some retreat might sing 
 Britain's great ruler, and Heaven's greater king. ; 
 
 and apologizes for his brother poets, whose "lays 
 at first were sacred to the Deity," but who are 
 now " kept close and bare," and have the town 
 for a cage, where they " must starve or sing." 
 
 Prefixed to this tragedy is a letter from a divine 
 of the Church of England to the author, intro- 
 ducing to his notice a translation of Father 
 Cafiaro's letter about the lawfulness and unlawful- 
 ness of plays. The original letter was published in 
 Paris in 1694, as a preface to the collected edition of 
 Boursault's plays, and was answered by Bossuet, and 
 censured by the Pope. This letter is followed by a 
 poetical epistle of John Dryden to the author. The 
 beginning of this epistle, in Dryden's manly verse, 
 pleads guilty to Jeremy Collier's accusation of 
 indecency brought against the stage, but depre- 
 cates the virulence of the attack. After this, our 
 Anglo-GaUic dramatist is, of course, highly extolled, 
 and the epistle ends thus : 
 
 It moves our wonder, that a foreign guest 
 Should overmatch the most, and match the best. 
 In underpraiaing, thy deserts I wrong : 
 Here, find the first deficience of our tongue : 
 Words, once my stock, are wanting to commend 
 So great a poet, and so good a friend. 
 
 In the tragedy itself, three gentlemen, Don 
 Vincentio, his brother Don Eicardo and Don 
 Fabiano, are in love with a lady, called Placentia, 
 
XXVIU LIFE OF MOTTEUX. 
 
 represented by Mrs. Bracegirdle, who was of an 
 unimpeachable character, but whom it was the 
 fashion to admire — a fashion to which Dryden 
 alludes in his epilogue to King Arthui — and who 
 left the stage in 1707, in the very height of her 
 fame. Don Eicardo, the yillain of the tragedy, 
 has lost a certain Laura's fortune " all at play,'' 
 and still pretends to love her, though he is really 
 enamoured of Placentia, in love with Fabiano, a 
 gentleman, her superior in rank, and to whom she , 
 is finally married, whilst Ricardo is stabbed by 
 Laura, who poisons herself. This tragedy contains 
 several poetical passages, and, as a sample, we give 
 the speech of Vincentio, who, disguised as a Moor, 
 under the name of Morat, pretends to recommend 
 hypocrisy :' 
 
 We all for Love, Eevenge, or Int'rest feign, 
 And all, for diff'rent ends, seem diffrent men. 
 Then shift like players, and are ourselves again. 
 Ev'n the most wise, with studied labour, hide. 
 When flatter'd, Joy ; and when exalted. Pride. 
 Old maids, if such there be, dissemble Youth ; 
 Young widows, Sorrow ; wives and husbands. Truth, 
 The heir feigns Joy, if his sick friends' revive, 
 Yet almost dies for grief when they're alive ; 
 The trader rails at thieves Atho forests range, 
 Courts, prays, yet cheats, and shakes a whole exchange. 
 The common jilt, with face and passion feigned, * 
 Hugs some rich fool, nor leaves him, till he's drained. 
 Dissembling's all mankind's prerogative 
 We know 'tis used by all, yet still believe. 
 And thus are all deceived, and all alike deceive. 
 
 In the Poems on State Affairs,^ there is A Dia- 
 logue between Motteux and Patron Heveningham, 
 
 s Act. iv. " London, 1703, voL ii. p. 251. 
 
LIFE OF MOTTEUX. XXIX 
 
 the patron is called there " Henningham/' which 
 evidently is a printer's error, according to which 
 the latter is accused of having himself written the 
 Dedication ; at least the poet is made to say : 
 
 I told you, sir, it would not pass ; 
 
 Why should you make me such an ass ; 
 
 To own, for sake of piteous pelf, 
 
 Your dedication to yourself ? 
 
 The cheat is out ; for all the town 
 
 PuU forty years your style has known. 
 
 This shows, as we have already remarked, that 
 Motteax was not reputed wealthy at that time. The 
 dialogue is coarse, the poet banters his patron, who 
 replies by boasting of his vigour, and says that he 
 wrote below himself: 
 
 For fear I should my fancy raise, 
 
 Above the level of your plays. 
 
 Whereupon the poet replies, quoting a line from 
 Drydea's commendation : 
 
 But better judges know my merit. 
 
 And would be ready to declare it, 
 
 Were not words wanting to commend 
 
 So great a poet, good a friend. 
 
 But since you criticize me so, 
 
 Equip me, pray, and let me go. 
 The patron offers him five guineas; the poet 
 exclaims ; " What do you mean ? you promised 
 ten;" and threatens to ",take it out in satire," 
 whereupon he is kicked out of doors. 
 
 In the summer of 1699, Motteux brought out at 
 Drury Lane, Beaumont and Fletcher's play The Island 
 Princess, altered into an opera, of which the music 
 is composed by Purcell, Clarke, and Leveridge. 
 He added to it a new interlude called The Four 
 Seasons, which is so broad that in the present 
 
XXX LIFE OF MOTTEUX. 
 
 age we can hardly imagine it to have been repre- 
 sented in public. Motteux's alteration of Beaumont 
 and Fletcher's play is worse than Nahum Tate's, 
 whose tragic-comedy was acted twelve years before, 
 and is itself inferior to the original. Our Anglo- 
 Gallic dramatist dedicated his alteration to the 
 Honourable Popham Conway, who must have been 
 a wonderful man, for, says our author, " Wherever 
 you appear you captivate the hearts of one sex, 
 and raise the envy and admiration of the other." 
 
 The prologue is partly a song, and this is the 
 first couplet : 
 
 You've been with dull prologues here bantered so long, 
 
 They signify nothing, or less than a song. 
 
 To sing you a ballad this time we thought fit ; 
 
 For sound has oft nickt you, when sense could not hit. 
 
 Then ladies be kind, 
 
 And gentlemen mind 1 
 
 Wit- Carpers 
 
 Play-Sharpers 
 
 Loud Bullies, 
 
 Tame Cullies, 
 
 Sore Grumblers 
 
 Give ear, ev'ry man ! 
 Mobb'd Sinners, 
 In pinners, 
 Kept toppers 
 Bench hoppers. 
 High-fliers 
 Pit-plyers 
 Be still if you can, 
 You're always in mischief for leading the van." 
 
 The epilogue was written by Farquhar, and is 
 
 ■ !," J^^ T f ""^ edition of this play, published by Liutott, in 1699, 
 IS different from the Interlude, printed for R. Basset, the same 
 year, and which certainly la changed for the worse. 
 
LIFE OF MOTTEUX. XXXI 
 
 far from decent. In the Poems on Affairs of 
 State^^ is printed a skitj in verse, called The Con- 
 federate; or the First Happy Day of the Island 
 Princess," of which many of the allusions are now 
 lost, but which proves in what regard Motteux was 
 held. It says : 
 
 And opera with loud applause is played, 
 Which famed Motteux in soft heroicks made. 
 
 The poem ends thus : 
 
 Should Dennis fall, whose high majestic wit 
 An(d) awful judgment like two tallies fit, 
 Adieu strong odes and every lofty strain, 
 The tragic rant, and proud Pindaric vein. 
 Should tuneful Durfey now resign his breath 
 The lyric muse would scarce survive his death : 
 But should divine Motteux untimely die, 
 The gasping nine would in convulsions lie. 
 For these bold champions safer arms provide. 
 And let their pens the double strife decide. 
 
 In 1701 Motteux wrote the words of a masque, 
 Ads and Galatea, zaieA. the same year at Drury Lane 
 Theatre, of which the story is taken from the thir- 
 teenth book of Ovid's Metamorphoses. The music was 
 by John Eccles, and the masque was afterwards acted 
 at Lincoln's Inn Fields." " The subject seems to 
 have been a favourite one, for the poet Gay wrote an 
 English pastoral opera of the same name, with music 
 by Handel, which was played in 1732 with great 
 success, whilst two ballets, representing the adven- 
 tures of Acis and Galatea, were performed at Drury 
 Lane in ]728 and 1749 successively. A scene in 
 
 " London, 1703, vol. ii. p. 248. 
 
 '^ Baker and Jones, in their Biographia Dratrwiica, say ; "With 
 this masque are published the rest of the musical entertainments, 
 in an opera called the Mad Lover." This "rest" is not to be found 
 in the edition I have consulted, and which was printed in 1723. 
 
XXXU LIFE OF MOTTEUX. 
 
 Motteux's masque between Roger, Joan, and Acis 
 is more than free. 
 
 The same year, when this masque was first played, 
 Mctteux published a translation of the celebrated His- 
 tory of the Renowned Don Quixote de la Mancha, 
 written in Spanish, by Cervantes, and which is said 
 on the title-page to have been " translated from the 
 original by several hands, and published by Peter 
 Motteux/' It is now impossible to say how many 
 hands were employed, and to whom these hands 
 belonged; but it is strange that none of the wits 
 and literary men of the period ever laid claim to 
 the honour of having assisted in this translation. 
 If Motteux owes anything to strangers, it is to 
 Shelton, whose translation, first published in 1612- 
 1620, he is said to have partly adapted to the times in 
 which he wrote, whilst he also retained a few of the 
 jokes and of the interpolations of J. Philips, who 
 published his very bad and coarse paraphrase of 
 Don Quixote, in 1687. But, unless proofs to the 
 contrary be brought forward, we must ascribe 
 chiefly to M. Motteux the merit of having written 
 the racy, idiomatic, and spirited translation of 
 a work which is, perhaps, more diflScult than 
 any other to render in a foreign tongue. J. Ozell, 
 a great friend of Motteux's, and who was con- 
 sidered to be well acquainted with the language 
 and literature of Spain, brought out, in 1719, 
 one year after Motteux's death, a revised edition of 
 this translation, but only states, in the Preface, that 
 he has compared it with the original Madrid 
 edition, printed from the author's own manu- 
 script, whereby many misinterpretations have been 
 
LIFE OP MOTTEUX. XXXJU 
 
 rectified, and not a few omissions supplied. 
 Well-known Spanish scholars, such as Prescott and 
 Ticknor, have bestowed great praise on Motteux's 
 translation, and Tytler says that his version is by 
 far the best we have yet seen of the romance of 
 Cervantes. Its numerous editions seem to bear 
 witness to the truth of this assertion. 
 
 The four books of Motteux's translation are dedi- 
 cated, in succession, to Henry Thynne — who was pro- 
 bably a brother of Thomas Thynne, of Longleat, mur- 
 dered on the 12th of February, 168.2, by order of 
 Count Konigsmarck — Edward Coke, the Eight Hon. 
 Henry Boyle(ChanceUor of Her Majesty'sExchequer), 
 and Colonel Stanhope. It seems that M. Motteux 
 was then neither at the head of " a large East India 
 warehouse," nor was " connected with the foreign 
 department of the Post Office," for, in the dedication 
 of the first book, he says : " The favours of the 
 generous English always outstrip merit, and it is the 
 character of the nobility to be kind to strangers. 
 Those favours I have received from you, sir, the 
 world win judge of by their being yours. . . . Your 
 own generosity, not my acknowledgments, must be 
 the estimate of your bounty." 
 
 In the dedication of the second book it appears that 
 Motteux has even an eye to future favours, for he 
 says : " The finest flowers, principally those of 
 foreign growth, require the highest shelter and the 
 warmest sun. Then where should wit fly in these 
 tempestuous , times, but where the nobility and 
 greatness of a .house may protect it from the 
 storm; where a generous hospitality emboldens it 
 to intrude, and the warmth of fortune may cherish 
 
XXXIV LIFE OF MOTTEUX. 
 
 and enliven it. The blessing of a plentiful estate 
 sets you above all anxieties in this life/' Is Mot- 
 teux not anxious to participate in all these blessings 
 and in this hospitality ? In any case, he mentions 
 Coke's "charming and virtuous partner/' and ends 
 by owning to the world how much he has been 
 obliged to his generosity. 
 
 The dedication of the third volume speaks of 
 the translator's obligations, and of the acts of gene- 
 rosity of Mr. Boyle ; he, compares him to Mecsenas, 
 and praises his qualifications as a patron. 
 
 The last volume is inscribed to Colonel Stan- 
 hope/' and the dedication is ingeniously written. 
 The translator says : "Expecting i . . to be attacked 
 by the critics, and believing that the most I could pre- 
 tend to was a handsome retreat, I thought it my best 
 way to secure the whole, by having the rear brought 
 up by a leader, whose very reputation would be 
 sufficient to keep the enemy in awe. . . . Those 
 papers, sir, are no small part of the treasures of 
 Spain, and since you had so great a share in the 
 glory of enriching your country with the wealth of 
 that nation, you must be content to have a part in 
 
 1' Colonel Stanhope, who afterwards became Earl Stanhope, 
 ■was wounded at the siege of Namur in 1695, and for two years 
 afterwards had been travelling with his father in Spain, so 
 that he knew Spanish very well. In 1702 he became member of 
 Parliament for Cookermonth, distinguished himself in 1705 at the 
 siege of Barcelona, became commander-in-chief of the British 
 forces in Spain, and took Port Mahon in 1708, defeated the 
 Spaniards in 1710 at Almenara and Saragossa, and was himself 
 taken prisoner at Brihuega the same year. I, therefore, imagine 
 that the dedication to Colonel Stanhope must have been inserted 
 between the years 1705 and 1710, though [the first edition of 
 Motteux's translation was published in 1701. I have only 
 been able to consult the third edition of Don Qwixotc, printed 
 in 1712. 
 
LIFE OF MOTTEUX. XXXV 
 
 impropriating Cervantes to the use of the English. 
 You .... will now generously protect an honest 
 Spaniard like Cervantes, though you have so lately 
 been one of the foremost in an action no less fatal 
 to his nation than glorious to the undertakers." 
 The early edition of Motteux^s translation of Don 
 Quixote contain many quaintly spelled words and 
 peculiar phrases which generally have heen pre- 
 served in all later reprints. 
 
 In 1704 was performed at both the theatres 
 a musical interlude^ called Britain's Happiness, 
 written by M. Motteux, of which " the scene was 
 a prospect of Dover Castle and the sea. This 
 interlude had long before been intended only for an 
 introduction to an opera, which, if ever finished, 
 was to have been called The Loves of Europe, every 
 act showing the manner of a different nation in 
 their address to the fair sex." " 
 
 On the 16th of January, 1705, was acted at 
 Drury Lane, an opera, after the Italian manner, 
 called Arsinoe, Queen of Cyprus, translated from 
 the Italian by Motteux, in which the celebrated 
 Mrs. Tofts was the principal singer. This opera 
 seems ' to have been a great success, for it was 
 played fifteen times, although the words are not 
 superior to those of any other play set to music. 
 When it was revived two years later, it was sup- 
 ported by several Italians who sang their parts in 
 the original language, while the English singers sang 
 in their own tongue. 
 
 Sixteen days after the first performance of 
 Arsinoe was brought out, in the same theatre, 
 ^* Baker's Biogrojphia Sramatica, vol. ii. 1812. 
 
XXXVl LIFE or MOTTEUX. 
 
 a comedy in three acts, The Amorous Miser ; 
 or the Younger the Wiser, written by Motteux, of 
 wMcli the subject is an old miser, Pedro, -who 
 wants to marry a lady with whom his son Frederick 
 is in love, and agrees to forfeit twenty thousand 
 crowns in case he should break off the match. The 
 marriage is to take place as soon as the bride's 
 brother, a captain of dragoons in the French army, 
 shall have arrived. Diego, a servant of a friend of 
 Frederick's, and " a fellow of parts," pretends to 
 be the captain, and comes to Pedro's house accom- 
 panied by thirty dragoons and several women and 
 children. They eat up all the miser's provisions, 
 drink his wine, take liberties with his maid-servants, 
 steal his linen, and behave in such a manner, that 
 he finally is glad to resign the young lady to his 
 son. , The third act of this comedy is as long as 
 the first and second together. Strange to say, 
 this play is not very broad, and the author has 
 adhered to the opening lines of the prologue, which 
 run as follows : 
 
 To-night, gallants, you're to expect from hence, 
 No satyr, smut, or luscious .... scenes, 
 The Poet's mannerly and cautious too, 
 And neither will affront himself, nor you ; 
 Faith both are needless, since 'tis done each day, 
 By you who judge, and him who writes a play. 
 
 In the epilogue, the author complains that 
 "foreign whims so much debauch the town" that 
 people go " to hear L'pine Italian squeak," and 
 that " 'twas not so when Ben and Shakespear writ," 
 who lived in the days " when English humour 
 English hearts could please." Vanbrugh, about 
 
LIFE OP MOTTEUX. XXXVU 
 
 this time attempted Italian opera at the Hay- 
 market, and hence, probably, Motteux's remarks." 
 
 In spite of his attack on the "Italian squeak," 
 the next play which M. Motteux brought out was a 
 pastoral opera, The Temple of Love, translated from 
 the Italian, and acted at the Haymarket in the 
 month of March of the year 1706. That the words 
 are not worth much is admitted in the prologue, for : 
 
 Should here the notes the turn of words control ; 
 Words are but bodies, music is the soul. . . . 
 'Tis hard to raise, or save, in every place 
 With manly English an Italian grace. 
 
 In the epilogue he has a hit at some rival opera 
 company, and still complains of being " tied to 
 notes, tied hand and feet." 
 
 The next year, 1707, another opera of Motteux's, 
 Thomyris, Queen of Scythia, was acted at Drury 
 Lane, and though the music was Italian, the words 
 are original. The scene lies in the country of 
 the Massagetes, in Scythia. The queen was repre- 
 sented by Signora Margarita, and Orontes, her son, 
 either by Mr. Hughes or Signor Valentino, and, 
 whilst all the actors sang in English, it is possible 
 that the signora and the signor sang in Italian, 
 for in the libretto, an Italian translation of the 
 words to be sung by them is always given. The 
 author again speaks, in the Preface, of the diffi- 
 culty of applying words to " songs so full of pa- 
 thetic notes and nice graces, in a language per- 
 haps too manly for such composures." What the 
 author does not say is that Signora Margarita de 
 
 ^ According to Geneste, Some Account of the English Stage, 
 vol. iii. p. 329, the Haymarket was not opened until April 9th, 
 1705. Perhaps the play and epilogue were printed after this date. 
 
XXXVIU LIFE OF MOTTEUX. 
 
 L'Espine, who now is no longer called " an Italian 
 squeak," acted the heroine. 
 
 Farewell Folly ; or the Younger the Wiser, acted 
 the same year at the Theatre Koyalj is little more 
 than an alteration and enlargement of The Amorous 
 Miser, made rather more broad, and interspersed 
 with some songs, and a very free interlude called 
 The Mountebank ; or the Humours of the Fair. At 
 the end of the first act. Mimic, an actor paraphrases 
 Shakspeare's " All the World's a Stage," and opens 
 his speech with the four following lines : — 
 
 Sure all mankind the player's old motto shares, 
 
 The players act aU the world, and all the world the 
 
 players. 
 Some have such parts, they well may blush to own 'em ; 
 Yet totus mundus agit histrionem. 
 
 Mimic,Digger,SquireLubbard,Salathielj Mariana, 
 and Mrs. Lodgemare, are all new characters. The 
 epilogue is clever, and we give the beginning of it : 
 
 If a play takes, we boldly may address ye : 
 But if 'tis damned, we dare not even caress ye. 
 You hiss, as if some serpent did possess ye. 
 Aware of this, I come prepared to-day, 
 And to their fortune leave the poet and the play. 
 Prologues and epilogues, though much they cost, 
 In this wise age, like words, of course, are lost ; 
 For, like Court suitors, 'tis their, common fate, 
 To come to beg too early, or too late. .... * 
 And we're such criticks in decorum grown 
 We find two meanings where there scarce is one. 
 
 Another opera of Motteux's, Love's Triumph, was 
 performed at the Haymarket Theatre in 1708, in 
 which Signor Valentino, " who sings in Italian," as 
 stated in the " list of persons," and Signora Mar- 
 garita again appear. It is a free adaptation from 
 
LIFE OF MOTTEUX. XXXIX 
 
 an Italian opera, and is neither better nor worse 
 than such adaptations generally are. The dedication 
 to Thomas Frankland, Esq.,who was then Postmaster- 
 General/" and M. Motteux's chief in the Post-Office, 
 is sensibly written, for, says the adapter, "it is 
 to be wished indeed that music might be made to 
 
 the words, and not the words to the music 
 
 There does not seem to be so great care taken that 
 the words may not be a disgrace to good music, 
 nor to have them plainly uttered, understood, and 
 
 properly acted with spirit Good nlusic with 
 
 bad words is like good wine with bad company." 
 I think that this dedication breathes, on the whole, 
 a manlier spirit than any other of M. Motteux's, 
 and it is clear that the author was at that time in 
 more or less independent circumstances, for he ends 
 his dedication thus: "I wUl only add that the favours 
 of the great, and my good fortune, have made me 
 so easy as to decline being a rent-charge to the 
 generous, by the way of addresses of this nature." 
 
 In the same year our author published a transla- 
 tion of the fourth and fifth book of the works of Rabe- 
 lais, called Pantagruel's Voyage to the Oracle of the 
 Bottle, as well as the Pantagruelian prognostication, 
 other pieces of the author, and his historical letters. 
 The translator's preface is manly, sensible and 
 scholarly, and his explanatory remarks have often 
 been translated into French, a proof that they are 
 
 " According to W. Lewins, Her Majesty's Mails, 1865, second 
 edition, Thomas Frankland, a Yorkshire squire of good estate, 
 was appointed Postmaster-General in 1690, and later on was made 
 a baronet by Queen Anne. In 1696, Sir Robert Cotton was 
 named joint Postmaster ; but "why two chiefs were appointed 
 instead of one is not clear." 
 
 VOL. I, D 
 
xl LIFE OK MOTTEUX. 
 
 considered valuable even in the native land of the 
 original author. 
 
 In 1712 M. Motteux published A Poem in Praise 
 of Tea, from ■which it appears that he was a confirmed 
 teetotaller, and even abjured coffee, for he says : — 
 
 'Tis vain in wine to seek a solid joy, 
 All fierce enjoyments soon themselves destroy, 
 Wine fires the fancy to a dangerous height, 
 With smoky flame and with a cloudy light. 
 From boisterous wine I fled to gentle tea ; 
 For calms compose us after storms at sea. 
 In vain would coffee boast an equal good ; 
 The crystal stream transcends the flowing mud, 
 Tea even the ills from coffee sprung repairs, 
 Disclaims its vices, and its virtue shares. 
 
 He sees, in a vision, the gods of Olympus, after 
 dinner, when "Bacchus boisterous grew," take their 
 cup of tea, prepared by fair Hebe. This poem 
 continues the even tenor of its way, in its attacks 
 on the juice of the grape, and in its praises of its 
 favourite beverage, for 
 
 Wine proves most fatal when it most invites, 
 Tea is most healthful when it most delights. 
 .... Healing tea, the only liquid gold ! 
 Improved by age, see how it age improves, 
 And adds new pleasure and old pain removes. 
 What greater good from tea can mortals reap 7 
 It lengthens life, while thus it shortens sleep. 
 
 Of course King William is brought in, for " Tea 
 promotes what William recommends," which may 
 be "improvement of commerce," or, perhaps, "teetot 
 talism." The name of King William was to M. 
 Motteux what the head of Charles the First was 
 to Uncle Dick — ^it could not be kept out of his j 
 writings. The Dutch hero died on the Sthof March^ 
 
LIFE OF MOTTEUX. xli 
 
 1702jand it is difficult to see why he should have been 
 dragged in some rhymes written- in praise of tea, and 
 published ten years later. The poem ends with the 
 following odd alliterative connection between wine 
 and war : — 
 
 Immortals, hear, said Jove, and cease to jar ! 
 Tea must succeed to wine, as peace to war ; 
 Nor by the grape let men be set at odds, 
 But share, in tea, the nectar of the gods. 
 
 Did M. Motteux practise what he preached in 
 those hard-drinking days in which he was living, 
 and did he refuse to be solaced by "the cup that 
 cheers and does inebriate ?" 
 
 According to Lowndes, The Bibliographer' a 
 Manual, Motteux also assisted in the translation of 
 Bayle's Dictionary and Montaigne's Essays, but I 
 can find no proofs that he ever did so. 
 
 He wrote, however, several epilogues and pro- 
 logues to plays of his friends, which seem to be all 
 tainted with the peculiar coarseness of the times. 
 I imagine that the epilogue to Sir John Vanbrugh's 
 Mistake, a. ivee imitation of Moliere's Bipit Amoureux, 
 and which was acted in 1706, is about the broadest. 
 
 M. Motteux is also said to have written a farce 
 called Love Dragooned, but it seems never to have 
 been printed or played. 
 
 His last work was sent forth a year after his 
 death. In 1719 the Eeverend John Harris pub- 
 lished a History of Kent, in a large folio, profusely 
 illustrated, of which only the first volume has ap- 
 peared. In the list of subscribers I find the name 
 of Peter Motteux, of Leadenhall Street. The book 
 is dedicated to the King, and after the dedication 
 
Xlii LIFE OF MOTTEUX. 
 
 comes an "Ode in Praise of Kent, part of -whici 
 was formerly sung at a feast of the gentlemen of 
 that county, which," says the Teverend historian, 
 " I inserted because I promised it to the late 
 M. Motteux." This ode has very little poetical 
 merit. 
 
 What connection M. Motteux ever had with 
 Kent is now almost impossible to say, unless his 
 wife Priscilla^' belonged to that county, and this is 
 only a mere supposition. 
 
 We have, as yet, hardly spoken of our author's 
 private life or of his domestic relations. There is, 
 indeed, very little known of either the one or 
 the other, for no account has ever been given of 
 them, even by men who knew him well. The 
 notices of his career to be found in biographical 
 dictionaries are very scanty, and consist of hardly 
 a dozen lines. All say that he was a rich East- 
 India merchant in LeadenhaU Street, was con- 
 nected with the foreign department of the Post- 
 Office, had a wife, and was of licentious habits, and 
 died a very peculiar death ; and then they give an 
 incomplete list of his works, and pass on to the 
 biography of another gentleman, whose name comes 
 next in alphabetical order. We will attempt to 
 elucidate M. Motteux's career a little mo^e, even 
 with the very meagre records which exist. 
 
 M. Motteux came to England in 1685, when he was 
 already twenty-five years old. He seems hardly to 
 have frequented any of his fellow-refugees, or visited 
 
 '7 That his wife was named Prisoilla, is mentioned in the register 
 of St. Andrew CJnderahaft, for the year 1705, wher Motteux's 
 son, Anthony, was christened. 
 
 / 
 
LIFE OF MOTTBUX. xliii 
 
 their favourite place of meetingj the Rainbow Coffee- 
 house in Marylebone, but only to have made 
 friends with Englishmen. According to a remark 
 I made about the Preface of his first comedy. 
 Lime's a Jest, acted in 1696, he was then single, 
 but we may take it for granted that he saw the 
 error of his ways, and married a few years after- 
 wards, for on the third of October, 1705, was 
 christened, in the church of St. Andrew Under- 
 shaft, St. Mary Axe, a son of his, who was called 
 Anthony after his father or grandfather; and on the 
 13th of April, 1710, another son, who received the 
 name of Erancis. Peter Motteux seems to have had 
 several brothers, for in the list of the directors of 
 the French Hospital in London, we find, in 1729, the 
 name of John Motteux, who is probably the same 
 as the " eminent Hamburgh merchant,^^ who died in 
 1741,'' whilst in the registers of the afore-mentioned 
 church are inscribed, between the years 1713 and 
 1718, the christenings of four sons and two daughters, 
 and the deaths of two boys, all children of a certain 
 Timothy Motteux and Jane his wife, and which 
 Timothy was most likely a younger brother of the 
 author. A certain Mr. Peter Motteux was married 
 in March, 1750, to a Miss West, of Bishopsgate 
 Street,'' whilst Mr. Arthur Motteux, a director of 
 the French Hospital in London, in 1759, was 
 probably a son or nephew of old Peter Motteux ; 
 and another, John Motteux, also a director of that 
 hospital, in 1763, was certainly a descendant of 
 the same stock. The name is not so common 
 
 " The Gentleman's Magazine, December, 1741. 
 " The Gentleman's Magazine, March, 1750. 
 
xliv LIFE OF MOTTEUX. 
 
 in England as Brown, Jones, Smith, or Robinson, 
 and is not not to be found in any of the Post- 
 Office Directories for this year (1880). But the 
 family seems to have been in existence about sixty 
 years ago, for a Mr. John Motteux is mentioned as 
 residing in 1819 at his seat, Beacham Wells, in the 
 county of Norfolk. '° 
 
 As for the easy circumstances of Mr. Peter An- 
 thony Motteux, I suspect that he was not so well 
 oflF as it is generally supposed, and that he was 
 not even comparatively independent until the year 
 1708. His dedications, as we have already noticed 
 — with the exception of the one to Thomas Frank- 
 land — are as fawning as those of the ordinary 
 Grub Street scribblers of the day ; and that he 
 was considered poor by the general public, as late 
 as the year 1703, is proved by The Dialogue between 
 Motteux and Ms Patron Heveningham, which we 
 have mentioned, and in which M. Motteux is 
 found haggling about a few guineas, the price of a 
 dedication. It may be argued that this Dialogue is 
 a satire, but no one will, even ironically, repre- 
 sent a wealthy author who is not a miser, as 
 quarrelling about the price of a dedication. The 
 following epistolary puff, printed in the Spectator, 
 No. 388, January 30th, 1711-13, though wrftten in 
 a humorous way, as from a tradesman recommend- 
 ing his wares, seems also not to have been indited 
 by a well-to-do merchant. 
 
 Sib, — Since so many dealers turn authors, and write 
 quaint advertisements in praise of their wares, one, who 
 
 " Excuraiona in the Coimty of Norfolk, vol. ii 1819. 
 
LIFE OF MOTTEUX. xlv 
 
 from an author turned dealer, may be allowed, for the 
 advancement of trade, to turn author again. 
 
 I will not, however, set up, like some of them, for selling 
 cheaper than the most able honest tradesman can ; nor do 
 I send this to be better known for choice and cheapness 
 of China and Japan wares, tea, fans, muslins, pictures, 
 arrack, and other Indian goods. Placed as I am, in 
 Leadenhall Street, near the India Company, and the centre 
 of that trade, thanks to my fair customers, my warehouse 
 is graced as well as the benefit days of my plays and operas ; 
 and the foreign goods I sell are no less acceptable than 
 the foreign books I translated — Eabelais and Don Quixote. 
 This the critics allow me, and, while they like my 
 wares they may dispraise mj writing. But as it is not 
 so well known yet that I frequently cross the seas of late, 
 and speak in Dutch and French, besides other languages, 
 I have the convenienoy of buying and importing rich 
 brocades and Dutch atlases, with gold and silver or 
 without, and other foreign silks of the newest modes and 
 best fabrics, fine Flanders lace, linen, and pictures, at the 
 best hand ; this my new way of trade I have fallen into 
 I cannot better publish than by an application to you. 
 My wares are fit only for such as your readers ; and I 
 would beg of you to print this address in your paper, 
 that those whose minds you adorn may take the ornaments 
 for their persons and houses from me. This, sir, if I may 
 presume to beg it, will be the greater favour, as I have 
 lately received rich silks and fine lace to a considerable 
 value, which will be sold cheap for a quick return, and 
 as I have also a large stock of other goods. Indian silks 
 were formerly a great branch of our trade ; and since 
 we must not sell them we must seek amends by dealing 
 in others. This, I hope, will plead for one who would 
 lessen the number of teasers of the Muses, and who, 
 suiting his spirit to his circumstances, humbles the poet to 
 exalt the citizen. Like a true tradesman I hardly ever 
 look into any books but those of accounts.. To say the 
 truth, I cannot, I think, give you a better idea of my 
 being a downright man of traffic than by acknowledging 
 I ofteuer read the advertisements than the matter of even 
 
Xlvi LIFE OP MOTTEUX. 
 
 your paper. I am under a very great temptation to take 
 this opportunity of admonishing other writers to follow 
 my example, and trouble the town no more ; but, as it 
 is my present business to increase the number of buyers 
 rather than sellers, I hasten to tell you that I am, sir, 
 
 Your most humble and most obedient servant, 
 
 Peter Mottecx. 
 
 There exists another letter of Motteux's,^' 
 ■written in a bold and firm hand, dated as late as 
 the 26th of May, 1714, and addressed to the 
 "Honoured . . . Does " — [here the handwriting 
 is torn off] " at his house in Bloomsbury." The 
 letter is as follows : — 
 
 " Sib, — The pictures in the enclosed catalogue being right 
 originals and to be sold fairly, as was my former sale a 
 year ago, will, I hope, plead an excuse for my presump- 
 tion, in which I have been encouraged the ;rather as it 
 gives me this opportunity to let you know that I have 
 Joseph Scaliger's picture from the life, which is not in this 
 collection, but at my house in Ijeadenhall Street, and will 
 not be dear.^I am, with deep respect, sir, 
 
 " Your most humble and most obedient servant, 
 
 " P. MOTTEUX." 
 
 I may be -wrong, hut I imagine that the tone 
 of this letter is not that of a wealthy man. » M. 
 Motteux either sells his own pictures two years 
 in succession, or acts as an auctioneer or agent for 
 others. There cannot be the least doubt that 
 Motteux was an auctioneer, for after his death the 
 
 " Mamscript Department, British Museum. 
 
LIFE OF MOTTECX. xlvii 
 
 following adrertisement appeared in the daily 
 papers : — 
 
 " The late M. Motteux's collection of valuable pictures 
 will, in a few days, be sold by auction, for the benefit of 
 his widow and children, at his auction-room over the little 
 Piazza in Covent Garden, whereof more particular notica 
 will be published.'"' 
 
 This advertisement does not sound like the notice 
 of the sale of the effects of a man who has died rich ; 
 besides, in the same papers are several advertisements 
 of the sales of other collections of books, pictures, 
 wines, &c., which are quite differently worded. I 
 am afraid that it cannot now be discovered what posi- 
 tion M. Motteux held in the Post Office, for there are 
 no records older than 1797 i^ but, in any case, he 
 cannot have been very well paid, for the Controller of 
 the Foreign Department of the Post Office, under Sir 
 R. Cotton and Ths. Prankland, had only a salary of 
 £150 a year, whilst the Alphabet-keeper had £100, 
 and six clerks each £50 a year." 
 
 And now we approach the most extraordinary 
 part in the career of this literary tradesman, — 
 namely, his death. And here we shall let the 
 semi-official documents speak. The following ad- 
 vertisement appeared in the papers of that time :^ — 
 " Whereas, on Tuesday the 18th of February last, a 
 
 ^ The Daily Courcmt, February 25, 27, 28, and March 3, 
 1718. 
 
 ^ Sir Francis Freeling (1764-1836) who became surveyor 
 in the General Post-Office in 1787, ordered every record of earlier 
 date to be sent away and destroyed ; an act of literary vandalism 
 for which, I trust, Sir Francis got his reward. 
 
 "* W. Lewins, Mer Majesty's Mails, 1865, second edition. 
 
 "* TheDaal/j) Oouramt, March, 20. 21, 22, 25, 1718. 
 
Xlviii LIFE OF MOTTEUX. 
 
 gentleman in a scarlet cloalc, with a sword, in company -with 
 another person, was carried to White's Chocolate House, 
 St. James's, where the coach waited from about 9 o'clock 
 to near 11, and then carried him and the other person, 
 and let them down at Star Court, in the Butcher Eow, 
 behind St. Clement Dane's Church,'" and the gentleman 
 being found dead the next morning in a house in that 
 court, and it being violently suspected that he was mur- 
 dered there, the coachman is earnestly desired forthwith 
 to come to Mrs. Motteux, at the ' Two Fans,' in Leaden- 
 hall Street, to give an account what condition the 
 gentleman was in when he set him down. Every master 
 coachman is desired to examine his driver that day, for 
 the better finding out the person who drove the coach. 
 And if the master shall bring his servant to Mrs. Motteux, 
 shall have 4 guineas, and his servant 6, and if the person 
 who drove the coach comes alone, he shall have 10 guineas 
 reward and his charges ; he shall come into no trouble, 
 but may very much contribute, by his evidence, to dis- 
 cover this supposed murderer." 
 
 This advertisement of the widow states distinctly 
 where her husband died. It was inserted, because on 
 
 " Monday last (the 3rd of March/' the Coroner's inquest 
 sat again upon the body of M. Motteux, the China man, 
 [merchant] who was found dead at a house of ill-fame 
 [the original notice has a stronger word] in Star Court, 
 behind St. Clement's Church; but the coachman that 
 
 ^ About half a century has elapsed since a clearance was made 
 .... of Butcher Row, a street of tenements between the back 
 of St. Clement's and Ship Yard, in the Strand, and named from 
 the hutoliers' shambles there. The houses here were mostly built 
 in Queen Elizabeth's reign, and chiefly of wood and plaster, with 
 overhanging stories. They were wretched fabrics, the receptacles 
 of filth in every corner, the bane of old London, and a sort of 
 nestling- place for the plague. The ceilings of these houses were 
 low, with large unwrought beams, and lighted by small casement- 
 windows. The cant name of the place among coachmen in the 
 days of the Spectator, was 'the Pass,' or 'The Sti'aits of St. 
 Clements.' " — John Timbs' London and Westminster, vol. i. 1868. 
 ^ The Wcfiklii Journal Saturday's Post, March 8, 1719. 
 
LIFE or MOTTBUX. xlix 
 
 carried him being not found (as was reported), they 
 deferred giving their verdict to that day month. The old 
 woman who kept the house [I change here, again, a word] and 
 her daughter, with two or three of her doxies, were com- 
 mitted to Newgate, there being strong circumstances to 
 believe that they murdered him." 
 
 But a fortuiglit passed and no coachman made 
 his appearance. Then official notices were put in 
 the London Gazette'^ and the Original Weekly 
 Journal ^ stating that — 
 
 " Her Majesty has been pleased to promise her most 
 gracious pardon to any person concerned in the suspected 
 murder of M. Motteux, except him or her by whose hands 
 the murder was committed, and a reward of £50 to any 
 person who makes a discovery of the murderers." 
 
 And this same Weekly Journal, perhaps at the 
 moment of going to press, states, a page further on, 
 that the hackney-coachman who carried M. Motteux 
 to the house in Star Court has been discovered, 
 is in custody, and will give evidence about the 
 murder.'" 
 
 We now approach the end. The coachman has 
 given his evidence. The supposed criminals are 
 discovered and brought to justice. This is what one 
 of the papers says :'' 
 
 "Five persons were tried for the murder of M. Motteux. 
 It appeared that M. Motteux, on his way to White's 
 
 2S March 22, 29, April 5, 1718. 
 
 » March 22, 1718. 
 
 ™ That murder and injury were then not uncommon in London 
 is proved by the fact that on the same page of the Jowrnal an 
 account is given of a woman being found murdered in Hyde Park, 
 with seven or eight wounds about her, " and the surgeons are of 
 opinion that she was ravished." 
 
 SI T/ie Original WeeUy Journal, April 26— MayS, 1718. 
 
1 LIFE OF MOXTEUX. 
 
 Chocolate House, picked up Mary Eoberts, one of them,, 
 and carried her thither and staid two hours, leaving her 
 in the coach ; and she sending for him, he went in the 
 same coach with her to Star Court, where it appeared 
 he went in and was seen to kiss the said Eoberts in the 
 kitchen, and then was lighted with her up the stairs, the 
 others being present. At one of the clock a surgeon was 
 sent for, and told a gentleman was at this .... house, 
 and dead in a fit, who coming to view the body found he 
 had been strangled, as appeared by others coming after- 
 wards. The prisoners alleged he died in a fit, but several 
 marks abouthis neck and breast were found to be occa- 
 sioned by violence. One of the witnesses living at the 
 next door, with several others, proved the house to be a 
 common disorderly house, where several tumults and dis- 
 orders are committed, and all the evidence agree that he 
 went out in health, and was seen to be well in the house 
 tiU he went up-stairs, which the prisoners denied, pre- 
 tending he was iU and was helped out of the coach and 
 placed in a chair, and afterwards removed up-stairs. The 
 jury brought them in 'Not Guilty.' " 
 
 Another Journal of the same date'^ contradicts 
 this statement hy merely saying that the Grand 
 Jury at Westminster found bills of indictment 
 against five persons in Newgate, four females 
 and a foot-soldier^ for the murder of M, Motteux, 
 the China man in Leadeuhall Street, and states that 
 these five persons were tried at the Old Bailey, that 
 the soldier was acquitted, but a special yerdict 
 brought against the four women. 
 
 I imagine that the first statement is the cor- 
 rect one, for nothing more was heard of the trial, 
 nor can anything about it be found in the news- 
 papers or in the legal reports of that time. It is 
 
 <" The Weekly Jowrnal, April 26; May 13, 1718. 
 
LIPE OF MOTTEUX. 11 
 
 just possible that the trial may have heen conducted 
 in private.'^ » 
 
 Thus diedj on his 58th birthday, Peter Anthony 
 Motteiix, who was buried in the church of St. 
 Andrew Undershaft, at the corner of Cornhill and 
 St. Mary Axe, on the 23nd of February, 1718, and 
 who wrote wittily and fluently, but might have led 
 a better life, and, above all, have died under more 
 favourable circumstances. 
 
 Henki van Laun. 
 
 ^ At the end of the third volume of Duohat's French edition of 
 Eabelais, Amsterdam, 1741, is given a modified translation of 
 Motteux's Preface and Notes to that author. This translation is 
 preceded by a short life of Mr. Motteux, which contains the 
 following poetical epigram, alluding to his death : — 
 
 Ci-^t, qui par pure impuissance, 
 Faisant un trop puissant effort, 
 Mourut le jour de sa naissauce. 
 En serraut son col par trop fort. 
 
LIFE OF CERVANTES. 
 
 Although Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra was 
 not only the brightest genius of his age and 
 country, but a man of active life and open man- 
 ners, and engaged personally in many interesting 
 transactions of his time, there are, nevertheless, 
 few distinguished m«n of letters who have left 
 behind them more scanty materials of biogra- 
 phy. His literary reputation was not of the 
 highest order till Don Quixote made it so ; and 
 ere then he had outlived the friends and com- 
 panions of his youthful adventures, and with- 
 drawn into a life of comparative privacy and 
 retirement. In the age immediately succeeding 
 his own, abundant exertions were made to dis- 
 cover the scattered and faded traces of his 
 career ; but with what very indifferent success 
 is well known to all acquainted with the literary 
 history of Spain. More recently, the life of 
 Cervantes has been elaborately written, both by 
 the best of his commentators, Don Juan Pellicer, 
 
Jl» LIFE OF CEEVANTBS. 
 
 and by Don. Vincente de los Rios, editor of tlie 
 Spanish Academy's superb edttion of Don Quix- 
 ote ; but neither of these has, after all, been able 
 to add much to the original naked outline which 
 guided their researches. 
 
 Cervantes was by birth a gentleman, being 
 descended from an ancient famUy, originally of 
 Galicia, many branches of which were, at the 
 beginning of the sixteenth century, honorably 
 settled in Toledo, Seville, and Alcarria. Rod- 
 rigo de Cervantes, his father, seems to have re- 
 sided, for the most part, at Alcala de Henares, 
 where, thirty years before the birth of his son, 
 the second university of Spain was founded by 
 the munificent Cardinal Ximenes. His mother, 
 Donna Leonora de Cortenas, was also aJady of 
 gentle birth. The parish register shows that he 
 was. baptized on the 9th of October, 1547. 
 
 His parents, whose circumstances were the 
 reverse of affluent, designed their son for one 
 of the learned professions; and being most pro- 
 bably of opinion that his education would pro- 
 ceed better were it conducted at some distance 
 from their own residence, they sent him *early 
 to Madrid, where he spent several years, under 
 the direction of a philologer and theologian, 
 (famous in his day,) by name Juan Lope.z de 
 Hoyos. This erudite person superintended, early 
 in 1569, the publication of certain academical 
 
LIFE OF CEKVANTES. Iv 
 
 Luetus, on occasion of the death of the queen ; 
 and, among the rest, there appear an elegy and 
 a ballad, both written, as the editor expresses it, 
 by his " dear and beloved disciple Miguel de Cer- 
 vantes." Doctor Lopez de Hdyos seems to have 
 been in the custom of putting forth, now and 
 then, little volumes of poetical miscellanies, 
 chiefly composed by himself ; and we have Cer- 
 vantes' own authority * for the fact, that the 
 doctor's " dear disciple " contributed to these 
 publications Filena, a pastoral poem of some 
 length, besides a great variety of sonnets, can- 
 zonets, ballads, and other juvenile essays of ver- 
 sification. 
 
 ThesePattempts, in themselves sufficiently 
 kifling, had probably excited some little atten- 
 tion; for Cervantes, in the summer of 1569, ac- 
 companied the Cardinal Julio Aquaviva fron: 
 Madrid to Rome, where he resided for more than 
 twelve months as chamberlain to his eminence. 
 This situation, which, according to the manners 
 of those days, would have been coveted by per- 
 sons much his superiors both in birth and in for- 
 tune, may in reality have been serviceable to the 
 development of young Cervantes' genius, as af- 
 fording him early and easy introduction to the 
 company both of the polite and of the learned ; 
 for among the first of both of these classes the 
 
 * In the Viage de Pamasso. 
 VOL. I. E 
 
ivi LIFE OF CERVANTES. 
 
 Cardinal Aquaviva lived. But the uniforiKiy 
 and stately repose of a great ecclesiastic's esta- 
 blishment was probably little suited to the incli- 
 nations of the young and ardent Spaniard, for 
 he seems to have embraced, without hesitation, 
 the first opportunity of quitting the cardinal's 
 mansion for scenes of a more stirring character. 
 On the 29th of May, 1571, there was signed 
 at Rome the famous treaty between Philip II., 
 the Papal See, and the Venetian Senate, in con- 
 sequence of which the naval forces of those three 
 powers were immediately combined into one 
 fleet, for the purpose of checking the progress 
 of the Turkish navies in the Mediterranean. 
 Don Juan of Austria, natural son of OTarles V. 
 and brother to the reigning King of Spain, was 
 intrusted with the supreme command of the 
 Christian armament, and the young gentle»era! 
 both of Spain and Italy flocked in multitudes 
 to act as volunteers under his already famous 
 standard. Cervantes quitted Rome amidst the 
 first enthusiasm of the universal preparation; 
 and having enlisted under Colonna, the .General 
 of the Papal galleys, joined with him the fleet 
 of Don Juan ere it commenced the cruise which 
 terminated in the battle of Lepanto. He was 
 present on that eventful day ; and as he himself 
 says, (in the preface to the Second Part of Dm 
 Quixote,) considered the loss of his left hand,- 
 
LIFE OF CIRVANTES. Uii 
 
 (which was struck off in the course of the ac- 
 tion by a blow of a seymetar,) as a " trifling 
 price to pay for the honor of partaking in the 
 
 . first great action in which the naval supremacy 
 of the Ottoman was successfully disputed by 
 Christian arms." The season being far ad- 
 vanced, the victorious fleet withdrew immedi- 
 ately after this action to Messina, where Cer- 
 vantes' wound compelled him to spend some 
 weeks in the hospital. Although his hand had 
 been cut off close by the wrist, the whole of 
 that arm remained ever after quite stiff and use- 
 less ; partly, it is most probable, in consequence 
 of the unskilfulness of the surgeons who at- 
 tended on him. 
 
 This very serious misfortune did not, how- 
 ever, extinguish his military ardor, for he sailed 
 with the same fleet in the following summer, 
 and was present at several descents, on the coast 
 of the Morea ; one of which he has described in 
 lifin Quixote in the person of the Captain De 
 Viedma. At the end of 1572, when the great 
 naval armament in which he had hitherto served 
 was dissolved, he passed into the regular ser- 
 vice of his own sovereign. The company he 
 joined was stationed at Naples, and there he re- 
 mained with it for three years ; without rising, 
 or perhaps hoping to rise, above the condition 
 
 , of a private soldier. It must be had in mind, 
 
Iviii LIFE OP lERVANTES. 
 
 however, that this rank was in those days so 
 far from being held dishonorable or degrading, 
 that men of the very highest birth and fortune 
 were, almost without exception, accustomed to 
 spend some time in it ere they presumed to 
 expect any situation of authority. Thus, for 
 example, the Anne de Montmorencies, the Lan- _, 
 trees, the Tremouilles, and the Chabannes, had ' 
 all distinguished themselves as simple men-at- 
 arms ere they rose to any office of command in 
 the army of France ; and in that of Spain, it is 
 well known that the wise policy of Charles V. 3 
 had, long before Cervantes' time, elevated the 
 halberdier and musketeer to be nearly on the 
 same footing with the mounted soldier. It is, 
 therefore, a matter of no great importance that 
 we are left altogether ignorant whether Cer- 
 vantes served in the infantry or the cavalry dur- 
 ing his residence at Naples. 
 
 In the autumn of 1575, he was on his way 
 from Italy to Spain ; it is not known what v«is 
 the motive of his journey ; when the galley in 
 which he sailed was surrounded by some Moor- 
 ish corsairs, and he, with all the rest of the 
 Christian crew, had the misfortune to be carried 
 immediately to Algiers. He fell to the share 
 of the corsair captain who had taken him, an Al- 
 banian, or Arnaut renegade, known by the name 
 of Dali Mami the hme ; a mean and cruel crea- 
 
LIFE OF CERVANTES. lix 
 
 ture, who seems to have used Cervantes with 
 the utmost possible harshness. Having a great 
 number of slaves in his possessioUj he employed 
 the most of them in his galleys, but kept al- 
 ways on shore such as were likely to be ran- 
 somed by their friends in Europe ; confining 
 them within the walls of his baths,* and occa- 
 sionally compelling them to labor in his gar- 
 dens. Cervantes, whose birth and condition 
 gave hopes of a considerable ransom, spent the 
 greater part of five years of servitude among 
 this latter class of the slaves of Mami, undergo- 
 ing, however, as he himself intimates, even great- 
 er hardships than fell to the lot of his compa- 
 nions, on account of the pertinacity and skill with 
 which he was continually forming schemes of 
 evasion. The ■ last of these, at once the boldest 
 and most deliberate of them all, was deficient of 
 complete success, only because Cervantes had 
 admitted a traitor to his counsels. 
 
 Dali Mami, the Arnaut, had for his friend a 
 brother renegade, by birth a Venetian, who had 
 risen high in the favor of the king, and was 
 now a man of considerable importance in the 
 government of Algiers : the same Hassan Aga, 
 
 * In the notes to this edition of Don Quixote may be found 
 some curious particulaxs concerning these Baths and the manner 
 m which the Christian captives of Cervantes' age were treated 
 at Algiers and Tunis. See the Notes on the story of Viedma. 
 
Ix LIFE OF CEKVANTES. 
 
 of whose ferocious character a full picture ia 
 drawn in Don Quixote by the Captain de Vied- 
 ma. Mami sometimes made Cervantes the bear- 
 er of messages to this man's villa, which was 
 situated on the sea-shore, about three miles from 
 Algiers. The gardens of this villa were under 
 the management of one of Hassan's Christiaa 
 slaves, a native of Navarre, with whom Cervan- 
 tes speedily formed acquaintance, and whom he 
 ere long persuaded to undertake the formation 
 of a secret cave beneath the garden, capable of 
 sheltering himself, and as many as fifteen of his 
 brother captives, on whose patience and resolu- 
 tion he had every reason to place perfect reliance. 
 The excavation being completed in the utmost 
 secrecy, Cervantes and his associates made their 
 escape by night from Algiers, and took posses- 
 sion of their retreat, where, being supplied with 
 provisions ' by the gardener and another Chris- 
 tian slave of Hassan Aga, named or nick-named 
 Ul Dorador, they remained for several months 
 undiscovered, in spite of the most minute and 
 anxious researches, both on the part ^ of their 
 own masters, and of the celebrated Ochali, then 
 tyrant of Algiers. 
 
 They had, in the mean time, used aU their ex- 
 ertions to procure a sum of money sufficient foi 
 purchasing the freedom of one of their compa- 
 nions, who had staid behind them in the city, a 
 
LIFE O'S CERVANTES. Ixi 
 
 gentleman of Minorca, by name Niana. This 
 gentleman at length obtained his liberty in the 
 month of September, 1577, and embarked for 
 his native island, from whence, according to the 
 plan concerted, he was to return immediately 
 with a Spanish brigantine, and so coming close 
 under shore, at a certain hour of a certain night, 
 furnish Cervantes and his friends (including the 
 gardener and El Dorador) with the means of 
 completing their escape. Viana reached Mi- 
 norca in safety, procured without difficulty a suffi- 
 cient vessel from the Spanish viceroy, and came 
 off the coast of Barbary, according to his agree 
 ment ; but ere he could effect his landing, the 
 alarm was given by a Moorish sentinel, and he 
 wisely put out to sea again, being afraid of at 
 tracting any more particular attention to the 
 place of Cervantes' concealment. He and the 
 unfortunate gentlemen, his companions, were 
 aware of Viana's attempt, and of the cause of 
 its failure ; but they knew Viana would not be 
 altogether discouraged by one such accident, 
 and had good hope of ere long seeing his brig- 
 antine again under more happy auspices. But 
 Hassan's slave El Dorador, who had hitherto 
 been, next to the gardener, the most effectual in- 
 strument of their safety, happened, just at this 
 juncture, to think proper to renounce his Chris- 
 tianity, and it not unnaturally occurred to him, 
 
Ixii LIFE OF CERVANTES. 
 
 he could not better commence the career of a 
 renegade, than by betraying the retreat of Cer- 
 vantes and his companions. Hassan Aga conse- 
 quently surrounded the entrance to their cave, 
 with such a force as put all resistance out of the 
 question, and the whole fifteen were conducted 
 in fetters to Algiers. The others were imme-' 
 diately delivered into the possession of their 
 former masters ; but Cervantes, whose previous 
 attempts at once fixed on him the suspicion of 
 having headed the whole enterprise, was retain- 
 ed by the king, in the hope of extracting inform- 
 ation, and • perhaps of discovering some accom- 
 plices among the wealthier renegades. It is 
 probable that Cervantes had no such . inform- 
 ation to give ; but, at all events, he was one of 
 the last men in the world to give it, had he had 
 it in his power. He underwent various examina- 
 tions, declared himself on every occasion the sole 
 author and contriver of the discovered plot; 
 and, at last, effectually exhausted the patience 
 of Ochali, by the firmness of his behavior. The 
 savage Hassan Aga, himself one of the most ex- 
 tensive slave proprietors in Barbary, exerted all 
 his influence to have Cervantes strangled in ter- 
 rorem; but, although Ochali was not without 
 some inclination to gratify Hassan in this par- 
 ticular, the representations of Dali Mami, con- 
 cerning the value of his private property, could 
 
LIFE OF CERVANTES. Ixiii 
 
 not be altogether disregarded; and the future 
 author of Don Quixote escaped the howstring, 
 because an Arnaut renegade told an Algerine 
 pirate, that he considered him to be worth some- 
 thing better than two hundred crowns. The 
 whole of these particulars, let it be observed, are 
 not gathered from Cervantes himself,* but from 
 the contemporary author of a history of Barbary, 
 Father Heado. The words in which this ecclesi- 
 astic concludes his narrative, are worthy of being 
 given as they stand. " Most marvellous thing ! " 
 says he, " that some of these gentlemen remain- 
 ed shut up in the cave for five, six, even for 
 seven months, without even so much as behold- 
 ing the light of day, sustained all that time by 
 Miguel de Cervantes, and this at the great and 
 continual risk of his own life ; for no less than 
 four times did he incur the nearest peril of being 
 strangled, impaled, or burnt alive, by reason of- 
 the bold things on which he adventured, in the 
 hope of bestowing liberty upon many. Had for- 
 tune been correspondent to his spirit, industry, 
 
 * It has been very commonly supposed, that Cervantes tells 
 his own Algerine history in the person of the captive in Don 
 Quixote. But the reader will find, in the notes to this edition, 
 sufficient reasons for discrediting this notion, in itself certainly a 
 very natural one. There can be no doubt, however, that Cer- 
 vantes' own experience famished him with all that knowledge 
 of Algerine afiairs and manners, which he has displayed in the 
 story of the Captive, as well as in his less known pieces, the 
 Trnio de Argel, and the Espahola Inglesa. 
 
Ixiv LIFE OF CERVANTES. 
 
 and skill, at this day Algiers would have been 
 in the safe possession of the Christians, for to no 
 less lofty consummation did his designs aspire. 
 In the end, the whole was treasonously discover- 
 ed, and the gardener, after being tortured and 
 picketed, perished miserably. But, indeed, of 
 the things which happened in that cave, during 
 the seven months that it was inhabited by these 
 Christians, and altogether of the captivity and 
 various enterprises of Miguel de Cervantes, a 
 particular history might easily be formed. Has- 
 san Aga was accustomed to say, that he should 
 consider captives, and barks, and the whole city 
 of Algiers in perfect safety, could he bid be sure 
 of that handless Spaniard" 
 
 In effect it appears, that the King of Algiers 
 did not consider it possible to make sure of Cer- 
 vantes, so long as he remained in the possession 
 of a private individual ; for shortly after he pur- 
 chased him from Dali Mami, and kept him shut 
 up with the utmost severity in the dungeon of 
 his own palace. The hardships thus inflicted 
 on Cervantes were, however, in all probability, 
 the means of restoring to him his liberty'much 
 sooner than he would otherwise have obtained 
 it. The noble exertions he had made, apd the 
 brilliant talents he had exhibited, had excited 
 the strongest interest in his favor; and the 
 knowledge of his harsh treatment in the Haram, 
 
LIFE OP CERVANTES. IxT 
 
 determined the public functionary for the re- 
 demption of Spanish captives, then resident at 
 Algiers, to make an extraordinary effort in his 
 behalf In fine, this person, by name Father 
 Juan Gril, declared his willingness to advance 
 whatever might be necessary, along with the con- 
 tributions already received from his family in 
 Spain, to procure the liberty of Ceryantes ; and 
 although the king forthwith raised his demand 
 to five hundred crowns, the ransom was paid, and 
 Cervantes recovered his freedom. The records 
 of the Redeeming Commission show, that Cer- 
 vantes' mother (now a widow) contributed two 
 hundred and fifty crowns ; his sister (married to 
 a Florentine gentleman, Ambrosio,) fifty ; and a 
 friend of the family,, one Franciso Caramamble, 
 a similar sum. It was thus that Cervantes at 
 length returned to Spain in the spring of 1581. 
 He returned at the age of thirty-four, after 
 having spent more than ten years of manhood 
 amidst such varieties of travel, adventure, enter- 
 prise, and suffering, as must have sufficed to sober 
 very considerably the lively temperament, and at 
 the same time to mature, enlarge, and strength- 
 en the powerful understanding, with which he 
 had been gifted by nature. He return,ed, how- 
 ever, under circumstances of but little promise, 
 so far as his personal fortune and advancement 
 were concerned. His wound had disabled him 
 
Ixvi LIFE OF CEKVANTES. 
 
 as a soldier, and, besides, the long period' of his 
 captivity had thrown him out in the course of 
 his military profession. With all his variety of 
 accomplishments, and all his brilliancy of talents, ' 
 there was no other profession for the exercise of 
 which he felt himself prepared. His family was 
 poor, his friends few and powerless ; and, after 
 some months spent in fruitless solicitation, Cer- 
 vantes seems to have made up his mind that no 
 path remained open for him but that of literar 
 ture; in one point of view, indeed, the path 
 most worthy of his genius, and therefore the 
 best he could have selected, had greater choice 
 been afforded ; but one which, according to the 
 then manners and customs of Spain, was not 
 likely to prove, in any remarkable degree, con- 
 ducive to the improvement of his worldly for- 
 tunes. He shut himself up, however, and pro- 
 ceeded to labor in his new vocation at once 
 with all the natural fervor of his disposition, 
 and with all the seriousness of a man sensible 
 how much the whole career of life is often af- 
 fected by the good or ill success of a first effort. 
 As such, he, without doubt, regarded the work in 
 which he had now engaged himself; for he could 
 not, after the lapse of so many years, attach any 
 importance to the juvenile and by this time for- 
 gotten productions, which had gone forth under 
 his name, ere he quitted Spain in the suite of 
 
LIFE OF CERVANTES. Ixvii 
 
 Cardinal Acquaviva. Th& reader, who has com- 
 pared the different Lives of Cervantes written by 
 Spanish authors, will, from what I have now said, 
 perceive that I am inclined to follow the opinion 
 of those who think the pastoral romance of Gor 
 htea was the first work published by him after 
 his return from captivity. The authority of 
 Pellicer, indeed, favors the contrary opinion ; 
 but although he says that Cervantes immediately 
 commenced writing for the stage, I can find no 
 authentic record of any dramatic effort of his, 
 until some time after the appearance of the Go- 
 Idea, or indeed until after his marriage, which 
 took place in 1584. 
 
 The GaMea, like all the lesser works of Cer- 
 vantes, has been thrown into the shade by the 
 preeminent merit and success of his Don Quix- 
 ote. Yet there can be no question, that, had 
 Cervantes never written any thing but the Gar 
 htea, it must have sufficed to give him a high 
 and a permanent place in the literary history of 
 Spain. The grace and beauty of its composi- 
 tion entitle the romance to be talked of in this 
 manner ; but it must be confessed, that it exhi- 
 bits very few traces of that originality of inven- 
 tion, and none at all of that felicitous exposition 
 of human character, in which the genius of Cer 
 vantes afterwards shone forth with its brightest 
 and most peculiar lustre. It is, at the best, a 
 
Ixviii LIFE OF CBEVANTBS. 
 
 happy imitation of the Diana of Montemayop, 
 and of the continuation of that performancg by 
 GU PolcJ. Like these works, it is deficient in 
 fable^ (but indeed the fable of GaMea, such as 
 it is, was never completed) ; like them, it abounds 
 in beautiful description and graceful declamation; 
 and like them, it is continually diversified with 
 the introduction of lyrical pieces, sonnets can- 
 zonets, and ballads — some of these exquisite in 
 merit. The metrical effusions of the GaMea 
 are, indeed, so numerous, that Bouterweck * says 
 he has little doubt Cervantes wrote the prose 
 nairative expressly for the purpose of embody- 
 ing the miscellaneous contents of a poetical com- 
 monplace book, to whose stores he had probably 
 been making continual additions throughout the 
 whole period of his absence from Spain ; and, 
 above all, during the many weary and idle hours 
 of his captivity. It is certain that many of the 
 poems introduced in the Galatea have little ap- 
 parent relation to the story of the romance ; and, 
 therefore, there may be some foundation for 
 Bouterweck's conjecture. But, on the other hand, 
 it cannot be denied, that the finest strains in {he 
 book are filled with allusions, which imply their 
 having been composed subsequent to the termi- 
 nation of the author's residence in Barbary. On 
 
 * Geschichte der SpanisGlies Literatur, B. U. 
 
LIFE OF CIBVANTES. Ixij 
 
 the whole, the Galatea exhibited abujidantly the 
 defects of the false and uiinatural species of com- 
 position to which it belongs ; but it displayed, at 
 the same time, a masteily-eom mand of Span ish 
 style, and in general a richness and energy both 
 of thought ai|d of language, enough at the least 
 to excite the highest expectations in regard to 
 the future literary career of Cervantes. It might 
 have been fortunate had he gone on to exert 
 himself in the walk of fiction, in which this first, 
 and, on the whole, successful effort had been 
 made, and by returning to which, long afterwards, 
 he secured his literary immortality, instead of 
 betaking himsfelf, as he soon did, to the drama- 
 tic field, in which he had to contend with the 
 most formidable competitors, and for which the 
 event has shown his own talents were less splen- 
 didly, adapted. 
 
 Very shortly after the GaMea was published, 
 Cervantes married a young lady, whose charms 
 were supposed to have furnished the chief inspi- 
 ration of its numerous amatory efiusions ; Donna 
 Catalina de Palacios y Salazar y Vozmediano. 
 This lady's dowry was not indeed quite so am- 
 ple as might be augured from the magnificence 
 of her style ; but she brought Cervantes enough 
 to furnish him with the means of subsistence, 
 and it is probable of idleness, for a consid*erable 
 number of months. After the lady's portion was 
 
JXX LIFE OF CERVANTES. 
 
 exhausted, he seems to have plunged himself at 
 once into the full career of dramatic composition. 
 In this he labored incessantly, but with little 
 success, for about three years. His plays, as 
 was the fashion of the day, he sold, as fast as 
 they were written, to the manageijp of different 
 theatres in Madrid and elsewhere, receiving, it is 
 probable, but very triOing and inadequate re- 
 muneration. For Lope de Vega received at the 
 highest about eighty reals for a comedy ; and we 
 may be sure his unsuccessful rival was obliged 
 to be content with very inferior payment. 
 
 That the author of Don Quixote should have 
 been unsuccessful in writing for the stage, is a 
 circumstance which cannot but excite consider- 
 able astonishment at first sight ; nor has all the 
 ingenuity of the celebrated historian of Spanish 
 literature been able to throw much light upon 
 the causes of his failure. " That mass of in- 
 trigues, adventures, and prodigies," says he,* 
 " of which the Spanish drama was chiefly com- 
 posed, was altogether in opposition to the par- 
 ticular character of Cervantes' genius. His 
 manner of thinking and of writing was too ner- 
 vous and accurate to be accommodated to a spe- 
 cies of composition, fantastic, destitute of any 
 plain purpose, and of any durable interest. As 
 
 * Bouterweck, Sect. H. Chap. I. 
 
LIFE OF CEEVANTBS. Ixxi 
 
 a spectator, he enjoyed pieces, which, as a poet, 
 he could not imitate ; and he believed himself to 
 be capable of imitating the Spanish dramatists, 
 because he felt within himself the power and 
 the capacity of doing better things." But when 
 we reflect that the very best of Cervantes' fol- 
 lowers and imitators in the field of comic ro- 
 mance, Le Sage, Fielding, and SmoUett, attempt- 
 ed, like him, the drama, and, like him, attempt- 
 ed it with indifferent success, we shall most pro- 
 bably be constrained to conclude, that the two 
 kinds of composition, which we might at first 
 sight imagine to require very much the same 
 sort of talents, do in fact require talents of to- 
 tally different kinds ; and so, to attribute the ill 
 success of Cervantes to causes much more ge- 
 neral than are to be deduced from any examin- 
 ation of the particular system of the Spanish 
 stage. Had Calderon, or Shakspeare, or Mo- 
 liere, written admirable romances, it certainly 
 would have been much more difficult to account 
 for the dramatic failures of Cervantes ; but even 
 then it would not have followed that, because 
 great dramatists could write excellent romances, 
 great romance-writers should also be able to write 
 excellent dramas. In a word, there is no doubt 
 that powers may be exhibited in a romance as 
 high and as varied as ever adorned either a tra- 
 gedy or a comedy ; but it seems no less certain, 
 
 N'OL. I. p 
 
kxii UBB OF CEEVANTES. 
 
 that a man may possess all the talents requisite 
 for giving interest and beauty to a romance, in 
 the total absence of those faculties of concentrat- 
 ing interest and condensing expression, without 
 a perfect command of Tvhich, neither in Spain 
 nor any other country, has the Genius of the 
 Drama ever achieved any of its wonders. 
 
 Cervantes himself informs us, that he wrote 
 during this period of his life between twenty 
 and thirty plays ; but not more than a third part 
 of these have ever been published, although 
 says Bouterweck, there might yet be some hope 
 of recovering the whole, were the theatrical re- 
 cords of Spain sufficiently examined. Of those 
 which have been given to the world, the Nu- 
 maneia Vengada, a tragedy in four acts, is uni- 
 versally esteemed the most favorable specimen. 
 The mixture in the fable, and even in the dia- 
 logue, of such personages as the Genius of Spain, 
 the God of the river Douro, &c., along with Ro- 
 man soldiers and Spanish ladies, is a defect too 
 gross and palpable either to admit excuse or to 
 require commentary. But, even in spite of this 
 and of other scarcely less glaring defects,»the 
 fine story of Numantian heroism and devotion 
 is certainly told in this drama with a power 
 quite worthy of the genius of its author. The 
 dark superstitions of heathenism are introduced 
 tvith masterly and chastened skill; and the .whole 
 
LIFE OF CERVANTES. Ixxiii 
 
 of the last act in particular is worked up with 
 a sustained and fearless vigor both of imagin- 
 ation and of diction, such as no one can survey 
 without saying to himself, d sic omnia ! The 
 comic humor of Cervantes, again, rarely appears 
 in his comedies, but shines out with infinite ease 
 and effect in several of his little interludes and 
 afterpieces ; more than one of which have been 
 of late years translated, and represented with 
 much success upon the German stage. And 
 here, by the way, is another coincidence that 
 may be worth remarking ; for Fielding, whose 
 regular plays were all damned, still lives upon 
 our own theatre as the author of Tom Thumb. 
 
 On the whole, imperfect as are even the best 
 of Cervantes' theatrical pieces, there occur, nev- 
 ertheless, in the very worst of them, continual 
 indications of the fervid genius of the author. 
 The circumstance which, in all probability, will 
 be most immediately remarked, and most feel- 
 ingly regretted by the reader who turns from 
 Don Quixote to the comedies of Cervantes, is the 
 absence of that joyous and easy vein which con- 
 stitutes, throughout the whole of the first of ro- 
 mances, the principal charm of its composition. 
 I have little doubt that Cervantes began to write 
 for the stage in the hope of rivalling Lope de 
 Vega ; and that, after the first failure, he was 
 continually depressed with the more and more 
 
Ixxiv LIFE OF CERVANTES. 
 
 forcible' conviction of his own inferiority to that 
 great and inexhaustible master of the dramatic 
 art. He might afterwards derive some conso- 
 lation from reading Lope de Vega's two very ordi- 
 nary romances, and his still more ordinary novels. 
 While Cervantes was occupied in this way, his 
 residence seems to have been chiefly at Madridj 
 but occasionally at Esquivias, where the family 
 of his wife were settled. He removed in 1588 
 to Seville, " having," as he himself expresses it, 
 " found something better to do than writing co- 
 medies." What this something was we have no 
 means of ascertaining; but we know that one 
 of the principal branches of his own family had 
 long been established at Seville in great mercan- 
 tile opulence, and it is therefore highly probabk 
 that through their means he had procured some 
 oflBce or appointment which furnished him with 
 means of subsistence less precarious than could 
 be afforded by the feverish drudgery in which he 
 had spent the last three or four years of his life, 
 Not less than two of the Cervantes-Saavedras oi 
 Seville had written and published poems ; so 
 that we may easily imagine some interest to 
 have been excited among this wealthy family is 
 behalf of their poor couSin of Alcala de Hena 
 res ; and it is far from being unlikely that thej 
 intrusted to his management some subordinate 
 department of their own mercantile concerns 
 
LIFE OF CERVANTES. IxxV 
 
 In 1595, the Dominicans of Zaragoza proposed 
 certain prizes for poems to be recited at the fes- 
 tival of St. Hyacinthus ; and one of these was 
 adjudged to " Miguel Cervantes Saavedra of Se- 
 ville." In 1596, the Earl of Essex made the 
 second of his famous descents upon the Spanish 
 coast, and having surprised Cadiz, rifled the town 
 and destroyed the shipping of the harbor, includ- 
 ing the whole of a second armada, designed, like 
 that of 1 588, for the invasion of England. While 
 the earl kept possession of Cadiz, the gentlemen 
 of Seville hastened to take arms, and prepara 
 themselves to assist in delivering that city from 
 the English yoke ; and amidst other memorials 
 of their zeal, there are preserved two short po- 
 etical effusions of Cervantes. In 1598, Philip 
 the Second died at Seville ; and Cervantes' name 
 appears among the list of poets who wrote verses 
 on occasion of the royal obsequies. A serious 
 quarrel took place, on the day of the funeral, 
 between the civil and ecclesiastical authorities 
 of Seville, and Cervantes was exposed to some 
 trouble for having ventured to hiss at some part, 
 we know not what, of their proceedings. Such 
 are all the traces that have been discovered of 
 Cervantes' occupations and amusements during 
 his residence at Seville, which extended from 
 1588 to 1603, or perhaps the beginning of 
 1604. The name of the branch of his family 
 
Ixxvi LIFE OF CERVANTES. 
 
 settled there being well known, it is not won- 
 derful, that, after a residence of so many years, 
 Cervantes should have been often talked of by 
 his contemporaries as " one of the Saavedras of 
 Seville." 
 
 " It cannot be doubted," says Bouterweck, " al 
 though no Spanish author has said so, that the 
 death of Philip II. must have had a favorable 
 effect on the genius of Cervantes. When the 
 indolent Philip III. ascended the throne, the 
 Spanish people began to breathe more freely 
 The nation recovered at least the courage tc 
 sport with those chains which they could nol 
 break, and satire was winked at, provided onlj 
 it jvere delicate." I know not how much found 
 ation of truth there may be for this conjecture 
 but it is certainly not the less likely, because 
 we find Cervantes so soon after the accession oi 
 the new king transferring his habitation to Val 
 ladolid, where, during the first years of his reign 
 Philip III. was chiefly accustomed to hold his 
 court. We are almost entirely without informa 
 tion how Cervantes spent the two or three years 
 immediately preceding his appearance at Yal 
 ladolid; and this is the more to be regrettec 
 because it is certain that the First Part of Dm 
 Quixote was written during this period. A 
 vague tradition has always prevailed that Cer 
 vantes had been sent into La Mancha for the pur 
 
LIFE OF CERVANTES. Ixxvii 
 
 pose of recovering some debts due to a mercan- 
 tile house in Seville; that he was maltreated by 
 the people of La Mancha, and on some pretence 
 confined for several months in the jail of Arga- 
 samiUa, and that during this imprisonment the 
 First Part of Don Quixote was both planned and 
 executed. "We know from Cervantes himself,"" 
 that the First Part of Don Quixote was written in 
 a prison ; but have no means of ascertaining in 
 how far the circumstances of Cervantes' confine- 
 ment actually corresponded with those of the 
 tradition. 
 
 It is, however, extremely probable, that Cer- 
 vantes employed a considerable part of the time 
 during which his family were settled in Seville, 
 in travelling, for purposes of business, over vari- 
 ous districts of Spain, which, in the earlier peri- 
 ods of his life, he could have had small opportuni- 
 ties of examining. The minute knowledge dis- 
 played in Don Quixote, not only of the soil,- but 
 of the provincial manners of La Mancha, can 
 scarcely be supposed to have been gathered oth- 
 erwise than from personal inspection, and that 
 none of the most hasty. In his novels, most of 
 which are generally supposed to have been com- 
 posed about the same period, although they were 
 not published for several years afterwards, a simi- 
 lar acquaintance is manifested with the manners 
 
 * See the Prologue to Don Quixote. 
 
Ixxvui LIFE OF CERVANTES. 
 
 of Cordova, Toledo, and many other cities and 
 districts of Spain. Whatever the nature of Cer- 
 vantes' occupation at Seville might have been, 
 there is, therefore, every reason to believe that 
 excursions, of considerable extenl^ formed a part 
 either of his duty, or his relaxation. 
 
 However all these things might be, it is cer- 
 tain that Cervantes was resident in VaUadolid 
 in the summer of 1604, and there is reason 
 to think he had removed to that city at least 
 a year earlier. Don Quixote was published at 
 Madrid either in the end of 1604, or at latest 
 in 1605. Some curious particulars of his mode 
 of life, about the time of its appearance, have 
 been gathered from the records of the mar 
 gistracy of VaUadolid, before whom he was 
 brought in the month of June, 1605, on suspi- 
 cion of having been concerned in a nocturnal 
 brawl and homicide, with which, in reality, he 
 had no manner of concern. A gentleman, by 
 name Don Gaspar Garibay, was assassinated 
 about midnight, close to the house where Cer^ 
 vantes lived. The alarm being given, Cervantes 
 was the first to run out and offer every assist- 
 ance to the wounded man. It is clear, that the 
 neighborhood was none of the most respecta* 
 ble, for it was instantly suspected that the wo- 
 men of Cervantes' family were ladies of easy 
 virtue, and that he himself having acted as their 
 
LIFE OF CERVANTES. Ixxix 
 
 bully, had, in the course of some iufamous scuffle, 
 dealt the deadly blow with his own hand. He 
 and all his household were forthwith arrested, 
 and did not recover their liberty until they had 
 undergone very strict and minute examinations. 
 Prom the records of the court we gather, that 
 Cervantes professed himself to be resident at 
 Valladolid, for purposes of business ; that, on 
 account of his literary reputation, he was in the 
 custom of receiving frequent visits both from 
 gentlemen of the court, and the learned men of 
 the university ; and, lastly, that he was living 
 in a style of great penury ; for he, his wife, his 
 two sisters, (one of them a nun) and his niece, 
 are represented as occupying a scanty lodging, 
 on the fourth floor of a mean-looking house, and 
 as entertaining among them all no domestic but 
 a single girl. Cervantes, in his declaration, 
 states his own age at upwards of fifty, but he 
 had, in fact, completed his fifty-seventh year 
 before this transaction took place. With such 
 obscurity were both the person and the charac- 
 ter of Cervantes surrounded, according to some, 
 immediately before, according to others, imme- 
 diately after, the publication of the First Part 
 of Don Quixote. But from these very circum- 
 stances, I am inclined to agree with those who 
 deny that Don Quixote appeared before the sum- 
 mer of 1605. 
 
Ixxx LIFE OF CERVANTES. 
 
 It was dedicated to Don Alonzo Lopez de 
 Zuniga, seventh Duke of Bexar, a nobleman 
 who much affected the character of a Mecsenas, 
 but who does not appear to have requited the 
 homage of Cervantes by any very useful marks 
 of his favor. The book, however, stood in no 
 need of patronage, whatever might be the ne- 
 cessities of its author ; it was read immediately 
 in court and city, by young and old, learned 
 and unlearned, with equal delight ; or, as the 
 Duchess in the second part expresses it, " went 
 forth into the world with the universal applause 
 of the nations." Four editions, published and 
 sold within the year, furnish the best proof of 
 its wide and instant popularity ; and if any fur- 
 ther proof be wanting, the well-known story 
 (first told by Barrano Porreno, in his lAfe and 
 Deeds of PMlip III.) may supply it. "The 
 king standing one day," says this chronicler, 
 "on the balcony of the palace of Madrid, ob- 
 served a certain student, with a book in his 
 hand, on the opposite banks of the Manzanares. 
 He was reading, but every now and then hg in- 
 terrupted his reading, and gave himself violent 
 blows upon the forehead, accompanied with in- 
 numerable motions of ecstasy and mirthfulness. 
 That student, said the king, is either out of his 
 wits, or reading the history of Don Quixote" 
 This must have happened in the beginning of 
 
LIFE OP CERVANTES. kxxi 
 
 1606, after the court had removed from Valla- 
 dolid to the capital. Cervantes himself followed 
 the court, and resided in Madrid almost all the 
 rest of his life. 
 
 In the midst of general approbation, the au- 
 thor of Don Quixote was assailed, on his arrival 
 in the capital, by all the unwearied arts of in- 
 dividual spleen, envy, and detraction. He had 
 irritated, by his inimitable satire, a great num- 
 ber of contemporary authors, some of them men 
 of high rank, whose fame depended on books of 
 the very species which he had for ever destroy- 
 ed. Another numerous and active class, the 
 writers for the theatre, were not less seriously 
 offended by the freedom with which Cervantes 
 had criticized, in the person of the Canon of 
 Toledo, many of the most popular pieces which 
 had at that time possession of the Spanish 
 stage. Among the rest, it is said, and probably 
 not without some foundation, that the great Lope 
 de Vega himself was excessively displeased with 
 the terms in which his plays were talked of; 
 and a sonnet against Cervantes and his book, 
 still extant, is generally attributed to his pen. 
 Cervantes endured aU this very calmly; and 
 with that noble retention of the thirst for fame, 
 which he had already so well exemplified, shut 
 himself up in his study to compose works worthy 
 of himself, instead of hastening to take the more 
 
Ixxxii LIFE OF CBKTANTBS. 
 
 vulgar revenge he might so easily have ob- 
 tained against his adversaries. The two bro- 
 thers, Lupercio and Bartholomeo D'Argensola, 
 after himself and Lope de Vega, the firsts men 
 of letters in Spain, lived with him on terms Of 
 intimacy, which might easily console him under 
 the assaults of his inferiors ; and through them 
 he was' introduced to the Conde de Lemos, and 
 the Cardinal of Toledo, two enlightened and 
 high-spirited noblemen, who, throughout aU the 
 rest of his life, never failed to afford him their 
 protection and support. Count Lemos being 
 appointed Viceroy of Naples shortly after, Cer- 
 vantes solicited and expected some appointment 
 in his suite ; but it is painful to add, that he 
 seems to have been disappointed in this particu- 
 lar, in consequence of the coldness, or perhaps 
 the jealousy, of the very friends by Avhom he 
 had been first introduced to that nobleman's no- 
 tice. He resented, it is certain, the behavior of 
 the Argensolas, but the dedications of almost 
 all the works he subsequently put forth, attest 
 that he acquitted Lemos himself of any unkind- 
 ness to his person, or coldness to his interests. 
 
 The remains of his patrimony, with the pro- 
 fits of Dcm Quixote, and, it is probable, some al- 
 lowances from Lemos and the Cardinal, were 
 sufficient to support Cervantes in the humble, 
 style of life to which his habits were formed ; 
 
LIFE OF CEKVANTES. Ixxxiii 
 
 for he allowed nearly ten years to elapse before 
 he sent any new work to the press. In 1613, 
 he published his Novehs Exemplares, most of 
 which had been written many years before, and 
 of which he had already given a specimen in 
 the story of The Curious Impertinent, introduced 
 in Don Quixote. These tales were received with 
 great and deserved applause, although they have 
 never been placed on a level with the great work 
 which had preceded them. They have been 
 translated into English, and are well known to 
 most readers, so that it were needless to enlarge 
 upon their character and merits. They are, for 
 the most part, felicitous imitations of the man- 
 ner of Boccacio, whose Italian popularity, as a 
 writer of short romances and anecdotes, it was 
 no doubt Cervantes' ambition to rival in his own 
 country. They are written in a style of manly 
 ease and simplicity ; and when compared with 
 the Galatea, (for, as I have already said, they 
 were chiefly written before Don Quixote,) afford 
 abundant evidence of the progressive enlarge- 
 ment of the author's powers, and improve- 
 ment of his taste. Their morality is uniformly 
 pure, and many of them are fuU of interest; 
 BO that it is no wonder the novels of Cervantes 
 should to this hour keep their place among the 
 favorite reading of the Spanish youth. In 1614, 
 Cervantes published another work highly credit- 
 
kxxiv LIFE OF CERVANTES. 
 
 able to his genius, but of a very di£ferent de- 
 scription. This is the Viage de Parnasso, his 
 celebrated poetical picture of the state of Spa- 
 nish literature in his time ; and, without question,' 
 the most original and energetic of his own po- 
 etical performances. It is, as might be expect- 
 ed, full of satire ; but the satire of Cervantes 
 was always gentle and playful ; and among the 
 men of true genius, then alive in Spain, there was 
 not one (not even of those that had shown per- 
 sonal hostility to Cervantes) who had the small- 
 est reason to complain of his treatment. Cer- 
 vantes introduces himself as " the oldest and 
 the poorest " of all the brotherhood ; " the naked 
 Adam of Spanish poets ; " but he describes his 
 poverty without complaining of it ; and, indeed 
 throughout the whole work, never for a moment 
 loses sight of that high feeling of self-respect, 
 which became him both as an author and as a 
 gentleman. The vessel, in which the imaginary 
 voyage of Parnassus is performed, is described 
 in a strain worthy of Cervantes. " From the 
 keel to the topmast," says he, " it was all of 
 verse ; there was not a single foot of prose in it. 
 The deck was all fenced with an airy railing-work 
 of double-rhymes. The rowing benches were 
 chiefly occupied by Ballads, an impudent but 
 necessary race ; for there is nothing to which 
 they cannot be turned. The poop was grand and 
 
LIFE OF CEKVANTES. IxxXT 
 
 gay, but a little outlandish in its style, being 
 stuck all over with sonnets of the richest work- 
 manship. Two vigorous Triplets had the stroke- 
 oars on either side, and regulated the motion of 
 the vessel in a manner at once easy and power- 
 ful. The gangway appeared to be one long 
 and most melancholy elegy, from which tears 
 were continually distilling," &c. 
 
 During the same year, while Cervantes was 
 preparing for the press the Second Part of Don 
 Quixote, there was published at Tarragona a con- 
 tinuation of the same story, written chiefly for 
 the purpose of abusing Cervantes, by a person 
 who assumed the name of Avellenada, and who 
 appears to have been successful in keeping his 
 true name entirely concealed. The greater part 
 of this Continuation is made up of very humble 
 imitation, or rather of very open plagiarism from 
 the First Part of Don Quixote ; and towards its 
 conclusion, it contains some incidents which 
 leave little doubt, but that its writer must have 
 found access to the MS. of Cervantes' Second 
 Part. In the Notes to this edition, (vol. iii.) the 
 reader will find such farther particulars as have 
 appeared worthy of being preserved. Cervan- 
 tes, whose own Continuation had already in all 
 probability begun to be printed, took his revenge 
 by interweaving in the thread of his story a 
 variety of the most bitter sarcasms upon the 
 
Ixxxvi LIFE OF CERVANTES. 
 
 rulgarity, obscenity, and coarseness of his ano* 
 nymous enemy; a revenge, but for which, in 
 all likelihood, the memory of Avellenada's per- 
 formance would not have survived the year in 
 which it was published. The Second Part of 
 Don Quixote made, its appearance in the begin- 
 ning of 1615 ; and it is inscribed to the Conde 
 de Lemos, in a strain weU worthy of the imitation 
 of all future dedicators. It was received with 
 applause not inferior to that with which the 
 First Part had been greeted ten years before; 
 4nd no doubt lightened the pecuniary circum- 
 stances of the author during the few remaining 
 months of his life. His fame was now established 
 far above the reach of aU calumny and detraction. 
 Lope 'de Vega was dead, and there was no one 
 to divide with Cervantes the literary empire of 
 his country. He was caressed by the great; 
 strangers, who came to Madrid, made the author 
 of Don Quixote the first object of their researches ; 
 he enjoyed all his honors in the midst of his 
 family ; and was continually exercising his mind 
 in labors worthy of himself. In short, Cer- 
 vantes had at last obtained all the objeats of 
 his honorable ambition, when his health began 
 to fail, and he felt within himself the daily 
 strengthening conviction that his career drew 
 near its close. 
 
 In the beginning of the year 1616, he super- 
 
LIFE OF CERVANTES. Ixxxvii 
 
 intended the publication of eight of his come- 
 dies, and as many of his interludes, and prefixed 
 to them a dissertation, which is extremely valu- 
 able and curious, as containing the only authen- 
 tic account of the early history of the Spanish 
 drama. He also finished and prepared for the 
 press his romance of Persiles and Sigismunda. 
 This performance is an elegant and elaborate 
 imitation of the style and manner of Heliodo- 
 rus. It displays felicity of invention and power 
 of description, and has always been considered 
 as one of the purest specimens of Castilian 
 writing ; nevertheless, it has not preserved any 
 very distinguished popularity, nor been classed 
 (except in regard to style) by any intelligent 
 critic of more recent times with the best of 
 Cervantes' works. 
 
 The prologue and dedication of the Persiles 
 must always be read with attention, on account 
 of the mteresting circumstances under which 
 they were composed, and of which they them- 
 selves furnish some account. 
 
 Cervantes, after concluding his romance, had 
 gone for a few days to Esquivias for the bgnefit 
 of country air. He tells us, that, as he was rid- 
 ing back to Madrid, in company with two of his 
 friends, they were overtaken by a young stu- 
 dent on horseback, who came on pricking violent- 
 ly, and complaining that they went at such a 
 VOL. I. a 
 
Ixxxviii LIFE OF CERVANTES. 
 
 pace as gave Mm little chance of keeping up 
 with them. One of the party made answer that 
 the blame lay with the horse of Seiior Miguel 
 de Cervantes, whose trot was of the speediest 
 He Tiad scarcely pronounced the name, when the 
 student dismounted, and touching the hem of 
 Cervantes' left sleeve, said, " Yes, yes, it is in- 
 deed the maimed perfection, the all-famous, the 
 delightful writer, the joy and darling of the 
 Muses." Cervantes returned the young man's 
 academic salutation with his natural modesty,' 
 and they performed the rest of the journey in 
 company with the student. "We drew up a 
 little," says he, " and rode on at a measured 
 pace ; and as we rode, there was much talk 
 about my illness. The good student knocked 
 away all my hopes, by telling me my disease 
 was the dropsy, and that I could not cure it by 
 drinkiug all the water of the ocean. ' Be chary 
 of drinking, Seiior Cervantes,' said he ; 'but eat, 
 and eat plentifully, for that is the only medicine 
 that will do you any good.' I replied, that many 
 had told me the same story ; but that, as for 
 giving over drinking, they might as well desire 
 a man to give up the sole purpose of his being. 
 My pulse, I said, was becoming daUy more and 
 more feeble, and that if it continued to decline 
 as it had been doing, I scarcely expected to out- 
 live next Sunday ; so that I feared there was but 
 
UFE OF CERVANTES. Ixxxix 
 
 little chance of my being able to profit much 
 further by the acquaintance that had so fortu- 
 nately been made. With that we found ourselves 
 at the bridge of Toledo, by which we entered the 
 city ; and the student took leave of us, having 
 to go round by the bridgei of Segovia." This is 
 the only notice we have of the nature of Cer- 
 vantes' malady. It proceeded so rapidly, that a 
 very few days after, {on the 18th April,) it was 
 thought proper for him to receive extreme unc- 
 tion, which he did with all the devotion of a true 
 Catholic. The day following he dictated the 
 dedication of Persiks to the Conde de Lemos, one 
 of the most graceful pieces of writing he ever pro- 
 duced ; and wasting gradually away, expired on 
 the 23d of the same month. He had made his 
 will a day or two before, in which he appointed 
 his wife, and his friend the licentiate Francisco 
 Numer his executors ; and desired that he might 
 be buried in the Monastery of the Holy Trinity 
 at Madrid. Some time before his death, he had, 
 after a fashion not unfrequent in these times, 
 enrolled himself in the third class of the Fran- 
 ciscans. He was, therefore, carried forth in the 
 sanctified dress, and interred with all the sim- 
 plicity prescribed by the statutes of this order. 
 It has not been thought unworthy of notice, 
 that the mortal career of Cervantes terminated 
 on the same day with that of Shakspeakb. 
 
XC LIFE OF CERVANTES. 
 
 Cervantes was a man of ordinary stature, and 
 of a complexion unusually fair in his country ; 
 for his eyes were bright blue, and his hair au- 
 burn. His countenance was, in his youth, hand- 
 some and spirited, and his frame capable of un^ 
 dergoing every species of fatigue. His man- 
 ners were light and cheerful ; and there seems 
 to be not the lest, reason for doubting, that, in 
 every relation of life, he exhibited all the vir- 
 tues of an amiable, upright, and manly charac- 
 ter. Loyalty, bravery, and religion were in those 
 days supposed to be inherent in the breast of 
 every Castilian gentleman ; and Cervantes was 
 in these, as in all other particulars, an honor and 
 an ornament to the generous race from which 
 he sprung. 
 
 In regard to the literary character and merits 
 of Cervantes, the first thing which must strike 
 every one acquainted with Spanish literature 
 is, that the genius, whose appearance forms an 
 epoch so very remarkable in the general history 
 of European intellect, can scarcely be said to 
 have formed any epoch in the literature of Ms 
 own country. In Spain, the age in Which 
 Don Quixote was written is not the age of Cer- 
 vantes, but the age of Lope de Vega. Out of 
 Spain, the writings of Lope de Vega have scarce- 
 ly been known, and certainly have never been 
 popular; while the masterpiece of Cervantes, 
 
LIFE OF CBKVANTBS. ' xci 
 
 under all the disadvantaged of translation, has 
 taken, and preserved, in every country of Eu- 
 rope, a place hardly inferior to the most admired 
 productions of native talent. Had Cervantes 
 written nothing but his plays there could have 
 been nothing to excite wonder in the superior 
 Spanish popularity of Lope de Vega ; for, in 
 spite of greater correctness of execution, and 
 perhaps even of greater felicity in delineating 
 human character, it is not to be questioned, that 
 Cervantes, as a dramatist, is quite inferior to his 
 contemporary. But when Don Quixote is thrown 
 into the scale, the result must, indeed, appear 
 as difficult to be accounted for, as it is incapable 
 of being denied. The stage, no doubt, was in 
 tiiose days the delight and the study of the 
 Spanish public throughout all its classes ; but 
 even the universal predilection, or rather passion, 
 for a particular form of composition, will scarcely 
 be sufficient to explain the comparative neglect 
 of genius at least equal, exerted with infinitely 
 more perfect skill, in a form which possessed at 
 that period, in addition to all its essential merits, 
 the great merit of originality, and charm of no- 
 ve%. 
 
 Even had Cervantes died without writing Don 
 Quixote, his plays, (above all, his Ivierludes and 
 his Numancia) ; his G-alatea, the beautiful dream 
 of his youth ; his Persiles, the last effort of his 
 
XCU LIFE OF CEKVANTES. 
 
 chastened and purified taste; and his fine poem 
 of the Voyage of Parnassus, must have given 
 him at least the second place in the most pro- 
 ductive age of Spanish genius. In regard to 
 all the graces of Castilian composition, even 
 these must have left him without a rival, either 
 in that or in any other age of the literature 
 of his country. For, while all the other great 
 Spanish authors of the hrilliant centuky of 
 Spain, (from 1560 to 1656,) either deformed 
 their writings by utter carelessness, or weak- 
 ened them by a too studious imitation of foreign 
 models, Cervantes alone seized the happy me- 
 dium, and was almost from the beginning of his 
 career, Spanish without rudeness, and graceful 
 without stiffness of affectation. As a master 
 of Spanish style, he is nmo, both in and out 
 of Spain, acknowledged to be first without a 
 second ; but this, which might have secured 
 the immortality and satisfied the ambition of 
 any man, is, after all, scarcely worthy of being 
 mentioned in regard to the great creator of the 
 only species of writing which can be considered 
 as the peculiar property of modern genius. In 
 that spacious field, of which Cervantes must be 
 honored as the first discoverer, the finest spirits 
 of his own, and of every other European country, 
 have since been happily and successfully em- 
 ployed. The whole body of modern romance 
 
LIFE OF CERVANTES. Xciil 
 
 and novel writers must be considered as his fol- 
 lowers and imitators ; but among them aU, so 
 varied and so splendid soever as have been their 
 merits, it is, perhaps, not going too far to say, 
 that, as yet, Cervantes has found but one rival. 
 
 The learned editor of the Spanish Academy's 
 edition of 1781 has thought fit to occupy the 
 space of a very considerable volume with an in- 
 quiry into the particular merits of Don Quixote. 
 I refer to his laborious dissertation all those who 
 are unwUling to admire any thing without know- 
 ing why they admire it, or rather why an erudite 
 Doctor of Madrid deemed it worthy of his ad- 
 miration.* In our own country, almost every 
 thing that any sensible man would wish to hear 
 said about Don Quixote has been said over and 
 over again by writers, whose sentiments I should 
 be sorry to repeat without their words, and 
 whose words I should scarcely be pardoned for 
 repeating. 
 
 Mr. Spence, the author of a late ingenious 
 tour in Spain, seems to believe, what I should 
 have supposed was entirely exploded, that Cer- 
 
 * As a specimen of the style of Us criticisms take tliis : ha 
 approves of the introduction of a Roque Guinart in Don Quix- 
 ote, because in the Odyssey there is a Polyphemus, and in the 
 ^neid there is a Cacus. And yet this man must have at least 
 read Cervantes' own preface to his work, in which that pedantii 
 epecies of criticism is so ])owerfully ridiculed. " If thou nameaS 
 any giant in the book, forget not Goliah of Gath," &c. 
 
iciv LIFE OF CBEVANTBS. 
 
 vantes wrote his books for the purpose of ridi- 
 culing knight-errantry ; and that, unfortunately 
 for his country, his satire put out of fashion, not 
 merely the absurd misdirection of the spirit of 
 heroism, but that sacred spirit itself But the 
 practice of knight-errantry, if ever there was 
 such a thing, had, it is well known, been out of 
 date long before the age in which Don Quixote 
 appeared ; and as for the spirit of heroism, I 
 think few will sympathize with the critic who 
 deems it possible that an individual, to say no- 
 thing of a nation, should have imbibed any con- 
 tempt, either for that or any other elevating prin- 
 ciple of our nature, from the manly page of Cer- 
 vantes. One of the greatest triumphs of his skill 
 is the success with which he continually pre- 
 vents us from confounding the absurdities of the 
 knight-errant with the generous aspirations of 
 the cavalier. For the last, even in the midst of 
 madness, we respect Don Quixote himself We 
 pity the delusion, we laugh at the situation, but 
 we revere, in spite of every ludicrous accompa- 
 niment, and of every insane exertion, the noble 
 spirit of the Castilian gentleman ; and we feel, 
 in every page, that we are perusing- the work, 
 not of a heartless scoiFer, a cold-blooded satirist, 
 but of a calm and enlightened mind, in which 
 true wisdom had grown up by the side of true 
 experience ; of one whose genius moved in a 
 
LIFE OF CERVAN'TES. XCV 
 
 sphere too lofty for mere derision ; of one who 
 knew human nature too well not to respect it ; 
 of one, finally, who, beneath a mask of apparent 
 levity, aspired to commune with the noblest prin- 
 ciples of humanity ; and above all, to give form 
 of expression to the noblest feelings of the na- 
 tional character of Spain. The idea of giving 
 a ludicrous picture of an imaginary personage, 
 conceiving himself to be called upon, in the 
 midst of modern manners and institutions, to ex- 
 ercise the perilous vocation of an Amadis or a 
 Belianis, might perhaps have occurred to a hun- 
 dred men as easily as to Cervantes. The same 
 general idea has been at the root of many sub- 
 sequent works, written in derision of real or ima- 
 ginary follies; but Cervantes is distinguished 
 from the authors of all these works, not merely 
 by the originality of his general conception and 
 plan, but as strongly, and far more admirably, by 
 the nature of the superstructure he has reared 
 upon the basis of his initiatory fiction. 
 
 Others have been content with the display, of 
 wit, satire, eloquence ; and some of them have 
 displayed all these with the most admirable skill 
 and power ; but he who rises from the perusal 
 of Don Quixote, thinks of the wit, the satire, 
 the eloquence of Cervantes, but as the accesso- 
 ries and lesser ornaments of a picture of na- 
 tional life and manners, by far the moat perfect 
 
XCvi LIFE OP CERVANTES. 
 
 and glowing that was ever embodied in one 
 piece of composition, a picture, the possession 
 of which alone will be sufficient to preserve, in 
 freshness and honor, the Spanish name and cha- 
 racter, even after the last traces of that once no- 
 ble character may have been obliterated, and 
 perhaps that name itself forgotten among the 
 fantastic innovations of a degenerated people. 
 Don Quixote is thus the peculiar property, as 
 well as the peculiar pride of the Spaniards. In 
 another, and in a yet larger point of view, it is 
 the property and pride of the whole cultivated 
 world ; for Don Quixote is not merely to be re- 
 garded as a Spanish cavalier, filled with'a Spa- 
 nish madness, and exhibiting that madness in the 
 eyes of Spaniards of every condition and rank 
 of life, from the peasant to the grandee, he is 
 also the type of a more universal madness; he 
 is the symbol of Imagination, w)ntinually strug- 
 gling and contrasted with Reality; he repre- 
 sents the eternal warfare between Enthusiasm 
 and Necessity ; the eternal discrepancy between 
 the aspirations and the occupations of man ; the 
 omnipotence and the vanity of human dreams. 
 And thus, perhaps, it is not too much to say, that 
 Don Quixote, the wittiest and the most laugh- 
 able of aU books — a book which has made many 
 a one, besides the young student on the banks 
 of the Manzanares, look as if he were oid of Urn- 
 
LIFE OF CEKVANTES. xcvil 
 
 self — is a book, upon the whole, csclculated to 
 produce something very different from a merely 
 mirthful impression. 
 
 The serious style of Don Quixote, in the ori- 
 ginal language, preserves the most perfect har- 
 mony with this seriousness of purpose. The 
 solemn, eloquent, impassioned Don Quixote, the 
 shrewd, earth-seeking, yet affectionate Sancho, 
 do not fill us with mirth, because they seem to 
 be mirthful themselves. From the beginning of 
 the book to the end, they are both intensely 
 serious characters ; the one never loses sight of 
 the high destinies to which he has devoted him- 
 self ; the other wanders amidst sierras and moon- 
 light forests, and glides on the beautiful stream 
 of the Ebro, without forgetting for a moment 
 the hope of pelf that has drawn him from his 
 native village ; the insula* which has been pro- 
 mised by his master to him, and which he does not 
 think of the less, because he does not know 
 what it is, and because he does know that it 
 has been promised by a madman. The contrasts, 
 perpetually afforded by the characters of Quix- 
 ote and Sancho, the contrasts not less remark- 
 able between the secondary objects and indivi- 
 duals introduced — as these are in rea,lity, and as 
 they appear to the hero, all the contrasts in a 
 
 * See Notes, Vol. n. p. 8. 
 
XCviji LIFE OF CBKVANTBS. 
 
 work where, more successfully than in any other, 
 the art of contrast has been exhibited, would 
 be comparatively feeble and ineffectual, but for 
 the never-failing contrast between the idea of 
 the book, and the style in which it is written. 
 Never was the fleeting essence of wit so richly 
 embalmed for eternity. 
 
 In our time, it is certain, almost all readers 
 must be contented to lose a great part of the de- 
 light with which Don Quixote was read on its 
 first appearance. The class of works, to parody 
 and ridicule which it was Cervantes' first and 
 most evident purpose, has long since passed into 
 almost total oblivion ; and therefore a thousand 
 traits of felicitous satire must needs escape the 
 notice even of those best able to seize the gene- 
 ral scope and appreciate the general merits of 
 the history of The Ingenious Hidalgo. Mr. 
 Southey's admirable editions of Amadis de Gaul, 
 and Palmerin of England, have indeed revived 
 among us something of the once universal taste 
 for the old and stately prose romance of chi- 
 valry ; but it must be had in mind that Cer- 
 vantes wrote his book for the purpose not of 
 satirizing these works, which are among the 
 most interesting relics of the rich, fanciful, and 
 lofty genius of the middle ages ; but of ex- 
 tirpating the race of slavish imitators, who, in 
 his day, were deluging all Europe, and more par- 
 
LIFE OF CERVAJSTTBS. xcix 
 
 ticularly Spain, with eternal caricatures of the 
 venerable old romance. Of the Amadis, (the 
 plan and outline of which he for the most part 
 parodied merely because it was the best known 
 work of its order,) Cervantes has been especial- 
 ly careful to record his own high admiration ; 
 and if the Canon of Toledo be introduced, as is 
 generally supposed, to express the opinions of 
 Cervantes himself, the author of Don Quixote 
 had certainly, at one period of his life, enter- 
 tained some thoughts of writing, not a humor- 
 ous parody, but a serious imitation, of the Amor 
 dis. 
 
 I shall conclude what I have to say of the 
 author of Don Quixote with one remark, name- 
 ly, That Cervantes was an old man when he 
 wrote his masterpiece of comic romance; that 
 nobody has ever written successful novels, when 
 young, but Smollett; and that Humphrey OUn- 
 Jeer, written in the last year of Smollett's life, is, 
 in every particular of conception, execution, and 
 purpose, as much superior , to Roderick Random^ 
 as Don Quixote is to the Galatea. 
 
 It remains to say a few words concerning this 
 new edition of the first of modern romances. 
 The translation is that of Motteux ; and this 
 has been preferred, simply because, in spite of 
 many defects and inaccuracies, it is by far the 
 most spirited. Shelton, the oldest of all our 
 
t LIFE OF CERVAISTTES. 
 
 translators, is the only one entitled to be com- 
 pared with Motteux. Perhaps he is even more 
 successful in imitating the " serious air " of Cer- 
 vantes ; but it is much to be doubted, whether 
 the English reader of our time would not be 
 more wearied with the obsolete turns of his 
 phraseology, than delighted with its occasional 
 felicities. 
 
 In the Notes appended to these volumes, an 
 ■attempt has been made to furnish a complete 
 explanation of the numerous historical allusions 
 in Don Quixote, as well as of the particular traits 
 in romantic writing, which it was Cervantes' 
 purpose to ridicule in the person of his hero. 
 Without having access to such information, as 
 has now been thrown together, it may be doubt- 
 ed whether any English reader has ever been 
 able thoroughly to seize and command the mean- 
 ing of Cervantes throughout his inimitable fic- 
 tion. From the Spanish editions of Bowie, Pel- 
 licer, and the Academy, the greater part of the 
 materials has been extracted ; but a very con- 
 siderable portion, and perhaps not the least in- 
 teresting, has been sought for in the old histo- 
 ries and chronicles, with which the Spaniards of 
 the 16th century were familiar. Of the many 
 old Spanish ballads, quoted or alluded to by Don 
 Quixote and Sancho Panza, metrical translations 
 have uniformly been inserted in the Notes ; and 
 
LIFE OF CERVANTES. CI 
 
 as by far the greater part of these compositions 
 are altogether new to the English puhUc, it is 
 hoped this part of the work may afford some 
 pleasure to those who. delight in comparing the 
 early literatures of the different nations of Christ- 
 endom. 
 
THE 
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE 
 
 TO 
 
 THE READER. 
 
 You may depend upon my bare word, reader, 
 without any farther security, that I could wish 
 this offspring of my brain were as ingenious, 
 sprightly, and accomplished, as yourself could 
 desire ; but the mischief on't is, nature will have 
 its course. Every production must resemble its 
 author, and my barren and unpolished under- 
 standing can produce nothing but what is very 
 dull, very impertinent, and extravagant beyond 
 imagination. You may suppose it the child of 
 disturbance, engendered in some dismal prison,* 
 where wretchedness keeps its residence, and 
 every dismal sound its habitation. Rest and 
 
 * The Author is said to have written this satirical romance in a 
 prison. 
 
 VOL. I. 1 * 
 
2 THE author's preface. 
 
 ease, a convenient place, pleasant fields and 
 groves, murmuring springs, and a sweet repose 
 of mind, are helps that raise the fancy, and im- 
 pregnates even the most barren muses with 
 conceptions 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 children for so many beau- 
 ties ; and the folly and impertinence of the brave 
 boy must pass upon their friends and acquaint- 
 ance for wit and sense. But I, who am only a 
 stepfather, disavow the authority of this modern 
 and prevalent custom ; nor will I earnestly be- 
 seech 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? You have a soul of your own, 
 and the privilege of free-wiU, whoever you be, 
 as well as the proudest he that struts in a gaudy 
 outside ; you are a king by your own fireside, 
 as much as any monarch on his throne ; you 
 have liberty and property, which set you above 
 favor or affection, and may therefore freely like 
 or dislike this history, according to your humor. 
 I had a great mind to have exposed it as 
 naked as it was born, without the addition of a 
 preface, or the numberless trumpery of com- 
 mendatory sonnets, epigrams, and other poems 
 
THE author's preface. O 
 
 that usually usher in the conceptions of authors ; 
 for I dare boldly say, that though I bestowed 
 some time in writing the book, yet it cost me 
 not half so much labor as this very preface. I 
 very often took up my pen, and as often laid it 
 down, and could not for my life think of any 
 thing to the purpose. Sitting once in a very 
 studious posture, with my paper before me, my 
 pen in my ear, my elbow on the table, and my 
 cheek on my hand, considering how I should be- 
 gin, a certain friend of mine, an ingenious gen- 
 tleman, and of a merry disposition, came in and 
 surprised me. He asked me what I was so very 
 intent and thoughtful upon? I was so free 
 with him as not to mince the matter, but told 
 him plainly I had been puzzling my brain for a 
 preface to Don Quixote, and had made myself 
 so uneasy about it, that I was now resolved to 
 trouble my head no further either with preface 
 or book, and even to let the achievements of 
 that noble knight remain unpublished ; for, con- 
 tinued I, why should I expose myself to the 
 lash of the old legislator, the vulgar? They 
 will say, I have spent my youthful days very 
 finely to have nothing to recommend my gray 
 hairs to the world, but a dry, insipid legend, 
 not worth a rush, wanting good language as 
 well as invention, barren of conceits or pointed 
 wit, and without either quotations in the mar- 
 
4 THE author's pkbfacb. 
 
 gin, or annotations at the end, which othei 
 books, though never so fabulous or profane, have 
 to set them oflf. Other authors can pass upon 
 the public by stuffing their books from Aris- 
 totle, Plato, and the whole company of ancient 
 philosophers, thus amusing their readers into a 
 great opinion of their prodigious reading. Plu- 
 tarch and Cicero are slurred on the public for as 
 orthodox doctors as St. Thomas, or any of the 
 fathers. And then the method of these moderns 
 is so wonderfully agreeable and full of variety, 
 that they cannot fail to please. In one line, 
 they will describe you a whining amorous cox- 
 comb, and the next shall be some dry scrap of 
 a homily, with such ingenious turns as cannot 
 choose but ravish the reader. Now I want all 
 these embellishments and graces ; I have neither 
 marginal notes nor critical remarks; I do not 
 so much as know what authors I follow, and 
 consequently can have no formal index, as it is 
 the fashion now, methodically strung on the let- 
 ters of the alphabet, beginning with Aristotle, 
 and ending with Xenophon, or Zoilus, or Zeuxis, 
 which last two are commonly crammed into the 
 same piece; though one of them was a famous 
 painter, and the other a saucy critic. I shall 
 want also the pompous preliminaries of com- 
 mendatory verses sent to me by the right honor- 
 able my Lord such a one, by the honorable the 
 
THE author's pkefacb. 5 
 
 Lady such a one, or the most ingenious Master 
 such a one ; though I know I might have them 
 at an easy rate from two or three brothers of 
 the quUl of my acquaintaince, and better, I am 
 sure, than the best quality in Spain can com- 
 pose. 
 
 In short, my friend, said I, the great Don 
 Quixote may lie buried in the musty records of 
 La Mancha, until providence has ordered some 
 better hand to fit him out as he ought to be ; 
 for I must own myself altogether incapable of 
 the task. Besides, I am naturally lazy, and 
 love my ease too well to take the pains of turn- 
 ing over authors for those things which I can 
 express as well without it. And these are the 
 considerations that made me so thoughtful when 
 you came in. The gentleman, after a long and 
 loud fit of laughing, rubbing his forehead, 0' 
 my conscience, friend, said he, your discourse 
 has freed me from a mistake that has a great 
 while imposed upon me. I always took you for 
 a man of sense, but now I am sufficiently con- 
 vinced to the contrary." What! puzzled at so 
 inconsiderable a trLQe ! a business of so little 
 difficulty confound a man of such deep sense 
 and searching thought, as once you seemed 
 to be ! 
 
 I am sorry, sir, that your lazy humor and 
 poor understanding should need the advice I am 
 
6 THE author's PKEFACE. 
 
 about to give you, wHch will presently solve 
 all your objections and fears concerning the pub- 
 lishing of the renowned Don Quixote, the lumi- 
 nary and mirror of all knight-errantry. Pray, 
 sir, said I, be pleased to instruct me in whatever 
 you think may remove my fears, or solve my 
 doubts. The first thing you object, replied he, 
 is your want of commendatory copies from per- 
 sons of figure and quality. There is nothing 
 sooner helped ; it is but taking a little pains in 
 writing them yourself, and clapping whose name 
 yau please to them. You may father them on 
 Prester John of the Indies, or on the emperor 
 of Trapizonde, whom I know to be most cele- 
 brated poets. But suppose they were not, and 
 that some presuming pedantic critics might 
 snarl, and deny this notorious truth, value it not 
 two farthings ; and though they should convict 
 you of forgery, you are in no danger of losing 
 the hand with which you wrote* them. 
 
 As to marginal notes and quotations from au- 
 thors for your history, it is but dropping here 
 and there some scattered Latin sentences that 
 you have already by rote, or may have with lit 
 tie or no pains. For example, in treating of 
 liberty and slavery, clap me in, 
 
 " Non henepro toto Ubertas venditur auro ; " 
 
 * He lost his left hand (vsqui&rda) in the sea-fight at Lepaoto 
 against the Turks. 
 
THE author's pkbfacb. 7 
 
 and, at the same time, make Horace, or some 
 other author, vouch it in the margin. If you 
 treat of the power of death, come round with 
 this close, 
 
 " Pallida mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, 
 Regumque turres." 
 
 If of loving our enemies, as heaven enjoins, you 
 may, if you have the least curiosity, presently 
 turn to the divine precept, and say, Uffo autem 
 dico vobis, diligite inimicos vestros ; or, if you dis- 
 course of bad thoughts, bring in this passage, 
 De corde exewii cogitationes malcB. If the uncer- 
 tainty of friendship be your theme, Cato offers 
 you his old couplet with all his heart, 
 
 ^^ Donee erisfelix mulios, numeraUs amicos, 
 Tempera sifuerint nubHa, solus eris." 
 
 And so proceed. These scraps of Latin will at 
 least gain you the credit of a great grammarian, 
 which, I'll assure you, is no small accomplish- 
 ment in this age. As to annotations or remarks 
 at the end of your book, you may safely take 
 this course. If you have occasion for a giant 
 in your piece, be snire you bring in Goliah, and 
 on this very Goliah (who will not cost you one 
 farthing) you may spin out a swingeing anno- 
 tation. You may say. The Giant Goliah, or 
 Goliat, was a Philistine, whom David the shep- 
 
8 THE author's PKBFACE. 
 
 herd slew with the thundering stroke of a peb- 
 ble in the valley of Terebinthus; vide Kings, 
 in such a chapter, and such a verse, where you 
 may find it written. If not satisfied with this, 
 you would appear a great humanist, and would 
 show your knowledge in geography, take some 
 occasion to draw the river Tagus into your dis- 
 course, out of which you may fish a most nota- 
 ble remark. The river Tagus, say you, was so 
 called from a certain king of Spain. It takes 
 its rise from such a place, and buries its waters 
 in the -ocean, kissing first the walls of the fa- 
 mous city of Lisbon ; and some are of opinion 
 that the sands of this river are gold, &c. If 
 you have occasion to talk of robbers, I can 
 presently give you the history of Cacus, for I 
 have it by heart. If you would descant upon 
 whores, or women of the town, there is the 
 Bishop* of Mondonedo, who can furnish you 
 with Lamia, Lais, and Flora, courtesans, whose 
 acquaintance will be very much to your reputa- 
 tion. Ovid's Medea can afford you a good ex- 
 ample of cruelty. Calypso from Homer, and 
 Circe out of Virgil, are famous instances of, 
 witchcraft or enchantment. Would you treSat 
 of valiant commanders ? Julius Caesar has writ 
 his commentaries on purpose ; and. Plutarch can 
 
 • Guevara. 
 
THE author's PKEFACE. & 
 
 furnish you with a thousand Alexanders. If 
 you would mention love, and have but three 
 grains of Italian, you may find Leon the Jew 
 ready to serve you most abundantly. But if 
 you would keep nearer home, it is but examin- 
 ing Fonseca of divine love, which you have here 
 in your study, and you need go no farther for 
 aU that can be said on that copious subject. Iq 
 short, it is but quoting these authors in your 
 book, and let me alone to make large annota- 
 tions. I 'U engage to crowd your margin suffi- 
 ciently, and scribble you four or five sheets to 
 boot at the end of your book ; and for the cita- 
 tions of so many authors, it is the easiest thing 
 in nature. Find out one of these books with 
 an alphabetical index, and without any farther 
 ceremony, remove it verbatim into your own ; 
 and though the world won't believe that you 
 have occasion for such lumber, yet there are fools 
 enough to be thus drawn into an opinion of the 
 work; at least, such a flourishing train of at- 
 tendants wiU give your book a fashionable air, 
 and recommend it to sale ; for few chapmen will 
 stand to examine it, and compare the authorities 
 upon the counter, since they can expect nothing 
 ' but their labor for their pains. But, after all, 
 sir, if I know any thing of the matter, you have 
 no occasion for any of these things; for your 
 subject being a satire on knight-errantry, is 
 
10 THE author's preface. 
 
 SO absolutely new, that neither Aristotle, St. 
 Basil, nor Cicero, ever dreamt or heard of it. 
 Those fabulous extravagances have nothing to 
 do with the impartial punctuality of true his- 
 tory; 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 business ; her you must consult, and the 
 closer you can imitate, your picture is the bet- 
 ter. And since this writing of your's aims at 
 no more than to destroy the authority and ac- 
 ceptance 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 
 Orations, 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 harmonious and pleasing turn to 
 your periods ; study to explain your thoughts, 
 and set them in the truest light, laboring, as 
 much as possible, not to leave them dark nor 
 intricate, but clear and intelligible. Let your 
 diverting stories be expressed in diverting 
 terms, 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 ig- 
 
THE author's preface. 11 
 
 norant, and admiration from the judicious ; to 
 secure your work from the contempt of the 
 graver sort, and deserve the praises of men of 
 sense ; keeping your eye stUl fixed on the prin- 
 cipal end of your project, the fall and destruc- 
 tion of that monstrous heap of ill-contrived 
 romances, which, though abhorred by many, 
 have so strangely infatuated the greater part 
 of mankind. Mind this, and your business is 
 done. 
 
 I listened very attentively to my friend's dis- 
 course, and found it so reasonable and convinc- 
 ing, that, without any reply, I took his advice, 
 and have told you the story by way of preface ; 
 wherein you may see, gentlemen, how happy I 
 am in so ingenious a friend, to whose season- 
 able counsel you are all obliged for the omission 
 of aJl this pedantic garniture in the history of 
 the renowned 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 those parts these many years. I will 
 not urge the service I have done you by intro- 
 ducing you into so considerable and noble a 
 knight's acquaintance, but only beg the favor 
 of some small acknowledgment for recommend- 
 ing you to the familiarity of the famous Sancho 
 Pan^a, his squire, in whom, in my opinion, you 
 
12 THE author's preface. 
 
 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 for- 
 get your humble servant. 
 
THE 
 
 LIFE AND ACHIEVEMENTS 
 
 OF THE RENOWNED 
 
 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 
 
 PART I. BOOK I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE QUALITY AND WAY OF LIVING OF THE RENOWNED 
 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 
 
 At a certain village in La Mancha,* of which I 
 cannot remember the name, there lived not long 
 ago one of those old-fashioned gentlemen, who are 
 never without a lance upon a rack, an old target, a 
 lean horse, and a greyhound. His diet consisted 
 more of beef than mutton ; and with minced meat 
 on most nights, lentiles on Fridays, griefs and groans 
 on Saturdays, and a pigeon extraordinary on Sun- 
 
 * A small territory, partly in the kingdom of Arragon, and 
 partly in Castile ; it is a liberty within itself, distinct from all the 
 country about. 
 
14 THE ACHIEvifflilBNTS^ 
 
 days, he consumed three quarters of his revenue; 
 the rest was laid out in a plush coat, velvet breeches, 
 with slippers of the same, for holidays ; and a suit 
 of the very best home-spun cloth, which he be- 
 stowed 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 reason- 
 ably conjecture, he was called Quixada, (that is, 
 lantern-jaws,) though this concerns us but little, 
 provided we keep strictly to the truth in every point 
 of this history. 
 
 You must know, then, that when our gentleman 
 had nothing to do, (which was almost all the year 
 round,) he past his time in reading books of knight- 
 errantry, which he did with that application and 
 delight, that at last he in a manner wholly left off 
 his country sports, and even the care of his estate; 
 nay, he grew so strangely besotted with these amuse- 
 ments, that he sold many acres of arable land to 
 purchase books of that kind, by which means hfe 
 collected as many of them as were to be had; but, 
 among them all, none pleased him like the works 
 of the famous Feliciano de Sylva ; for the clearness 
 of his prose, and those intricate expressions with 
 which it is interlaced, seemed to him so many pearla 
 of eloquence, especially when lie came to read the 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 15 
 
 challenges, and the amorous addresses, many of 
 them in this extraordinary style : " The reason of 
 your unreasonable usage of my reason, does so en- 
 feeble my reason, that I have reason to expostulate 
 with your beauty." And this, " The sublime hea- 
 vens, 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 the poor 
 gentleman's understanding, while he was breaking 
 his brain to unravel their meaning, which Aristotle 
 himself could never have found, though he should 
 have been raised from the dead for that very pur- 
 pose. 
 
 He did iiot so well like those dreadful wounds 
 which Don Belianis gave and received ; for he con- 
 sidered that all the art of surgery could never secure 
 his face and body from being strangely disfigured 
 with scars. However, he highly commended the 
 author for concluding his book with a promise to 
 finish that unfinishable adventure ; and many times 
 he had a desire to put pen to paper, and faithfully 
 and literally finish it himself; which he had cer- 
 tainly done, and doubtless with good suf^cess, had 
 not his thoughts been wholly engrossed in much 
 more important designs. 
 
 He would often dispute with the curate * of the 
 parish, a man of learning, that had taken his de- 
 grees at Giguenza, who was the better knight, Pal- 
 merin of England, or Amadis de Gaul ; but Master 
 
 * In Spain, the curate is the head priest in the parish, and he 
 that has the cure of souls. 
 
16 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 Nicholas, the barber of the same town, would say, 
 that none of them could compare with the Knight 
 of the Sun ; and that if any one came near him, 
 it was certainly Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis 
 de Gaul ; for he was a man of a most commodious 
 temper, neither was he so finical, nor such a puling 
 whining lover as his brother ; and as for courage, 
 he was not a jot behind him. 
 
 In fine, he gave himself up so wholly to the 
 reading of romances, that a-nights he would pore 
 on until it was day, and a-days he would read on 
 until it was night ; and thus by sleeping little, and 
 reading much, the moisture of his brain was ex- 
 hausted to that degree, that at last he lost the 
 use of his reason. A world of disorderly notions, 
 picked out of his books, crowded into his imagina- 
 tion ; and now his head was full of nothing but 
 enchantments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, 
 complaints, amours, torments, and abundaqce of 
 stuff and impossibilities; insomuch, that all the 
 fables and fantastical tales which he read, seeiilEd 
 to him now as true as the moslrauthentic histories. 
 He would say, that the Cid Ruydiaz was a very 
 brave knight) but not worthy to stand in compe- 
 tition with the Knight of the Burning-sword, who, 
 with a single back-stroke, had cut in sunder two, 
 fierce and mighty giants. He liked yet better Ber* 
 nardo del Carpio, who, at Roncesvalles, deprived 
 of life the enchanted Orlando, having lifted him 
 from the ground, and choked him in the air, as 
 Hercules did Anteeus, the son of the Earth. 
 
 As for the giant Morgante, he always spoke very 
 civil things of him ; for though he was one of that 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 17 
 
 monstrous brood, who ever were intolerably proud 
 and brutish, he still behaved himself like a civil 
 and weU-bred person. 
 
 But of all men in the world he admired Rinaldo 
 of Montalban, and particularly his sallying out of 
 his castle to rob all he met ; and then again when 
 abroad he canied away the idol of Mahomet, which 
 was all massy gold, as the history says ; but he so 
 hated that traitor Galalon, that for the pleasure of 
 kicking him handsomely, he would have given up 
 his housekeeper; nay, and his niece into the bar- 
 gain. 
 
 Having thus lost his understanding, he unluckily 
 stumbled upon the oddest fancy that ever entered 
 into a madman's brain ; for now he thought it con- 
 venient and necessary, as well for the increase of 
 his own honor, as the service of the public, to turn 
 knight-errant, and roam through the whole world, 
 armed cap-a-pie, and mounted on his steed, in 
 quest of adventures ; that thus imitating those 
 knight-errants of whom he had read, and follow- 
 ing their course of life, redressing all manner of 
 grievances, and exposing himself to danger on all 
 occasions, at last, after a happy conclusion of his 
 enterprises, he might purchase everlasting honor 
 and renown. Transported with these agreeable 
 delusions, the poor gentleman already grasped in 
 imagination the imperial sceptre of Trebizonde, 
 and, hurried away by his mighty expectations, he 
 prepares with all expedition to take the field. 
 
 The first thing he did was to scour a suit of 
 armor that had belonged to his great grandfather, 
 and had lain time out of mind carelessly rusting in 
 
 VOL. I. 2 
 
18 THE ACHIBVEMEINTS OF 
 
 a corner ; but when he had cleaned and repaired it 
 as well as he could, he perceived there was a mate- 
 rial piece wanting ; for, instead of a complete hel- 
 met, there was only a single head-piece. However, 
 his industry supplied that defect; for with some 
 I pasteboard he made a kind of half-beaver or vizor, 
 ' which, being fitted to the head-piece, made it look 
 like an entire helmet. Then, to know whether it 
 were cutlass-proof, he drew his sword, and tried its 
 edge upon the pasteboard vizor ; but with the very 
 first stroke he unluckily undid in a moment what, 
 he had been a whole week a-doing. He did not 
 like its being broke with so much ease, and there- , 
 fore, to secure it from the .like accident, he made it 
 a-new, and fenced it with thin plates of iron, which 
 he fixed on the inside of it so artificially, that at 
 last he had reason to be satisfied with the solidity 
 of the work; and so, without any further experi- 
 ment, he resolved it should pass to all intents and 
 purposes for a full and sufficient helmet. 
 
 The next moment he went to view his horse, 
 whose bones stuck out like the corners of a Spa- 
 nish real, being a worse jade than Gonela's, qui 
 tantum pellis et ossa fuit , however, his master 
 thought, that neither Alexander's Bucephalus, nor 
 the Cid's Babieca, could be compared with him. 
 He was four days considering what name to give • 
 him ; for, as he argued with himself, there was no 
 reason that a horse bestrid by so famous a knight, 
 and withal so excellent in himself, should not be 
 distinguished by a particular name ; and, therefore, 
 he studied to give him such a one as should de- 
 monstrate as well what kind of horse he had been 
 
BON QUIXOTE. 19 
 
 before his master was a knight-errant, as what he 
 was now ; thinking it but just, since the owner 
 changed his profession, that the horse should also 
 change his title, and be dignified with another ; a 
 good big word, such a one as should fill the mouth, 
 and seem consonant with the quality and profes- 
 sion of his master. And thus after many names 
 which he devised, rejected, changed, liked, disliked, 
 and pitched upon again, he concluded to call him 
 Rozinante;* a name, in his opinion, lofty, sound- 
 ing, and significant of what he had been before, 
 and also of what he was now ; in a word, a horse 
 before, or above, all the vulgar breed of horses in 
 the world. 
 
 When he had thus given his horse a name so 
 much to his satisfaction, he thought of choosing 
 one for himself; and having seriously pondered on 
 the matter eight whole days more, at last he deter- 
 mined to call himself Don Quixote. Whence the 
 author of this most authentic history draws this 
 inference, that his right name was Quixada, and 
 not Quesada, as others obstinately pretend. And 
 observing, that the valiant Amadis, not satisfied 
 with the bare appellation of Amadis, added to it the 
 name of his country, that it might grow more 
 famous by his exploits, and so styled himself Ama- 
 dis de Gaul; so he, like a true lover of his native 
 soU, resolved to caU himself Don Quixote de la 
 
 * Rozin commonly means an ordinary horse; ante signifies 
 before and formerly. Thus the word Kozinante may imply, 
 that he was formerly an ordinary horse, and also, that he is now 
 a horse that claims the precedence from all other ordinary 
 horses. 
 
30 THB ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 Mancha ; which addition, to his thinking, denoted 
 very plainly his parentage and country, and conse- 
 quently would fix a lasting honor on that part of 
 the world. 
 
 And now, his armor being scoured, his head- 
 piece improved to a helmet, his horse and himself 
 new named, he perceived he wanted nothing but 
 a lady, on whom he might bestow the empire of 
 his heart ; for he was sensible that a knight-errant 
 without a mistress, was a tree without either fruit 
 or leaves, and a body without a soul. Should I, 
 said he to himself, by good or ill fortune, chance to 
 encounter some giant, as it is common in knight- 
 errantry, and happen to lay him prostrate on the 
 ground, transfixed with my lance, or cleft in two, 
 or, in short, overcome him, and have him at my 
 mercy, would it not be proper to have some lady, 
 to whom I may send him as a trophy of my valor ? 
 Then when he comes into her presence, throwing 
 himself at her feet, he may thus make his humble 
 submission : " Lady, I am the giant Caraeuliam- 
 bro, lord of the island of Malindrania, vanquished 
 in single combat by that never-deservedly-enough- 
 extolled knight-errant Don Quixote de la Mancha, 
 who has commanded me to cast myself most hum- 
 bly at your feet, that it may please your honor to 
 dispose of me according to your will." Oh ! how 
 elevated was the knight with the conceit of this 
 imaginary submission of the giant; especially hav- 
 ing withal bethought himself of a person, on whom 
 he might confer the title of his mistress ! which, it 
 is believed, happened thus : Near the place where 
 he lived, dwelt a good likely country lass, for whom 
 
DON QtnXOTE. 21 
 
 he had formerly had a sort of an inclination, though, 
 it is believed, she never heard of it, nor regarded it 
 in the least. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and 
 this was she whom he thought he might entitle to 
 the sovereignty of his heart ; upon which he studied 
 to find her out a new name, that might have some 
 affinity with her old one, and yet at the same time 
 sound somewhat like that of a princess, or lady of 
 quality ; so at last he resolved to call her Dulcinea, 
 with the addition of del Toboso, from the place 
 where she was born ; a name, in his opinion, sweet, 
 harmonious, extraordinary, and no less significative 
 than the others which he had devised. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OP DON Quixote's fihst sally. 
 
 These preparations being made, he found his de- 
 signs ripe for action, and thought it now a crime to 
 deny himself any longer to the injured world, that 
 wanted such a deliverer ; the more when he con- 
 sidered what grievances he was to redress, what 
 wrongs and injuries to remove, what abuses to cor- , 
 rect, and what duties to discharge. So one morn- 
 ing before day, in the greatest heat of July, with- 
 out acquainting any one with his design, with all 
 the secrecy imaginable, he armed himself cap-a-pie, 
 laced on his ill-contrived helmet, braced on his tar- 
 get, grasped his lance, mounted Rozinante, and at 
 the private door of his back-yard saUied out into 
 the fields, wonderfully pleased to see with how 
 
22 THE Achievements of 
 
 much ease he had succeeded in the beginning of 
 his enterprise. But he had not gone far ere a terri- 
 ble thought alarmed him, a thought that had like 
 to have made him renounce his great undertaking ; 
 for now it came into his mind, that the honor of 
 knighthood had not yet been conferred upon him, 
 and therefore, according to the laws of chivalry, he 
 neither could, nor ought to appear in arms against 
 any professed knight ; nay, he also considered, that 
 though he were already knighted, it would become 
 him to wear white armor, and not to adorn his 
 shield with any device, until he had deserved one 
 by some extraordinary demonstration of his valor. 
 
 These thoughts staggered his resolution ; but his 
 folly prevailing 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 dis- 
 tracting romances informed him, had formerly done 
 the like. As for the other difficulty about wearing 
 white armor, he proposed to overcome it, by scour- 
 ing his own at leisure until it should look whiter 
 than ermine. And having thus dismissed 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 as he thus 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 ac- 
 count of this my early setting out : " Scsirce had 
 the ruddy-colored Phoebus begun to spread the 
 golden tresses of his lovely hair over the vast sur- 
 
BON QinXOTE. 23 
 
 face 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, disdaining soft repose, forsook the volup- 
 tuous down, and, mounting his famous steed Rozi- 
 nante, entered the ancient and celebrated plains 
 of Montiel." * This was indeed the very road he 
 took ; and then proceeding, " O happy age ! O for- 
 tunate times ! " cried he, " decreed to usher into the 
 world my famous achievements : achievements 
 worthy to be engraven on brass, carved on marble, 
 and delineated in some masterpiece of painting, as 
 monuments of my glory, and examples for poste- 
 rity! And thou, venerable sage, wise enchanter, 
 whatever be thy name ; thoii whom fate has or- 
 dained to be the compiler of this rare history, for- 
 get not, I beseech thee, my trusty Rozinante, the 
 eternal companion of all my adventures." After 
 this, as if he had been really in love : " O Princess 
 Dulcinea," cried he, "lady of this captive heart, 
 much sorrow and woe you have doonied me to in 
 banishing me thus, and imposing oh me your rigor- 
 ous commands, never to appear before your beaute- 
 ous face ! Remember, lady, that loyal heart your 
 
 * Montiel, a proper field to inspire courage, being the ground 
 upon which Henry the Bastard slew his legitimate brother Don 
 Pedro, whom our brave Black Prince Edward had set upon the 
 throne of Spain. 
 
24 THE ACHIBTBMBNTS OF 
 
 slave, who for your love submits to so many mise- 
 ries." To these extravagant conceits, he added a 
 world of others, all in imitation, and in the very 
 style of those, which the reading of romances had 
 furnished him with ; and aU this while he rode so 
 softly, and the sun's heat increased so fast, and was 
 so violent, that it would have been sufficient to 
 have melted his brains, had he had any left. 
 
 He travelled almost all that day without meeting 
 any adventure worth the trouble of relating, which 
 put him into a kind of despair; for he desired no- 
 thing more than to encounter immediately some 
 person on whom he might try the vigor of his arm. 
 
 Some authors say, that his first adventure was 
 that of the pass, called Puerto Lapice ; others, that 
 of the Wind- Mills ; but all that I could discover of 
 certainty in this matter, and that I meet with in the 
 annals of La Mancha, is, that he travelled all that 
 day ; and towards the evening, he and his horse 
 being heartily tired, and almost famished, Don 
 Quixote looking about him, in hopes to discover 
 some castle, or at least some shepherd's cottage, 
 there to repose and refresh himself, at last near the 
 road which he kept, he espied an inn, as welcome 
 a sight to his longing eyes as if he had discovered 
 a star directing him to the gate, nay, to the palace 
 of his redemption. Thereupon hastening towards 
 the inn with all the speed he could, he got thither 
 just at the close of the evening. There stood by 
 chance at the inn door two young female adventur- 
 ers, alias common wenches, who were going to 
 Seville with some carriers, that happened to take 
 up their lodging there that very evening; and, as 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 25 
 
 whatever our knight-errant saw, thought, or ima- 
 gined, was all of a romantic cast, and appeared to 
 him altogether after the manner of the books that 
 had perverted his imagination, he no sooner saw 
 the inn, but he fancied it to be a castle fenced with 
 four towers, and lofty pinnacles glittering with sil- 
 ver, together with a deep moat, draw-bridge, and 
 all those other appurtenances peculiar to such kind 
 of places. 
 
 Therefore when he came near it, he stopped a 
 while at a distance from the gate, expecting that 
 some dwarf would appear on the battlements, and 
 sound his trumpet to give notice of the arrival of 
 a knight ; but finding that nobody came, and that 
 Rozinante was for making the best of his way to 
 the stable, he advanced to the inn door, where spy- 
 ing the two young doxies, they seemed to him two 
 beautiful damsels, or graceful ladies, taking the be- 
 nefit of the fresh air at the gate of the castle. It 
 happened also at the very moment, that a swine- 
 herd getting together his hogs (for, without begging 
 pardon, so they are called*) from the stubble-field, 
 winded his horn ; and Don Quixote presently ima- 
 gined this was the wished-for signal, which some 
 dwarf gave to notify his approach ; therefore, with 
 the greatest joy in the world, he rode up to the inn. 
 The wenches, affrighted at the approach of a man 
 cased in iron, and armed with a lance and target, 
 
 * In the original, (jue sin perdon assi se Haman.') In this pa- 
 renthesis the author ridicules the affected delicacy of the Spa- 
 niards and Italians, who look upon it as ill manners to name 
 the word hog or swine, as too gross an image. 
 
26 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 were for running into their lodging ; but Don Quix- 
 ote perceiving their fear by their flight, lifted up the 
 pasteboard beaver of his helmet, and discovering 
 his withered, dusty face, with comely grace and 
 grave delivery, accosted them in this manner: "I 
 beseech ye, ladies, do not fly, nor fear the least of- 
 fence; the order of knighthood, which I profess, 
 does not permit me to countenance or offer injuries 
 to any one in the universe, and, least of all, to vir- 
 gins of such high ranii as your presence denotes." 
 The wenches looked earnestly upon him, endeavor- 
 ing to get a glimpse of his face, which his ill-con- 
 trived beaver partly hid; but when they heard 
 themselves styled virgins, a thing so out of the way 
 of their profession, they could not forbear laughing 
 outright, which Don Quixote resented as a great 
 affront. " Give me leave to tell ye, ladies," cried 
 he, " that modesty and civility are very becoming 
 in the fair sex ; whereas laughter without ground 
 is the highest piece of indiscretion ; however," 
 added he, " I do not presume to say this to offend 
 you, or incur your displeasure ; no, ladies, I assure 
 you, I have no other design but to do you service." 
 This uncommon way of expression, joined to the 
 knight's scurvy figure, increased their mirth, which 
 incensed 'him to that degree, that this might have 
 carried things to an extremity, had not the inn- 
 keeper luckily appeared at that juncture. He was 
 a man whose burden of fat inclined him to peace 
 and quietness, yet when he had observed such a 
 strange disguise of human shape in his old armor 
 and equipage, he could hardly forbear keeping the 
 wenches company in their laughter ; but having the 
 
BON QUIXOTE. 27 
 
 fear of such a warlike appearance before his eyes, 
 he resolved to give him good words, and therefore 
 accosted him civilly : " Sir Knight," said he, " if 
 your worship be disposed to alight, you will fail of 
 nothing here but of a bed ; as for all other accom- 
 modations, you may be supplied to your mind." 
 Don Quixote observing the humility of the governor 
 of the castle, (for such the innkeeper and inn 
 seemed to him,) " Senior Castellano," said he, " the 
 least thing in the world suffices me ; for arms are 
 the only things I value, and combat is my bed of 
 repose." The innkeeper thought he had called 
 him Castellano,* as taking him to be one of the 
 true Castilians, whereas he was indeed of Andalu- 
 sia, nay, of the neighborhood of St. Lucar, no less 
 thievish than Cacus, or less mischievous than a 
 truant-scholar, or court-page, and therefore he made 
 him this reply : " At this rate. Sir Knight, your bed 
 might be a pavement, and your rest to be still 
 awake ; you may then safely alight, and I dare as- 
 sure you, you can hardly miss being kept awake all 
 the year long in this house, much less one single 
 night." With that he went and held Don Quix- 
 ote's stirrup, who, having not broke his fast that 
 day, dismounted with no small trouble or difficulty. 
 He immediately desired the governor (that is, the 
 innkeeper) to have special care of his steed, assur- 
 ing him that there was not a better in the universe ; 
 upon which the innkeeper viewed him narrowly, 
 but could not think him to be half so good as Don 
 
 * Castellano signifies both a constable or governor of a castle, 
 and an inhabitant of the kingdom of Castile in Spain. 
 
28 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 Quixote said. However, having set him up in the 
 stable, he came back to the knight to see what he 
 wanted, and found him pulling off his armor by the 
 help of the good-natured wenches, who had already 
 reconciled themselves to him ; but though they had 
 eased him of his corselet and back-plate, they could 
 by no means undo his gorget, nor take off his ill- 
 contrived beaver, which he had tied so fast with 
 green ribbons, that it was impossible to get it off 
 without cutting them ; now he would by no means 
 permit that, and so was forced to keep on his hel- 
 met all night, which was one of the most pleasant 
 sights in the world ; and while his armor was taking 
 off by the two kind lasses, imagining them to be 
 persons of quality, and ladies of that castle, he very 
 gratefully made them the following compliment, (in 
 imitation of an old romance,) 
 
 " There never was on earth a knight 
 So waited on by ladies fair, 
 As once was he, Don Quixote hight, 
 When first he left his -village dear : 
 Damsels to undress him ran with speed, 
 And princesses to dress his steed." 
 
 O Rozinante ! for that is my horse's name, ladies, 
 and mine Don Quixote de la Mancha. I never, 
 thought to have discovered it, until some feats of 
 arms, achieved by me in your service, had made 
 me better known to your ladyships ; but necessity 
 forcing me to apply to present purpose that passage 
 of the ancient romance of Sir Lancelot, which I 
 now repeat, has extorted the secret from me before 
 its time ; yet a day will come, when you shall com- 
 
BON QUIXOTE. 29 
 
 mand, and I obey, and then the valor of my arm 
 shall evince the reality of my zeal to serve your 
 ladyships." 
 
 The. two females, who were not used to such rhe- 
 torical speeches, could make no answer to this; 
 they only asked him whether he would eat any 
 thing ? " That I wUl with all my heart," cried Don 
 Quixote, " whatever it be, for I am of opinion no- 
 thing can come to me more seasonably." Now, as 
 ill-luck would have it, it happened to be Friday, 
 and there was nothing to be had at the inn but 
 some pieces of fish, which is called abadexo in Cas- 
 tile, bacallao in Andalusia, curadillo in some places, 
 and in others truchuela, or little trout, though after 
 all it is but poor Jack ; so they asked him, whether 
 he could eat any of that truchuela, because they 
 had no other fish to give him. Don Quixote ima- 
 gining they meant a small trout, told them, " That, 
 provided there were more than one, it was the same 
 thing to him, they would serve him as well as a 
 great one ; for," continued he, " it is all one to me 
 whether I am paid a piece of eight in one single 
 piece, or in eight small reals, which are worth as 
 much. Besides, it is probable these small trouts 
 may be like veal, which is finer meat than beef; or 
 like the kid, which is better than the goat. In 
 short, let it be what it will, so it comes quickly ; for 
 the weight of armor and the fatigue of travel are 
 not to be supported without recruiting food." 
 Thereupon they laid the cloth at the inn door, for 
 the benefit of the fresh air, and the landlord brought 
 him a piece of that salt fish, but ill-watered, and as 
 ill-dressed ; and as for the bread, it was as mouldy 
 
30. THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 and brown as the, knight's armor. But it would 
 nave made one laugh to have seen him eat; for, 
 having his helmet on, with his beaver lifted up, it 
 was impossible for him to feed himself without 
 help, so that one of those ladies had that office ; but 
 there was no giving him drink that way, and he 
 must have gone without it, had not the innkeeper 
 bored a cane, and setting one end of it to his 
 mouth, poured the wine in at the other ; all which 
 the knight suffered patiently, because he would not 
 cut the ribbons that fastened his helmet. 
 
 While he was at supper, a sow-gelder happened 
 to sound his cane-trumpet, or whistle of reeds, four 
 or five times as he came near the inn, which made 
 Don Quixote the more positive of his being in a 
 famous castle, where he was entertained with music 
 at supper, that the poor jack was young trout, the 
 bread of the finest flour, the wenches great ladies, 
 and the innkeeper the governor of the castle, which 
 made him applaud hiniself for his resolution, and 
 his setting out on such an account. The only thing 
 that vexed him was, that he was not yet dubbed a 
 knight ; for he fancied he could not lawfully under- 
 take any adventure till he had received the order of 
 knighthood. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 31 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AN ACCOUNT OF THB PLEASANT METHOD TAKEN BY DON 
 QUIXOTE TO BE DUBBED A KNIGHT. 
 
 Don Quixote's mind being disturbed with that 
 thought, he abridged even his short supper ; and as 
 soon as he had done, he called his host, then shut 
 him and himself up in the stable, and falling at his 
 feet, " I wiU never rise from this place," cried he, 
 " most valorous knight, till you have graciously 
 vouchsafed to grant me a boon, which I will now 
 beg of you, and which will redound to your honor 
 and the good of mankind." The innkeeper, 
 strangely at a loss to find his guest at his feet, and 
 talking at this rate, endeavored to make him rise ; 
 but all in vain, till he had promised to grant him 
 what he asked. " I expected no less from your 
 great magnificence, noble sir," replied Don Quixote ; 
 " and therefore I make bold to tell you, that the 
 boon which I beg, and you generously condescend 
 to grant me, is, that to-morrow you will be pleased 
 to bestow the honor of knighthood upon me. This 
 night I wiU watch my armor in the chapel of your 
 castle, and then in the morning you shall gratify 
 me, as I passionately desire, that I may be duly 
 qualified to seek out adventures in every corner of 
 the universe, to relieve the distressed, according to 
 the laws of chivab-y, and the inclinations of knights- 
 errant like myself." The innkeeper, who, as I said, 
 was a sharp fellow, and had already a shrewd sus- 
 
32 THE ACHIBVBMBNTS OF 
 
 picion of the disorder in his guest's understanding, 
 was fully convinced of it, when he heard him talk 
 after this m^ner; and, to make sport that night, 
 resolved to humor him in his desires, telling him 
 he was highly to be commended for his choice of 
 such an employment, which was altogether worthy 
 a knight of the first order, such aa his gallant de- 
 portment discovered him to be : that he himself had 
 in his youth followed that honorable profession, 
 ranging through many parts of the world in search 
 of adventures, without so much as forgetting to 
 visit the *Percheles of Malaga, the isles of Eiaran, 
 the compass of Sevil, the quicksilver-house of Se- 
 govia, the olive field of Valencia, the circle of Gra- 
 nada, the wharf of St. Lucar, the potro of Cordova,| 
 the hedge-taverns of Toledo, and divers other 
 places, where he had exercised the nimbleness of 
 his feet, and the subtility of his hands, doing wrongs 
 in abundance, soliciting many widows, undoing 
 some damsels, bubbling young heirs, and in a word 
 making himself famous in most of the courts of 
 judicature in Spain, till at length he retired to this 
 castle, where he lived on his own estate and those 
 of others, entertaining all knights-errant of what 
 quality or condition soever, purely for the great 
 affection he bore them, and to partake of what they 
 got in recompense of his good will. He added), 
 that his castle at present had no chapel where the 
 
 * These are all places noted for rogueries and disorderly 
 doings. See Notes. 
 
 t A square in the city of Cordova, where a fountain gushes 
 out from the mouth of a horse, near which is also a whipping- 
 post The Spanish word Potro signifies a colt or young horse. 
 
DON QTJIXOTE. 33 
 
 knight might keep the vigil of his arms, it being 
 polled down in order to be new built ; but that he 
 knew they might lawfully be watched in any other 
 place in a case of necessity, and therefore he might 
 do it that night in the court-yard of the castle ; and 
 in the morning (God willing) all the necessary cere- 
 monies should be performed, so that he might as- 
 sure himself he should be dubbed a knight, nay, as 
 much a knight as any one in the world could be. 
 He then asked Don Quixote whether he had any 
 money ? " Not a cross," replied the knight, " for I 
 never read in any history of chivalry that any 
 knight-errant ever carried money about him." 
 " You are mistaken," cried the innkeeper ; " for, 
 admit the histories are silent in this matter, the 
 authors thinking it needless to mention things so 
 evidently necessary as money and clean shirts, yet 
 there is no reason to believe the knights went with- 
 out either ; and you may rest assured, that all the 
 knights-errant, of whom so many histories are full, 
 had their purses well lined to supply themselves 
 with necessaries, and carried also with them some 
 shirts, and a small box of salves to heal their 
 wounds ; for they had not the conveniency of sur- 
 geons to cure them every time they fought in fields 
 and deserts, unless they were so happy as to have 
 some sage or magician for their friend to give them 
 present assistance, sending them some damsel oi 
 dwarf through the air in a cloud, with a small bot- 
 tle of water of so great a virtue, that they no 
 sooner tasted a drop of it, but their wounds were 
 as perfectly cured as if they had never received 
 any. But when they wanted such a friend in for. 
 VOL. I. 3 
 
34 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 mer ages, the knights thought themselves Obliged 
 to take care that their squires should be provided 
 with money and other necessEuries, as lint and salves 
 to dress their wounds; and if those knights ever 
 happened to have no squires, which was but very 
 seldom, then they carried those things behind them 
 in a little bag,* as if it had been something of 
 greater value, and so neatly fitted to their saddle, 
 that it was hardly seen ; for had it not been upon 
 such an account, the carrying of wallets was not 
 much allowed among knights-errant. I must there- 
 fore advise you," continued he, " nay, I might even 
 charge and command you, as you are shortly to be 
 my son in chivalry, never from this time forwards 
 to ride without money, nor without the other neces^ 
 garies of which I spoke to you, which you will find 
 very beneficial when you least expect it." Don 
 Quixote promised to perform very punctually all 
 his injunctions ; and so they disposed every thing 
 in order to his watching his arms in a great yard 
 that adjoined to the inn. To which purpose the 
 knight, having got them all together, laid them in a 
 horse-trough close by a well in that yard; then 
 bracing his target, and grasping his lance, just as it 
 grew dark, he began to walk about by' the horse- 
 trough with a graceful deportment. In the mean- 
 while the innkeeper acquainted all those that were 
 in the house with the extravagances of his guest, 
 his watching his arms, and his hopes of being made 
 a knight. They all admired very much at so strange 
 
 * Of striped stuff, which every one carries, in Spain, when 
 they are travelling. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 35 
 
 a kind of folly, and went on to observe him at a 
 distance; where they saw him sometimes walk 
 about with a great deal of gravity, and sometimes 
 lean on his lance, with his eyes all the while fixed 
 upon his arms. It was now undoubted night, but 
 yet the moon did shine with such a brightness, as 
 might almost have vied with that of the luminary 
 which lent it her ; so that the knight was wholly 
 exposed to the spectators' view. While he was 
 thus employed, one of the carriers who lodged in 
 the inn came out to water his mules, which he could 
 not do without removing the arms out of the trough. 
 With that, Don Quixote, who saw him make to-, 
 wards him, cried out to him aloud, " O thou, who-- 
 ever thou art, rash knight, that prepares to lay thy 
 hands on the arms of the most valorous knight-eri 
 rant that ever wore a sword, take heed ; do not au- 
 daciously attempt to profane them with a touch, 
 lest instant death be the too sure reward of thy te^ 
 merity." But the carrier never regarded these 
 dreadful threats ; and laying hold on the armor by 
 the straps, without any more ado threw it a good 
 way from him ; though it had been better for him 
 to have let it alone; for Don Quixote no sooner 
 saw this, but lifting up his eyes to heaven, and ad- 
 dressing his thoughts, as it seemed, to his lady Dul- 
 cinea : "Assist me, lady," cried he, " in the first 
 opportunity that offers itself to your faithful slave ; 
 nor let your favor and protection be denied me in 
 this first trial of my valor ! " Repeating such like 
 ejaculations, he let slip his target, and lifting up his 
 lance with both his hands, he gave the carrier such 
 a terrible knock on his inconsiderate bead with his 
 
36 THE ACHIBVEMBNTS OF 
 
 lance, that he laid him at his feet in a woful con- 
 dition ; and had he backed that blow with another, 
 the fellow would certainly have had no need of a 
 surgeon. This done, Don Quixote took up his ar- 
 mor, laid it again in the horse-trough, and then 
 walked on backwards and forwards with as great 
 unconcern as he did at first. 
 
 Soon after another carrier, not knowing what had 
 happened, came also to water his mules,, while the 
 first yet lay on the ground in a trance ; but as he 
 offered to clear the trough of the armor, Don Quix^ 
 ote, without speaking a word, or imploring any 
 one's assistance, once more dropped his target, 
 lifted up his lance, and then let it fall so heavily on 
 the fellow's pate, that without damaging his lance, 
 he broke the carrier's head in three or four places. 
 His outcry soon alarmed and brought thither all the 
 people in the inn, and the landlord among the rest ; 
 which Don Quixote perceiving, " Thou Queen of 
 Beauty," cried he, bracing on his shield, and draWf 
 ing his sword, "thou courage and vigor of my 
 weakened heart, now is the time when thou must 
 enliven thy adventurous slave with the beams of 
 thy greatness, while this moment he is engaging in 
 so terrible an adventure ! " With this, in his opinion, 
 he found himself supplied with such an addition 
 of courage, that had all the carriers in the world at 
 once attacked him, he would undoubtedly have 
 faced them all. On the other side, the carriers, 
 enraged to see their comrades thus used, though 
 they were afraid to come near, gave the knight 
 such a volley of stones, that he was forced to shel- 
 ter himself as well as he could under the. covert of 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 37 
 
 his target, without daring to go far from the horse- 
 trough, lest he should seem to abandon his arms. 
 The innkeeper called to the carriers as loud as he 
 could to let him alone ; that he had told them al- 
 ready he was mad, and consequently the law would 
 acquit him, though he should kill them. Don 
 Quixote also made yet more noise, calling them 
 false and treacherous villains, and the lord of the 
 castle base and unhospitable, and a discourteous 
 knight, for suffering a knight-errant to be so abused. 
 " I would make thee know,'' cried he, " what a per- 
 fidious wretch thou art, had I but received the order 
 of knighthood ; but for you, base, ignominious rab- 
 ble ! fling on, do your worst ; come on, draw nearer 
 if you dare, and receive the reward of your indis- 
 cretion and insolence." This he spoke with so 
 much spirit and undauntediiess, that he struck a 
 terror into all his assailants ; so that, partly through 
 fear, and partly through the innkeeper's persuasions, 
 they gave over flinging stones at him ; and he, on 
 his side, permitted the enemy to carry off their 
 wounded, and then returned to the guard of his 
 arms as calm and composed as before. 
 
 The innkeeper, who began somewhat to disrelish 
 these mad tricks of his guest, resolved to despatch 
 him forthwith, and bestow on him that unlucky 
 knighthood, to prevent farther mischief; so coming 
 to him, he excused himself for the insolence of 
 those base scoundrels, as being done without his 
 privity or consent ; but their audaciousness, he said, 
 was sufficiently punished. He added, that he had 
 already told him there was no chapel in his castle ; 
 and that indeed there was no need of one to finish 
 
38 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 k 
 
 the rest of the ceremony of knighthood, which con« 
 sisted only in the application of the sword to the 
 neck and shoulders, as he had read in the register 
 of the ceremonies of the order ; and that this might 
 be performed as well in a field as any where else ; 
 that he had already fulfilled the obligation of watch-- 
 ing his arms, which required no more than two 
 hours' watch, whereas he had been four hours upon 
 the guard. Don Quixote, who easily believed him, 
 told him he was ready to obey him, and desired 
 him to make an end of the business as soon as pos- 
 sible, for if he were but knighted, and should see 
 himself once attacked, he believed he should not 
 leave a man alive in the castlcj except those whom 
 he should desire him to spare for his sake. 
 
 Upon this the innkeeper, lest the knight should 
 proceed to such extremities, fetched the book in 
 which he used to set down the carriers' accounts 
 for straw and barley ; and having brought with him 
 the two kind females, already mentioned, and a boy 
 that held a piece of lighted candle in his hand, he 
 ordered Don Quixote to kneel ; then reading in his 
 manual, as if he had been repeating some pious 
 oration, in the midst of his devotion he lifted up 
 his hand, and gave him a good blow on the neck» 
 and then a gentle slap on the back with the flat of 
 his sword, still mumbling some words between his 
 teeth in the tone of a prayer. After this, he order- 
 ed one of the wenches to gird the sword about the 
 knight's waist ; which she did with much solemnity, 
 and, I may add, discretion, considering how hard a 
 thing it was to forbear laughing at every circum- 
 stance of the ceremony ; it is true, the thoughts of 
 
DON QUIXOTE- 39 
 
 the knight's late prowess did not a little contribute 
 to the suppression of her mirth. As she girded on 
 his sword, " Heaven," cried the kind lady, " make 
 your worship a lucky knight, and prosper you 
 wherever you go." Don Quixote desired to know 
 her name, that he might understand to whom he 
 was indebted for the favor she had bestowed upon 
 him, and also make her partaker of the honor he 
 was to acquire by the strength of his arm. To 
 which the lady answered with all humility, that her 
 name was Tolosa, a cobbler's daughter, that kept a 
 stall among the little shops of Sanchobinaya at To- 
 ledo; and that whenever he pleased to command 
 her, she would be his humble servant. Don Quix- 
 ote begged of her to do him the favor to add here- 
 after the title of lady to her name, and for his sake 
 to be called from that time the Lady Tolosa ; which 
 she promised to do. Her companion having buckled 
 on his spurs, occasioned a like conference between 
 them; and when he had asked her name, she told 
 him she went by the name of Miller, being the 
 daughter of an honest miller of Antequera. Our 
 new knight entreated her also to style herself the 
 Lady Miller, making her new offers of service. 
 These extraordinary ceremonies (the like never 
 seen before) being thus hurried over in a kind of 
 post-haste, Don Quixote could not rest till he had 
 taken the field in quest of adventures; therefore^ 
 having immediately saddled his Rozinante, and 
 being mounted, he embraced the innkeeper, and re- 
 turned him so many thanks at so extravagant a 
 rate, for the obligation he had laid upon him in 
 dubbing him a knight, that it is impossible to give 
 
40 THE ACHIEVBMENTS OF 
 
 A trae relation of them all : to which the innkeeper, 
 in haste to get rid of him, returned as rhetorical 
 though shorter answers ; and without stopping his 
 horse for the reckoning, was glad with all his heart 
 to see him go. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WHAT BEFELL THE KNIGHT AFTER HE HAD LEFT THE INH. 
 
 AuKOKA began to usher in the morn, when Don 
 Quixote sallied out of the inn, so well pleased, so 
 gay^ and so overjoyed to find himself knighted, that 
 he' infused the same satisfaction into his horse, who 
 seemed ready to burst his girths for joy. But call- 
 ing to mind the admonitions which the innkeeper 
 had given him, concerning the provision of neces- 
 sary accommodation in his travels, particularly mo- 
 ney and clean shirts, he resolved to return home 
 to furnish himself with them, and likewise get him 
 a sqtiire, designing to entertain as such a laboring 
 man, his neighbor, who was poor, and had a charge 
 of children, but yet very fit for the office. With 
 this resolution, he took the road which led to his 
 own village ; and Rozinante, that seemed to know 
 his will by instinct, began to carry him a round trot 
 so briskly, that his heels seemed scarcely to touch 
 the ground. The knight had not travelled far, when 
 he fancied he heard an effeminate voice complain- 
 ing in a thicket on his right hand. " I thank Hea- 
 ven," said he, when he heard the cries, " for favor- 
 ing me so soon with an opportunity to perform the 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 41 
 
 duty of my profession, and reap the fruits of my 
 desire ! for these complaints are certainly the moans 
 of some distressed creature who wants my present 
 help." Then turning to that side with all the speed 
 which Rozinante could make, he no sooner came 
 into the wood, but he found a mare tied to an oak, 
 and to another a young lad about fifteen years of 
 age, naked from the waist upwards. This was he 
 who made such a lamentable outcry ; and not with- 
 out cause, for a lusty country-fellow was strapping 
 him soundly with a girdle, at every stripe putting 
 him in mind of a proverb. Keep your mouth shut, 
 and your eyes open, sirrah. " Good master," cried 
 the boy, " I'U do so no more ; as I hope to be sayed, 
 I'll never do so again ! indeed, master, hereafter I'll 
 take more care of your goods." Don Quixote see 
 ing this, cried in an angry tone, "Discourteous 
 knight, 'tis an unworthy act to strike a person who 
 is not able to defend himself : come, bestride thy 
 steed, and take thy lance," (for the farmer had some- 
 thing that looked like one leaning to the same tree 
 to which his mare was tied,) " then I'll make thee 
 know thou hast acted the part of a coward." The 
 country-fellow, who gave himself for lost at the 
 sight of an apparition in armor brandishing his 
 lance at his face, answered him in mild and sub- 
 missive words : " Sir knight," cried he, " this boy, 
 whom I am chastising, is my servant, employed by 
 me to look after a flock of sheep, which I have not 
 far off; but he is so heedless, that I lose some of 
 them every day. Now, because I correct him for 
 his carelessness or his knavery, he says I do it out 
 af covetousness, to defraud him of his wages ; but 
 
42 THE ACHIBVEMENTS OF 
 
 upon my life and soul he belies me." " What ! the 
 lie in my presence, you saucy clown," cried Don 
 Quixote ; " by the sun that shines, I have a good 
 mind to run thee through the body with my lance. 
 Pay the boy this instant, without any more words, 
 or, by the power that rules us all, I'll immediately 
 dispatch, and annihilate thee ; come, unbind him 
 this moment." The countryman hung down his 
 head, and without any further reply, unbound the 
 boy ; who being asked by Don Quixote what his 
 master owed him ? told him it was nine months' 
 wages, at seven reals a month. The knight having 
 cast it up, found it came to sixty-three reals in all ; 
 which he ordered the farmer to pay the fellow im- 
 mediately, unless he intended to lose his life that 
 very moment. The poor countryman, trembling 
 for fear, told him, that, as he was on the brink of 
 death, by the oath he had sworn, (by the by he had 
 not sworn at all,) he did not owe the lad so much ; 
 for there was to be deducted for three pair of shoes 
 which he had bought him, and a real for his being 
 let blood twice when he was sick. " That may be," 
 replied Don Quixote ; " but set the price of the 
 shoes and the bleeding against the stripes which 
 you have given him without cause ; for if he has 
 used the shoe-leather which you paid for, you have 
 in return misused and impaired his skin sufficiently ; 
 and if the surgeon let him blood when he was sick, 
 you have drawn blood from him now he is in health ; 
 so that he owes you nothing on that account." 
 " The worst is, sir knight," cried the farmer, " that 
 I have no money about me ; but let Andrew go 
 home with me, and I'U pay him every piece out of 
 
»0N QUIXOTE. 4? 
 
 hand." "What! I go home with him," cried the 
 youngster ; " the devil a-bit, sir! not I, truly, I know 
 better things ; for he'd no sooner have me by him- 
 self, but he'd flea me alive like another St. Bartho- 
 lomew." " He will never dare to do it," replied Don 
 Quixote ; " I command him, and that's sufficient to 
 restrain him ; therefore, provided he will swear by 
 the order of knighthood which has been conferred 
 upon him, that he will duly observe this regulation, 
 I will freely let him go, and then thou art secure of 
 thy money." " Good sir, take heed what you say," 
 cried the boy ; for my master is no knight, nor ever 
 was of any order in his life ; he's John Haldudo, the 
 rich farmer of Quintinar." " This signifies little," 
 answered Don Quixote, " for there may be knights 
 among the Haldudo's ; besides, the brave man 
 carves out his fortune, and every man is the son of 
 his own works." " That's true, sir," quoth Andrew ; 
 " but of what works can this master of mine be the 
 son, who denies me my wages, which I have earned 
 with the sweat of my brows ? " "I do not deny to 
 pay thee thy wages, honest Andrew," cried the mas- 
 ter ; '• be but so kind as go along with me, and 
 by all the orders of knighthood in the world, I 
 swear, I'll pay thee every piece, as I said, nay, and 
 perfumed to boot." * " You may spare your per- 
 fume," said Don Quixote ; " do but pay him in 
 reals, and I am satisfied ; but be sure you perform 
 
 * To pay or return a thing perfumed, is a Spanish expression, 
 signifying it shall be done to content or with advantage to the 
 receiver. It is used here as a satire on the effeminate custom 
 of wearing every thing perfumed, insomuch that the very money 
 in their pockets was scented. 
 
44 THE -ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 your oath ; for if you fail, I myself swear by the 
 same oath, to return and find you out, and punish 
 you, though you should hide yourself as close as a 
 lizard.^ And if you will be informed who it is that 
 lays these injunctions on you, that you may under- 
 stand how highly it concerns you to observe them, 
 know, I am the valorous Don Quixote de la Man- 
 cha, the righter of wrongs, the revenger and redresser 
 of grievances ; and so farewell ; but remember what 
 you have promised and sworn, as you will answer 
 the contrary at your peril." This said, he clapped 
 spurs to Rozinant«, and quickly left the master and 
 the man a good way behind him. 
 
 The countryman, who followed him with both 
 his eyes, no sooner perceived that he was passed 
 the woods, and quite out of sight, but he went back 
 to his boy Andrew. " Come, child," said he, " I will 
 pay thee what I owe thee, as that righter of wrongs, 
 and redresser of grievances has ordered me." " Ay," 
 quoth Andrew, " on my word, you will do well to 
 fulfil the commands of that good knight, who Hea- 
 ven grant long to live ; for he is so brave a man, 
 and so just a judge, that adad if you don't pay me, 
 he'll come back and make his words good." " I 
 dare swear as much," answered the master ; " and to 
 show thee how much I love thee, I am willing to 
 increase the debt, that I may enlarge the payment." 
 With that he caught the youngster by the arm, and 
 tied him again to the tree ; where he handled him 
 so unmercifully, that scarce any signs of life were 
 left in him. " Now call your righter of wrongs, Mr. 
 Andrew," cried the farmer, " and you shall see he 
 will never be able to undo what 1 have done ; though 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 45 
 
 I think it is but a part of what I ought to do, for I 
 have a good mind to flea you alive, as you said I 
 would, you rascal." However, he untied him at 
 last, and gave him leave to go and seek out his 
 judge, in order to have his decree put in execution, 
 Andrew went his ways, not very well pleased, you 
 may be sure, yet fully resolved to find out the valor- 
 ous Don Quixote de la Mancha, and give him an 
 exact account of the whole transaction, that he 
 might pay the abuse with sevenfold usury; in 
 short, he crept off sobbing and weeping, while his 
 master staid behind laughing. And in this manner 
 was this wrong redressed by the valorous Don Quix- 
 ote de la Mancha. 
 
 In the mean time, being highly pleased with him^ 
 self and what had happened, imagining he had given 
 a most fortunate and noble beginning to his feats 
 of arms, as he went on towards his village, " O 
 most beautiful of beauties," said he, with a low 
 voice, " Dulcinea del Toboso ! well may'st thou 
 deem thyself most happy, since it was thy good 
 fortune to captivate and hold a willing slave to thy 
 pleasure so valorous and renowned a knight as is, 
 and ever shall be, Don Quixote de la Mancha ; who, 
 as all the world knows, had the honor of knight- 
 hood bestowed on him but yesterday, and this day 
 redressed the greatest wrong and grievance that 
 ever injustice could design, or cruelty commit ; this 
 day has he wrested the scourge out of the hands of 
 that tormentor, who so unmercifully treated a ten- 
 der infant without the least occasion given." Just 
 as he had said this, he found himself at a place 
 where four roads met ; and this made him presently 
 
46 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 bethink of those cross-ways which often use to put 
 jknights-errant to a stand, to consult with themselves 
 which way they should take ; and that he might 
 follow their example, he stopped a while, and after 
 he had seriously reflected on the matter, gave Rozi- 
 nante the reins, subjecting his own will to that of 
 his horse, who, pursuing his first intent, took the 
 way that led to his own stable. 
 
 Don Quixote had not gone above two miles, but 
 he discovered a company of people riding towards 
 him, who proved to be merchants of Toledo, that 
 were going to buy silks in Murcia. They were six 
 in all, every one screened with an umbrella, besides 
 four servants on horseback, and three muleteers on 
 foot. The knight no sooner perceived them, but 
 he imagined this to be some new adventure ; and 
 because he was resolved to imitate as much as poSf 
 sible the passages which he read in his books, he 
 was pleased to represent this to himself as such a 
 particular adventure as he had a singular desire to 
 meet with ; and so, with a dreadful grace and as- 
 surance, fixing himself in his stirrups, couching his 
 lance, and covering his breast with his target, he 
 posted himself in the middle of the road, expecting 
 the coming up of the supposed knights-errant. As 
 soon as they came within hearing, with a loud voice 
 and haughty tone, " Hold," cried he, " let all man- 
 kind stand, nor hope to pass on further, unless all 
 mankind acknowledge and confess, that there is 
 not in the universe a more beautiful damsel than 
 the empress of La Mancha, the peerless Dulcinea 
 del Toboso." At those words the merchants made 
 a halt, to view the unaccountable figure of their 
 
DON QXJIXOTE. ' 4? 
 
 opponent ; and easily conjecturing, both by his ex» 
 pression and disguise, that the poor gentleman had 
 lost his senses, they were willing to understand the 
 meaning of that strange confession which he would 
 force from them; and therefore one of the com, 
 pany, who loved and understood raillery, having 
 discretion to manage it, undertook to talk to him. 
 " Signor cavalier," cried he, " we do not know this 
 worthy lady you talk of; but be pleased to let us 
 see her, and then if we find her possessed of those 
 matchless charms, of which you assert her to be the 
 mistress, we will freely, and without the least com- 
 pulsion, own the truth which you would extort from 
 us." " Had I once shown you that beauty," replied 
 Don Quixote, "what wonder would it be to ac- 
 knowledge so notorious a truth ? the importance of 
 the thing lies in obliging you to believe it, confess 
 it, aiErm it, swear it, and maintain it, without see* 
 ing her ; and therefore make this acknowledgment 
 this very moment, or know, that it is with me you 
 must join in battle, ye proud and unreasonable 
 mortals. Come one by one, as the laws of chivalry 
 require, or all at once, according to the dishonorable 
 practice of men of your stamp ; here I expect you 
 all my single self, and will stand the encounter, con- 
 fiding in the justice of my cause." " Sir knight," 
 replied the merchant, " I beseech you in the name 
 of all the princes here present, that for the dis- 
 charge of our consciences, which will not permit us 
 to affirm a thing we never heard or saw, and which, 
 besides, tends so much to the dishonor of the em- 
 presses and queens of Alcaria and Estramadura, 
 your worship will vouchsafe to let us see some per- 
 
48 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 traiture of that lady, though it were no bigger than 
 a grain of wheat ; for by a small sample we may 
 judge of the whole piece, and by that means rest 
 secure and satisfied, and you contented and ap-- 
 peased. Nay, I verily believe, that we all find our- 
 selves already so inclinable to comply with you, 
 that though her picture should represent her to be 
 blind of one eye, and distilling vermilion and brim- 
 stone at the other, yet to oblige you, we shall be 
 ready to say in her favor whatever your worship 
 desires." " Distil, ye infamous scoundrels," replied 
 Don Quixote in a burning rage, " distil, say you ? 
 know, that nothing distils from her but amber and 
 civet : neither is she defective in her make or-shape, 
 but more straight than a Guadaramian spindle. 
 But you shall all severely pay for the horrid blas: 
 phemy which thou hast uttered against the tran- 
 scendent beauty of my incomparable lady." Say^ 
 ing this, with his lance couched, he ran so furiously 
 at the merchant who thus provoked him, that, had 
 not good fortune so ordered it, that Rozinante 
 should stumble and fall in the midst of his career, 
 the audacious trifle^ had paid dear for his raillery ; 
 but as Rozinante fell, he threw down his master, 
 who rolled and tumbled a good way on the ground, 
 without being able to get upon his legs, though he 
 used all his skill and strength to effect it, so encum- * 
 bered he was with his lance, target, spurs, helmet, 
 and the weight of his rusty armor. However, in 
 this helpless condition, he played the hero with his 
 tongue : " Stay," cried he, " cowards, rascals, do not 
 fly ! it is not through my fault that I lie here, but 
 through that of my horse, ye poltroons ! " 
 
DON QTJIXOTB, , 49 
 
 One of the grooms, who was none of the best- 
 natured creatures, hearing the overthrown knight 
 thus insolently treat his master, could not bear it 
 without returning him an answer on his ribs ; and 
 therefore coming up to him as he lay wallowing, he 
 snatched his lance, and having broke it to pieces, 
 he so belabored Don Quixote's sides with one of 
 them, that, in spite of his arms, he thrashed him 
 like a wheat sheaf. His master indeed called to 
 him not to lay on him so vigorously, and to let him 
 alone ; but the fellow, whose hand was in, would 
 not give over rib-roasting the knight, till he had 
 tired out his passion and himself; and therefore 
 running to the other pieces of the broken lance, he 
 fell to it again without ceasing, till he had splinter- 
 ed them all on the knight's iron inclosure. He, on 
 his side, notwithstanding all this storm of bastina-. 
 does, lay all the while bellowing, threatening hea- 
 ven and earth, and those villanous ruffians, as he 
 took them to be. At last the mule-driver was tired, 
 and the merchants pursued their journey, suffi- 
 ciently furnished with matter of discourse at the 
 poor knight's expense. When he found himself 
 alone, he tried once more to get on his feet ; but if 
 he could not do it when he had the use of his limbs, 
 how should he do it now, bruised and battered as 
 he was ? But yet for all this, he esteemed himself 
 a happy man, being still persuaded, that his misfor- 
 tune was one of those accidents common in knight- 
 errantry, and such a one as he could wholly attribute 
 to the falling of his horse ; nor could he possibly 
 get up, so sore and mortified as his body was all 
 ovgr. 
 
 VOL. I. 4 
 
50 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A FUETHEB ACCOUNT OF OXIB KNIGHT's MISFOKIIJlfEa. 
 
 Don Quixote, perceiving that he was not able to 
 stir, resolved to have recourse to his usual remedy, 
 which was to bethink himself what passage in his 
 books might afford him some comfort; and pre- 
 sently his folly brought to his remembrance the 
 story of Baldwin and the Marquis of Mantua, when 
 Chariot left the former wounded on the mountain ; 
 a story learned and known by little children, not 
 unknown to young men and women, celebrated, and 
 even believed by the old, and yet not a jot more 
 authentic than the miracles of Mahomet. This 
 seemed to him as if made on purpose for his present 
 circumstances, and therefore he fell a rolling and 
 tumbling up and down, expressing the greatest pain 
 and resentment, and breathing out, with a languish- 
 ing 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 
 I'omance, till he came to these verses: 
 
 " O thou, my uncle and my prince, 
 " Marquis of Mantua, noble lord ! " — 
 
 When kind fortune so ordered it, that a plough- 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 51 
 
 man, 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 com- 
 plaint. Don Quixote, whose distempered brain pre- 
 sently represented to him the countryman for the 
 Marquis of Mantua, his imaginary uncle, made him 
 no answer, but went on with the romance, giving 
 him an account of his misfortunes, and of the loves 
 of his wife and the emperor's son, just as the book 
 relates them. The fellow stared, much amazed to 
 hear a man talk such unaccountable stuff; and tak- 
 ing 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 pre- 
 sently knew the gentleman. "Master Quixada!" 
 cried he, (for so he was properly called when he had 
 the right use of his senses, and had not yet from a 
 sober gentleman transformed himself into a wander- 
 ing knight,) " how came you in this condition ? " 
 But the other continued his romance, and made no 
 answers to all the questions the countryman put to 
 him, but what followed in course in the book ; which 
 the good man perceiving, he took off the battered 
 adventurer's armor, as well as he could, and fell a 
 searching for his wounds ; but finding no signs 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 having tied 
 
52 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 them up, and laid them on Rozinante, which he 
 took by the bridle, and his ass by the halter, he led 
 them all towards the village, and trudged a-foot 
 himself, very pensive, while he reflected on the ex- 
 travagances 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 ima- 
 gined the devil prompted him with stories, that had 
 some resemblance of his circumstances ; for in that 
 instant, wholly forgetting Baldwin, he bethought 
 himself of the Moor Abindaraez, whom Rodrigo 
 de Narvaez, Alcayde of Antequera, took and car- 
 ried prisoner to his castle ; so that when the hus- 
 bandman 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 ad- 
 venture is related ; applying it so properly to his 
 purpose, that the countryman wished himself at the 
 devil rather than within the hearing of such strange 
 nonsense ; and being now fully convinced that hi^ 
 neighbor'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 mean time, 
 thus went on : " You must know, Don Rodrigo de 
 Narvaez, that this beautiful Xerifa, of whom I gave 
 you an account, is at present the most lovely Dul- 
 cinea del Toboso, for whose sake I have done, still 
 
DON QUIXOTE. (SSj 
 
 do, and will achieve the most famous deeds of chi« 
 vahry that ever were, are, or ever shall be seen in 
 the universe." " Good sir," replied the husband- 
 man, " as I am a sinner, I am not Don Rodrigo de 
 Narvaez, nor the Marquis of Mantua, but Pedro 
 Alonzo by name, your worship's neighbor ; nor are 
 you Baldwin, nor Abindaraez, but only that worthy 
 gentleman Senior Quixada." " I know very well 
 who I am," answered Don Quixote ; " and what's 
 more, I know, that I may not only be the persons I 
 have named, but also the twelve peers of France, - 
 nay, and the nine worthies all in one ; since my 
 achievements will outrival not only the famous ex- 
 ploits which made any of them singly illustrious, 
 but all their mighty deeds accumulated together." 
 
 Thus discoursing, they at last got near their vil- 
 lage about sunset; but the countryman staid at 
 some distance till it was dark, that the distressed 
 gentleman might not be seen so scurvUy mounted ; 
 and then he led him home to his own house, which 
 he found in great confusion. The curate and the 
 barber of the village, both of them Don Quixote's 
 intimate acquaintance, happened to be there at that 
 juncture, as also the house-keeper, who xvas arguing 
 with them : « What do you think, pray, good doc- 
 tor 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 curs- 
 ed books of errantry, which he used to be always 
 poring upon, have set him besides his senses ; for 
 
54 THE ACHIBVBMBNTS OF 
 
 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 ad- 
 ventures. May Satan and Barabbas e'en take 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, 
 Mr. Nicholas," quoth she, (for that was his name,). 
 " that many times my uncle would read you those 
 unconscionable books of disventures for eight-and- 
 forty hours together; then away he would throw 
 you his book, and, drawing his sword, he would fall 
 a fencing against the walls ; and when he had tired 
 himself with cutting and slashing, he would cry he 
 had killed four giants as big as any steeples ; and 
 the sweat which he put himself into, he would say 
 was the blood of the wounds he had received in 
 the fight; then would he swallow you a huge jug 
 of cold water, and presently he would be as quiet 
 and as well as ever he was in his life ; and he said, 
 that this same water was a sort of precious drink 
 brought him by the sage Esquife, a great magician, 
 and his special friend. Now, it is I who am the 
 cause of all this mischief, for not giving you timely 
 notice of my uncle's raving, that you might have 
 put a stop to it, ere it was too late, and have burnt 
 all these excommunicated books ; for there are I do 
 not know how many of them that deserve as much 
 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 
 
DON QUIXOTE. '55 
 
 such as would read them, to be perverted after the 
 example of my good friend." 
 , The countryman, who, with Don Quixote, stood 
 without, listening to all this discourse, now per- 
 fectly understood 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 Baldwin, and the Lord Marquis 
 of Mantua, who is coming sadly wounded ; and for 
 the Moorish Lord Abindaraez, whom the valorous 
 Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, 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, be- 
 cause indeed he was not able, they all ran to em- 
 brace 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 possi- 
 ble let the enchantress Urganda be sent for to cure 
 my wounds." " Now, in the name of mischief," 
 quoth the housekeeper, " 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 chivahry 
 that have put you in this pickle." Thereupon they 
 carried him to his bed, and searched for his wounds., 
 but could find none ; and then he told them he was 
 only bruised, having had a dreadful fall from his 
 horse Rozinante, while he was fighting ten giants, 
 
56 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 the most outrageous and audacious that ever could 
 DC found upon the face of the earth. " How," 
 cried the curate, " have we giants too in the dance ? 
 nay then, by the holy sign of the cross, I will burn 
 them all by to-morrow night." Then did they ask 
 the Don a thousand questions, but to every one he 
 made no other answ'er, but that they should give 
 him something to eat, and then leave him to his re- 
 pose, a thing which was to him of the greatest im- 
 portance. They complied with his desires; and 
 then the curate informed himself at large in what 
 condition the countryman had found him ; and hav- 
 ing had a full account of every particular, as also 
 of the knight's extravagant talk, both when the fel- 
 low 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 
 he called upon his friend, Mr. Nicholas the barber, 
 and went with him to Don Quixote's house. 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 OF THE PLEASANT AND CUEIOrS SCEUTINY WHICH THE 
 CUEATE AND THE BAEBER MADE OF THE LIBEAEY 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 author of his woes ; she readily 
 consented ; and so in they went, and the house- 
 keeper with them. There they found above an ^ 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 57 
 
 nundred large volumes neatly bound, and a good 
 number of small ones ; as soon as the house- 
 keeper had spied them out, she ran out of the study, 
 and returned immediately with a holy-water pot 
 and a sprinkler; " Here, doctor," cried she, "pray 
 sprinkle every creek and corner in the room, lest 
 there should lurk in it some one of the many sor- 
 cerers these books swarm with, who might chance 
 to bewitch us, for the ill-will we bear them, in going 
 about to send them out of the world." The curate 
 could not forbear smiling at the good woman's sim- 
 plicity; 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, some how or other, to 
 crack my uncle's brain. I fancy we had best throw 
 them all out at the window in the yard, and lay 
 them together in a heap, and then set them 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 proceed- 
 ings, and resolved first to read at least the title-page 
 of every book. 
 
 The first that Mr. Nicholas put into his hands, 
 was Amadis de Gaul, in four volumes.* " There 
 
 * Hence it appears, that only the first four books of Amadis 
 were thought genuine by Cervantes. The subsequent volumes, 
 to the number of twenty-one, are condemned hereby as spurious. 
 
58 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 seems to be some mystery in this book's being the 
 first taken down," cried the curate, as soon as he 
 had looked upon it, " for I have heard it is the first 
 book of knight-errantry that ever was printed in 
 Spain, and the model of all the rest ; and therefore 
 I am of opinion, that, as the first teacher and author 
 of so pernicious a sect, it ought to be condemned 
 to the fire without mercy." " I beg a reprieve for 
 him," cried the barber, " for I have been told 'tis the 
 best book that has been written in that kind; and 
 therefore, as the only good thing of that sort, it may 
 deserve a pardon." " Well, then," replied tl>e cu- 
 rate, " for this time let him have it. Let's see that 
 other, which lies next to him." " These," said the 
 barber, " are the exploits of Esplandian, the lawful 
 begotten son of Amadis de Gaul." " Verily," said 
 the curate, " the father's goodness shall not excuse 
 the want of it in the son. Here, good mistress 
 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 bar- 
 ber, "is Amadis of Greece; and I'm of opinion 
 thai 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 con- 
 founded unintelligible discourses of the author, I 
 think I should burn my own father along with theiri, 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 59 
 
 if I met him in the disguise of a knight-errant." 
 ■' I am of your mind," cried the barber. " And I 
 too," said the niece. " Nay, then," quoth the old 
 female, " let them come, and down with them all 
 into the yard." They were delivered to her accord- 
 ingly, 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," re- 
 turned the barber. " The same author wrote the 
 Garden of Flowers ; and, to deal ingenuously with 
 you, I cannot tell which of the two books has most 
 truth in it, or, to speak more properly, less lies ; bat 
 this I know for certain, that he shall march into the 
 back-yardj like a nonsensical arrogant blockhead as 
 he is." 
 
 " The next," cried the barber, " is Florismart of 
 Hyrcania." " How ! my Lord Florismart, is he 
 here ? " replied the curate ; " nay then truly, he shall 
 e'en follow the rest to the yard, in spite of his won- 
 derful birth and incredible adventures; for his 
 rough, dull, and insipid style deserves no better 
 usage. Come, toss him into the yard, and this other 
 too, good mistress." " With all my heart," quoth 
 the governess ; 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 him, without any more words ; " 
 and down he went accordingly. 
 
 Another book was opened, and it proved to be 
 
60 THE ACHIEVEMBNTS OF 
 
 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 Rinaldo 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 condemning 
 them to perpetual banishment, at least because 
 their story contains something of the famous Boy- 
 ardo's invention, out of which the Christian poet 
 Ariosto also spun his web ; yet, if I happened 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 pri- 
 mitive graces; a misfortune incident to all those 
 who presume to translate 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 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 61 
 
 this book, but likewise all those which we shall find 
 nere, treating of French affairs,* laid up and depo- 
 sited in some dry vault, till we have maturely de- 
 termined what ought to be done with them ; yet 
 give me leave to except one Barnardo del Carpio, 
 that must be somewhere here among the rest, and • 
 another called Roncesvalles ; for whenever I meet 
 with them, I will certainly deliver them up into the 
 hands of the housekeeper, who shall toss them into 
 the fire." The barber gave his approbation to 
 every particular, 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 
 Palmerin de Oliva, and the next to that Palmerin 
 of England. " Ha ! have I found you ! " cried the 
 curate. " HerCj 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 inclose 
 Homer's works : for I must tell you, neighbor, that 
 book deserves particular respect for two things ; 
 first, for its own excellences ; and, secondly, for the 
 sake of its author, who is said to have been a 
 learned king of Portugal ; then all the adventures 
 of the castle of Miraguarda are well and artfully 
 managed, the dialogue very courtly and clear, and 
 the decorum strictly observed in equal character, 
 
 * Meaning those romances, the scene of which lay in France, 
 onder Charlemagne and the Palatins. 
 
62 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 with equal propriety and judgment. Therefore,' 
 Master Nicholas," continued he, " with submission 
 to your better advice, this and Amadis de Gaul 
 shall be exempted from the fire ; and let all the rest 
 be condemned without any further inquiry or exami- 
 nation." " 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 parts, 
 had need of a dose of rhubarb to purge his exces- 
 sive 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 
 benefit of a reprieve ; and as they show signs of 
 amendment, so shall mercy or justice be used to- 
 wards them ; in the mean time, neighbor, take them 
 into custody, and keep them safe at home ; but let 
 none be permitted to converse with them." " Con- 
 tent," 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 ; so that laying hold of no 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 thE|,n 
 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 , 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 63 
 
 the White here ? oh ! pray good neighbor give it 
 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 Plazerde- 
 mivida, with the loves and guiles of the widow 
 Reposada ; 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 foolish things, the wor- 
 thy 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-er- 
 rantry, they are too small ; you'll find they are only 
 poets." And so opening one, it happened to be 
 the Diana of Montemayor ; which made him say, 
 (believing all the rest to be of that stamp,) " These 
 do not deserve to be punished like the others, for 
 they neither have done, nor can do, that mischief 
 
64 THE ACHIEVEMBNTS 01 
 
 which those stories of chivalry have done, being 
 generally ingenious books, that can do nobody any 
 prejudice." " Oh ! good sir," cried the niece, " burn 
 them with the rest, I beseech you ; for should my 
 uncle get cured of his knight-errant frenzy, and 
 betake himself to the reading of these books, we 
 should have him turn shepherd, and so wander 
 through the woods and fields ; nay, and what 
 would be worse yet, turn poet, which they say is a 
 catching and an incurable disease." "The. gentle- 
 woman is in the right," said the curate, " and it 
 will not be amiss ttJ 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 en^^ 
 chanted 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 the 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 Sar- 
 dinian poet." " Now, by my holy orders," cried 
 the curate, " I do not think since Apollo was Apol- 
 lo, the muses muses, and the poets poets, there ever 
 was a more comical, more whimsical book I Of all 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 65 
 
 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 any thing 
 that was pleasant. Give it me, neighbor," conti- 
 nued 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 satisfaction, 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, jailer," quoth the curate, 
 " and never ask me why, for then 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 a 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, be- 
 cause 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 Maldohardo," 
 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 next book ? " " The Galatea of 
 voi^ ' 5 
 
66 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 Miguel de Cervantes," replied the barber. " That 
 Cervantes has been my intimate acquaintance these 
 many years," cried the curate ; " and I know he haa 
 been more conversant with misfortunes than with 
 poetry. His book indeed has I don't know what 
 that looks like a good design ; he aims at some- 
 thing, but concludes nothing; therefore we must 
 stay for the second part, which he has promised 
 us ; * perhaps he may make us amends, and obtain 
 a full pardon, which is denied him for the present ; 
 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 Ereilla, the Austirada of Juan Ruffo, 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 
 performance 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 dread- 
 ful sentence was past. " Truly," said the curate, 
 who saw by the title it was the Tears of Angelica, 
 " I should have wept myself, had I caused such 2l 
 book to share the condemnation of the rest ; for the 
 
 * Cervantes never performed this promise, 
 t In the ori^nal, a Carga Cerrada, (inside and contents un- 
 known,) a mercantile phrase used in their bills of lading. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 67 
 
 author was not only one of the best poets in Spain, 
 but in the whole world, and translated some of 
 Ovid's fables with extraordinary success." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 DON QUIXOTE'S SECOND SALLY IN QUEST OP ADVENTURES. 
 
 While they 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 exami- 
 nation 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, 
 without any legal trial ; a fate which perhaps they 
 might have escaped, had the curate been there to 
 have weighed what might have been urged in their 
 defence. 
 
 When they came into Don Quixote's chamber, 
 they found him risen out of 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 ; 
 
68 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 where, after he was somewhat quiet and settled, 
 turning himself to the curate, " Certainly," cried he, 
 " my Lord Archbishop Turpin, 'tis a great dishonor 
 to us who are called the twelve peers, to suffer the 
 knights of the court to bear away the honor of the 
 tournament without any further opposition, after 
 we the knight adventurers had carried it for three 
 days before." " Be pacified, my good friend," re- 
 plied 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 your 
 health, for doubtless you must needs be now ex- 
 tremely tired, if not very much wounded." "Wound- 
 ed!" replied Don Quixote, " no ; but as for being 
 bruised, I will not deny it, for that base-born knight 
 Don 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 Rinaldo of .Montalban, if, in spite 
 of his enchantments, 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 1 
 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 they left him, all of them 
 strangely amazed at his uncommon 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 everlast- 
 ing archives, had not their fate and the remissness 
 of the inquisitors ordered it otherwise. Arid thus 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 69 
 
 they verified the proverb, That the good often fare 
 the worse for the bad. 
 
 One of the expedients which the curate and the 
 barber thought themselves of, in order to their 
 friend's recovery, was to stop up the door of the 
 room where his books lay, that he might not find 
 it, nor miss them when he rose ; for they hoped the 
 efl'ect would cease when they had taken away the 
 cause ; and they ordered, that if he inquired about 
 it, they should tell him, that a certain 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 fit 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 now, for the devil is run away with them 
 all." " No, 'twas not the devil," said the niece, " but 
 a conjurer, or an enchanter, as they call them, who, 
 since you went, came hither one night mounted on 
 a dragon on the top 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 
 
70 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 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 Fres- 
 ton, 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, there- 
 fore 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 niece ; 
 " 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 rambKng 
 up and down like a vagabond, and seeking for bet- 
 ter bread than is made of wheat, without once so 
 much as considering, that many go to seek wool, 
 and come home shorn themselves." " Oh, good 
 niece," replied Don Quixote, " how ill thou under- 
 standest these matters ! know, that before I will suf- 
 fer myself to be shorn, I will tear and pluck off the 
 beards of all those audacious mortals that shall at- 
 tempt to profane the tip of one single hair within 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 71 
 
 the verge of these moustaches." To this neither 
 the niece nor the governess 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 de- 
 sire 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 maintained, that there was nothing the 
 world stood so much in need of as knights-errant ; 
 wherefore he was resolved to revive the order; in 
 which disputes, Mr. Curate sometimes contradicted 
 him, and sometimes submitted ; for had he not now 
 and then given way to his fancies, there would have 
 been no conversing with him. 
 
 In the mean time Don Quixote 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 promises, 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 Quixote forgot 
 not to tell him, that it was likely such an adventure 
 would present itself, as might secure him the con- 
 quest 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 
 
72 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 of the fellow) forsook his wife and children to be 
 his neighbor's squire. 
 
 This done, Don Quixote made it his business to 
 furnish himself with money ; to which purpose, sell- 
 ing one house, mortgaging another, and losing by 
 ail, he at last got a pretty good sum together. He 
 also borrowed a target of a friend, and having 
 patched up his head-piece and beaver as well as he 
 could, he gave his squire notice of the day and hour 
 when he intended to set out, that he might also fur- 
 nish 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 remem- 
 ber any precedent for it; however, he gave him 
 leave at last to bring his ass, hoping to mount him 
 more honorably with the first opportunity, by un- 
 horsing the next discourteous knight he should 
 meet. He also furnished himself with shirts, and 
 as many other necessaries as he could conveniently 
 carry, according to the innkeeper's injunctions. 
 Which being done, Sancho Panza, without bid- 
 ding either his wife or children good-by ; and Don 
 Quixote, without taking any more notice of his 
 housekeeper or of his niece, stole out of the village 
 one night, nor so much as suspected by any body, 
 and made such haste, that by break of day they 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 73 
 
 thought themselves out of reach, should they hapr 
 pen to be pursued. As for Sancho Panza, he rode 
 like a patriarch, with his canvas knapsack, or wal- 
 let, and his leathern* bottle, having a huge desire to 
 see himself governor of the island, which his mas- 
 ter had promised him. 
 
 Don Quixote happened to strike into the same 
 road which he took the time before, that is, the 
 plains of Montiel, over which he travelled with less 
 inconvenience than when he went alone, by reason 
 it was yet early in the morning ; at which time the 
 sunbeams being almost parallel 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 knighti 
 errant," quoth Sancho to his master, " be sure you 
 don't forget what you promised me about the 
 island ; for I dare say I shall make shift to govern 
 it, let it be never so big." " You must know, friend 
 Sancho," replied Don Quixote, " that it has been 
 the constant practice of knights-errant in former 
 ages, to make their squires governors of the islands 
 or kingdoms they conquered; now I am not only 
 resolved to keep up that laudable custom, but even 
 to improve it, and toutdo my predecessors in gene- 
 rosity ; for whereas sometimes, or rather most com- 
 monly, 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 pro- 
 vince, of great or small extent ; now, if thou and I 
 do but live, it may happen, that before we have 
 
74 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 passed six days together, I may conquer some king- 
 dom, having many other kingdoms annexed to its 
 imperial crown ; and this would fall out most luck- 
 ily for thee ; for then would I presently crown thee 
 king of one of them. Nor do thou imagine this to 
 be a mighty matter ; for so strange accidents and 
 revolutions, so sudden and so unforeseen, attend the 
 profession of chivalry, that I might easily give thee 
 a great deal more than I have promised." " Why, 
 should this come to pass," quoth Sancho Panza, 
 " and I be made a king by some such miracle, as 
 your worship says, then happy be lucky, my 
 Whither d'ye-go 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 caimot help believing, that though it 
 should rain kingdoms down upon the face of the 
 earth, not one of them would sit well upon Mary 
 Gutierez's head ; for I must needs tell you, she's not 
 worth two brass jacks to make a 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 mat- 
 ter 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 wiU take care to give me whatever 
 may be fit for rae, and what I may be able to deal 
 with" 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 75 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 OF THE GOOD SUCCESS WHICH THE VALOEOUS DON QUIX- 
 OTE HAD IN THE MOST TBKEIFYING AND NBVEK-TO-BE- 
 IMAGINED ADVENTURE OF THE WIND-MILLS, WITH OTHER 
 TRANSACTIONS WORTHY TO BE TRANSMITTED TO POS- 
 TERITY. ^ 
 
 As they were thus discoursing, they discovered 
 some thirty or forty wind-mills, 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 encounter; and having deprived 
 them of life, we wUl begin to enrich ourselves with 
 their spoils ; for they are lawful prize ; and the ex- 
 tirpation of that cursed brood will be an acceptable 
 service to Heaven." " What giants ? " quoth San- 
 cho Panza. " Those whom thou see'st 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 
 wind-mills, 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, "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 re- 
 solved to engage in a dreadful unequal combat 
 
76 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 against them all." This said, he clapt spurs to his 
 horse Rozinante, without giving ear to his squire 
 Sancho, who bawled out to him, and assured him, 
 that they were wind-mills, 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 Bri- 
 areus, you shall pay for your arrogance." He most 
 devoutly recommended himself to his Lady Dulci- 
 nea, imploring her assistance in this perilous advent 
 ture ; and so covering himself with his shield, and 
 couching his lance, he rushed with Rozinante's ut- 
 most speed upon the first wind-mill 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 ofif in the field. Sancho Panza ran as fast as 
 his ass could drive, to help his master, whom he 
 found lying, and not able to stir, such a blow he 
 and Rozinante had received. " Mercy o' me ! " 
 cried Sancho, " did not I give • your worship fair 
 warning ? did not I tell you they were wind-mills, 
 and that nobody could think otherwise, unless he 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 77' 
 
 had also wind-mills in his head ? " " Peace, friend 
 Sancho," replied Don Quixote; "there is nothing 
 so subject to the inconstancy of fortune as war. I 
 am verily persuaded, that cursed necromancer Pres- 
 ton, who carried away my study and my books, has 
 transformed these giants into wind-mills, to deprive 
 me of the honor of the victory, such is his invete- 
 rate malice against me ; but in the end, all his per- 
 nicious wiles and stratagems shall prove ineffectual 
 against the prevailing edge of my sword.'' " Amenj 
 say I," replied Sancho. And so heaving him up 
 again upon his legs, once more the knight mounted 
 poor Rozinante, that was half shoulder-slipp'd with 
 his fall. 
 
 This adventure was the subject of their discourse, 
 as they made the best of their way towards the pass 
 of Lapice;* for Don Quixote took that road, be- 
 lieving he could not miss of adventures in one so 
 mightily frequented. However, the loss of his 
 lance was no small affliction to him ; and as he was 
 making his complaint about it to his squire, " I 
 have read," said he, " friend Sancho, 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 he won himself and 
 his posterity the surname of f The Pounder, or 
 
 * A pass in the mojintains, such as they call Puerto Seco, a 
 dry port, where the king's officers levy the tolls and eustoriis 
 upon passengers and goods. 
 
 f Machuca, from Machucar, to pound in a mortar. 
 
78 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 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, that thou wilt esteem thyself particularly 
 happy in having had the honor to behold them, 
 and been the ocular witness of achievements which 
 posterity vdll scarce be able to believe." " Heaven 
 grant you may," cried Sancho ; " I believe it all, 
 because your worship says it. But, an't please you, 
 sit a little more upright in your saddle ; you ride 
 sideling, 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 Sancho ; " and yet Heaven 
 knows my heart, I should be glad to hear your wor- 
 ship hone a little now and then when something 
 ails you ; for my part, I shall not fail to bemoan 
 myself when I suffer the smallest pain, unless in- 
 deed it can be proved, that the rule of not com- 
 plaining extends to the squires as well as knights." 
 Don Quixote could not forbear smiling at the 
 simplicity of his squire ; and told him he gave him 
 leave to complain not only when he pleased, but as 
 much as he pleased, whether he had any cause or 
 no ; for he had never yet read any thing to the con- 
 trary in any books of chivalry. Sancho desired 
 him, however, to consider, that it was high time to 
 go to dinner ; but his master answered him, that 
 he might eat whenever he pleased ; as for himself, 
 he was not yet disposed to do it. Sancho having 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 79 
 
 thus obtained leave, fixed himself as orderly as he 
 could upon his ass ; and taking some victuals out 
 of his wallet, fell to munching lustHy as he rode be- 
 hind his master ; and ever and anon he lifted his 
 bottle to his nose, and fetched such hearty pulls, 
 that it would have made the best pampered vintner 
 in Malaga a-dry to have seen him. While he thus 
 went on stufKng and swilling, he did not think in 
 the least of all his 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 he fixed the head or spear 
 of his broken lance. But he did not sleep all that 
 night, keeping his thoughts intent on his dear Dul- 
 cinea, in imitation of what he had read in books of 
 chivalry, where the knights pass their time, without 
 sleep, in forests and deserts, wholly taken up with 
 the entertaining thoughts of their absent mistresses. 
 As for Sancho, he did not spend the night at that 
 idle rate ; for, having his paunch well stuffed with 
 something more substantial than dandelion-water, 
 he made but one nap of it ; and had 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 smil- 
 ing morn, would have been able to have made him 
 stir. As he got up, to clear his eye-sight, he took 
 two or three long-winded swigs at his friendly bot- 
 
80 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 tie for a morning's draught : but he found it sorhe- 
 what lighter than it was the night before ; which 
 misfortune went to his very heart, for he shrewdly 
 mistrusted that he was not in a way to cure it of 
 that distemper as soon as he could have wished. 
 On the other side, Don Quixote would not break 
 fast, having been feasting all night on the more de- 
 licate and savory thoughts of his mistress ; and 
 therefore they went on directly towards the pass of 
 Lapice, which they discovered about three o'clock. 
 When they came near it, " Here it is, brother San- 
 cho," said Don Quixote, " that we may wanton, 
 and, as it were, thrust our arms up to the very el- 
 bows, in that which we call adventures. But let 
 me give thee one necessary caution ; know, that 
 though thou should'st see me in the greatest extre- 
 mity of danger, thou must not offer to draw thy 
 sword in my defence, unless thou findest me as- 
 saulted by base plebeians and vile scoundrels; for in 
 such a case thou may'st 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 al- 
 low thee to encounter a knight, till thou art one thy- 
 self." " Never fear," quoth Sancho ; " I'll be sure 
 to obey your worship in that, I'll warrant you ; for 
 I have ever loved peace and quietness, and never 
 cared to thrust myself into frays and quarrels ; and 
 yet I don't care to take blows at any one's hands 
 neither; and should ^any 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 ; 
 
DON QxrrxoTE. 81 
 
 " 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, mount- 
 ed 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, agai;ist 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 Biscayan lady, 
 who was going to Seville to meet her husband, that 
 was there in order to embark for the Indies, to take 
 possession of a 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 famous 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 belongs 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 adven- 
 
 VOL. I. 6 
 
82 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 ttires : 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, " Cursed implements of hell," cried 
 he in a loud and haughty tone, " immediately release 
 those high-born princesses whom you are violently 
 conveying away in the coach, or else prepare to meet 
 with instant death, as the just punishment of your 
 pernicious deeds." The monks stopt their mules, 
 no less astonished at the figure, than at the expres- 
 sions 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 whoUy igno- 
 rant whether or no there are any princesses carried 
 away by force in that coach." " I am not to be de- 
 ceived with fair words," replied Don Quixote ; " I 
 know you well enough, perfidious caitiffs ; " and 
 immediately, without expecting their reply, he set 
 spurs to Rozinante, 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, 
 OT grievously wounded. The other, observing the 
 discourteous 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 Panza no sooner saw the monk 
 fall, but he nimbly skipt off 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 offered to strip hind? 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 83 
 
 Sancho told them, that this belonged to him as law- 
 ful plunder, being the spoils won in battle by his 
 lord and master Don Quixote. The fellows, with 
 whom there was no jesting, not knowing what he 
 meant by his spoils and battle, and seeing Don Quix- 
 ote at a good distance in deep discourse by the side 
 of the coach, fell both upon poor Sancho, threw him 
 down, tore his beard from his chin, trampled on his 
 guts, thumped and mauled him in every part of his 
 carcass, 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 staid for him at a distance, expecting 
 the issue of this strange adventure ; but being, un- 
 willing to stay to see the end of it, they made the 
 best of their way, making more signs of the cross 
 than if the devil had been posting after them. 
 
 Don Quixote, as I said, was all that while engaged 
 with the lady in the coach. " Lady," cried he, 
 " your discretion is now at liberty to dispose of your 
 beautiful self as you please ; for the presumptuous 
 arrogance of those who attempted to enslave your 
 person lies prostrate in the dust, overthrown by 
 this 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 J;o that peer- 
 less beauty Donna Dulcinea del Toboso : nor do I 
 desire any other recompense for the service I have 
 done you, but that you return to Toboso to present 
 yourselves to that lady, and let her know what I 
 have done to purchase your deliverance." To this 
 
84 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 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 attention ; and perceiving that Don Quixote 
 not only stopped the coach, but would have it pre- 
 sently go back to Toboso, he bore briskly up to him, 
 and laying hold of his lance, " Get gone," cried he 
 to him in bad Spanish and worse Biscayan.* " Get 
 gone, thou knight, and devil go with thou ; or by 
 he who me create, if thou do not leave the coach, 
 me kill thee now so sure as me be a Biscayan." 
 Don Quixote, who made shift to understand him 
 well enough, very calmly made him this answer : 
 " Wert thou a cavalier,f as thou art not, ere this I 
 would have chastised thy insolence and temerity, 
 thou inconsiderable mortal." " What ! me no gen- 
 tleman ? " replied the Biscayan ; " I swear thou be 
 a liar, 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, gentleman in spite of devil ; and thou lie if 
 thou say contrary." " 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 on 
 his destruction. The Biscayan seeing him come 
 
 * The Biscaynera generally speak broken Spanish, wherefore 
 the English is rendered accordingly. 
 
 f CavaUero in Spanish signifies a gentleman as well as a 
 knight ; and used in these different senses by the knight-errant 
 and the gentleman-usher, causes the difference between Don 
 Quixote and the Biscayner. 
 
DON QUIXOTE, 85 
 
 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 another 
 with all the fury of mortal enemies. The by-stand- 
 ers 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 
 presunied to hinder him, if they would not let him 
 fight. The lady in the coach being extremely af- 
 frighted 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 unmeasurable 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 him- 
 self 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. 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, 
 
86 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 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 Eiloft, 
 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 mak- 
 ing a thousand vows and offerings to all the images 
 and places of devotion 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 thi& 
 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 re- 
 corded 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 forevier inevita- 
 bly 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, as the next 
 Book will inform the reader. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 87 
 
 PART I. BOOK n. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE EVENT OF THE MOST STUPENDOUS COMBAT BETWEEN 
 THE BKAVE BISOAYAN AND THE VALOKOUS DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 In the First Book of this history, we left the va- 
 liant Biscayan and the renowned Don Quixote with 
 their swords lifted up, and ready to discharge on 
 each other two furious and most terrible blows, 
 which, had they fallen directly, and met with no 
 opposition, would have cut and divided the two 
 combatants from head to heel, and have split them 
 like a pomegranate ; but, as I 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 seeing the rest. Yet, after all, it 
 seemed to me no less impossible than unjust, that 
 so valiant a knight should have been destitute of 
 some learned person to record his incomparable ex- 
 ploits ; a misfortune which never attended any of 
 his predecessors, I mean the knights-adventurers, 
 each of whom was always provided with one or 
 two learned men, who were always at hand to write 
 not only their wondrous deeds, but also to set down 
 their thoughts and childish petty actions, were they 
 
88 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 never so hidden. Therefore, as I could not imagine 
 that so worthy a knight should be so unfortunate, 
 as to want that which has been so profusely lavish- 
 ed 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 choose 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 Jea- 
 lousy, 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. FuU of this imagination, I resolved to 
 make it my business to make a particular and ex- 
 act inquiry into the life and miracles of our re- 
 nowned Spaniard Don Quixote, that rrfulgent 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 ; 
 such of themj I mean, who in former ages rode up 
 and down over hills and dales with whip in hand, 
 mounted on their palfreys, with all their virginity 
 about them, secure from all manner of danger, and 
 who, unless they happened to be ravished by some 
 
 * A second-raie knight in Palmprin of England. 
 
 t Henares runs by the university of Alcale (i. e. Complutum) 
 in Old Castile, and therefore much celebrated by Spanish poets 
 bred in that university. They call it Henarius in Latin. 
 
BON QUIXOTE. 89 
 
 boisterous villain or huge giant, were sure, at four 
 score years of age, (all which time they never slept 
 one night under a roof,) to be decently laid in their 
 graves, as pure virgins as the mothers that bore 
 them. For this reason and many others, I say, our 
 gallant Don Quixote is worthy everlasting and uni- 
 versal praise ; nor ought I to be denied my due 
 commendation for my indefatigable care and dili- 
 gence, in seeking and finding out the continuation 
 of this delightful history ; though, after all, I must 
 confess, that had not Providence, chance, or fortune, 
 as I will not inform you, assisted me in the disco- 
 very, 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 a parcel of old written papers to a 
 shopkeeper. Now I, being apt to take up the least 
 piece of written or printed papers that lies in my 
 way, though it were in the middle of the street, 
 I 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 
 e'er a Morisco f 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, J that place would have infallibly supplied 
 
 * An exchange ; a place full of shops. 
 
 f Morisco is one of the race of the Moors. 
 
 J Meaning some Jew, to interpret the Hebrew or Chaldee. 
 
90 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 me. It was my good fortune to find one immedi- 
 ately; 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 laugh- 
 ing, 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 pork of any 
 woman in all La Mancha." I was surprised when 
 I heard him name Dulcinea del Toboso, and pre- 
 sently 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 History 
 OF Don Quixote de la Mancha ; written by 
 CiD Hamet Benengeli, an Arabian Historic-' 
 GRAPHER. I was SO ovcrjoyed when I heard the 
 title, that I had much ado to conceal it ; and pre- 
 sently taking the bargain 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 rriuch, had he but 
 guessed at the eagerness of his chapman. I imme- 
 diately 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 faith- 
 
 * An arroba is about 32 lb. weight. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 91 
 
 fully with all expedition ; in short, for the quicker 
 despatch, 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 ex- 
 actly 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 writ- 
 ten Don Sancho de Aspetia, and under Rozinante 
 Don Quixote. Rozinante was so admirably deli- 
 neated, so slim, so stiif, 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 f Canzas ; 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 Panza and sometimes 
 Canza, in the 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 unmention- 
 ed; for none can be amiss so they be authentic. I 
 
 * Fauiich. t Haunches, or thigh-bones. 
 
92 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 must .only acquaint the reader, that if any objection 
 is to be made as to the veracity of this, it is only 
 the author is an Arabian, and those of that countiy 
 are not a little addicted to lying ; but yet, if we con- 
 sider that they are our enemies, we should sooner 
 imagine 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 pro- 
 ceeding unworthy of an historian, who ought to be 
 exact, sincere, and impartial ; free from passion, and 
 not to be biased either by interest, fear, resent- 
 ment, or affection, to deviate from truth, which is 
 the mother of history, the preserver and eternizer 
 of great actions, the professed enemy of oblivion, 
 the witness of things past, 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 the infidel its author, than the 
 subject ; and so let us come to the Second Book, 
 which, according to our translation, 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 infeVnal mansions ; while the 
 spectators seemed wholly lost in fear and astonish- 
 ment. The choleric Biscayan discharged the first 
 blow, and that with such a force, and so desperate 
 a fury, that had not his sword turned, in his hand, 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 93 
 
 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 
 helmet and one half of his ear, which like a dread- 
 ful 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 but a slight sketch or faint image of his unut- 
 terable rage ? Exerting all his valor, he raised him- 
 self 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 tremen- 
 dous 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, 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 be- 
 held the disaster of his foe with the greatest tran- 
 quillity and unconcern imaginable ; and seeing him 
 down, slipped nimbly from his saddle, and running 
 
94 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 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 him 
 no reply ; and Don Quixote had certainly made 
 good his threats, so provoked was he, had not the 
 ladies in the coach, who with great uneasiness and 
 fear beheld the sad transactions, hastened to be- 
 seech Don Quixote very earnestly to spare his life. 
 " Truly, beautiful ladies," said the victorious 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 en- 
 joined, or inquiring who the lady Dulcinea was, 
 promised, in her squire's behalf, a punctual obedi- 
 ence 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." 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 95 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 WHAT FARTHER BEPELI, DON QUIXOTE WITH THE BIS- 
 CATAN ; AND Or THE DANGER HE KAN AMONG A PARCEL 
 OP YANGtTESlANS. 
 
 Sancho Panza was got up again before this, not 
 much better for the kicks and thumps bestowed on 
 his carcass by the monks' grooms ; and seeing his 
 master engaged in fight, he went devoutly to pray- 
 ers, beseeching 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 be- 
 fore 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 he that ever went about 
 to govern an island in the world." " Brother San- 
 cho," replied Don Quixote, " these are no adven- 
 tures of islands ; these are only rencounters 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 
 
96 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF - 
 
 kissed his hand, and the skirts of his coat of armor, 
 he helped him to get upon Rozinante ; and then 
 leaping on his ass, he followed the hero, who, with- 
 out 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 Rozinante was like to 
 leave him behind, he was forced to call to his mas- 
 ter 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 brother- 
 hood, and have us taken up ; 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 ever brought before any judge 
 for the homicides which he committed ? " "I can't 
 tell what you mean by your homilies," replied San- 
 cho ; *' 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 goes to murder one another ifi 
 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 Quixote ; " for I would 
 deliver thee out of the hands of the Chaldeans, and 
 with much more ease out of those of the holy bro- 
 therhood. But come, tell me truly dost thou believe 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 97 
 
 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 acti- 
 vity to strike, and more art and force to overthrow 
 his enemies ? " " Not I, by my troth," replied San- 
 cho, " I never did meet with any thing like you in 
 history, for I can neither read nor write ; but that 
 which I dare wager is, that I never in my life serv- 
 ed a bolder master than your worship : pray hea- 
 ven 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 mak- 
 ing 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 some of it 
 may defy death itself, and dally with all manner of 
 wounds : therefore when I have made some of it, 
 and given it 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 
 
 VOL. I. 7 
 
98 THE ACHIBVEMBNTS OP 
 
 in itg proper place ; then thou shalt give me two 
 draughts of that balsam, and thou shalt immediately 
 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 your worship for what service 
 I have done, and am to do you, but the receipt of 
 that same balsam ; for, I dare say, let me go wher- 
 ever 1 will, it will be sure to yield me three good reals 
 an ounce; and thus I shall make shift to pick a 
 pretty good livelihood out of it. But stay though," 
 continued he, " does the making stand your worship 
 in much, sir?" " Three quarts of it," replied Don 
 Q,nixote, " may be made for three reals." " Body 
 of me," cried Sancho, " why do you not make some 
 out of hand, and teach me how to make it ?" " Say 
 no more, friend Sancho," returned Don Quixote ; 
 " I intend to teach thee much greater secrets, and 
 design thee nobler rewards ; but in the mean time 
 dress my ear, for it pains me more than I could 
 wish." Sancho then took his lint and ointment out 
 of his wallet ; but when Don Quixote perceived the 
 vizor 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 Man- 
 tua, when he made a vow to revenge the death 
 of his cousin Baldwin, which was never to eat 
 bread on a table-cloth, never to lie with the dear part- 
 ner of his bed, and other things, which, though they 
 are now at present slipped out of my memory, I 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 99 
 
 comprise in my vow no less than if I had now men- 
 tioned them ; and this I bind myself to, till I have 
 fully revenged myself on him that has done me 
 this injury." 
 
 " Good your 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 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 a 
 helmet as mine was. Neither do thou fancy, San- 
 cho, that I make this protestation lightly, or make 
 a smoke of straw : no, I have a laudable prece- 
 dent for it, the authority of which will sufficiently 
 justify my imitation ; for the very same thing hap- 
 pened about Mambrino's helmet, which cost Sacri- 
 pante so dear." " Good sir," quoth Sancho, " let 
 all such cursing and swearing go to the devil; 
 there's nothing can be worse for your soul's health, 
 nay for your bodily health neither. Besides, sup- 
 pose we should not this good while meet any one 
 with a helmet on, what a sad case should we then 
 be in ? wiU your worship then keep your oath in 
 spite of so many hardships, 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 
 
100 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 VOW ? Do but consider, that we may ride I do not 
 know how long upon this road without meeting 
 any armed knight to pick a quarrel with ; for here 
 are none but carriers and wagoners, 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 San- 
 cho ; " an5 may we have the luck to come off well, 
 and quickly win that island which costs me so deal, 
 and then I do Hot 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 
 Denmark, or that of Sobradisa,* as fit for thy put- 
 pose as a ring for thy finger ; and, what ought to 
 be no small comfort to thee, they are both upon 
 Terra firma.lf But we'U talk of this in its proper 
 season : at this time I Would have thee see whether 
 thou hast any thing 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 extremely." " I have _ 
 here an onion," replied the squire, " a piece of cheese, 
 and a few stale crusts of bread ; but sure such coarse 
 fare is not for such a brave knight as your worship." 
 
 * A fictitious kingdom in Amadis de Gaul. 
 t In allusion to the famous Firm Island, in Amadis de Gaul, 
 tlie land of promise to the &ithful squires of knights-errant. 
 
DON QTJIXOTB. 101 
 
 " Thou art grossly mistaken, friend Sancho," an- 
 swered Don Quixote ; " know, that it is the glory of 
 knights-errant to be whole months without eating , 
 and when 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 informed as to that point ; for though I 
 think I have read as many histories of chivalry in 
 my time as any other man, I never could find that 
 the knights-errant ever eat, unless it were by mere ac- 
 cident, or when they were invited to great feasts and 
 royal banqijets ; at other times they indulged them- 
 selves with little other food besides their thoughts. 
 Though it is not to be imagined they could live 
 without supplying the exigencies of human nature, 
 as being after all no more than mortal men, yet it 
 is likewise to be supposed, 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 oflferest me. Never then make thyself uneasy 
 about what pleases me, friend Sancho, nor pretend 
 to make a new world, r^or to unhinge the very con- 
 stitution 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 
 knighthood ; 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-er- 
 
102 THE ACHIBVEMENTS OP 
 
 rant 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 
 knowledge as I myself have." " 'Tis a good thing 
 to know those herbs," cried Saiicho, " for I am much 
 mistaken, or that kind of knowledge will stand us 
 in good stead ere long. In the mean time," conti- 
 nued he, " here's what good heaven has sent us." 
 With that he pulled out the provision he had, and 
 they feU 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 put on in search of a lodging. But the sun 
 and their hopes failed them at once, as they came 
 to a place where some goat-herds had set up some 
 small huts; and therefore they concluded to take 
 up their lodging there that night This was a 
 great mortification to Sancho, who was altogether 
 for a good town, as it was a pleasure to his master, 
 who was for sleeping in the open fields, as believing, 
 that as often as he did it, he confirmed his title to 
 knighthood by a new act of possession. 
 
DON QraXOTE. 103 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DOK QUIXOTE AND THE GOAT- 
 HERDS. 
 
 The knight was very courteously received by the 
 goat-herds ; and as for Sancho, after he had set up 
 Bozinante and his ass as well as he could, he pre- 
 sently repaired to the attractive smell of some 
 pieces of kid's flesh which stood boiling in a kettle 
 over the fire. The hungry squire would immedi- 
 ately have tried whether they were fit to be removed 
 out of the kettle into the stomach, but was not put 
 to that trouble ; for the goat-herds took them off 
 the fire and spread some sheep-skins on the ground, 
 and soon got their rural feast ready ; and cheerfully 
 invited his master and him to partake of what they 
 had. Next, 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 goat-herds 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 
 
104 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 master ; that thou eat in the same dish, and drink 
 in the same cup ; for it may be said of knight-er- 
 rantry as of love, that it makes all things equal." 
 " I thank your worship," cried Saneho ; " but yet I 
 must needs own, had I but a good deal of meat be- 
 fore me, I'd eat it as well, or rather better, standing, 
 and by myself, than if I sat by an emperor ; and, to 
 deal plainly and truly with you, I had rather munch 
 a crust of brown bread and an onion in a cornerj 
 without any more ado or ceremony, than feed upon 
 turkey at another man's table, where one is fain to 
 sit mincing and chewing his meat an hour together, 
 drink little, be always wiping his fingers and his 
 chops, 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; there- 
 fore, good gir, change those tokens of your kindness 
 which I have a right to by being your worship's 
 squire, into something that may do me more 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 
 himt 
 
 All this while the goat-herds, who did not under- 
 stand this jargon of knights-errant, chivalry, and 
 squires, fed heartily, and said nothing, but stared 
 upon their guestsj who very fairly swallowed whole 
 luncheons as big as their fists with a mighty appe- 
 tite. The first course being over, they brought in 
 the second, consisting of dried acorne, and half a 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 105 
 
 cheese as hard as a brick ; nor was the hom idle all 
 the while, but went merrily round, up and down so 
 many times, sometimes full, and sometimes 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 hav- 
 ing satisfied his appetite, he took a handful of 
 acorns, and looking earnestly upon them, " O 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 distinc- 
 tions unknown 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 invited 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 indus- 
 trious bees erected their little commonwealths, that 
 men might reap with pleasure and with ease the 
 sSweet and fertile harvest of their toils. The tough 
 and strenuous cork-trees did of themselves, and 
 without other art than their native liberality, dis- 
 miss and impart 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, 
 
106 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 without compulsion, kindly yielded from every part 
 of her fruitful and spacious bosom, whatever might 
 at once satisfy, sustain, and indulge, her frugal 
 children. Then was the time when innocent, beau- 
 tiful young shepherdesses went tripping over the 
 hills and vales : their lovely hair sometimes plaited, 
 sometimes loose and flowing, clad in no other vest- 
 ment but what was necessary to cover decently 
 what modesty would always have concealed : the 
 Tyrian die, and the rich glossy hue of silk, mar- 
 tyred and dissembled into every color, which are 
 now esteemed so fine and magnificent, were un- 
 known to the innocent plainness of that age ; yet, 
 bedecked with more becoming leaves and flowers, 
 they may be said to outshine the proudest of the 
 vain-dressing ladies of our age, arrayed in the most 
 magnificent 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 plainness and sincerity in 
 which they were conceived, and divested of all that 
 artificial contexture which enervates what it labors 
 to enforce: imposture, deceit, and malice, had not 
 yet crept in, and imposed themselves unbribed upon 
 mankind, in the disguise of truth and simplicity : 
 justice, unbiased either by favor or interest, which 
 now so fatally pervert it, was equally and impar- 
 tially dispensed ; nor was the judge's fancy law, for 
 then there were neither judges, nor causes to be 
 judged; the modest maid might walk wherever 
 she pleased alone, free from the attacks of lewd, 
 lascivious importuners. But in this degenerate age, 
 
DON QtJIXOTE. 107 
 
 fraud and a legion of ills infecting the world, no 
 virtue can be safe, no honor be secure ; while wan- 
 ton 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 
 orphans, 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 any thing of this obli- 
 gation, have so generously entertained me, I ought, 
 to pay you my utmost acknowledgment; and, ac- 
 cordingly 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 coolness sake was hung upon a neigh- 
 boring 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 goat-herds 
 addressing himself to him, " Sir knight," said he, 
 
108 THE ACHIBVBMBNTS OF 
 
 " that you 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 scholard, 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 goat-herd'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 goat-herds 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 without any 
 further entreaty, sitting down on the stump of an 
 oak, he tuned his fiddle, and very handsomely sung 
 the following song. 
 
 ANTONIO'S AMOROUS COMPLAINT. 
 
 Though love ne'er prattles at your eyes, 
 (The eyes, those silent tongues of loTe,) 
 
 Yet sure, Olalia, you're my prize : 
 For truth, with zeal, even heaven can move. 
 
 I think, my love, you only try, 
 Even while I fear you've sealed my doom: 
 
 • A fiddle, with only thr^e strings, used by shepherds. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 109 
 
 So, though involved in doubts I lie, 
 
 Hope sometimes glimmers through the gloom. 
 A flame so fierce, so bright, so pure, 
 
 No scorn can quench, or art improve : 
 Thus like a martyr I endure ; 
 
 For there's a heaven to crown my love. 
 In dress and dancing I have strove 
 
 My proudest rivals to outvie ; 
 In serenades Pve 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 fought for her I loved. 
 Dear cruel fair, why then so coy ? 
 
 How can you so much love withstand ? 
 - Alas ! I crave no lawless joy, 
 
 But with my heart would give my hand 
 Soft, easy, strong is Hymen's 'tie : 
 
 Oh ! then no more the bliss refuse. 
 Oh ! wed me, or I swear to die, 
 
 Or linger wretched and recluse. 
 
 Here Antonio ended his song; Don Quixote 
 entreated him to sing another, but Sancho Panza, 
 who had more mind to sleep than to hear the finest 
 singing in the world, told his master, there is 
 enough. " Good sir," quoth he, " your worship 
 had better go and lie down where you are to take 
 your rest this night ; besides, these good people are 
 tired with their day's labor, and rather want to go 
 to sleep, than to sit up all night to hear ballads." 
 " I understand thee, Sancho," cried Don Quixote; 
 
110 THE ACHIEVBHENTS OF 
 
 " and indeed I thought thy frequent visiting the bot- 
 tle would make thee fonder of sleep than of music." 
 " Make us thankful," 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 goat- 
 herds beholding the wound,' as Sancho offered to 
 dress it, desired the knight not to trouble himself, 
 for he had a remedy that would quickly cure him ; 
 and then fetching a few rosemary 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 bound it up, 
 assuring him, he needed no other remedy ; which in 
 a little time proved very true. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE 8T0ET WHICH A YOUNG GOAT-HERD TOLD TO THOBB 
 THAT WERE WITH DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 A young fellow, who used to bring them provi- 
 sions from the next village, happened to come while 
 this was doing, and addressing himself to the goat- 
 herds, " 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 devilish untoward lass, Mar- 
 
DON QUIXOTE. Ill 
 
 cella, rich William's daughter, that goes up and 
 down the country in the habit of a shepherdess." 
 " For Marcella ! " cried one of the goat-herds. " I 
 say for her," replied the fellow, " and what is more, 
 it is reported, he has ordered by his will, they 
 should bury him in the fields like any heathen Moor, 
 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. I'But Ambrose, the other scholar, 
 who likewise apparelled himself like a shepherd, is 
 resolved to have his friend Chrysostome's will ful- 
 filled in every thing, 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 gi-eat 
 state where I told you: I fancy it will be worth 
 seeing; howsoever, be it what it wUl, I will even go 
 and see it, even though I could not get back again 
 to-morrow." " We will all go," cried the goat- 
 herds, " and cast lots who shall tarry to look after 
 the goats." " Well said, Peter," cried one of the 
 goat-herds ; " but as for casting of 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 in my toe, 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 give 
 him a -short account of the shepherdess. 
 
 Peter made answer, that all he knew of the mat- 
 
112 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 ter was, that the deceased was a wealthy gentleman 
 who lived not far off; that he had been several 
 years at the university of Salamanca, and then came 
 home mightily improved in his learning. " But 
 above all," quoth 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 to a tittle the clip of the sun and moon." "We 
 call it an eclipse," cried Don Quixote, " and not a 
 clip, when 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 steril" 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 yeaj 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 astro- 
 logy." " I do not know what you call it," answer- 
 ed Peter, " but I know he knew all thisi, 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 com- 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 113 
 
 pany, 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 we sung 
 in Christmas Eve, and the plays which the young 
 lads in our neighborhood enacted on Corpus Christi 
 day ; and every one would say, that nobody could 
 mend them. Somewhat before that time, Chrysos- 
 tome's father died, and left him a deal of wealth, 
 both in land, money, cattle, and other goods, 
 whereof the young man remained dissolute mas- 
 ter; 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 .Marcella, whom 
 our coim:ade 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 Sarnah." " 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 go on thus, and 
 make me break off my tale at every word, we are 
 not like to have done this twelvemonth." " Par- 
 don me, friend," replied Don Quixote ; " I only 
 spoke to make thee understand that there is a dif- 
 ference between Sarna and Sarah : however, thou 
 sayest well ; for the Sarna (that is, the itch.) li-ves 
 
 VOL. I. 8 
 
114 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 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 Chry-. 
 sostome's father ; now he had no child in the versal 
 world but a daughter ; her mother died in child-bed 
 of her, (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 her's, 
 the sun on one side, and the moon on the t'other. 
 She was a main housewife, 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, poor man, 
 and left all to his little daughter, that Marcella by 
 name, giving charge of her to her uncle, the parson 
 of our parish. Well, the girl grew such a fine child, 
 and so like her mother, that it used to put us in 
 mind of her every foot : however, '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 while 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 
 
DON QTJIXOTB. 115 
 
 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 busy-bodies prate as they 
 please, the parson must have a good body indeed, 
 who could bring his whole parish to give him a good 
 word, especially 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 pur- 
 pose. 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 to w^ed as yet, 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 won't to say, that parents are 
 
116 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 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, would 
 needs turn shepherdess ; and neither her uncle, nor 
 all those of the village who advised her against it, 
 could work any thing upon her, but away she went 
 to the fields to keep her own sheep with the other 
 young lasses of the town. But then it was ten times 
 worse ; for no sooner was she seen abroad, when I 
 cannot tell how many spruce gallants, both gentle- 
 men and rich farmers, changed their garb for love 
 of her, and followed her up and down in shepherd's 
 guise. One of them, as I have told you, was this 
 same Chrysostorae, 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 under no manner of keeping, that she 
 gave the least token of naughtiness or light, beha- 
 vior ; for she ever was, and is still so coy, and so 
 watcl|ful 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 them- 
 selves handsomely; yet whensoever any one of 
 them does but offer to break his mind to her, be it 
 never so well meant, and only in ordet 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 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 117 
 
 this country, than the plague would do; for her 
 courteousness and fair looks draw on every body 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, un- 
 kind, ungrateful, and a world of such names, where- 
 by 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 
 doleful 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 beech 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 name, as much as to say 
 that Marcella bears away the crown, 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. You shall have one lay 
 him down at night at the foot of a rock, or some 
 oak, and there lie weeping 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 summer sun. And all this 
 whUo the hard-hearted Marcella ne'er minds any 
 one of them, and does not seem to be the least con- 
 cerned for them. We are all mightily at a loss to 
 know what will be the end of all this pride and 
 
118 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 coyness, who shall be the happy man that shall at 
 last tame her, and bring her to his lure. Now be- 
 cause 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 had many 
 friends, and it is not half a league to the place 
 where it was his will to be buried." " I intend to 
 be there," answered Don Quixote, " and in the 
 mean time I return thee many thanks for the extra- 
 ordinary satisfaction this story has afforded me." 
 " Alas ! Sir Knight," replied the goat-herd, " 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 medicine, that there's 
 not much need to fear but 'twill do well enough." 
 Sancho, who was quite out of patience with the 
 goat-herd's long story, and wished him at the devil 
 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 expostulations with his dear Dul- 
 cinea. As for Sancho, he laid himself down be- 
 tween Rozinante and his ass, and slept it out, not 
 like a disconsolate lover, but like a man that had 
 been soundly kicked and bruised in the morning. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 119 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A CONTINUATION OF THE STORY OF MARCELLA. 
 
 Scarce had day begun to appear from the balco- 
 nies of the east, when five of the goat-herds got 
 up, and having waked Don Quixote, asked him if. 
 he held his resolution of going to the funeral, whi- 
 ther they were ready to bear him company. There- 
 upon the knight, who desired nothing more, pre- 
 sently 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 yet a quarter of a league, before they 
 saw advancing towards them, out of a cross path, 
 six shepherds clad in black skins, their heads crown- 
 ed with garlands of cypress and bitter rose-bay tree, 
 with long holly-staves in their hands. Two gentle- 
 men 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. 
 Senior Vivaldo," said one of the gentlemen, ad- 
 dressing himself to the other, " we shall not think 
 our time misspent in going to see this famous fune- 
 ral, for it must of necessity be very extraordinary, 
 according to the account which these men have 
 given us of the dead shepherd and his murdering 
 mistress." " I am so far of your opinion," answer- 
 
120 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 ed 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 
 forbear inquiring of them, why they wore such a 
 mournful dress ? whereupon one of them acquaint- 
 ed them with the sad occasion, by relating the story 
 of a certain shepherdess, named Marcella, no less 
 lovely than cruel, whose coyness and disdain had 
 made a world of unfortunate lovers, and caused the 
 death of that Chrysostome, to whose funeral they 
 were going. In short, he repeated 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, 
 sumptuous dresses, and downy ease, were, invented 
 for effeminate 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 mean- 
 est of the fraternity." He needed to say no more 
 to satisfy them his brains were out of order ; how- 
 ever, that they might the better understand the 
 nature of his folly, Vivaldo asked him what he 
 meant by a knight-errant ? " Have you not read, 
 then," cried Don Quixote, " the Annals and History 
 of Britain, where are recorded the famous deeds of 
 King Arthur, who, according to an ancient tradition 
 in that kingdom, never died, but was turned into 
 
DON QinXOTE. 121 
 
 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 trans- 
 acted, 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 Lancelot 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 order of knight-errantry began by degrees 
 to dilate and extend itself into most parts of the 
 world. Then did the great Amadis de Gaul sig- 
 nalize himself by heroic exploits, and so did his 
 offspring to the fifth generation. The valorous 
 Felixmart of Hyreania 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 Be- 
 lianis of Greece. And this, gentlemen, is that order 
 of chivalry, which, as much a sinner as I am, I pro- 
 
122 THE ACBIEVEMBNTS OF 
 
 fess, 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 resolved to expose 
 my person to the most formidable dangers which 
 fortune can obtrude on me, that by the strength of 
 my arm I may relieve the weak and the distressed." 
 
 After all this stuff, you may be sure the travellers 
 were sufficiently convinced of Don Quixote's frenzy. 
 Nor were they less surprised than were all those 
 who had hitherto discovered so unaccountable a 
 distraction in one who seemed a rational creature. 
 However, Vivaldo, who was of a gay disposition, 
 had no sooner made the discovery, but he resolved 
 to make the best advantage of it, that the shortness 
 of the way would allow him. 
 
 Therefore, to give him further occasion to divert 
 them with his whimseys, " 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 profession of a Car- 
 thusian may be as austere, but I am within two 
 fingers' breadth of doubting, whether it may be as 
 beneficial 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 captain who commanded him. The 
 application is easy : for, while those religious men 
 have nothing to do, but with all quietness and secu- 
 rity to say their prayers for the prosperity of the 
 world, we knights, like soldiers, execute what they 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 123 
 
 do but pray for, and procure those benefits to man- 
 kind, by the strength of our arms, and at the hazard 
 of our lives, for which they only intercede. Nor 
 do we do this sheltered from the injuries of the air, 
 but under no other roof than that of the wide hea- 
 vens, exposed to summer's scorching heat, and win- 
 ter's pinching cold. So that we may justly style 
 ourselves the ministers of heaven, and the instru- 
 ments of its justice upon earth ; and as the business 
 of war is not to be compassed without vast toil and 
 labor, so the religious soldier must undoubtedly be 
 preferred before the religious monk, who, living still 
 quiet and at ease, has nothing to do but to pray for 
 the afflicted and distressed. However, gentlemen, 
 do not imagine I would insinuate as if the profes- 
 sion of a knight-errant was a state of perfection 
 equal to that of a holy recluse : I would only infer 
 from what I have said, and what I myself endure, 
 that ours without question is more laborious, more 
 subject to the discipline of heavy blows, to mace- 
 ration, 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 emergencies, 
 they would have been strangely disappointed of 
 their mighty expectations." " I am of the same 
 opinion," replied Vivaldo. " But one thing among 
 many others, which I can by no means approve in 
 your profession, is, that when you are just going to 
 
124 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 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 
 occasions, but only recommend yourselves to your 
 mistresses, and that with as great zeal and devotion 
 as if you worshipped 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 knight-errant do other- 
 wise, he would tbo much deviate from the ancient 
 and established customs of knight-errantry, which 
 inviolably oblige hini just in the moment when he 
 is rushing on, and giving birth to some dubious 
 achievement, to have his mistress still before his 
 eyes, still present to his mind, by a strong and live- 
 ly imagination, and with soft, amorous, and ener- 
 getic looks, imploring her favor and protection in 
 that perilous circumstance. Nay, if nobody can 
 overhear him, he is ohliged to whisper, or speak be- 
 tween his teeth, some short ejaculations, to recom- 
 mend himself with all the fervency imaginable to 
 the lady of his wishes, and of this we have innu- 
 merable 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 in 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' 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 125 
 
 heads to gain room for the career, they have wheel- 
 ed about, and then with all speed run full tilt at 
 one another, hastily recommending 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 hea- 
 ven, when his business was done so suddenly. Me- 
 thinks those hasty invocations, which in his career 
 were directed to his mistress, should have been di- 
 rected 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." " Your 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 men- 
 tion of any knight-errant that was not a lover ; for 
 were any knight free from the impulses of that 
 generous passion, he would not be allowed 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." 
 
126 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 " 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 un- 
 deniable truth, that he had a favorite lady, whom he 
 had crowned empress of his will; and to her he. 
 frequently recommended himself in private, for he 
 did not a little value himself 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 profes- 
 sion, 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 qua- 
 lity 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 accomplished as yourself." With 
 that Don Quixote, breathing out a deep sigh, " I 
 cannot tell," said he, " whether this lovely enemy of 
 my repose, is the least affected with the world's 
 being informed of her power over my heart ; all I 
 dare say, in compliance with your request, is, that 
 her name is Dulcinea, her country La Mancha, dnd 
 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 transcends all the united charms of her 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 127 
 
 whole sex ; even those chimerical perfections, which 
 the hyperbolical imaginations of poets in love have 
 assigned to their mistresses, cease to be incredible 
 descriptions when applied to her, in whom all those 
 miraculous endowments are most divinely centred. 
 The curling locks of her bright flowing hair are 
 purest gold ; her smooth forehead the Elysian Plain ; 
 her brows are two celestial bows ; her eyes two glo- 
 rious suns ; her cheeks two beds of roses ; her lips 
 are coral ; her teeth are pearl ; her neck is alabas- 
 ter; her breasts marble; her hands ivory; and 
 snow would lose its whiteness near her bosom. 
 Then for the parts which modesty has veiled, my 
 imagination, not to wrong them, chooses to lose it- 
 self in silent admiration ; for nature boasts nothing 
 that may give an idea of their incomparable worth." 
 " 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 an- 
 cient Curtiuses, Caiuses, nor Scipios of Rome, nor 
 from the more modern Colonas, nor Ursinis ; nor 
 from the Moncadas, and Requesenses of Catalonia ; 
 nor from the Rebillas, and Villanovas of Valencia ; 
 nor from the Palafoxes, Nucas, Rocabertis, Corel- 
 las, Lunas, Alagones, Urreas, Fozes, or Gurreas of 
 Arragon ; nor from the Cerdas, Manriques, Mendo- 
 zas, and Gusmans of Castile ; nor from the Alen- 
 castros, 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 
 
128 THE ACHIEVBMBNTS OF 
 
 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 but he these arms displace, 
 Who dares Orlando's fury face." 
 
 " I draw my pedigree from the Cachopines of La- 
 redo," replied Vivaldo, " yet I dare not make any 
 comparisons with the Tobosos of La Mancha ; 
 though, to deal sincerely 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 goat-herds and 
 shepherds were now fully convinced that Don Quix- 
 ote'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. Yet 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 moun- 
 tains, 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 se- 
 veral sorts of boughs and flowers : which one of 
 the goat-herds espying, " Those are they," cried he, 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 129 
 
 "that are carrying pocr Chryaostome to his grave; 
 and 'twas in yonder bottom that he gave charge 
 they should bury his corpse." This made them all 
 double their pace, that they might get thither in 
 time ; and so they arrived just as the bearers had 
 set down the bier upon the ground, and four of 
 them had begun to open the ground with their 
 spades, 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 seemed 
 to be about thirty years old ; and, dead as he was, 
 it was easily perceived that both his face and shape 
 were extraordinary handsome. Within the bier 
 were some few books and several 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 long 
 time silent ; till at last one of the bearers, address- 
 ing himself to one of the rest, " Look, Ambrose," 
 cried he, " whether this be the place which Chrysos- 
 tome meant, since you must needs have his will so 
 punctually performed ? " " This is the very place," 
 answered fhe other ; " there it was that my unhap- 
 py friend many times told me the sad story of his 
 cruel fortune ; and there it was that he first saw 
 ttiat 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 relent- 
 less Marcella last denied, shunned him, and drove 
 
 VOL. I. 9 
 
130 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 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 oblivion." 
 
 Then addressing himself to Don Quixote and the 
 rest of the travellers, " This body, gentlemen," said 
 he, " which here you now behold, was once enli- 
 vened by a soul which heaven had enriched with 
 the greatest part of its most valuable graces. This 
 is the body of that Chrysostome who was unrivalled 
 in wit, matchless in courteousness, incomparable in 
 gracefulness, a phoenix in friendship, generous and 
 magnificent without ostentation, prudent and grave 
 without pride, modest without affectation, pleasant 
 and complaisant without meanness ; in a word, the 
 first in every esteemable 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 so- 
 litary 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 depo- 
 sited might testify, had he not commanded me te 
 sacrifice them to the flames, at the same time that 
 his body was committed to the earth." 
 
 " Should you do so," cried Vivaldo, " you would 
 appear more cruel to them than their exasperated, 
 unhappy parent. Consider, sir, 'tis not consistent 
 ■with discretion, nor even with justice, so nicely to 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 131 
 
 perform the request of the dead, when 'tis repug- 
 nant 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. Therefore, sir, now that 
 you resign your friend's body to the grave, do not 
 hurry thus the noble and only remains of that dear 
 unhappy man to a worse fate, the death of oblivion. 
 What though he has doomed them to perish in the 
 height of his resentment, you ought not indiscreet- 
 ly to be their executioner ; but rather reprieve and 
 redeem them from eternal silence, that they may 
 live, and, flying through the world, transmit to all 
 ages the dismal story of your friend's virtue and 
 MarceUa's ingratitude, as a warning to others, that 
 they may avoid such tempting snares and enchant- 
 ing destructions ; for not only to me, but to all here 
 present, is well known the history of your ena- 
 mored and desperate friend : we are no strangers 
 to the friendship that was between you, as also to 
 MarceUa's cruelty, which occasioned his death. 
 Last night, being informed that he was to be buried 
 here to-day, moved not so much by curiosity as pity, 
 we are come to behold with our eyes, that which 
 gave us so much trouble to hear. Therefore, in the 
 name of all the company, like me, deeply affected 
 with a sense of Chrysostome's extraordinary merit, 
 and his unhappy fate, and desirous to prevent such 
 deplorable disasters for the future, I beg that you 
 will permit me to save some of these papers, what- 
 ever you resolve to do with the rest." And so, 
 without expecting an answer, he stretched out his 
 arm, and took out those papers which lay next to 
 
13a THE ACHIBYBMENTS OF 
 
 his hand. " Well, sir," said Ambrose, " you have 
 found a way to make me submit, and you may 
 keep those papers, but for the rest, nothing shall 
 make me alter my resolution of burning them.?' 
 Vivaldo said no more ; but being impatient to see 
 what those papers were, 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 reduced him, read it aloud, I beseech 
 you, sir, while the grave is making." " With all my 
 heart," replied Vivaldo ; and so the company, hav- 
 ing the same desire, presently gathered round about 
 him, and he read the following lines. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE UNFORTUNATE SHEPHERD'S VERSES, AND OTHER UN- 
 EXPECTED MATTERS. 
 
 THE DESPAIRING LOVER. 
 
 Relentless tyrant of my heart, 
 Attend, and hear thy slave impart 
 
 The matchless story of his pain. 
 In vain I labor to conceal 
 What my extorted groans reveal; 
 
 Who can be rack'd, and not complain ? 
 
 But oh ! who duly can express 
 Thy cruelty, and my distress ? 
 No human art, no human tongue. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 133 
 
 Then fiends assist, and rage iniiise 1 
 A raving fury be my muse, 
 And hell inspire the dismal song 1 
 
 Owls, ravens, terrors of the night. 
 Wolves, monsters, fiends, with dire affright, 
 
 Join your dread accents to my moans I 
 Join, howling winds, your sullen noise ; 
 Thou, grumbling thunder, join thy voice ; 
 
 Mad seas, your roar, and heU thy groans. 
 
 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, 
 I live with all these mortal iUs, 
 
 Scorn'd, jealous, loath'd, and absent tea 
 
 No dawn of hope e'er cheer'd my heart, 
 No pitying ray e'er sooth'd my smart, 
 
 All, all the sweets of life are gone ; 
 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 scorn'd : 
 Thus let me fall unloved, unbless'd. 
 With all my load of woes oppress'd, 
 
 And even too wretched to be moum'd. 
 
134 THE ACHIEVBMBNTS OP 
 
 ! thou by whose destructive hate, 
 I'm hurr/d to this doleful fate, 
 
 When I'm no more, thy pity spare I 
 
 1 dread thy tears ; oh, spare them then — 
 But oh ! I rave, I was too vain. 
 
 My death can never cost a tear. 
 
 Tormented souls, on you I call. 
 
 Hear one more wretched than you all : 
 
 Come howl as ia redoubled flames 1 
 Attend me to th' eternal night, 
 No other dirge, or fun'ral rite, 
 
 A poor despairing lov^r claims. 
 
 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. 
 
 Hell has 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 Mar- 
 cella's unspotted 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 eyery 
 thing disturbs an absent lover, and nothing is more 
 usual than for him to torment himself with a thou- 
 sand chimeras of his own brain, so did Chrysos- 
 tome perplex himself with jealousies and suspi- 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 135 
 
 oions, 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 dis- 
 dainful haughtiness, envy itself could never fix the 
 least reproach. Vivaldo being thus convinced, they 
 were going to read another paper, when they were 
 unexpectedly prevented by a kind of apparition 
 that offered itself to their view. It was Marcella 
 herself, who appeared at the top of the rock, at the 
 foot of which they were digging the grave ; but so 
 beautiful, that fame seemed rather to have lessened 
 than to have magnified her charms ; those who had 
 never seen her before, gazed on her with silent won- 
 der 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 thoa 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 effects of 
 thy native inhumanity, like another Nero at the 
 sight of flaming Rome ? or is it to trample on this 
 Unfortunate corpse, as Tarquin's ungrateful daugh- 
 ter did her father's? Tell us quickly why thou 
 comest, and what thou yet desirest; for since I 
 ki\ow that Chrysostome's whole study was to serve 
 and please thee while he lived, I am willing to dis- 
 pose all his friends to pay thee the like obedience, 
 now he is dead." " I come not here to any of those 
 
136 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 ungrateful .ends, Ambrose," replied Marcella ; " but 
 only to clear my innocence, and show the injustice 
 of all those who lay their misfortunes and Chrysos- 
 tome's death to my charge : therefore, I entreat you 
 all who are here at this time to hear me a little, for 
 I shall not need to use many words to convince 
 people of sense of an evident truth. Heaven, you 
 are pleased to say, has made me beautiful, and that 
 to such a degree, that you are forced, nay, as it 
 were, compelled to love me, in spite of your endea- . 
 vors to the contrary ; and for the sake of that love, 
 you say I ought to love you again. Now, though I 
 am sensible, that whatever is beautiful is lovely, I 
 cannot conceive, that what is loved for being hand- 
 some, 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 hand- 
 some, 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, nor captivate the heart. 
 Alas ! should whatever is beautiful beget love, and 
 enslave the mind, mankind's desires would ever run 
 confused and wandering, without being able to fix 
 their determinate choice ; for as there is an infinite 
 number of beautiful objects, the desires would con- 
 sequently be also infinite ; whereas, on the contrary, 
 1 have heard that true love is still confined to one, 
 and voluntary and unforced. This being granted, 
 
DON QUIXOTE. • 137 
 
 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 heaven formed me as 
 ugly as it has made me beautiful, could I justly 
 complain of you for not loving me ? Pray consider, 
 also, that I do not possess those charms by choice ; 
 such as they are, they were freely 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 cen- 
 sured for that beauty which I derive from the same 
 cause ; for beauty in a virtuous woman is but like 
 a distant flame, or a sharp-edged sword, and only 
 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 be 
 esteemed beautiful, though it be naturally so. If, 
 then, honor be one of those endowments which 
 most adorn the body, why should she that is be- 
 loved for her beauty, expose herself to the loss of 
 it, merely to gratify the loose desires of one, who, 
 for his own selfish ends, uses all the means imagin- 
 able to make her lose 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 ipy looking-glasses'. With the 
 trees and with the waters I communicate my 
 thoughts and my beauty. I am a distant flame, 
 and a sword far off": those whom I have attracted 
 with my sight, I have undeceived with my words ; 
 and if hope be the food of desire, as I never gave 
 any encouragement to Chrysostome, nor to any 
 other, it may well be said, it was rather his own 
 
138 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OE 
 
 obstinacy than ray cruelty that shortened his life, 
 If you tell me that his intentions were honest, and 
 therefore ought to have been complied with, I an- 
 swer, 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 reserved- 
 ness, and enjoy the spoils of my beauty ; and if, after 
 all the admonitions I gave him, he would persist in 
 his obstinate pursuit, and sail against the 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 de- 
 spaired without being hated. Now I leave you to 
 judge, whether I ought to be blamed for his suffer- 
 ings ? If I have deceived any one, let him com- 
 plain; if I have broke my promise to any one, let 
 him despair; if I encourage any one, let him pre- 
 sume ; if I entertain any one, let him boast ; but let 
 no man call me cruel, nor murderer, until I either 
 deceive, break my promise, encourage, or entertain 
 him. 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 jealousy, nor my scorn or hate, be thought 
 the cause of their death; for she who never pre- 
 tended to love, cannot make any one jealous ; and 
 
DON QTIIXOTB. 139 
 
 a free and generous declaration of our fixed resolu- 
 tion, ought not to be counted 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 ; 1 
 neither love nor hate any one : the innocent conver- 
 sation of the neighboring shepherdesses, with the 
 care of my flocks, help me to pass away my time, 
 without either coquetting with this man, or practis- 
 ing 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 ori- 
 ginal dwelling." 
 
 As soon as she had said this, without expecting 
 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. 
 
 However, so prevalent were the charms of the 
 latter, that some of the company, who were despe- 
 rately 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 
 
140 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 to follow the fair Marcella, under the penalty of in- 
 curring 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 rea- 
 son, instead of being importuned and persecuted, 
 she ought to be esteemed and honored by all good 
 men, as being perhaps the only woman in the world 
 that ever lived with such a virtuous reservedness." 
 Now, whether it were that Don Quixote's threats 
 terrified the amorous shepherds, or that Ambrose's 
 persuasion prevailed with them to stay and* see 
 their friend interred, none of the shepherds left the 
 place, till the grave being made, and the papers 
 burnt, the body was deposited in the bosom of 
 the earth, not without many tears from all the as- 
 sistants. 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 fol- 
 lowing epitaph upon it. 
 
 chrysostome's epitaph. 
 
 Here of a wretched swain 
 
 The frozen body's laid, 
 Kill'd by the cold disdain 
 
 Of an ungrateM maid. 
 
 Here first love's power he tried, 
 
 Here first his pains express'd; 
 Here first he was denied, 
 
 Here first he chose to rest. 
 
 Tou who the shepherd mourn, 
 
 From coy Marcella fly ; 
 Who Chrysostome could scorn, 
 
 May all mankind destroy. 
 
DON QTOtXOTE. 141 
 
 The shepherds strewed the grave with many 
 flowers and boughs ; and every one having condoled 
 a while with his friend Ambrose, they took their 
 leave of him, and departed. Vivaldo and his com- 
 panion did the like ; as did also Don Quixote, who 
 was not a person to forget himself on such occa- 
 sions : he likewise bid adieu to the kind goat-herds 
 that had entertained him, and to the two travellers 
 who had desired him to go with them to Seville, 
 assuring him there was no place in the world more 
 fertile in adventures, every street and every corner 
 there producing some. Don Quixote returned them 
 thanks for their kind information; but told them, 
 " he neither would nor ought to go to Seville, till 
 he had cleared all those mountains of the thieves 
 and robbers which, he heard, very much infested all 
 those parts." Thereupon the travellers, being un- 
 willing to divert him from so good a design, took 
 their leaves of him once more, and pursued their 
 journey, sufficiently supplied with matter to dis- 
 course on, from the story of Marcella and Chrysos- 
 tome, and Don Quixote's follies. As for him, he 
 resolved to find out the shepherdess Marcella, if 
 possible, to offer her his service to protect her to 
 the utmost of his power : but he happened to be 
 crossed in his designs, as you shall hear in the se- 
 quel of this true history ; for here ends the Second 
 BooL 
 
142 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 PAET I. BOOK ni. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF DON QUIXOTE'S UNFORTUNATE REN- 
 COUNTER WITH CERTAIN BLOODV-MINDKD AND WICKED 
 YANGUESIAN* CARRIERS. 
 
 The sage Cid Hamet Benengeli relates, that 
 when Don Quixote had taken leave of all those 
 that were at Chrysostome's funeral, he and his 
 squire went after Marcella into the wood ; and hav- 
 ing 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 re- 
 freshing rivulet, invited, or rather pleasantly forced 
 them, 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 lovingly on what they 
 found. Now Sancho had not taken care to tie up 
 Rozinante, knowing him to be a horse of that so- 
 briety and chastity, that all the mares in the pas- 
 tures of Cordova could not have raised him to at- 
 tempt an indecent thing. But either fortune, or the 
 devil, who seldom sleeps, so ordered it, that a good 
 
 * Carriers of the kingdom of Galicia, commonly so called. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 143 
 
 number of Galician mares, belonging to some Yan- 
 guesian 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. Rozinante, as I said before, 
 was chaste and modest ; however, he was flesh and 
 blood ; so that as soon as he had smelt the mares, 
 forsaking his natural gravity and reservedness, 
 without asking his master's leave, away he trots it 
 briskly to make them sensible of his little necessi- 
 ties : but they, who it seems had more mind to feed 
 than to be merry, received their gallant 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 equipage. 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 
 Rozinante, that he soon sunk to the ground under 
 the weight of their unmerciful blows. 
 
 Don Quixofe and Sancho, perceiving at a dis- 
 tance the ill-usage of Rozinante, ran with all speed 
 to his rescue ; and, as they came near the place, 
 panting, and almost out of breath, " Friend San- 
 cho," cried Don Quixote, " I perceive these are no 
 knights, but only a pack of scoundrels, and fellows 
 of the lowest rank ; I say it, because thou mayest 
 lawfully help me to revenge the injury they have 
 done Rozinante before our faces." " What a devil 
 do you talk of revenge ? " quoth Sancho ; " we are 
 likely to revenge ourselves finely ! you see they are 
 
144 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 above twenty, and -we are but two ; nay, perhapa 
 but one and a half." " I alone am worth a hun- 
 dred," 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, betook themselves to their 
 leavers and pack-staves, and then all at once sur- 
 rounding the valiant knight and his trusty squire, 
 they charged them and laid pn with great fury. 
 At the second round, down they settled poor San- 
 cho, and then Don Quixote himself, who, as chance 
 would have it, fell at the feet of Rozinante, that 
 had not yet recovered his legs ; neither could the 
 knight's courage nor his skill avail against the fury 
 of a number of rustical fellows armed with pack- 
 staves. The Yanguesians, fearing the ill-conse- 
 quences of the mischief they had done, made all 
 the haste they could to be gone, leaving our two 
 adventurers in a woful condition. The first that 
 came to himself 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 ! " "What is the matter, friend Sancho ? " * * 
 asked the knight, in the same feeble and lamenting 
 tone. " I could wish," replied Sancho, " that your 
 worship would help me to two good draughts of 
 the liquor you talk on, 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 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 145 
 
 of it here now," cried Don Quixote ; " we could 
 not then be said to want any thing : but I swear to 
 thee, honest Sancho, by the faith of a Icnight-errant, 
 within these two days (if no other disaster prevent 
 me) I will have some of it at my disposal, or it 
 shall hardly escape my hands." " Two days, sir! " 
 replied Sancho : " why, pray how many days do you 
 think it will be before we are able to stir our feet ? " 
 "As for myself," answered the bruised Don- Quix- 
 ote, " 1 must own I cannot set a term to the days 
 of our recovery ; but it is I who am the fatal cause 
 of all this mischief ; for 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 befall me for transgressing 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 wiU I be sure to step between thee 
 and danger, and assault them with the utmost vigor 
 and intrepidity. Thoa hast already had a thousand 
 proofs of the greatness of my valor, and the pre- 
 vailing strength of my most dreadful arm ; " (so ar- 
 rogant the knight was grown since his victory over 
 the bold Biscayan.) 
 
 But Sancho was not so. well pleased with his 
 
 VOL. I. 10 
 
146 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 master's admonitions, but that he thought fit to an* 
 swer him. " Sir," said he, " I am a peaceful manj 
 a harmless quiet fellow, d'ye see ; I can malje 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 ad- 
 vice, (for I will not offer to command my master,) that 
 I will not in any wise draw my sword neither against 
 knight nor clown, not I. I freely forgive all man- 
 kind, high and low, rich and poor, lords and beg- 
 gars, what&ver 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. Come, suppose, thou silly wretch, that 
 the gale of fortune, which has hitherto been so con- 
 trary 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 is- 
 lands which I have promised thee ; what would be- 
 come 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 dig- 
 nity, as having abjured all knighthood, all thoughts 
 of honorj and all intention to revenge injuries, and 
 defend thy own dominions. For thou must under- 
 stand, that in kingdoms and provinces newly con- 
 quered, the hearts and minds of the inhabitants are 
 never so thoroughly subdued, or wedded to the in- 
 terests of their new sovereign, but that there is 
 reason to fear, they will endeavor to raise some 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 147 
 
 commotions to change the face of affairs, 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 understanding and valor 
 you talk of," quoth Sancho ; '• 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 Rozinante, though he does not 
 deserve it ; for he is the chief cause of all this beat- 
 ing. For my part, I could never have believed the 
 like of him before, for I always took him for as 
 chaste and sober a person as myself. In short, it is 
 a true saying, that a man must eat a peck of salt 
 with his friend, before he knows him ; and I find 
 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 shower of basti- 
 nadoes would so soon have fallen upon our shoul- 
 ders ? " "As for thine," replied Don Quixote, " I 
 doubt they are used to endure such sort of show- 
 ers ; but mine, that were nursed in soft linen, will' 
 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 all 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 vails of your trade of knighthood, tell 
 me whether they use to come often, or whether we 
 may look for them at set times ? for, I fancy, if we 
 
148 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 meet but with two such harvests more, we shall 
 never be able to reap the third, unless God of his 
 infinite mercy assist us." 
 
 " Know, friend Sancho," returned Don Quixote, 
 "that the life of knights-errant is subject to a thou- 
 sand 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. And I could tell thee now (would my 
 pain suffer me) of some of them who have raised 
 themselves to those high dignities only by the valor 
 of their arm ; and those very knights, both before 
 and after their advancement, were involved in many 
 calamities : for the valorous Amadis de Gaul saw 
 himself in the power of his mortal enemy Arche- 
 laus the enchanter, of whom it is credibly reported, 
 that when he held him prisoner, he gave him above 
 two hundred stripes with his horse bridle, after he 
 had tied him to a pillar in the court-yard of his 
 house. There is also a secret author of no little 
 credit relates, that the Knight of the Sun, being 
 taken in a trap in a certain castle, was hurried to a 
 deep dungeon, where, after they had bound him 
 hand and foot, they forcibly gave him a clyster of 
 snow-water and sand, which would probably have 
 cost him his life, had he not been assisted in that 
 distress by a wise magician, his particular friend. 
 Thus I may well bear my misfortune patiently, 
 since those which so many greater persons have 
 endured may be said to outdo it: for I would have 
 thee to know, that those wounds that are given with 
 the instruments and tools which a man happens to 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 149 
 
 have in his hand, do not really disgrace the person 
 struck. We read it expressly in the laws of duels, 
 ' That if a shoemaker strikes 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 niayest not think we are 
 in the least dishonored, though we have been horri- 
 bly beaten in this rencounter; for the weapons 
 which those men used were but instruments of their 
 profession, and not one of them, as I very well re- 
 member, Ifed either tuck, or sword, or dagger." 
 " They gave me no leisure," quoth Sancho, " to ex- 
 amine things so narrowly ; for I had no sooner laid 
 my hand on my cutlass,* but they crossed my 
 shoulders with such a wooden blessing, as settled 
 me on the ground without sense or motion, where 
 you see me lie, and where I don't trouble my bead 
 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 shoul- 
 ders, 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 ! " (juoth Sancho ; 
 " what worse can befall us, than to have only death 
 to trust to ? Were our affliction to be cured with 
 a plaster or two, a man might have some patience ; 
 
 * Tizona : The romantic name of the sword, which the Spa- 
 nish general, Koderick Diaz de Bivar, used against the Moors. 
 
150 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 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 Rozi- 
 nante ; 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 Ul." 
 " 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 Rozinante, to carry me to some 
 castle, where I may get cured of my wounds. Nor 
 do I esteem this kind of riding dishonorable, for I 
 remember that the good old Silenus, tutor and go- 
 vernor 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 
 wiU 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 cross the 
 pannel like a pack of rubbish." " 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, that we may 
 leave this place ere night steal upon us." " But, 
 sir," cried Sancho, " I have heard you say, that it is 
 a common thing among you knight-errants to sleep 
 in the fields and deserts the best pEirt of the year, 
 
DON QmXOTE. 151 
 
 and that you look upon it to be a very happy kind 
 of life." " 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 : one 
 of those was Amadis, when, assuming the name 
 of The Lovely Obscure, he inhabited the bare rock, 
 either eight years or eight months, I can't now 
 punctually tell which of the two, for I don't tho- 
 roughly remember the passage. Let it suffice that 
 there he dwelt, doing penance, for I don't know 
 what unkindness his lady, Oriana, had showed him. 
 But setting these discourses aside, pr'y thee despatch, 
 lest some mischief befall the ass, as it has done 
 Rozinante." " That would be the devil, indeed," 
 replied Sancho ; and so breathing out some thirty 
 lamentations, threescore sighs, and a hundred and 
 twenty plagues and poxes on those that had decoy- 
 ed 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. 
 Yet in this crooked posture, he made a shift to har- 
 ness his ass, who had not forgot to take his share 
 of licentiousness that day. After this, he helped 
 up Rozinante, who, could his tongue have express- 
 ed his sorrows, would certainly not have been be- 
 hind-hand with Sancho and his master. After 
 many bitter oh's, and screwed faces, Sancho laid 
 Don Quixote on the ass, tied Rozinante to its tail^ 
 and then, leading the ass by the halter, he took the 
 nearest way that he could guess to the high road ; 
 
152 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 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 
 bloodily it was an inn, and his master was as posi- 
 tive of the contrary. In short, their dispute lasted 
 so long, that before they could decide it, they 
 reached the inn door, where Sancho straight went 
 in, with all his train, without troubling himself any 
 farther about the matter. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE IN ' THE INN WHICH 
 HE TOOK FOR A CASTLE. 
 
 The innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote lying quite 
 athwart the ass, asked Sancho what ailed him ? 
 Sancho 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 common sort of 
 hostesses, for she was of a charitable nature, and 
 very compassionate of her neighbor's 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 wench, 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 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 153 
 
 head ; and her shoulders, which somewhat loaded 
 her, as having too much flesh upon them, made her 
 look downwards oftener than she could have wish- 
 ed. 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 gam- 
 bling cock-loft, which by manifold 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 coverings 
 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 weU have 
 been taken for stones t 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 individual 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 Maritornes (for that was the name of 
 the Asturian wench) 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 than a fall." 
 " It was no dry beating, mistress, I promise you," 
 
154 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 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, forsooth," continued he, " I beseech you 
 save a little of that same tow and ointment for me 
 too, for I don't know what is the matter with my 
 back, but I fancy I stand mainly in want of a little 
 greasing too." " What, I suppose you fell 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." '< That 
 is e'en my 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 be as broad awake as 
 I am now." " How do you call this same gentle- 
 man ? " 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 shined on." "A knight-errant," cried the ' 
 wench, " pray what is that ? " " Heigh-day ! " cried 
 Sancho, *' does the wench know no more of the 
 world than that comes to ? Why, a knight-errant 
 is a thing which in two words you see well cudgel- 
 led, and then an emperor. To-day there is not a 
 more wretched thing upon the earth, and yet to- 
 
DON QinXOTB. 155 
 
 morrow he'll have you 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 our 
 gears, so that we have not yet encountered any ad- 
 venture 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 faU to 
 my share." 
 
 Here Don Quixote, who had listened with great 
 attention 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 opportunity 
 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 in- 
 form you who I am ; only thus much let me add, 
 that I will eternally preserve your kindness in the 
 treasury of my remembrance, and study all occa- 
 sions to testify my gratitude. And I wish," con- 
 tinued 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 
 beautiful damsel." The hostess, her daughter, and 
 the kind-hearted Maritornes, stared at one another, 
 
156 THE ACHJEVEMBNTS OP 
 
 quite at a loss for the meaning of this high-flown 
 language, which they understood full as well as if 
 it had been Greek. Yet conceiving these were 
 words of compliment and courtship, they looked 
 upon him and admired him as a man of another 
 world : and so, having made him such returns as 
 innkeeper's breeding could afford, they left him to 
 his rest; only Maritornes staid to rub down Sancho, 
 who wanted her help no less than his master. 
 
 Now you must know that the carrier and she 
 had agreed to pass the night together ; and she had 
 given him her word, that as soon as all the people 
 in the inn were in bed, she would be sure to come 
 to him, and be at his service. And it is said of this 
 good-natured thing, that whenever she had passed 
 her word in such cases, she was sure to make it 
 good, though she had made the promise in the midst 
 of a wood, and without any witness at all : for she 
 stood much upon her gentility, though she under- 
 valued herself so far as to serve in an inn ; often 
 saying, that notliing but crosses and necessity 
 could have made her stoop to it. 
 
 Don Quixote's hard, scanty, beggarly, miserable 
 bed was the first of the four in that wretched apart- 
 ment; next to that was Sancho's kennel, which 
 consisted of nothing but a bed-mat and a coverlet, 
 that rather seemed shorn canvas than a rug. Be- 
 yond these two beds was that of the carrier, made, 
 as we have said, of the pannels and furniture of 
 two of the best of twelve mules which he kept, every 
 one of them goodly beastsj and in special good case ; 
 for he was one of the richest muleteers of Arevalo, 
 as the Moorish author of this history relates, who 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 157 
 
 makes particular mention of him, as having been 
 acquainted with him ; nay, some do not stick to say 
 he was somewhat akin to him. Howrever it be, it 
 appears that Cid Hamet Benengeli was a very ex- 
 act historian, since he takes care to give us an ac- 
 count of things that seem so inconsiderable and 
 trivial. A laudable example, which those historia iis 
 should follow, who usually relate matters so con- 
 cisely, that we have scarce a smack of them, leav- 
 ing the most essential part of the story drowned in 
 the ink-horn, either through neglect, malice, or ignor- 
 ance. A thousand blessings then be given to the 
 curious author of Tablante of Ricamonte, and to 
 that other indefatigable sage who recorded the 
 achievements of Count Tomillas! for they have 
 described even the most minute and trifling circum- 
 stances with a singular preciseness. But to return 
 to our story : you must know, that after the carrier 
 had visited his mules, and given them their second 
 course,* he laid himself down upon his pannels, in 
 expectation of the most punctual Maritornes's kind 
 visit. By this time Sancho, duly greased and 
 anointed, was crept into his sty, where he did all he 
 could to sleep, but his aching ribs did all they could 
 to prevent him. As for the knight, whose sides 
 were in as bad circumstances as the squire's, he lay 
 with both his eyes open hke a hare. And now was 
 every soul in the inn gone to bed, nor any light to 
 be seen, except that of a lamp which hung in the 
 middle of the gate-way. This general tranquillity 
 
 * In Spain they get up in the night to dress their cattle, and 
 ^ve them their barley and straw, which serve for hay and oats. 
 
158 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 setting Don Quixote's thoughts at work, offered to 
 his imagination one of the most absurd follies that 
 ever crept into a distempered brain from the perusal 
 of romantic whimseys. Now he fancied himself to 
 be in a famous castle, (for, as we have already said, 
 all the inns he lodged in seemed no less than 
 castles to him,) and that the innkeeper's daughter, 
 (consequently daughter to the lord of the castle,) 
 strangely captivated with his graceful presence and 
 gallantry, had promised him the pleasure of her 
 embraces, as soon as her father and mother were 
 gone to rest. This chimera disturbed him, as if 
 it had been a real truth; so that he began to be 
 mightily perplexed, reflecting on the danger to 
 which his honor was exposed : but at last his virtue 
 overcame the powerful temptation, and he firmly 
 resolved not to be guilty of the least infidelity to 
 his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, though Queen Gene- 
 ver herself, with her trusty matron Quintaniona, 
 should join to decoy him into the alluring snare. 
 
 While these wild imaginations worked in his 
 brain, the gentle Maritornes was mindful of her as- 
 signation, and with soft and wary steps, barefoot, 
 and in her smock, with her hair gathered up in a 
 fustian coif, stole into the room, and felt about for 
 her beloved carrier's bed : but scarce had she got to. 
 the door, when Don Quixote, whose ears were on 
 the scout, was sensible that something was coming 
 in ; and therefore having raised himself in his bed, 
 sore and wrapt up in his plasters as he was, he 
 stretched out his arms to receive his fancied dam- 
 sel, and caught hold of Maritornes by the wrist, as 
 she was, with her arms storetched, groping her way 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 159 
 
 to her paramour ; he pulled her to him, and made 
 her sit down by his bedside, she not daring to speak 
 a word all the while. Now, as he imagined her to 
 be the lord of the castle's daughter, her smock, 
 which was of the coarsest canvas, seemed to him 
 of the finest hoUand ; and the glass beads about her 
 wrist, precious oriental pearls; her hair, that was 
 almost as rough as a horse's mane, he took to be 
 soft flowing threads of bright curling gold ; and her 
 breath, that had a stronger hogoe than stale veni- 
 son, was to him a grateful compound of the most 
 fragrant perfumes of Arabia. In short, flattering 
 imagination transformed her into the likeness of 
 those romantic beauties, one of whom, as he re- 
 membered to have read, came to pay a private visit 
 to a wounded knight, with whom she was despe- 
 rately in love ; and the poor gentleman's obstinate 
 folly had so infatuated his outward sense, that his 
 feeling and his smell could not in the least unde- 
 ceive him, and he thought he had no less than a 
 balmy Venus in his arras, while he hugged a ful- 
 some bundle of deformities, that would have turned 
 any man's stomach but a sharp-set carrier's. There- 
 fore, clasping her still closer, with a soft and amor- 
 ous whisper, " Oh ! thou most lovely temptation," 
 cried he, " oh ! that I now might but pay a warm 
 acknowledgment for the mighty blessing which your 
 extravagant goodness would lavish on me! yes, 
 most beautiful charmer, I would give an empire to 
 purchase your most desirable embraces ; but for- 
 tune, madam, fortune, that tyrant of my life, that 
 unrelenting enemy to the truly deserving, has mali- 
 ciously hurried and riveted me to this bed, where I 
 
160 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OE 
 
 lie SO bruised and macerated, that, though I were 
 eager to gratify your desires, I should at this dear 
 unhappy minute, be doomed to impotence. Nay, 
 to that unlucky bar fate has added a yet more in- 
 vincible obstacle ; I mean my plighted faith to the 
 unrivalled Dulcinea del Toboso, the sole mistress 
 of my wishes, and absolute sovereign of my heart. 
 Oh ! did not this oppose my present happiness, I 
 could never be so dull and insensible a knight as 
 to lose the benefit of this extraordinary favor which 
 you have now condescended to ofl'er me." 
 
 Poor Maritornes all this while sweated for fear 
 and anxiety, to find herself thus locked in the 
 knight's arms ; and without either understanding, 
 or willing to understand his florid excuses, she did 
 what she could to get from him, and sheer off, with- 
 out speaking a word. On the other side, the carrier, 
 whose lewd thoughts kept him awake, having heard 
 iis trusty lady when she first came in, and listened 
 ever since to the knight's discourse, began to be 
 afraid that she had made some other assignation ; 
 and so, without any more ado, he crept softly to 
 Don Quixote's bed, where he listened awhile to 
 hear what would be the end of all this talk, which 
 he could not understand : but perceiving at last by 
 the struggling of his faithful Maritornes, that it was 
 none of her fault, and that the knight strove to de-* 
 tain her against her will, he could by no means 
 bear his familiarity; and therefore taking it in 
 mighty dudgeon, he up with his fist, and hit the 
 enamored knight such a swinging blow oij the jaws, 
 that his face was all over blood in a moment. And 
 not satisfied with this, he got on the top of the 
 
DON QOTXOTB. 161 
 
 knight, and with his splay feet betrampled him, as 
 if he had been trampling a hay-mow. With that 
 the bed, whose foundations were none of the best, 
 sunk under the additional load of the carrier, and 
 fell with such a noise, that it waked the innkeeper, 
 who presently suspects it to be one of Maritornes's 
 nightly skirmishes ; and therefore having called her 
 aloud, and finding that she did not answer, he 
 lighted a lamp and made to the place where he 
 heard the bustle. The wench, who heard him com- 
 ing, knowing him to be of a passionate nature, was 
 scared out of her wits, and fled for shelter to San- 
 cho's sty, where he lay snoring to some tune : there 
 she pigged in, and slunk under the coverlet, where 
 she lay snug, and trussed up as round as an egg. 
 Presently her master came in, in a mighty heat : 
 " Where's this damned whore ? " cried he ; "I dare 
 say this is one of her pranks." By this, Sancho 
 awaked ; and feeling that unusual lump, which al- 
 most overlaid him, he took it to be the nightmare, 
 and began to lay about him with his fists, and 
 thumped the wench so unmercifully, that at last 
 flesh and blood were no longer able to bear it ; and 
 forgetting the danger she was in, and her dear repu- 
 tation, she paid him back his thumps as fast as her 
 fists could lay them on, and soon roused the drowsy 
 squire out of his sluggishness, whether he would or 
 no : who, finding himself thus pommelled, by he 
 did not know who, he bustled, up in his nest, and 
 catching hold of Maritornes, they began the most 
 pleasant s^rmish in the world ; when the carrier 
 perceiving, by the light of the innkeeper's lamp, the 
 dismal condition that his dear mistress was in, pre- 
 VOL. I. 11 
 
162 THE ACmETBMENTS OP 
 
 sently took her part ; and leaving the knight, whoni 
 he had no more than sufficiently mauled, flew at 
 the squire and paid him confoundedly. On the 
 other hand, the innkeeper, who took the wench to 
 be the cause of all this hurly-burly, cuffed and kick- 
 ed, and kicked and cuffed her over and over again : 
 and so there was a strange multiplication of fisti- 
 cuffs and drubbings. The carrier pommelled San- 
 cho, Sancho mauled the wench, the wencjli belabored 
 the squire, and the innkeeper thrashed her again : 
 and all of them laid on with such expedition, that 
 you would have thought they had been afraid of 
 losing time. But the jest was, that in the heat of 
 the fray, the lamp went out, so that being now in 
 the dark, they plied one another at a venture ; they 
 struck and tore, all went to rack, while nails and 
 fists flew about without mercy. 
 
 There happened to lodge that night in the inn 
 one of the officers belonging to that society which 
 they call the old holy brotherhood of Toledo, whose 
 chief office is to look after thieves and robbers. Being 
 waked with the heavy bustle, he presently jumped 
 out of his bed, and with his short staff in one hand, 
 and a tin box with his commission in it in the 
 other, he groped out his way, and being entered the 
 room in the dark, cried out, " I charge you all to 
 keep the peace : I am an officer of the holy brother- 
 hood." The first he popped his hand upon, hap- 
 pened to be the poor battered knight, who lay upon 
 -his back at his full length, without any feeling, 
 upon the ruins of his bed. The officer having 
 caught him by the beard, presently cried out, " I 
 charge you to aid and assist me ;" but finding he 
 
BON QUIXOTE. 163 
 
 could not stir, though he griped him hard, he pre-, 
 sently imagined him to be dead, and murdered by 
 the rest in the room. With that he bawled out to 
 have the gates of the inn shut. " Here's a man 
 murdered," cried he; "look that nobody makes his 
 escape." These words struck all the combatants 
 with such a terror, that, as soon as they reached 
 their ears, they gave over, and left the argument 
 undecided. Away stole the innkeeper to his own 
 room, the carrier to his pannels, and the wench to 
 her kennel ; only the unfortunate knight, and his as 
 unfortunate squire, remained where they lay, not 
 being able to stir ; while the officer, having let go 
 Don Quixote's beard, went out for a light, in order 
 to apprehend the supposed murderers : but the inn- 
 keeper having wisely put out the lamp in the gate- 
 way, as he sneaked out &f the room, the officer was 
 obliged to repair to the kitchen chimney, wher? 
 with much ado, puffing and blowing a long while 
 amidst the embers, he at last made shift to get a 
 light. 
 
 CHAPTER HL 
 
 A. FURTHER AGCOUNT OF THE LNNUMEBABLE HARDSHIPS 
 WHICH THE BRAVE DON QUIXOTE, AND HIS WORTHT 
 SQUIRE SANCHO, UNDERWENT IN THE INN, WHICH THE 
 ENiaHT UNLUCKILT TOOK FOR A CASTI.E. 
 \ 
 
 Don Quixote, who by this time was come to 
 himself, began to call Sancho with the same la- 
 mentable tone as the day before, when he had been 
 beaten by the carriers in the meadow. " Sancho,')" 
 
164 THE AOHTBVEMENTS OF 
 
 cried he, " friend Sancho, art thou asleep ? art thou 
 asleep, friend Sancho ? " " Sleep ! " replied Sancho, 
 mightily out. of humor, "may Old Nick rock my 
 cradle, then. Why, how the devil should I sleep, 
 when all the imps of hell have been tormenting me 
 to-night?" " Nay, thou art in the right," answered 
 Don Quixote, " for either I have no skill in these 
 matters, or this castle is enchanted. Hear what I 
 say to thee, but first swear thou wilt never reveal it 
 till after my death." " I swear it," quoth Sancho. 
 " I am thus cautious," said Don Quixote, " because 
 I hate to take away the reputation of any person." 
 »' Why," quoth Sancho, '• I tell you again, I swear 
 never to speak a word of the matter while you live ; 
 and I hope I may be at liberty to talk on't to-mor- 
 row." *' Why," cried Don Quixote, " have I done 
 thee so much wrong, Sancho, that you would have 
 me die so soon ? " " Nay, 'tis not for that neither," 
 quoth Sancho, " but because I can't abide to keep 
 things long, for fear they should grow mouldy," 
 " Well, let it be as thou pleasest," said Don Quix- 
 ote, " for I dare trust greater concerns to thy cour- 
 tesy and affection. In short, know, that this very 
 night there happened to me one of the strangest 
 adventures that can be imagined ; for the daughter 
 of the lord of this castle came to me, who is one of 
 line most engaging and most beautiful damsels tfiat 
 ever nature has been proud to boast of : what could 
 I not tell thee of the charms of her shape and face, 
 and the perfections of her mind ! what could I not 
 add of other hidden beauties, which I condemn to 
 silence and oblivion, lest I endanger my allegiance 
 wid fidelity to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso! I 
 
DON QTJIXOTE. 165 
 
 will only tell thee, that the heavens envying the in- 
 estimable happiness which fortune had thrown into 
 my hand, or rather, because this castle is enchant- 
 ed, it happened, that in the midst of the most ten- 
 der and passionate discourses that passed between 
 us, the profane hand of some mighty giant, which 
 I could not see, nor imagine whence it came, hit 
 me such a dreadful blow on the jaws, that they are 
 still embrued with blood ; after which the discour- 
 teous wretch, presuming on my present weakness, 
 did so barbarously bruise me, that I feel myself in 
 a worse condition now than I did yesterday, after 
 the carriers had so roughly handled me for Rozi- 
 nante's incontinency : from which I conjecture, that 
 the treasure of this damsel's beauty is guarded by 
 some enchanted Moor, and not reserved for me." 
 
 " Nor for me, neither," quoth Sancho ; " for I 
 have been rib-roasted by above four hundred Moors, 
 who have hammered my bones in such guise, that 
 I may safely say, the assault and battery made on 
 my body by the carriers' poles and pack-staves, 
 were but ticklings and strokings with a feather to 
 this* But, sir, pray tell me, d'ye call this such a 
 pleasant adventure, when we are so lamentably 
 pounded after it ? And yet your hap may well be 
 accounted better than mine, seeing you've hugged 
 that fair maiden in your arms. But I, what have I 
 had, I pray you, but the heaviest blows that ever 
 fell on a poor man's shoulders ? Woe's me, and the 
 ■mother that bore me,, for I neither am, nor ever 
 
 * In the original, were tarts and cheese-cakes to this : Tortus 
 y pan pinta. 
 
166 THE ACHIEVEMBNTB OJ 
 
 mean to be, a knight-errant, and yet of all the mis- 
 adventures, the greater part falls still to my lot." 
 " What, hast thou been beaten as well as I ? " said 
 Don Quixote. "What a plague," cried Sancho, 
 " han't I been telling you so all this while ! " " Come, 
 never let it trouble thee, friend Sancho," replied 
 Don Quixote ; " for I'll immediately make the pre- 
 cious balsam, that will cure thee in the twinkling 
 of an eye." 
 
 By this time the officer, havingf lighted his lamp, 
 came into the room, to see who it was that was 
 murdered. Sancho seeing him enter in his shirt, a 
 napkin wrapped about his head like a turban, and 
 the lamp in his hand^ he being also an ugly, ill- 
 looked fellow, " Sir," quoth the squire to his master^ 
 " pray see whether this be not the enchanted Moor, 
 that's come again to have t'other bout with me, and 
 try * whether he has not left some place unbruised> 
 for him now to maul as much as the rest." " It 
 cannot be the Moor," 'replied Don Quixote: "for 
 persons enchainted are to be seen by nobody." " If 
 they do not suffer themselves to be seen," quoth 
 Sancho, " at least they suffer themselves to be felt : 
 if not, let my carcass bear witness." " So might 
 mine," cried Don Quixote; "yet this is no suffi- 
 cient reason to prove, that what we see is the en- 
 chanted Moor." 
 
 While they were thus arguing, the officer adr 
 vanced, and wondered to hear two men talk so 
 calmly to one another there : yet finding the unfor* 
 
 * Left someplace unbrumd, Ifct Literally, left something at 
 the bottom of the ink-horn ; that is, left; the buainesa incompleto. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 167 
 
 tunate knight lying in the same deplorable posture 
 as he left him, stretched out like a corpse, bloody, 
 bruised, and beplastered, and not able to stir him- 
 self; "How is't, honest fellow," quoth he to the 
 champion, "how do you find yourself?" " Were 
 I your fellow," replied Don Quixote, " I would have 
 a little more manners than you have, you block- 
 head, you ; is that your way of approaching knights- 
 errant in this country ? " The ofiicer could not 
 bear such a reprimand from one who made so 
 scurvy a figure, and lifting up the lamp, oil and all, 
 hit Don Quixote such a blow on the head with it, 
 that he had reason to fear he had made work for 
 the surgeon, and therefore stole presently out of the 
 room, under the protection of the night. " Well, 
 sir," quoth Sancho, " d'ye think now it was the en- 
 chanted Moor, or no ? for my part, I think he keeps 
 the treasure you talk of for others, and reserves 
 Only kicks, cuffs, thumps, and knocks for your wor- 
 ship and myself." " I am now convinced," answer- 
 ed Don Quixote : " therefore let us waive that resent- 
 ment of these injuries, which we might otherwise 
 justly show ; for, considering these enchanters can 
 make themselves invisible when they please, it is 
 needless to think of revenge. But, pray thee rise, 
 if thou canst, Sancho, and desire the governor of 
 the castle to send me some oil, salt, wine, and rose- 
 mary, that I may make my healing balsam; for 
 truly I want it extremely, so fast the blood flows 
 out of the wound which the fantasm gave me just 
 now." 
 
 Sancho then got up as fast as his aching bones 
 would let him, and with much ado made shift to 
 
168 THE ACHIBVEMBNTS OP 
 
 crawl out of the room to look for the innkeeper ; 
 and, stumbling by the way on the officer, who stood 
 hearkening to know what mischief he had done, 
 " Sir," quoth he to him, " for heaven's sake, do so 
 much as help us to a little oil, salt, wine, and rose- 
 mary, to make a medicine for one of the best 
 knights-errant that ever trod on shoe of leather, 
 who lies yonder grievously wounded by the en- 
 chanted Moor of this inn." The officer, hearing 
 hini talk at that rate, took him to be one out of his 
 wits; and it beginning to be daylight, he opened 
 the inn door, and told the innkeeper what Sancho 
 wanted. The host presently 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 : though 
 after all, the lamp had done him no more harm 
 than only raising of two huge bumps ; for that 
 which he fancied to be blood, was only sweat, and 
 the oil of the lamp that had liquored his hair arid 
 face. 
 
 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 vial 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 con- 
 tented with that. Then he mumbled over the pot 
 above fourscore Paternosters, and as many Ave- 
 marias, Salve Reginas, and Credos, making the 
 sign of the cross at every word by way of benedic- 
 tion. At which ceremony, Sancho, the innkeeper, 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 169 
 
 and the officer were present; for as for the carrier, 
 he was gone to. look after his mules, and took no 
 manner of notice of what was passed. This blessed 
 medicine being made, Don Quixote resolved to 
 make an immediate experiment of it 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, liver, and guts ; 
 and his reaching 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 balsam of Fie- 
 rabras ; and therefore he thought he might safely 
 undertake all the most dangerous adventmes 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 to give him leave to sip up what was left 
 in the pot, which was no small quantity ; and the 
 Don having consented, 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 being so nice as his 
 master's, the drench did not set him a vomiting 
 after that manner ; but caused such a wambling in 
 his stomach, such a bitter loathing, kecking, and 
 reaching, and such grinding pangs, with cold 
 sweats and swoonings, that he verily believed his 
 last hour was come, and in the midst of his agony, 
 
170 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 gave both the balsam and him that made it to the- 
 devil. "Friend," said Don Quixote, seeing him in~ 
 that condition, " I begin to think all this pain be- 
 falls thee, only because thou hast not received the 
 order of knighthood ; for it is my opinion, this bal- 
 sam ought to be used by no man that is not a pro- 
 fessed knight." " What a plague did you mean 
 then by letting me drink it ? " quoth Sancho ; " a 
 murrain on me, ajid all my generation, why did not 
 you tell me this before ? " At length the dose be- 
 gan to work to some purpose, and forced its way at 
 both ends so copiously, that both his bed-mat and: 
 ^verlet were soon made unfit for any further use ; 
 and all the while he strained so hard, that not only 
 himself, but the standers-by, thought he would have 
 died. This dreadful hurricane lasted about two' 
 hours ; and then too, instead of finding himself as 
 free from pain as his master, he felt himself so fee- 
 ble, and so far spent, that he was not able to stand. 
 But Don Quixote, as we have said, found himself 
 in an excellent temper; and his active soul loathing 
 an inglorious repose,\he presently was impatient to 
 depart to perform the duties of his adventurous pro- 
 fession: for he thought those moments that were 
 trifled away in amusements, or other concerns, only 
 a blank in life; and all delays a depriving dis- 
 tressed persons, and the world in general, of his- 
 needed assistance. The confidence which he re- 
 posed in his balsam, heightened, if possible, his 
 resolution; and thus carried away by his eagei 
 thoughts, he saddled Rozinante himself, and then 
 put the pannel upon the ass, and his squire upon 
 the pannel, after he had helped him to huddle on 
 
DON QTJIXOTB. 171 
 
 his clothes: that done, he mounted his steed; and 
 having 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 stood 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 pro- 
 ceed 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 deli- 
 very, " My lord governor," cried he, " the favors I 
 have received in your castle are so great and extra- 
 ordinary, that they bind my grateful soul to an 
 eternal acknowledgment : therefore that I may be 
 so happy as to discharge part of the obligation, 
 think if there be ever a proud mortal breathing on 
 whom you desire to be revenged 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 to the utmost of your 
 wishes." — "Sir Knight," answered the innkeeper, 
 with an austere gravity, " I shall not need your 
 assistance to revenge any wrong that may be offered 
 to my person ; for I would have you to understand, 
 that I am able to do myself justice, whenever any 
 man presumes 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 
 
172 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 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 1 
 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 pay- 
 ing any thing ; for I would by no means break the 
 laws which we knight-errants are bound to observe ; 
 nor was it ever known, that they ever paid in any 
 inn whatsoever; for this is the least recompense 
 that can be allowed them for the intolerable labors 
 they endure day and night, winter and summer, o'foot 
 and o'horsebackj pinched with hunger, choked with 
 thirst, and exposed to all the injuries of the air, and 
 all the inconveniences in the world." " I have 
 nothing to do with all this," cried the innkeeper: 
 " pay your reckoning, and don't trouble 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 innkeeper," replied 
 Don Quixote; and with that clapping spurs to 
 Rozinante, 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 behind him to see whether his squire came 
 after him. 
 
 The knight being marched off, there remained 
 only the squire, who was stopped for the reckonings 
 However he swore bloodily he would not pay a 
 cross ; for the self-same law that acquitted the 
 knight acquitted the squire. This put the innkeeper 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 173 
 
 into a great passion, and made him threaten San- 
 cho 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 knight- 
 hood, he would sooner part with his life than his 
 money on such an account; nor should the sijuires 
 in after ages ever have occasion to upbraid him with 
 giving so ill a precedent, 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 agreeing all in the 
 same design, encompassed Sancho, and pulled him 
 off his ass, while one of them went and got a blan- 
 ket. 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 grievous an out- 
 cry all the while, that his master heard him, and 
 imagined those lamentations were of some person 
 in distress, and consequently the occasion of some 
 adventure: but having at last distinguished the 
 voice, he made to the inn with a broken 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-yard wall, 
 which was none of the highest, when he was an eye- 
 witness of the scurvy trick that was put upon his 
 squire. There he saw him ascend and descend, and 
 frolic and caper in the air with so much nimbleness 
 
174 - THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 and agility, that it is thought the knight himself 
 could not have forborne laughing, had he been any 
 thing less angry. He did his best to get over the 
 wall, but alas ! he was so bruised, that he could not 
 so muph as alight from his horse. This made him 
 fume and chafe, and vent his passion in a thousand 
 threats and curses, so strange and various that it 
 is impossible to repeat them. But the more he 
 stormed, the more they tossed and laughed ; San- 
 cho on his side begging, and howling, and threaten- 
 ing, and damning, to as little purpose as his master, 
 for it was weariness alone could make the tossers 
 give over. Then they charitably put an end to his 
 high dancing, and set him upon his ass again, care- 
 fully wrapped in his mantle. 
 
 But Maritornes's 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, shak- 
 ing his head, and looking sourly on the knight with 
 a side-face, " have you again forgot that I am no 
 knight? or would you have me cast up the few 
 guts I have left since yesternight's job ? Keep 
 your brewings for yourself in the devil's name, and 
 let me alone." With that he lifted up the jug to 
 his nose, but finding it to be mere element, he 
 
DON QtnXOTE. 175 
 
 spirted out again the little he had tasted, and de- 
 sired the wench to help him to some better liquor : 
 so she went and fetched him wine to make him 
 amends, and paid for it too out of her own pocket ; 
 for, to give the devil his due, it was said of her, that 
 though she was somewhat too free of her favors, 
 yet she had something of Christianity in her. 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 
 tickled with the thoughts of having had his ends, 
 and got off shot-free, though at the expense of his 
 shoulders, his usual sureties. It is true, the inn- 
 keeper kept his wallet for the reckoning ; but the 
 poor squire was so dismayed, and in such haste ta 
 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 
 <^uixote a straw, though he had really been one of 
 the Knights of the Round Table. 
 
 CHAPTER IV, 
 
 OF THE DISCOURSE BETWEEN THE KNIGHT AND THE 8QUIEE, 
 WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTH RELATING. 
 
 Sancho 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 Quix- 
 ote, seeing him in that condition, " I am now fully 
 
176 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 convinced that this castle, or inn, is enchanted ; foi 
 what could they be that made themselves such bar* 
 barous sport with thee but spirits and people of the 
 other world? and I the rather believe this, seeing, 
 that, when I looked over the Wall, and saw thee thus 
 abused, I strove to get over it, but could not stir, 
 nor by any means alight from Eozinante, For, by 
 my honor, could I either have got over the wallj or 
 dismounted, I would have revenged thee so effect- 
 ually 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 San- 
 cho, " 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 themselves so 
 merry with my carcass were neither spirits nor en- 
 chanted 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 Her- 
 nandez ; 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 enchant- 
 er'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, 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 177 
 
 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 Ceca* 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 ignor- 
 ant 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 ven- 
 ture 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, the devil of any fight you have had the 
 better in, unless it be that with the Biscayan ; and 
 in that too you came off 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 aU to my share, and for which 
 I cannot be revenged because they were hobgoblins 
 
 * Ceca was a place of devotion among the Moors, in the city 
 of Cordova, to which they used to go on pilgrimage from other 
 places, as Mecca is among the Turks : whence the proverb comes 
 to signify, sauntering about to no purpose. A banter upon 
 Popish pilgrimages. 
 
 VOL. I. 12 
 
178 THE ACHIBVEMENTS OP 
 
 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, Saneho," 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 whosoever shall wear it ; and perhaps for- 
 tune may put into my hand that which Arnadis 
 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 now mentioned, it had an edge like a 
 razor, and would enter the strongest armor that 
 ever was tempered or enchanted." " I will lay any 
 thing," quoth Saneho, " 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 nobody 
 in any stead but your dubbed knights, let the poor 
 devil of a squire shift how he can." " Fear no 
 such thing," replied Don Quixote ; " heaven will be 
 more propitious to thee than thou imaginest." 
 
 Thus they went on discoursing, when Don Quix- 
 ote, perceiving a thick cloud of dust arise right be- 
 fore them in the road, " The day is come," said he, 
 turning to his squire, " the day is come, Saneho, 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 trans- 
 mitted even to the latest posterity. See'st thou that 
 cloud of dust, Saneho ? it is raised by a prodigious 
 army marching this way, and composed of an in- 
 finite number of nations." " Why then, at this 
 
DON QinXOTE. 179 
 
 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 trans- 
 ported 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 adven- 
 tures, amorous thoughts, and other whimseys which 
 he had read of in romances, that his strong fancy 
 changed every thing 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 Quix- 
 ote, "but assist the weaker and injured side? for 
 know, Sancho, that the army which now moves 
 towards us is commanded by the great Alifanfa- 
 ron, emperor of the vast island of Taprobana : the 
 other that advances behind us is his enemy, the 
 King of the Garamantians, Pentapolin with the 
 naked arm; so called, because he always enters 
 into the 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 : " Ali- 
 fanfaron, a strong Pagan, is in love with Pentapo- 
 lin's daughter, a very beautiful lady and a Christian : 
 now her father refuses to give her in marriage to 
 the heathen prince, unless he abjure his false belief 
 
180 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 and embrace the Christian religion." " Burn my 
 beard," said Sancho, " if Pentapoliri be not in the 
 right on it ; I will stand by him, and lielp 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 mean time, 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," an- 
 swered Don Quixote, " and therefore I would have 
 thee turn him loose, though thou wert sure never to 
 find him again ; for we shall have so many horses 
 after we have got the day, that even Rozinante him- 
 self will be in danger of being changed for another." 
 Then mounting to the top of a hillock, whence they 
 might have seen both the flocks, had not the dust 
 obstructed 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 
 Laurealco, 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 Boliche, sovereign 
 of the three Arabiaa; he is arrayed in a .serpent's 
 skin, and carries instead of a shield a huge gate, 
 which they say belonged to the temple which Sam- 
 son pulled down at his death, when he revenged 
 himself upon his enemies. But cast thy eyes on 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 181 
 
 this side, Sancho, and at the head of the other army 
 see the victorious Timonel of Careaiona, Prince of 
 New Biscay, whose armor is quartered Azure, Vert, 
 Or, and Argent, and who bears in his shield a cat 
 Or, in a field Gules, with these four letters, Miau, 
 for a motto, being the beginning of his mistress's 
 name, the beautiful Miaulina, daughter to Alpheni- 
 quen, Duke of Algarva. That other monstrous 
 load upon the back of yonder wild horse, with arms 
 as white as snow, and a shield without any device, 
 is a Frenchman, now created knight, called Pierre 
 Papin, Baron of tJtrique : he whom you see prick- 
 ing that pyed 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, Restrea mi suerte ; Thus trails, 
 or drags my fortune^'' And thus he went on, nam- 
 ing a great number of others in both armies, to 
 every one of whom his fertile imagination assigned 
 arms, colors, impresses and mottoes, as readily as 
 if they had really been that moment extant before 
 his eyes. And then proceeding without the least 
 
 * The gingle between the duke's name Espartafilardo and 
 Esparago (his arms) is a ridicule upon the foolish quibbles so 
 frequent in heraldry; and probably this whole catalogue is a 
 satire upon several great names and sounding titles in Spain, 
 whose owners were arrant beggars. The trailing of his fortune 
 may allude to the word Esparto, a sort of rush they make ropes 
 with. Or perhaps he was without a mistress, to which the spara- 
 grass may allude ; for in Spain they have a proverb, Solo comes 
 el Esparago : As solitary as sparagrass, because every one of 
 them springs up by itself. 
 
182 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 hesitation : " That vast 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 Massilian fields : those that sift the 
 pure gold of Arabia Felix : those that inhabit the 
 renowned and delightful banks of Thermodoon. 
 Yonder, those who so many ways sluice and drain 
 the golden Pactolus for its precious sand. The 
 Numidiaiis, 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 Ethio- 
 pians, that bore their lips ; and a thousand other 
 nations whose countenances I know, though I have 
 forgotten 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 limbs in the rich flood of the golden 
 Tagus. Those whose mansions are laved by the 
 profitable stream of the divine Genile. Those who 
 range the verdant Tartesian meadows. Those who 
 indulge their luxurious temper in the delicious pas- 
 tures of Xerez. The wealthy inhabitants of Man- 
 cha, 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 numerous flocks in the ample plains 
 where the Guadiana, so celebrated for its hidden 
 course, pursues its wandering race. Those who 
 shiver with extremity of cold, on the woody Pyre- 
 nean hills, or on the hoary tops of the snowy Apen- 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 183 
 
 nine. 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 ran over, how many nations he enumerated, 
 distinguishing every one by what is peculiar to them, 
 with an incredible 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 
 ^ide 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 discover any, " Why," 
 cried he, "you had as good tell me it snows ; the 
 devil of any knight, giant, or man, can I see, of all 
 those you talk of now ; who knows but all this may 
 be witchcraft and spirits, 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 I can hear 
 nothing but the bleating of sheep." Sancho might 
 justly say so indeed, for by this time the two flock^ 
 were got very near them. " Thy fear disturbs thy 
 senses," said Don Quixote, " and hinders thee from 
 hearing and seeing right : but it is no matter ; with- 
 draw to some place of safety, since thou art so terri- 
 fied ; 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 Ro- 
 zinante, and rushed like a thunder-bolt from the hil- 
 lock into the plain. Sancho bawled after him as 
 loud as he could ; "Hold, sir ! " cried Sancho ; " for 
 
184 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OE 
 
 neaven'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. Come back, I 
 say. Woe to him that begot me ! Are you mad, sir? 
 there are no giants, no knights, no cats, no aspara- 
 gus-gardens, no golden quarters nor what d'ye call 
 thems. Does the devil possess you ? you are leaping 
 over the hedge before you come at the stile. You 
 are taking the vwong 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 nak- 
 ed arm : follow me, and you shall see how easily I 
 will revenge him on that infi.del Alifanfaron of Ta- 
 probana;" and so saying, he charged the squadron 
 of sheep with that gallantry and resolution, 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 
 unloosed their slings, and began to ply him with 
 stones as big as their fists. But the champion dis- 
 daining 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 man- 
 ner, impatient to meet the general of the enemy, and 
 end the war at once. "Where, where art thou," cried 
 he, "proud Alifanfaron? Appear! see here a single 
 knight who seeks thee everywhere, to try now, hand 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 185 
 
 to hand, the boasted force of thy strenuous arm, 
 and deprive thee of life, as a due punishment for the 
 unjust war which thou hast audaciously waged With 
 the valiant Pentapolin." 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 despe- 
 rately wounded ; and therefore calling to mind his 
 precious balsam, and pulling out his earthen jug, he 
 clapped it to his mouth : but before he had swallow- 
 ed a sufficient 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 to- 
 gether with all speed, and carrying away their dead, 
 which were no less than seven sheep, they 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, where 
 he was mortified upon the sight of this mad adven- 
 ture. There he stamped and swore, and banned his 
 master to the bottomless pit ; he tore his beard for 
 madness, and cursed the moment he first knew him : 
 but seeing him at last knocked down, and settled, 
 the shepherds being scampered, he thought he might 
 venture to come down ; and found him in a very 
 ill plight, though not altogether senseless. " Ah ! 
 master," quoth he, " this comes of not taking my 
 
186 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 counsel. Did I not tell you it was a flock of sheep, 
 and no army ? " " Friend Sanclio," replied Don 
 Quixote, "know, it is an easy matter for necroman- 
 cers to change the shapes of things as they please : 
 thus that malicious enchanter, who is my inveterate 
 enemy, to deprive me of the glory which he saw me 
 ready to acquire, while I was reaping a full harvest 
 of laurels, 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 dis- 
 tance, and I dare engage thou shalt soon see them 
 resume their former shapes, and appear such as I der 
 scribed them. But stay, do not go yet, for I want 
 thy assistance : draw near, and see how many cheek- 
 teeth and others I want, for by the dreadful pain in 
 my jaws and gums, I fear there is a total dilapida- 
 tion in my mouth." With that the knight opened 
 his mouth as wide as he could, while the squire gap- 
 ed to tell his grinders, with his snout almost in his 
 chaps ; but, just in that fatal moment, the balsam, 
 that lay wambling and fretting in Don Quixote's 
 stomach, came up with an unlucky hiekup ; and 
 with the same violence that the powder flies out of 
 a gun, all that he had in his stomach discharged 
 itself upon the beard, face, eyes, and mouth, of the 
 officious squire. " Santa Maria," cried poor Sancho,* 
 "what will become of me! my master is a dead 
 man ! he is vomiting his vety hefeirt's blood I " But 
 he had hardly said this, when the color, smell, and 
 taste, soon undeceived him ; and, finding it to be his 
 master's loathsome drench, it caused such a sudden 
 rumbling in his maw, that, before he could turn his 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 187 
 
 head, he unladed the whole cargo of his stomach full 
 in his master's face, and put him in as delicate a 
 pickle as he was himself. Sancho having thus paid 
 him in his own coin, half blinded as he was, ran to 
 his ass, to take out something to clean himself and 
 his master ; but when he came to look for his wal- 
 let, and found it missing, not remembering till 
 then that he had unhappily left it in the inn, he was 
 ready to run quite out of his wits : he stormed and 
 stamped, and cursed him worse than before, and 
 resolved with himself to let his master go to the 
 devil, and e'en trudge home by himself, though he 
 was sure to lose his wages, and his hopes of being 
 governor of the promised island. 
 
 Thereupon Don Quixote got up 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 hand on Eozinante's bridle ; (for such 
 was the good-nature of the creature, that he had not 
 budged a foot from his master,) then he crept along 
 to Squire Sancho, that stood lolling on his ass's 
 pannel, with his face in the hollow of both his hands, 
 in a doleful moody melancholy fit. " Friend San- 
 cho," said he, seeing him thus abandoned to sorrow, 
 " 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 ap- 
 proaching calm : better success 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 reign beyond the 
 
188 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 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 
 Ijlanket 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 1 " " How," 
 asked Don Quixote, " hast thou lost thy wallet ? " 
 " I don't know," said Sancho, " whether it is lost or 
 no, but I am sure I can't tell what is become df 
 it." " Nay then," replied Don Quixote, " I find we 
 must fast to-day." "Ay, marry must we," quoth 
 Sancho, " unless you take care to gather in these 
 fields some of those roots and herbs which I have 
 heard you say you know, and which use to help such 
 unlucky knights-errant as yourself at a dead lift." 
 " For all that," 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 in Dioscorides's herbal, and Doctor La- 
 guna'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 flying insects in the 
 air, the wormlings in the earth, and the spawnUngs 
 in the water ; and, in his infinite mercy, he makes 
 his sun shine on the righteous, and on the unjust, 
 and rains upon the good and the bad." 
 
 "Many words won't fill a bushel," quoth San- 
 cho, interrupting him ; " you would make a better 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 189 
 
 preacher than a knight-errant, or I am plaguily out." 
 " 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 or oration at the head of an array, as if 
 they had taken their degrees 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 Sancho, " for once let it be as 
 you would have it ; let us even leave this unlucky 
 place, and seek out a lodging, where, I pray God, 
 there may be neither blankets, nor blanket-heavers, 
 nor hobgoblins, nor enchanted Moors ; for before I 
 will be hampered as I have been, may I be cursed 
 with bell, book, and candle, if I don't give the trade 
 to the devil." " Leave all things to Providence," 
 replied Don Quixote, " and for once lead which way 
 thou pleasest, for I leave it wholly to thy discretion 
 to provide us a lodging. But first, I pray thee, feel 
 a little how many teeth I want in my upper jaw on 
 the right side, for there I 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 ypu say," cried Sancho. " I say four," repli- 
 ed Don Quixote, « if there were not five ; for I never 
 in all my life have had a tooth drawn or dropped 
 out, or rotted by the worm, or loosened by rheum." 
 « Bless me ! " 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 
 
190 THE ACHIISVEMENTS OP 
 
 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 mill-stone, 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 subject to these calamities ; and therefore, 
 since the loss is irretrievable, mount, my trusty San- 
 cho, 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 suffer 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 V. 
 
 op the wisb discouhse between sancho and his 
 master; as also of the adventure of the dead 
 corpse, and other famous occurrences. 
 
 " Now, sir," quoth Sancho, " I can't help think- 
 ing, but that all the mishaps that have befallen us 
 of late, are a just judgment for the grievous sin you 
 have committed against the order of knighthood, in 
 not keeping the oath you swore, not to eat bread at 
 board, nor to have a merry bout with the queen, 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 191 
 
 and the Lord knows what more, until you had won 
 what d'ye 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 
 ingenuously with thee, I wholly forgot that : and 
 now thou may'st certainly assure thyself, thou wert 
 tost in a blanket for not remembering to put me in 
 mind of it. However, I will take care to make due 
 atonement ; for knight-errantry has ways to con- 
 ciliate all sorts of matters." "Why," quoth Sancho, 
 " did I ever swear to mind you of your vow ? " 
 " It is nothing to the purpose," replied Don Quix- 
 ote, " whether thou sworest or no : let it suffice 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 confounded hobgoblins come 
 and maul me, and mayhap you too, for being a 
 stubborn sinner." 
 
 . Insensibly night overtook them before they could 
 discover any lodging ; and, which was worse, they 
 were almost hunger-starved, all their provision be- 
 ing in the wallet which Sancho had unluckily left 
 behind; and to complete their distress, there hap- 
 pened to them an adventure, 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 ap- 
 
192 THE ACHIEVBMENTS OF 
 
 parition, down sunk Sancho's heart at once, and 
 even Don Quixote himself was not without some 
 symptoms of surprise. Presently the one pulled to 
 him his ass's halter, the other his horse's bridle, and 
 both made a stop. They soon perceived that the 
 lights made directly towards them, and the nearer 
 they came the bigger they appeared. At the terrible 
 wonder, Sancho shook and shivered every joint like 
 one in a palsy, and Pon Quixote's hair stood up on 
 end : however, heroically shaking off the amazement 
 which that sight stamped upon his soul, " Sancho," 
 said he, " this must doubtless be a great and most 
 perilous adventure, where I shall have occasion to 
 exert the whole stock of my courage and strength." 
 " Woe's me," quoth Sancho, " should this happen 
 to be another adventure of ghosts, as I fear it is, 
 where shall I find ribs to endure it ? " " Come all 
 the fiends in hell," cried Don Quixote, " I will not 
 suffer them to touch a hair of thy head. If they 
 insulted thee lately, know there was theii between 
 thee and me a wall, over which I could not climb ; 
 but now we are in the open field, where I shall have 
 liberty to make use of my sword." "Ay," quoth 
 Sancho, " you may talk ; but should they bewitch 
 you as they did before, what the devil would it avail 
 us to be in the open field ? " " Come, Sancho," 
 replied Don Quixote, " be of good cheer ; the event 
 will soon convince thee of the greatness of my va- 
 lor." " Pray heaven it may," quoth Sancho ; " I 
 will do my best." 
 
 With that they rode a little out of the way, 
 and, gazing earnestly at the lights, they soon dis- 
 covered a great number of persons all in white. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 193 
 
 At the dreadful sight, all poor Sancho's shuffling 
 courage basely deserted him ; his teeth began to 
 chatter as if he had been in an ague fit, and as the 
 objects drew nearer his chattering increased. And 
 now they could plainly distinguish about twenty 
 men on horseback, all in white, with torches in their 
 hands, followed by a hearse covered over with black, 
 and six men in deep mourning, whose mules were 
 also in black down to their very heels. Those in 
 white moved slowly, murmuring from their lips some- 
 thing in a low and lamentable tone. This dismal 
 spectacle, at such a time of night, in the midst of 
 such a vast solitude, was enough to have shipwreck- 
 ed the courage of a stouter squire than Sancho, and 
 even of his master, had he been any other than Don 
 Quixote : but as his imagination straighi; suggested 
 to him, that this was one of those adventures of 
 which he had so often read in his books of chivalry, 
 the hearse appeared to him to be a litter, where lay 
 the body of some knight either slain or dangerously 
 wounded, the revenge of whose misfortunes was 
 reserved for his prevailing arm ; and so without any 
 more ado, couching his lance, and seating himself 
 firm in the saddle, he posted himself in the middle 
 of the road, where the company were to pass. As 
 soon as they came near, " Stand," cried he to them 
 in a haughty tone, " whoever you be, and tell me 
 who you are, whence you come, whither you go, 
 and what you carry in that litter ? for there is all the 
 reason in the world to believe, that you have either 
 done or received a great deal of harm ; and it is re- 
 quisite I should be informed of the matter, in order 
 either to punish you for the ill you have committed, 
 yoL. I. 13 
 
194 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 or else to revenge you of the wrong you have suf- 
 fered." " Sir," answered one of the men in white, 
 " we are in haste ; the inn is a great way off, and 
 we cannot stay to answer so many questions ; " and 
 with that, spurring his mule, he moved forwards. 
 But Don Quixote, highly dissatisfied with the reply, 
 laid hold on the mule's bridle and stopped him : 
 " Stay," cried he, " proud, discourteous knight! Mend 
 your behavior, and give me instantly an account of 
 what I asked of you, or here I defy you all to mor- 
 tal combat." — Now the mule, that was shy and 
 skittish, being thus rudely seized by the bridle, was 
 presently scared, and, rising up on her hinder legs, 
 threw her rider to the ground. Upon this one of the 
 footmen that belonged to the company gave Don 
 Quixote ill language ; which so incensed him, that, 
 being resolved to be revenged upon them all, in a 
 mighty rage he flew at the next he met, who hap- 
 pened to be one of the mourners. Him he threw to 
 the ground very much hurt ; and then turning to 
 the rest with a wonderful agility, he fell upon them 
 with such fury, that he presently put them all to 
 flight. You would have thought Rozinante had 
 wings at that time, so active and so fierce he then 
 approved himself. 
 
 It was not indeed for men unarmed, and naturally 
 fearful, to maintain the field against such an enemy^ 
 no wonder then if the gentlemen in white were im- 
 mediately dispersed. Some ran one way, some an 
 other, crossing the plain with their lighted torches , 
 • you would now have taken them for a parcel of 
 frolicsome masqueraders, gambling and scouring on 
 a carnival night. As for the mourners, they, poor 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 195 
 
 men, were so muffled up in their long cumbersome 
 cloaks, that, not being able to make their party 
 good, nor defend themselves, they were presently 
 routed, and ran away like the rest, the rather, for 
 that they thought it was no mortal creature, but the 
 devil himself, that was come to fetch away the dead 
 body which they were accompanying to the grave. 
 All the while Sancho was lost in admiration and 
 astonishment, charmed with the sight of his master's 
 valor ; and now concluded him to be the formidable 
 champion be boasted himself. 
 
 After this the knight, by the light of a torch that 
 lay burning upon the ground, perceiving the man 
 who was thrown by bis mule lying near it, he rode 
 up to him, and, setting his lance to his throat 
 " Yield," cried be, " and beg thy life, or thou diest." 
 " Alas, sir," cried the other, " what need you ask 
 me to yield ? I am not able to stir, for one of my 
 legs is broken; and I beseech yOu, if you are a 
 Christian, do not kill me. I am a master of arts, 
 and in holy orders ; it would be a heinous sacrilege 
 to take away my life." " What a devil brought you 
 hither then, if you are a clergyman ? " cried Don 
 Quixote. " What else but my ill fortune ? " replied 
 the supplicant. "A worse hovers over thy head," 
 cried Don Quixote, " and threatens thee, if thou dost 
 not answer this moment to every partioalar ques- 
 tion I ask." " I will, I will, sir," replied the other ; 
 « and first I must beg your pardon for saying I was 
 a master of arts, for I have yet but taken my bache- 
 lor's degree. My name is Alonzo Lopez : I am of 
 Alcovendas, and came now from the town of Baeza, 
 with eleven other clergymen, the same that now ran 
 
196 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 away with the torches. We were going to Segovia 
 to bury the corpse of a gentleman of that town, who 
 died at Baeza, and lies now in yonder hearse." 
 " And who killed him ? " asked Don Quixote. — 
 " Heaven, with a pestilential fever," answered the 
 other. " If it be so," said Don Quixote, " I am 
 discharged of revenging his death. Since Heaven 
 did it, there is no more to be said ; had it been its 
 pleasure to have taken me off so, I too must have 
 submitted. I would have you informed, reverend 
 sir, that I am a knight of La Mancha, my name 
 Don Quixote ; my employment is to visit all parts of 
 the world in quest of adventures, to right and relieve 
 injured innocence, and punish oppression." " Truly, 
 sir," replied the clergyman, " I do not understand 
 how you can call that to right and relieve men, 
 when you break their legs : you have made that 
 crooked which was right and straight before ; and 
 heaven knows whether it can ever be set right 
 as long as I live. Instead of relieving the injured, 
 I fear you have injured me past relief ; and while 
 you seek adventures, you have made me meet with 
 a very great misadventure." * "All things," replied 
 Don Quixote, " are not blessed alike with a pros- 
 perous event, good Mr. Bachelor : you should have 
 taken care not to have thus gone a processioning in 
 these desolate plains at this suspicious time of night, < 
 with your white surplices, burning torches, and sable 
 weeds, like ghosts and goblins, that went about to 
 
 * The author's making the bachelor quibble so much, under 
 such improper circumstances, was designed as a ridicule upon 
 the younger students of the universities, who are apt to indulge 
 in this species of wit 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 197 
 
 scare people out of their wits : for I could not omit 
 doing the duty of my profession, nor would I have 
 forborne attacking you, though you had really been 
 all Lucifer's infernal crew ; for such I took you to 
 be, and till this moment could have no better opi- 
 nion of you." 
 
 " Well, sir," said the bachelor, " since my bad 
 fortune has so ordered it, I must desire you, as you 
 are a knight-errant, who have made mine so ill an 
 errand, to help me to get from under my mule, for 
 it lies so heavy upon me, that I cannot get my foot 
 out of the stirrup." " Why did not you acquaint 
 me sooner with your grievance'? " cried Don Quix- 
 ote ; " I might have talked on till to-morrow morn- 
 ing and never have thought on it." With that he 
 called Sancho, who made no great hastfefor he was 
 riiuch better employed in rifling a load of choice 
 provisions, which the holy men carried along with 
 them on a sumpter-mule. He had spread his coat 
 on the ground, and having laid on it as much food 
 as it would hold, he wrapped it up like a bag, and 
 laid the booty on his ass ; and then away he ran to 
 his master, and helped him to set the bachelor upon 
 his mule : after which he gave him his torch, and 
 Don Quixote bade him follow his company, and 
 excuse him for his mistake, though, all things consi- 
 dered, he could not avoid doing what he had done. 
 "And, sir," quoth Sancho, " if the gentlemen would 
 know who it was that so well threshed their jackets, 
 you may tell them it was the famous Don Quixote 
 Je la Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the 
 Woful Figure." 
 
 When the bachelor was gone, Don Quixote ask- 
 
198 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 ed Sancho why he called him the Knight of the 
 Woful Figure? "I'll tell you. why," quoth San- 
 cho ; " I have been staring upon you this pretty 
 while by the light of that unlucky priest's torch, and 
 may I never stir if ever I set eyes on a more dismal 
 figure in my born days ; and I can't tell what should 
 be the cause on't, unless your being tired after this 
 fray, or the want of your worship's teeth." " That 
 is not the reason," cried Don Quixote ; " no, San- 
 cho, I rather conjecture that the sage who is com- 
 missioned by fate to register my achievements, 
 thought it convenient I should assume a new appel- 
 lation, as all the knights of yore ; for one was called 
 the Knight of the Burning Sword, another of the 
 Unicorn, a third of the Phoenix, a fourth the Knight 
 of the Damsels, another of the Griffin, and another 
 the Knight of Death ; by which by-names and distinc- 
 tions they were known all over the globe. There- 
 fore, doubtless, that learned sage, my historian, has 
 inspired thee with the thought of giving me that 
 additional appellation of the Knight of the Woful 
 Figure : and accordingly I assume the name, and 
 intend henceforward to be distinguished by that 
 denomination. And, that it may seem the more 
 proper, I will with the first opportunity have a most 
 woful face painted on my shield." " On my 
 word," quoth Sancho, " you may even save the • 
 money, and instead of having a woful face painted> 
 you need no more but only show your own. I am 
 but in jest, as a l)ody may say ; but what with the 
 want of your teeth, and what with hunger, you look 
 BO queprly and so wofujly, that no painter can draw 
 you a figure so fit for your purpose as your wor- 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 199 
 
 ship's." This merry conceit of Sancho extorted a 
 smile from his master's austere countenance : how- 
 ever, he persisted in his resolution about the' name 
 and the picture ; and after a pause, a sudden thought 
 disturbing his conscience, " Sancho," cried he, " I 
 am afraid of being excommunicated for having laid 
 violent hands upon a man in holy orders, Juxta 
 illud; si quis suadente diabolo, &c. But yet, now 
 I think better on it, I never touched him with my 
 hands, but only with my lance ; besides, I did not 
 in the least suspect I had to do with priests, whom 
 I honor and revere as every good Catholic and 
 faithful Christian ought to do, but rather took them 
 to be evil spirits. Well, let the worst come to the 
 worst, I remember what befell the Cid Ruy-Dias, 
 when he broke to pieces the chair of a king's am- 
 bassador in the pope's presence, for which he was 
 excommunicated; which did not hinder the worthy 
 Rodrigo de Vivar from behaving himself that day 
 like a valorous knight, and a man of honor." 
 
 This said,.Don Quixote was for visiting the hearse, 
 to see whether what was in it were only dead bones ; 
 but Sancho would not let him. " Sir," quoth he, 
 " you are come off now with a whole skin, and 
 much better than you have done hitherto. Who 
 knows but these same fellows that are now scam- 
 pered off, may chance to bethink themselves what a 
 shame it is for them to have suffered themselves to 
 be thus routed by a single man, and so come back, 
 and fall upon us all at once ? Then we shall have 
 work enough upon our hands. The ass is in good 
 case ; there's a hill not far off, and our bellies cry 
 cupboard. Come, let us even get out of harm's 
 
200 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OiP 
 
 way, and not let the plough stand to catch a mouse, 
 as the saying is ; to the grave with the dead, and 
 the living to the bread." With that he put on a 
 dog-trot with his ass ; and his master, bethinking 
 himself that he was in the right, put on after him 
 without replying. 
 
 After they had rid a little way, they came to a 
 valley that lay skulking between two hills. There 
 they alighted, and Sancho having opened his coat 
 and spread it on the grass, with the provision which 
 he had bundled up in it, our two adventurers fell 
 to ; and their stomachs being sharpened with the 
 sauce of hunger, they eat their breakfast, dinner, 
 afternoon's luncheon, and supper, all at the same 
 time, feasting themselves with variety of cold meats, 
 which you may be sure were the best that could be 
 got ; the priests who had brought it for their own 
 eating, being like the rest of their coat, none of the 
 worst stewards for their bellies, and knowing how 
 to make much of themselves. 
 
 But now they began to grow sensible of a very 
 great misfortune, and such a misfortune as was be- 
 moaned by poor Sancho, as one of the saddest that 
 ever could befall him ; for they found they had not 
 one drop of wine or water to wash down their meat 
 and quench their thirst, which now scorched and 
 choaked them worse than hunger had pinched them 
 before. However, Sancho, considering they were 
 in a place where the grass was fresh and green, said 
 to his master what you shall find in the follow- 
 ing chapter. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 201 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 OF A WONDEKrUI. ADVENTURE ACHIEVED BY THE VALOROUS 
 DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA ; THE LIKE NEVER COM- 
 PASSED WITH LESS DANGER BY ANY OP THE MOST FAMOUS 
 KNIGHTS IN THE WORLD. 
 
 " The grass is so fresh," quoth Sancho, half 
 choaked with thirst, " that I dare lay ray life we 
 shall light of some spring or stream hereabouts ; 
 therefore, sir, let us look, I beseech you, that we 
 may quench this confounded drought, that plagues 
 our throats ten times worse than hunger did our 
 guts." Thereupon Don Quixote, leading Rozinante 
 by the bridle, and Sancho his ass by the halter, after 
 he had laid up the reversion of their meal, they went 
 feeling about, only guided by their guess ; for it 
 was so dark they scarce could see their hands. 
 They had not gone above two hundred paces before 
 they heard a noise of a great waterfall ; which was 
 to them the most welcome sound in the world : but 
 then listening with great attention to know on which 
 side the grateful murmur came, they on a sudden 
 heard another kind of noise that strangely allayed 
 the pleasure of the first, especially in Sancho, who 
 was naturally fearful, and pusillanimous. They 
 heard a terrible din of obstreperous blows, struck 
 regularly, and a more dreadful rattling of chains 
 and irons, which, together with the roaring of the 
 waters, might have filled any other heart but Don 
 Quixote's with terror and amazement. Add to this 
 the horrors of a dark night and solitude, in an un- 
 
202 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 known place, the loud rustling of the leaves of some 
 lofty trees under which fortune brought them at the 
 same unlucky moment, the whistling of the wind, 
 which concurred with the other dismaying sounds ; 
 the fall of the waters, the thundering thumps, and 
 the clanking of chains aforesaid. The worst, too, 
 was, that the blows were redoubled without ceasing, 
 the wind blowed on, and daylight was far distant. 
 But then it was Don Quixote, secured by his intre- 
 pidity (his inseparable companion,) mounted his 
 Kozinante, braced his shield, brandished his lance, 
 and showed a soul unknowing fear, and superior to 
 danger and fortune. 
 
 " Know, Sancho," cried he, " I was born in this 
 iron age, to restore the age of gold, or the golden 
 age, as some choose to call it. I am the man for 
 whom fate has reserved the most dangerous and 
 formidable attempts, the most stupendous and glo- 
 rious adventures, and the most valorous feats of 
 arms. I am the man who must revive the order of 
 the Round Table, the twelve peers of France, and 
 the nine worthies, and efface the memory of your 
 Platyrs, your Tablantes, your Olivantes, and your 
 Tirantes. Now must your Knights of the Sun, your 
 Belianises, and all the numerous throng of famous 
 heroes, and knights-errant of former ages, see the 
 glory of all their most dazzling actions eclipsed and ' 
 darkened by more illustrious exploits. Do but ob- 
 serve, O thou my faithful squire, what a multifarious 
 assemblage of terrors surrounds us ! A horrid dark- 
 ness, a doleful soKtude, a confused rustling of 
 leaves, a dismal rattling of chains, a howling of the 
 winds, an astonishing noise of cataracts, that seem 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 203 
 
 to fall with a boisterous rapidity from the steep 
 mountains of the moon, a terrible sound of redou- 
 bled blows, still wounding our ears like furious 
 thunderclaps, and a dead and universal silence of 
 those things that might buoy up the sinking courage 
 of frail mortality. In this extremity of danger, Mars 
 himself might tremble with the affright : yet I, in 
 the midst of all these unutterable alarms, still re- 
 main undaunted and unshaken. These are but in- 
 centives to my Talor, and but animate my heart 
 the more ; it grows too big and mighty for my breast, 
 and leaps at the approach of this threatening ad- 
 venture, as formidable as it is like to prove. Come, 
 girt Rozinante straiter, and then Providence pro- 
 tect thee : thou mayest stay for me here ; but if I do 
 not return in three days, go back to our village ; 
 and from thence, for my sake, to Toboso, where 
 thou shalt say to my incomparable Lady Dulcinea, 
 that her faithful knight fell a sacrifice to love and 
 honor, while he attempted things that might have 
 made him worthy to be called her adorer." 
 
 When Sancho heard his master talk thus, he fell 
 a weeping in the most pitiful manner in the world. 
 " Pray, sir," cried he, "why will you thus run your- 
 self into mischief? Why need you go about this 
 rueful misventure ? It is main dark, and there is 
 never a living soul sees us ; we have nothing to do 
 but to sheer off, and get out of harm's way, though 
 we were not to drink a drop these three days. Who 
 is there to take notice of our flinching? I have 
 heard our parson, whom you very well know, say 
 in his pulpit, that he who seeks danger, perishes 
 therein : and therefore we should not tempt hea- 
 
204 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 ven by going about a thing tiiat we cannot com- 
 pass but by a miracle. Is it not enough, thinlt 
 you, that it has preserved you from being tossed' 
 in a blanket as I was, and made you come off safe 
 and sound from among so many goblins that went 
 with the dead man ? If all this won't work upon 
 that hard heart of yours, do but think of me, and 
 rest yourself assured, that when once you have left 
 your poor Sancho, he will be ready to give up the 
 ghost for very fear, to the next that will come for 
 it : I left my house and home, my wife, children, 
 and all to follow you, hoping to be the better for 
 it, and not the worse ; but as covetousness breaks 
 the sack, so has it broke me and my hopes ; for 
 while I thought myself cocksure of that unlucky 
 and accursed island, which you so often promised 
 me, in lieu thereof you drop me here in a strange 
 place. Dear master, don't be so hardhearted; and 
 if you won't be persuaded not to meddle with this 
 ungracious adventure, do but put it off till day- 
 break, to which, according to the little skill I learned 
 when a shepherd, it cannot be above three hours ; 
 for the muzzle of the lesser bear is just over our 
 heads, and makes midnight in the line of the left 
 arm." " How ! canst thou see the muzzle of the 
 bear?" asked Don Quixote; "there's not a star to 
 be seen in the sky." " That's true," quoth Sancho ; 
 " but fear is sharp-sighted, and can see things under 
 ground, and much more in the skies." " Let day 
 come, or not come, it is all one to me," cried the 
 champion ; " it shall never be recorded of Don 
 Quixote, that either tears or entreaties could make 
 him neglect the duty of a knight. Then, Sancho, 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 305 
 
 say no more ; for heaven, that has inspired me with 
 a resolution of attempting this dreadful adventure, 
 will certainly take care of me and thee : come 
 quickly, girt my steed, and stay here for me ; for you 
 will shortly hear of me again, either alive or dead." 
 Sancho, finding his master obstinate, and neither 
 to be moved with tears nor good advice, resolved 
 to try a trick of policy to keep him there till day- 
 light : and accordingly, while he pretended to fasten 
 the girths, he slily tied Rozinante's hinder-legs with 
 his ass's halter, without being so much as sus- 
 pected : so that when Don Quixote thought to have 
 moved forwards, he found his horse would not go 
 a step without leaping, though he spurred him on 
 smartly. Sancho, perceiving his plot took, " Look 
 you, sir," quoth he, " heaven's on my side, and 
 won't let Rozinante budge a foot forwards ; and 
 now if you wiU still be spurring him, I dare pawn 
 my life, it will be but striving against the stream ; 
 or, as the saying is, but kicking against the pricks." 
 Don Quixote fretted, and chafed, and raved, and 
 was in a desperate fury, to find his horse so stub- 
 born ; but at last, observing that the more he spur- 
 red and galled his sides, the more restive he proved, 
 he resolved, though very unwillingly, to have pa- 
 tience until it was light. " Well," said he, " since 
 Rozinante will not leave this place, I must tarry in 
 it until the dawn, though its slowness will cost me 
 some sighs." " You shall not need to sigh nor be 
 melancholy," quoth Sancho, " for I will undertake 
 to tell you stories until it be day ; unless your wor- 
 ship had rather get off your horse, and take a nap 
 upon the green grass, as knights-errant are wont. 
 
806 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 that you may be the fresher, and the better able in 
 the morning to go through that monstrous adven- 
 ture that waits for you." " What dost thou mean 
 by thus alighting and sleeping?" replied Don 
 Quixote ; " thinkest thou I am one of those carpet- 
 knights, that abandon themselves to sleep and lazy 
 ease, when danger is at hand ? no, sleep thou, thou 
 art born to sleep ; or do what thou wilt. As for 
 myself, I know what I have to do." " Good sir," 
 quoth Sancho, " do not put yourself into a passion ; 
 I meant no such thing, not I." Saying this, he 
 clapped one of his hands upon the pommel of Ro- 
 zinante's saddle, and the other upon the crupper, 
 and thus he stood embracing his master's left thigh, 
 not daring to budge an inch, for fear of the blows 
 that dinned continually in his ears. Don Quixote 
 then thought fit to claim his promise, and desired 
 him to tell some of his stories to help, to pass away 
 the time. 
 
 " Sir," quoth Sancho, " I am wofuUy frighted, 
 and have no heart to tell stories ; however, I will 
 do my best ; and, now I think on it, there is one 
 come into my head, which if I can but hit on it 
 right, and nothing happens to put me out, is the 
 best story you ever heard in your life; therefore 
 listen, for I am going to begin. — In the days of 
 yore, when it was as it was, good betide us all and 
 evil to him that evil seeks. And here, sir, you are 
 to take notice that they of old did not begin their 
 tales in an ordinary way ; for it was a saying of a 
 wise man whom they called Cato the Roman Ton- 
 Bor,* that said, Evil to him that evil seeks, which 
 * A mistake for Cato, the Roman Censor. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 207 
 
 is as pat for your purpose as a ring for the finger, 
 that you may neither meddle nor make, nor seek 
 evil and mischief for the nonce, but rather get out 
 of harm's way, for nobody forces us to run into the 
 mouth of all the devils in hell that wait for us yon- 
 der." " Go on with the story, Sancho," cried Don 
 Quixote, " and leave the rest to my discretion." — "I 
 say then," quoth Sancho, " that in a country town 
 in Estremadura, there lived a certain shepherd, 
 goat-herd I should have said ; which goat-herd, as 
 the story has it, was called Lope Ruyz ; and this 
 Lope Ruyz was in love with a shepherdess, whose 
 name was Toralva ; the which shepherdess, whose 
 name was Toralva, was the daughter of a wealthy 
 
 grazier ; and this wealthy grazier " " If thou 
 
 goest on at this rate," cried Don Quixote, " and 
 makest so many needless repetitions, thou wilt not 
 have told thy story these two days. Pray thee tell it 
 concisely, and like a man of sense, or let it alone." 
 " I tell it you," quoth Sancho, " as all stories are 
 told in our country, and I cannot for the blood of 
 me tell it in any other way, nor is it fit I should 
 alter the custom." " Why then tell it how thou 
 wilt," replied Don Quixote, " since my ill fortune 
 forces me to stay and hear thee." 
 
 " Well then, dear sir," quoth Sancho, " as I was 
 saying, this same shepherd — goat-herd I should 
 have said — was woundily in love with that same 
 shepherdess Toralva, who was a well trussed, round, 
 crummy, strapping wench, coy and foppish and 
 somewhat like a man, for she had a kind of beard 
 on her upper lip ; methinks I see her now standing 
 before me." " Then 1 suppose thou knewest her," 
 
208 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 said Don Quixote. " Not I," answered Sancho, " I 
 never set eyes on her in ray life ; but he that told 
 me the story said this was so true, that I might 
 vouch it for a real truth, and even swear I had seen 
 
 it all myself. Well, but, as you know, days go 
 
 and come, and time and straw makes medlars ripe ; 
 so it happened, that after several days coming and 
 going, the devil, who seldom lies dead in a ditch, 
 but will have a finger in every pie, so brought it 
 about, that the shepherd set out with his sweetheart, 
 insomuch that the love he bore her turned into dud- 
 geon and ill will ; and the cause was, by report of 
 some mischievous tale-carriers that bore no good 
 will to either party, for that the shepherd thought 
 her no better than she should be, a little loose in 
 the hilts, and free of her hips.* Thereupon being 
 grievous in the dumps about it, and now bitterly 
 hating her, he even resolved to leave that country 
 to get out of her sight : for now, as every dog has 
 his day, the wench perceiving he came no longer a 
 suitoring to her, but rather tossed his nose at her, 
 and shunned her, she began to love him and doat 
 upon him like any thing." " That is the nature of 
 women," cried Don Quixote, " not to love when we 
 love them, and to love when we love them not. But 
 go on." 
 
 " The shepherd then gave her the slip," continuec^ 
 Sancho, " and driving his goats before him, went 
 
 * In the original it runs, She gave him a certain quantity of 
 little jealousies, above measure, and -within the prohibited de- 
 grees: alluding to certain measures not to be exceeded (in 
 Spain) on pain of forfeiture and corporal punishment, as swords 
 above such a standard, &c. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 209 
 
 trudging through Estremadura, in his way to Por- 
 tugal. But Toralva, having a long nose, soon smelt 
 his design, and then what does she do, think ye, but 
 comes after him barefoot and barelegged, with a 
 pilgrim's staff in her hand, and a wallet at her back, 
 wherein they say she carried a piece of looking- 
 glass, half a comb, a broken pot with paint, and I 
 don't know what other trinkum-trankums to prink 
 herself up. But let her carry what she would, it is 
 no bread and butter of mine ; the short and the long 
 is, that they say the shepherd with his goats got at 
 last to the river Guadiana, which happened to be 
 overflowed at that time, and what was worse than 
 ill luck, there was neither boat nor bark to ferry him 
 over ; which vexed him the paore because he perceiv- 
 ed Teralva at his heels, an4 he feared to be teased 
 and plagued with her weeping and wailing. At last 
 he spied a fisherman, in a little boat, but so little it 
 was, that it would carry but one man and one goat 
 at a time. Well, for all that, he called to the fisher- 
 man, and agreed with him to carry him and his 
 three hundred gpats over the water. The bargain 
 being struck, the fisherman came with his boat, and 
 carried over one goat ; then he rowed back and 
 fetched another goat, and after that another goat. 
 Pray sir," quoth Sancjjp, " be sure you keep a good 
 account how many go^ts the fisherman ferries over; 
 for if you happen but to miss one, my tale is at an 
 end, and the devil a word I have more to say. Well 
 then, whereabouts was I? Ho! I ha't — Now the 
 landing-place on the other side was very muddy and 
 slippery, which made the fisherman be a long while 
 in going and coming ; yet for all that, he took heart 
 VOL. I. .14 
 
210 THE ACmEVBMENTS OF 
 
 of grace, and made shift to carry over one goat, 
 then another, and then another." " Come," said Don 
 Quixote, "we will suppose he has landed them all 
 on the other side of the river , for as thou goest on, 
 one by one, we shall not have done these twelve 
 months." " Pray, let me go on in my own way," 
 quoth Sancho. " How many goats are got over al- 
 ready ?" "Nay, how the devil can I tell?" replied 
 Don Quixote. " There it is ! " quoth Sancho ; " did 
 not I bid you keep count ? on my word the tale is 
 at an end, and now you may go whistle for the 
 rest." " Ridiculous," cried Don Quixote : " pray thee 
 is there no going on with the story unless I know 
 exactly how many goats are wafted over ? " " No, 
 marry is there not," quoth Sancho, " for as soon as 
 you answered, that you could not tell, the rest of 
 the story quite and clean slipped out of my head ; 
 and in troth it is a thousand pities, for it was a spe- 
 cial one." " So then," cried Don Quixote, " the story's 
 ended?" "Ay, marry is it," quoth Sancho, "it is no 
 more to be fetched to life than my dead mother." 
 " Upon my honor," cried Don Quixote, " a most ex- 
 traordinary story, and told and concluded in as ex- 
 traordinary a manner I it is a nonsuch, I assure ye ; 
 though truly I expected no less from a man of such 
 uncommon parts. Alas ! poor Sancho, I am afraid 
 this dreadful noise has turned thy brain." " That 
 may well be," quoth Sancho ; "but as for my story 
 I am sure there is nothing more to be said, for 
 where you lose the account of the goats, there it 
 ends." " Let it be so," replied Don Quixote ; " but 
 now let us try whether Rozinante be in humor to 
 march. " With that he gave Rozinante two spurs, 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 211 
 
 and the high-mettled jade answered with one bound, 
 and then stood stock still, not having the comraand 
 of his hind legs. 
 
 Much about this time, whether it were the cool- 
 ness of the night, or that ^ancho had eaten some 
 loosening food at supper, or, which seems more pro- 
 bable, that nature, by a regular impulse, gave him 
 notice of her desire to perform a certain function 
 that follows the third concoction ; it seems, honest 
 Sancho found himself urged to do that which no- 
 body could do for him ; but such were his fears that 
 he durst not for his life stir the breadth of a straw 
 ftom his master * yet to think of bearing the intoler- 
 able load that pressed him so, was to him as great 
 an impossibility. In this perplexing exigency (with 
 leave be it spoken) he could find no other expedient 
 but to take his right hand from the crupper of the 
 saddle, and softly untying his breeches, let them 
 drop down to his heels; having done this, he as 
 silently took up his shirt, and exposed his posteriors, 
 which were none of the least, to the open air ; but 
 the main point was how to ease himself of this ter- 
 rible burden without making a noise; to which 
 purpose he clutched his teeth close, screwed up his 
 face, shrank up his shoulders, and held in his breath- 
 as much as possible : yet see what misfortunes 
 attend the best projected undertakings ! When he 
 had almost compassed his design, he could not hin- 
 der an obstreperous sound, very different from those 
 that caused his fear, from unluckily bursting out 
 " Hark ! " cried Don Quixote, who heard it, " what 
 noise is that, Sancho ? " " Some new adventures, 1 
 warrant you," quoth Sancho, " for ill luck, you know, 
 
212 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 seldom comes alone." Having passed off the thing 
 thus, he even ventured on another strain, and did it 
 so cleverly, that without the least rumor or noise, 
 his business was done effectually, to the unspeakable 
 ease of his body and mind. 
 
 But Don Quixote having the sense of smelling 
 as perfect as that of hearing, and Sancho standing 
 so very near, or rather tacked to him, certain fumes 
 that ascended perpendicularly, began to regale his' 
 nostrils with a smell not so grateful as amber. No 
 sooner the unwelcome steams disturbed him, but 
 having recourse to the common remedy, he stopped 
 his nose, and then, with a suufHing voice, " San- 
 , cho," said he, " thou art certainly in great bodily 
 fear." " So I am," quoth Sancho ; " but what 
 makes your worship perceive it now more than 
 you did before ? " " Because," replied Don Quixote, 
 "thou smellest now more unsavorily than thou 
 didst before." " Hoh ! that may be," quoth San- 
 cho ; " but whose fault is that ? you may e'en thank 
 yourself for it. Why do you lead me a wild-goose 
 chase, and bring me at such unseasonable hours to 
 such dangerous places ? you know I am not used 
 to it." " Pray thee," said Don Quixote, still hold- 
 ing his nose, " get thee three or four steps from me ; 
 and for the future take more care, and know your 
 distance ; for I find my familiarity with thee has 
 bred contempt." " I warrant," quoth Sancho, "you 
 think I have been doing something I should not 
 have done." " Come, say no more," cried Dod 
 Quixote ; " the more thou stir it the worse it will 
 be." 
 
 This discourse, such as it was, served them to 
 
DON QinXOTE. 213 
 
 pass away the night ; and now Sancho, seeing the 
 morning arise, thought it time to untie Kozinante's 
 feet, and do up his breeches ; and he did both with 
 so much caution, that his master suspected nothing. 
 As for Rozinante, he no sooner felt himself at liber- 
 ty, but he seemed to express his joy by pawing the 
 ground ; for, with his leave be it spoken, he was a 
 stranger to curvetting and prancing. Don Quixote 
 also took it as a good omen, that his steed was 
 now ready to move, and believed that it was a sig- 
 nal given him by kind fortune, to aniinate,»him to 
 give birth to the approaching adventure. 
 
 Now had Aurora displayed her rosy mantle over 
 the blushing skies, and dark night withdrawn her 
 sable veil; all objects stood confessed to human 
 eyes, and Don Quixote could now perceive he was 
 under some tall chestnut trees, whose thick-spreading 
 boughs diffused an awful gloom around the place, 
 but he could not yet discover whence proceeded the 
 dismal sound of those incessant strokes. There- 
 fore, being resolved to find it out, once more he 
 took his leave of Sancho, with the same injunc- 
 tions as before ; adding, withal, that he should not 
 trouble himself about the recompense of his services, 
 for he had taken care of that in his will, which he 
 had providently made before he left home ; but if 
 he came off victorious from this adventure, he might 
 most certainly expect to be gratified with the pro- 
 mised island. vSancho could not forbear blubbering 
 again to hear these tender expressions of his mas- 
 ter, and resolved not to leave him till he had finished 
 this enterprise. And from that deep .concern, and 
 this nobler resolution to attend him, the author of 
 
214 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 this history infers, that the squire was something- 
 of a gentleman by descent, or at least the oifspring 
 of the old Christians.* Nor did his good-nature 
 fail to move his master more than he was willing to 
 show, at a time when it behooved him to shake off 
 all softer thoughts; for now he rode towards the 
 pletce whence the noise of the blows and the water 
 seemed to come, while Sancho trudged after him, 
 leading by the halter the inseparable companion of 
 his good and bad fortune. 
 
 After they had gone a pretty way under a plea- 
 sant covert of chestnut-trees, they came into a 
 meadow adjoining to certain rocks, from whose top 
 there was a great fall of waters. At the foot of 
 those rocks they discovered certain old ill-contrived 
 buildings, that rather looked like ruins than inha- 
 bited houses ; and they perceived that the terrifying 
 noise of the blows, which yet continued, issued out 
 of that place. When they came nearer, even pa-' 
 tient Rozinante himself started at the dreadful 
 sound; but, being heartened and pacified by his 
 master, he was at last prevailed with to draw nearer 
 and nearer with wary steps; the knight recom- 
 mending himself all the way most devoutly to his 
 Dulcinea, and now and then also to heaven, in 
 short ejaculations. As for Sancho, he stuck close 
 to his master, peeping all the way through Rozl' 
 nante's legs, to see if he could perceive what he 
 dreaded ta find out. When, a little farther, at the 
 doubling of the point of a rock, they plainly dis- 
 
 * In contradiction to the Jemsh or Moorish families, of Trhich 
 there were many in Spain. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 216 
 
 covered (kind reader, do not take it amiss) six huge 
 fulling-mill hammers, which interchangeably thump- 
 ing several pieces of cloth, made the terrible noise 
 that caused all Don Quixote's anxieties and San- 
 cho's tribulation that night. 
 
 Don Quixote was struck dumb at this unexpected 
 sight, and was ready to drop from his horse with 
 shame and confusion. Sancho stared upon him, 
 and saw him hang down his head, with a despond- 
 ing dejected countenance, like a man quite dis- 
 pirited with this cursed disappointment. At the 
 the same time he looked upon Sancho, and seeing 
 by his eyes, and his cheeks swelled with laughter, 
 that he was ready to burst, he could not forbear 
 laughing himself, in spite of all his vexation; so 
 that Sancho, seeing his master begin, immediately 
 gave a loose to his mirth, and broke out into such 
 a fit of laughing, that he was forced to hold his 
 sides with both his knuckles, for fear of bursting his 
 aching paunch. Four times he ceased, and four 
 times renewed his obstreperous laughing; which 
 sauciness Don Quixote began to resent with great 
 indignation ; and the more when Sancho, in a jeering- 
 tone, presumed to ridicule him with his own words, 
 repeating part of the vain speech he made when 
 first they heard the noise ; " Know, Sancho, I was 
 born in this iron age to restore the age of gold. I 
 am the man for whom heaven has reserved the most 
 dangerous and glorious adventures," &c. Thus he 
 went on, till his master, dreadfully enraged at his 
 insolence, hit him two such blows on the shoulders 
 with his lance, that, had they fallen upon his head, 
 they had saved Don Quixote the trouble of paying 
 
216 THE ACHIBVBMENTS OF 
 
 him his wages, whatever he must have done to his 
 heirs. Thereupon Sancho, finding his jest turn to 
 earnest, begged pardon with all submission : " Mer- 
 cy, good your worship," cried he, " spare my bones, 
 I beseech you ! I meant no harm, I did but joke a 
 little." "And because you joke, I do not," cried 
 Don Quixote. " Come hither, good Mr. Jester, you 
 who pretend to rally ; tell me, had this been a dan- 
 gerous adventure, as well as it proves only a false 
 alarm, have I not shown resolution enough to un- 
 dertake and finish it? Am I, who am a knight, 
 bound to know the meaning of every mechanic 
 noise, and distinguish between sound and sound? 
 Besides, it might happen, as really it is, that I had 
 never seen a fulling-mill before, though thou, like 
 a base scoundrel as thou art, wert born and brought 
 up among such mean implements of drudgery. But 
 let the six fulling-hammers be transformed into so 
 many giants, and then set them at me one by one, 
 or all together^ and if I do not lay them all at my 
 feet with their heels upwards, then I will give thee 
 leave to exercise thy ill-bred raillery as much as thou 
 pleasest." 
 
 " Good your worship," quoth Sancho, " talk no 
 more on it, I beseech you ; I confess I carried the 
 jest too far. But now all is hushed and well, pray 
 tell me in sober sadness, as you hope to speed in all* 
 adventures, and come off safe and sound as from 
 this, don't you think but that the fright we were in, 
 I mean that I was in, would be a good subject for 
 people to make sport with ? " "I grant it," answered 
 Don Quixote, " but I would not have it told ; for 
 all people are not so discreet as to place things, oi 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 217 
 
 look upon them, in the position in which they should 
 be considered." "I will say that for you," quoth 
 Sancho, " you have shown you understand how to 
 place things in their right position, when, aiming at 
 my head, you hit my shoulders ; had not I ducked 
 a little on one side, I had been in a fine condition! 
 but let that pass, it will wash out in the bucking. 
 I have heard my grannam say, that man loves thee 
 well who makes thee to weep. Good masters may 
 be hasty sometimes with a servant, but presently 
 after a hard word or two they commonly give him 
 a pair of cast breeches : what they give after a bast- 
 ing, heaven knows ; all I can tell is, that knights- 
 errant, after bastinadoes, give you some cast island, 
 or some old fashioned kingdom upon the main 
 land." 
 
 " Fortune," said Don Quixote, " will perhaps 
 order every thing thou hast said to come to pass ; 
 therefore, Sancho, I pray thee, think no more of 
 my severity; thou knowest a man cannot always 
 command the first impulse of his passions. On the 
 other side, let me advise thee not to be so saucy for 
 the future, and not to assume that strange familiar- 
 ity with me which is so unbecoming in a servant. , 
 I protest, in such a vast number of books of knight- 
 errantry as I have read, I never found that any 
 squire was ever allowed so great a freedom of speech 
 with his master as thou takest with me ; and truly, 
 I look upon it to, be a great fault in us both ; in thee 
 for disrespecting me, and in me for not making 
 myself be more respected. Gandalin, Amadis de 
 Gaul's squire, though he was earl of the Firm 
 Island, yet never spoke to his master but with cap 
 
218' THE ACHIBVEMBNTS OF 
 
 in hand, his head bowed, and his body half bent, 
 after the Turkish manner. But what shall we say 
 of Gasabal, Don Galaor's squire, who was such a 
 strict observer of silence, that, to the honor of his 
 marvellous taciturnity, he gave the author occasion 
 to mention his name but once in that voluminous 
 authentic history ? From aU this, Sancho, I would 
 have thee make this observation, that there ought to 
 be a distance kept between the master and the man, 
 the knight and the squire. Therefore, once more I tell 
 thee, let us live together for the future more accord- 
 ing to the due decorum of our respective degrees, 
 without giving one another any further vexation on 
 this account; for after all, it will always be the 
 worse for you, on whatsoever occasion we happen 
 to disagree. As for the rewards I promised you, 
 they will come in due time ; and should you be 
 disappointed that way, you have your salary to 
 trust to, as I have told you." 
 
 " You say very well," quoth Sancho ; " but now, 
 sir, suppose no rewards should come, and I should 
 be forced to stick to my wages, I would fain jjnow 
 how much a squire-errant used to earn in the days 
 of yore ? Did they go by the month or by the day, 
 like our laborers ? " " " I do not think," replied Don 
 Quixote, " they ever went by the hire, but rather 
 that they trusted to their master's generosity. And* 
 if I have assigned thee wages in my will, which I 
 left sealed up at home, it was only to prevent the 
 worst, because I do not know yet what success 1 
 may have in chivalry in these depraved times ; and 
 I would not have my soul suffer in the other world 
 for such a trifling matter j for there is no state of 
 
DON QTJIXOTE. 219 
 
 life so subject to dangers as that of a knight-errant." 
 " Like enough," quoth Sancho, " when merely the 
 noise of the hamnners of a fulling-mill is able to 
 trouble and disturb the heart of such a valiant knight 
 as your worship! But you may be sure I will not 
 hereafter so much as offer to open my lips to jibe 
 or joke at your doings, but always stand in awe of 
 you, and honor you as my lord and master." " By 
 doing so," replied Don Quixote, " thy days shall be 
 long on the face of the earth ; for next to our parents, 
 we ought to respect our masters, as if they were 
 our fathers." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 OP THE HIGH ADVENTURE AND CONQUEST OF MAMBKDfO'S 
 HELMET, WITH OTHER EVENTS RELATING TO OUR INVnf- 
 CIBLB KNIGHT. 
 
 At the same time it began to rain, and Sancho 
 would fain have taken shelter in the fulling-mills ; 
 but Don Quixote had conceived such an antipathy 
 against them for the shame they had put upon him, 
 that he would by no means be prevailed with to go 
 in ; and turning to the right hand he struck into a 
 highway, where they had not gone far before he 
 discovered a horseman, who wore upon his head , 
 something that glittered like gold. The knight had 
 no sooner spied him, but, turning to his. squire, 
 " Sancho," cried he, " I belieye there is no proverb 
 but what is true ; they are aU so many sentences 
 und maxims drawn from experience, the universal 
 
220 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 mother of sciences : for instance, that saying, That 
 where one door shuts, another opens : thus fortune, 
 that last night deceived us with the false prospect 
 of an adventure, this morning offers us a real one 
 to make us amends ; and such an adventure, San- 
 cho, that if I do not gloriously succeed in it, 1 shall 
 have now no pretence to an excuse, no darkness, no 
 unknown sounds to impute my disappointment to : 
 in short, in all probability yonder comes the man 
 who wears on his head Mambrino's helmet,* and 
 thou knowest the vow I have made." " Good sir," 
 quoth Sancho, " mind what you say, and take heed 
 what you do ; for I would willingly keep my car- 
 cass and the case of my understanding from being 
 pounded, mashed, and crushed with fulling-ham- 
 mers." " Hell take the blbckhead ! " cried Don 
 Quixote ; " is there no difference between a helmet 
 and a fulling-mill ? " "I doii't know," saith Sancho, 
 " but I am sure, were I suffered to speak my mind 
 now as I was wont, mayhap I would give you such 
 main reasons, that yourself should see you are wide 
 of the matter." " How can I be mistaken, thou 
 eternal misbeliever ? " Cried Don Quixote ; " dost 
 thou not see that kilight that comes riding up 
 directly towards us up(on a dapple-gray steed, with 
 a helmet of gold on his head? " " I see what I see," 
 replied Sancho, " and the devil of any thing I can 
 spy but a fellow on such another gray ass as mine 
 is, with something that glisters o'top of his head." 
 " I tell thee, that is Mambrino's helmet," replied 
 Don Quixote : " do thou stand at a distance, and 
 
 * See Orlando Furioso, Canto I. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 221 
 
 leave me to deal with him ; thou shalt see, that 
 without trifling away so much as a moment in need- 
 less talk, I will finish this adventure, and possess 
 myself of the desired helmet." « I shall stand at a 
 distance, you may be sure," quoth Sancho ; " but 
 I wish this may not prove another blue bout, and a 
 worse job than the fulling-mills." " I have warned 
 you already, fellow," said Don Quixote, " not so 
 much as to name the fulling-mills ; dare but once 
 more to do it, nay, but to think on it, and I vow to 
 — I say no more, but I'll full and pound your dog- 
 ship into jelly." These threats were more than 
 sufiicient to padlock Sancho's lips, for he had no 
 mind to have his master's vow fulfilled at the ex- 
 pense of his bones. 
 
 Now the truth of the story was this : there were 
 in that part of the country two villages, one of which 
 was so little that it had not so much as a shop in it, 
 nor any barber ; so that the barber of the greater 
 village served also the smaller. And thus a person 
 happening to have occasion to be let blood, and an- 
 other to be shaved, the barber was going thither 
 with his brass basin, which he had clapped upon 
 his head to keep his hat,, that chanced to be a new 
 one, from being spoiled by the rain ; and as the 
 basin was new scoured, it made a glittering show a 
 great way ofl". As Sancho had well observed, he 
 rode upon a gray ass, which Don Quixote as easily 
 took for a dapple-gray steed, as he took the barber 
 for a knight, and his brass basin for a golden helmet ; 
 his distracted brain easily applying every object to 
 his romantic ideas. Therefore, when he saw the 
 poor imaginary knight draw near, he fixed his lance, 
 
222 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 or javelin, to his thigh, and without staying to hold 
 a parley with his thoughtless adversary, flew at him 
 as fiercely as Rozinante would gaUop, resolved to 
 pierce him through and through ; crying out in the 
 midst of his career, " Caitiff, wretch, defend thyself, 
 or immediately surrender that which is so justly my 
 due." The barber, who, as he peaceably went along, 
 saw that terrible apparition come thundering upon 
 him at unawares, had no other way to avoid being 
 run through with his lance, but to throw himself off 
 from his ass to the ground ; and then as hastily 
 getting up, he took to his heels, and ran over the 
 fields swifter than the wind, leaving his ass and his 
 basin behind him. Don Quixote finding himself 
 thus master of the field, and of the basin, " The 
 miscreant," cried he, " who has left this helmet, has 
 shown himself as prudent as the beaver, who, find- 
 ing himself hotly pursued by the hunters, to sav« 
 his life, tears and cuts off with his teeth that for 
 which his natural instinct tells him he was followed." 
 Then he ordered Sancho to take up the helmet. 
 " On my word," quoth Sancho, having taken it up, 
 ^' it is a special basin, and as well worth a piece of 
 eight as a thief is worth a halter." 
 
 With that he gave it to his master, who presently 
 clapped it on his head, turning it every way to find 
 out the beaver or vizor ; and at last seeing it' had* 
 none, " Doubtless," said he, " the pagan for whom 
 this famous helmet was first made, had a head of a 
 prodigious size ; but the worst is, that there is at 
 least one half of it wanting." Sancho could not 
 forbear smiling to. hear his master call the barber's 
 basin a helmet,, and, had not his fear dashed his 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 223 
 
 mirth, he had certainly laughed outright. " What 
 does the fool grin at now ? " cried Don Quixote. 
 " I laugh," said he, " to think what a hugeous jolt- 
 head he must needs have had who was the owner 
 of this same helmet, that looks for all the world like 
 a barber's basin." " I fancy," said Don Quixote, 
 " this enchanted helmet has fallen by some strange 
 accident into the hands of some person, who, not 
 knowing the value of it, for the lucre of a little 
 money, finding it to be of pure gold, melted one 
 half, and of the other made this head-piece, which, 
 as thou sayest, has some resemblance of a barber's 
 basin ; but to me, who know the worth of it, the 
 metamorphosis signifies little ; for as soon as ever 1 
 come to some town where there is an armorer, I 
 will have it altered so much for the better, that then 
 even the helmet which the God of Smiths made for 
 the God of War shall not deserve to be compared 
 with it. In the mean time I'll wear it as it is ; it is 
 better than nothing, and will serve at least to save 
 part of my head from the violent encounter of a 
 stone." "Ay, that it will," quoth Sancho, " so it is 
 not hurled out of a sling, as were those at the battle 
 between the two armies, when they hit you that 
 confounded dowse o'the chops, that saluted your 
 worship's cheek-teeth, and broke the pot about your 
 ears in which you kept that blessed drench that 
 made me bring up my guts." " True," cried Don 
 Quixote, " there I lost my precious balsam indeed ; 
 .but I do not much repine at it, for thou knowest I 
 have the receipt in my memory." " So have I too," 
 quoth Sancho, " and shall have while I have breath 
 to draw ; but if ever I make any of that stuff, or 
 
224 THE ACHIVBMENTS OF 
 
 taste it again, may I give up the ghost with it ! 
 Besides, I don't intend ever to do any thing that 
 may give occasion for the use of it : for, my fixed 
 resolution is, with all my five senses, to preserve 
 myself from hurting, and from being hurt by, any 
 body. As to being tossed in a blanket again, I have 
 nothing to say to that, for there is no remedy for 
 accidents but patience it seems : so if it ever be my 
 lot to be served so again, I'll even shrink up my 
 shoulders, hold my breath, and shut my eyes, and 
 then happy be lucky, let the blanket and fortune 
 even toss on to the end of the chapter." 
 
 " Truly," said Don Quixote, " I am afraid thou 
 art no good Christian, Sancho, thou never forgettest 
 injuries. Let me tell thee, it is the part of noble 
 and generous spirits to pass by trifles. Where art 
 thou lame ? which of thy ribs is broken, or what 
 part of thy skull is bruised, that thou can'st never 
 think on that jest without malice ? for, after all, it 
 was nothing but a jest, a harmless piece of pastime : 
 had I looked upon it otherwise, I had returned to 
 that place before this time, and had made more 
 noble mischief in revenge of the abuse, than ever 
 the incensed Grecians did at Troy, for the deten- 
 tion of their Helen, that famed beauty of the ancient 
 world ; who, however, had she lived in our age, or 
 had my Dulcinea adorned her's, would have found 
 her charms outrivalled by my mistress's perfec- 
 tions ; " and saying this, he heaved up a deep sigh. 
 " Well then," quoth Sancho, " I will not rip up old 
 sores ; let it go for a jest, since there is no revenging 
 it in earnest. But what shall we do with this 
 dapple-gray steed, that is so like a gray ass ? you 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 225 
 
 see that same poor devil-errant has left it to shift 
 for itself, poor thing, and by his hastfe to rub off, I 
 don't thinlc he means to come back for it, and, by 
 my beard, the gray beast is a special one." " It is 
 not my custom," replied Don Quixote, " to plunder 
 those whom I overcome ; nor is it usual among us 
 knights, for the victor to take the horse of his van- 
 quished enemy and let him go afoot, unless his own 
 steed be killed or disabled in the combat : therefore, 
 Sancho, leave the horse, or the ass, whatever thou 
 pleasest to call it; the owner will be sure to come 
 for it as soon as he sees us gone." " I have a huge 
 mind to take him along with us,'.' quoth Sancho, 
 " or at least to exchange him for my own, which is 
 not so good. What, are the laws of knight-errantry 
 so strict, that a man must not exchange one ass for 
 another ? at least I hope they will give me leave 
 to swop one harness for another." " Truly, San- 
 cho," replied Don Quixote, " I am not so very cer- 
 tain as to this last particular, and therefore, till I am 
 better informed, I give thee leave to exchange the 
 furniture, if thou hast absolutely occasion for it." 
 " I have so much occasion for it," quoth Sancho, 
 " that though it were for my own very self I could 
 not need it more." So without any more ado, 
 being authorized by his master's leave, he made 
 mutatio caparum, (a change of caparisons) and 
 made his own beast three parts in four better* 
 for his new furniture. This done, they breakfasted 
 upon what they left at supper, and quenched their 
 
 * Literally, leaving him better by a tierce and quint ; alluding 
 to the game of piquet. 
 
 VOL. I. 15 
 
226 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 thirst at the stream that turned the fulling-mills, 
 towards whidi they took care not to cast an eye, 
 for they abominated the very thoughts of them. 
 Thus their spleen being eased, their choleric and 
 melancholic humors assuaged, up they got again, 
 and never minding their way, were all guided by Ro- 
 zinante's discretion, the depositary of his master's 
 w^U, and also of the ass's that kindly and sociably 
 always followed his steps wherever he went. Their 
 guide soon brought them again into the high road, 
 where they kept on a slow pace, not caring which 
 way they went. 
 
 As they jogged on thus, quoth Sancho to his 
 master, " Pray, sir, will you give fne leave to talk 
 to you a little ? for since you have laid that bitter 
 command upon me, to hold my tongue, I have had 
 four or five quaint conceits that have rotted in my 
 gizzard, and now I have another at my tongue's 
 end that I would not for any thing should mis- 
 carry." " Say it," cried Don Quixote, " but be short, 
 for no discourse can please when too long." 
 
 " Well, then," quoth Sancho, " I have been think- 
 ing to myself of late, how little is to be got by 
 hunting up and down those barren woods and 
 strange places, where, though you compass the 
 hardest and most dangerous jobs of knight-errantry, 
 yet no living soul sees or hears on't, and so it is 
 every bit as good as lost ; and therefore methinks 
 it were better (with submission to your worship's 
 better judgment be it spoken) that we e'en went to 
 serve some emperor, or other great prince that is at 
 war ; for there you might show how stout, and how 
 wondrous strong and wise you be; which, being 
 
BON QTJIXOTE. 227 
 
 perceived by the lord we shall serve, he must needs 
 reward each of us according to his deserts; and 
 there you will not want a learned scholar to set 
 down all your high deeds, that they may never be 
 forgotten : as for mine I say nothing, since they are 
 not to be named the same day with your worship's ; 
 and yet I dare avouch, that if any notice be taken 
 in knight-errantry of the feats of squires, mine will 
 be sure to come in for a share." " Truly, Sancho," 
 replied Don Quixote, " there is some reason in what 
 thou sayest; but first of all it is requisite that a 
 knight-errant should spend some time in various 
 parts of the world, as a probationer in quest of ad- 
 ventures, that, by achieving some extraordinary 
 exploits, his renown may diffuse itself through 
 neighboring climes and distant nations: so when 
 he goes to the court of some great monarch, his 
 fame flying before him as his harbinger, secures him 
 such a reception, that the knight has scarcely reach- 
 ed the gates of the metropolis of the kingdom, 
 when he finds himself attended and surrounded by 
 admiring crowds, pointing and crying out, ' There, 
 there rides the Knight of the Sun, or of the Ser- 
 pent,' or whatever other title the knight takes upon 
 him : ' That is he,' they will cry, ' who vanquished 
 in single combat the huge giant Brocabruuo, sur- 
 named of the invincible strength ; this is he that 
 freed the great Mamaluco of Persia from the en- 
 chantment that had kept him confined for almost 
 nine hundred years together.' Thus, as they re 
 late his achievements with loud acclamations, the 
 spreading rumor at last reaches the king's palace, 
 and the monarch of that country, being desirous to 
 
228 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 be informed with his own eyes, will not fail to look 
 out of his window. As soon as he sees the knight, 
 knowing him by his arms, or the device on his 
 shield, he will be obliged to say to his attendants, 
 ' My lords and gentlemen, haste all of yoa, as many 
 as are knights, go and receive the flower of chivalry 
 that is coming to our court.' At the king's com- 
 mand, away they all run to introduce him ; the 
 king himself meets him half way on the stairs, 
 where he embraces his valorous guest, and kisses 
 his cheek : then taking him by the hand, he leads 
 him directly to the queen's apartment, where the 
 knight finds her attended by the princess her daugh- 
 ter, who must be one of the most beautiful and 
 most accomplished damsels in the whole compass 
 of the universe. At the same time fate will so dis- 
 pose of every thing, that the princess shall gaze on 
 the knight, and the knight on the princess, and each 
 shall admire one another as persons rather angel- 
 ical than human; and then, by an unaccountable 
 charm, they shall both find themselves caught and 
 entangled' in the inextricable net of love, and won- 
 drously perplexed for want of an opportunity to 
 discover their amorous anguish to one another. 
 After this, doubtless, the knight is conducted by the 
 king to one of the richest apartments in the pa- 
 lace ; where, having taken off his armor, they will 
 bring him a rich scarlet vestment lined with er- 
 mines ; and if he looked so graceful cased in steel, 
 how lovely will he appear in all the heightening 
 ornaments of courtiers! Night being come, he 
 shall sup with the king, the queen, and the prin- 
 cess ; and shall all the while be feasting his eyea 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 229 
 
 with the sight of the charmer, yet so as nobody 
 shall perceive it ; and she will repay him his glances 
 with as much discretion ; for, as I have said, she is 
 a most accomplished person. After supper, a sur- 
 prising scene is unexpectedly to appear : enter first 
 an ill-favored little dwarf, and after him a fair dam- 
 sel between two giants, with the offer of a certain 
 adventure so contrived by an ancient necromancer, 
 and so difficult to be performed, that he who shall 
 undertake and end it with success, shall be esteem- 
 ed the best knight in the world. Presently it is the 
 king's pleasure that all his courtiers should attempt 
 it ; which they do, but all of them unsuccessfully ; 
 for the honor is reserved for the valorous stranger, 
 who effects that with ease which the rest essayed 
 in vain ; and then the princess shall be overjoyed, 
 and esteem herself the most happy creature in 
 the world, for having bestowed her affections on 
 so deserving an object. Now by the happy ap- 
 pointment of fate, this king, or this emperor, is at 
 war with one of his neighbors as powerful as him- 
 self, and the knight being informed of this, after he 
 has been some few days at court, offers the king his 
 service ; which is accepted with joy, and the knight 
 courteously kisses the king's hand in acknowledg- 
 ment of so great a favor. That night the lover 
 takes his leave of the princess at the iron grate be- 
 fore her chamber window looking into the garden, 
 where he and she have akeady had several inter-, 
 views, by means of the princess's confidante, a 
 damsel who carries on the intrigue between them. 
 The knight sighs, the princess swoons, the damsel 
 runs for cold water to bring her to life again, very 
 
230 THE ACHIBVBMENTS OF 
 
 uneasy also because the morning light approaches, 
 and she would not have them discovered, lest it 
 should reflect on her lady's honor. At last the 
 princess revives, and gives the knight her lovely 
 hand to kiss through the iron grate ; which he does 
 a thousand and a thousand times, bathing it all the 
 while with his tears. Then they agree how to 
 transmit their thoughts with secrecy to each other, 
 with a mutual intercourse of letters during his fatal 
 absence. The princess prays him to return with all 
 the speed of a lover ; the knight promises it with 
 repeated vows, and a thousand kind protestations. 
 At last, the fatal moment being come that must 
 tear him from all he loves, and from his very self, 
 he seals once more his love on her soft snowy hand, 
 almost breathing out his soul, which mounts to his 
 lips, and even would leave its body to dwell there ; 
 and then he is hurried away by the fearful confi- 
 dante. After this cruel separation he retires to his 
 chamber, and throws himself on his bed ; but grief 
 will not suffer sleep to close his eyes. Then rising 
 with the sun, he goes to take his leave of the king 
 and the queen : he desires to pay his compliment 
 of leave to the princess, but he is told she is indis- 
 posed; and as he has reason to believe that his de- 
 parting is the cause of her disorder, he is so grieved 
 at the news, that he is ready to betray the secret 06 
 his heart, which the princess's confidante observing, 
 she goes and acquaints her with it, and finds the 
 lovely mourner bathed in tears, who tells her, that 
 the greatest affliction of her soul is her not know- 
 ing whether her charming knight be of royal blood : 
 but the damsel pacifies her, assuring, her that so 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 231 
 
 much gallantry, and such noble qualifications, were 
 unquestionably derived from an illustrious and 
 royal original. This comforts the afflicted fair, who 
 does all she can to compose her looks, lest the king 
 or the queen should suspect the cause of their alter- 
 ation ; and so some days after, she appears in pub- 
 lic as before. And now the knight, having been 
 absent for some time, meets, fights, and overcomes 
 the king's enemies, takes I do not know how many 
 cities, wins I do not know how many battles, re- 
 turns to court, and appears before his mistress 
 laden with honor. He visits her privately as be- 
 fore, and they agree that he shall demand her of 
 the king her father in marriage, as the reward of all 
 his services : but the king will not grant his suit, as 
 being unacquainted with his birth : however, whe- 
 ther it be that the princess suffers herself to be pri- 
 vately carried away, or that some other means are 
 used, the knight marries her, and in a little time 
 the king is very well pleased with the match : for 
 now the knight appears to be the son of a mighty 
 king of I cannot tell what country, for I think it is 
 not in the map. Some time after, the father dies, 
 the princess is heiress, and thus in a trice our 
 knight comes to be king. Having thus completed 
 his happiness, his next thoughts are to gratify his 
 squire, and all those who have been instrumental 
 in his advancement to the throne : thus he marries 
 his squire to one of the princess's damsels, and 
 most probably to her favorite, who had been privy 
 to the amours, and who is daughter to one of the 
 most considerable dukes in the kingdom. 
 
 " That is what I have been looking for all this 
 
232 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 while," quoth Saiicho; "give me but that, and let 
 the world rub, there I'll stick ; for every tittle of 
 this will come to pass, and be your worship's case 
 as sure as a gun, if you will take upon you that 
 same nickname of the Knight of the Woful 
 Figure." " Most certainly, Sancho," replied Don 
 Quixote; "for by the same steps, and in that very 
 manner, knights-errant have always proceeded to 
 ascend to the throne ; therefore our chief business 
 is to find out some great potentate, either among 
 the Christians or the Pagans, that is at war with 
 his neighbors, and has a fair daughter. But we 
 shall have time enough to inquire after that ; for, as 
 I have told thee, we must first purchase fame in 
 other places, before we presume to go to court. 
 Another thing makes me more uneasy : suppose we 
 have found out a king and a princess, and I have 
 filled the world with the fame of my unparalleled 
 achievements, yet cannot I tell how to find out that 
 1 am of royal blood, though it were but second 
 cousin to an emperor ; for it is not to be expected 
 that the king will ever consent that I shall wed his 
 daughter until I have made this out by authentic 
 proofs, though my service deserve it never so much ; 
 and thus, for want of a punctilio, I am in danger 
 of losing what my valor so justly merits. It is true, 
 indeed, I am a gentleman, and of a noted ancient 
 family, and possessed of an estate of a hundred 
 and twenty crowns a year ; nay, perhaps the learned 
 historiographer who is to write the history of my 
 life, will so improve and beautify my genealogy, 
 that he will find me to be the fifth, or sixth at least, 
 in descent from a king : for, Sancho, there are two 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 233 
 
 sorts of originals in the world ; some who, sprung 
 from mighty kings and princes, by little and little 
 have been so lessened and obscured, that the estates 
 and titles of the following generations have dwin- 
 dled to nothing, and ended in a point like a pyra- 
 mid ; others, who, from mean and low beginnings, 
 still rise and rise, till at last they are raised to the 
 very top of human greatness : so v.ast the difference 
 is, that those who were something, are now no- 
 thing, and those that were nothing, are now some- 
 thing. And therefore who knows but that I may 
 be one of those whose original is so illustrious? 
 which being handsomely made out, after due exa- 
 mination, ought undoubtedly to satisfy the king, 
 my father-in-law. But even supposing he were 
 still refractory, the princess is to be so desperately 
 in love with me, that she will marry me without his 
 consent, though I were a son of the meanest water- 
 carrier; and if her tender honor scruples to bless 
 me against her father's will, then it may not be 
 amiss to put a pleasant constraint upon her, by 
 conveying her by force out of the reach of her fa- 
 ther, to whose persecutions either time or death will 
 be sure to put a period." 
 
 "Ay," quoth Sancho, "your rake-helly fellows 
 have a saying that is pat to your purpose. Never 
 cringe nor creep, for what you by force may reap , 
 though I think it were better said, A leap from a 
 hedge is better than the prayer of a good man.* 
 No more to be said, if the king your father-in-law 
 won't let you have his daughter by fair means, 
 
 * Better to rob than to ask charity. 
 
234 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 never stand shall I, shall I, but fairly and squarely 
 run away with her. All the mischief that I fear, is 
 only, that while you are making your peace with 
 him, and waiting after a dead man's shoes, as the 
 saying is, the poor dog of a squire is like to go long 
 barefoot, and may go hang himself for any good 
 you will be able to do him, unless the damsel, Go- 
 between, who is to be his wife, run away too with 
 the princess, and he solace himself with her till a 
 better time comes; for I don't see but that the 
 knight may clap up the match between us without 
 any more ado." " That is most certain," answered 
 Don Quixote. " Why then," quoth Sancho, " let 
 us even take our chance, and let the world rub." 
 " May fortune crown our wishes," cried Don Quix- 
 ote, " and let him be a wretch who thinks himself 
 one ! " "Amen, say I," quoth Sancho ; " for I am 
 one of your old Christians, and that is enough to 
 qualify me to be an earl." " And more than 
 enough," said Don Quixote; "for though thou 
 wert not so well descended, being a king, I could 
 bestow nobility on thee, without putting thee to the 
 trouble of buying it, or doing me the least service ; 
 and making thee an earl, men must call thee my 
 lord, though it grieves them never so much." "And 
 do you think," quoth Sancho, " I would not become 
 my equality main well ? " " Thou shouldst say 
 quality," said Don Quixote, " and not equality." 
 "Even as you will," returned Sancho: "but as 1 
 was saying, I should become an earldom rarely ; for 
 I was once beadle to a brotherhood, and the bea- 
 dle's gown did so become me, that every body said 
 I had the presence of a warden, Then how do you 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 235 
 
 think I shall look with a duke's robes on my back, 
 all bedaubed with gold and pearl like any foreign 
 count ? I believe we shall have folks come a hun- 
 dred leagues to see me." " Thou wilt look well 
 enough," said Don Quixote ; " but then thou must 
 shave that rough bushy beard of thine at least 
 every other day, or people wUl read thy beginning 
 in thy face as soon as they see thee." " Why then," 
 quoth Sancho, " it is but keeping a barber in my 
 house ; and if needs be, he shall trot after me 
 wherever I go, like a grandee's master of the horse." 
 " How earnest thou to know," said Don Quixote, 
 " that grandees have their masters of the horse to 
 ride after them?" "I'll tell you," quoth Sancho: 
 " some years ago I happened to be about a month 
 among your court-folks, and there I saw a little 
 dandiprat riding about, who, they said was a huge- 
 ous great lord : there was a man a horseback that 
 followed him close wherever he went, turning and 
 stopping as he did, you would have thought he had 
 been tied to his horse's tail. With that I asked 
 why that hind-man did not ride by the other, but 
 still came after him thus ? and they told me he was 
 master of his horses, and that the grandees have 
 always such kind of men at their tail ; and I 
 marked this so well, that I han't forgot it since." 
 « Thou art in the right," said Don Quixote ; " and 
 thou mayest as reasonably have thy barber attend 
 thee in this manner. Customs did not come up all 
 at once, but rather started up and were improved 
 by degrees ; so thou mayest be the first earl that 
 rode in state, with his barber behind him ; and this 
 may be said to justify thy conduct, that it is an 
 
236 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 office of more trust to shave a man's beard, than to 
 saddle a horse." "Well," quoth Sancho, " leave 
 the business of the cut-beard to me, and do but 
 take care you be a king and I an earl." " Never 
 doubt it," replied Don Quixote; and with that, 
 looking about, he discovered — what the next chap- 
 ter will tell you. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 HOW DON QUIXOTE SET PKEB MANY MISERABLE CKBATURB8, 
 WHO WERE CARRYING, MUCH AGAINST THEIR WILLS, TO A 
 PLACE THEY DID NOT LIKE. 
 
 CiD Hamet Benengeli, an Arabian and Man- 
 chegan author, relates in this most grave, high- 
 sounding, minute, soft, and humorous history, that 
 after this discourse between the renowned Don Quix- 
 ote and his squire Sancho Panza, which we have 
 laid down at the end of the seventh chapter, the 
 knight lifting up his eyes, saw about twelve men 
 a-foot, trudging in the road, all in a row, one behind 
 another, like beads upon a string, being linked to- 
 gether by the neck to a huge iron chain, and mana- 
 cled besides. They were guarded by two horsemen, 
 armed with carabines, and two men a-foot, with 
 swords and javelins. As soon as Sancho spied them, 
 " Look ye, sir," cried he, " here is a gang of wretches 
 hiirried away by main force to serve the king in the 
 galleys." " How," replied Don Quixote, " is it pos- 
 sible the king will force any body ? " "I don't say 
 BO," answered Sancho ; " I mean these are rogues 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 237 
 
 whom the law has sentenced for their, misdeeds, to 
 row in the king's galleys." " However," replied Don 
 Quixote, " they are forced, because they do not go 
 of their own free will." " Sure enough," quoth San- 
 cho. " If it be so," said Don Quixote, " they come 
 within the verge of my offipe, which is to hinder 
 violence and oppression, and succor all people in 
 misery." "Ay, sir," quoth Sancho, "but neither the 
 king nor law offer any violence to such wicked 
 wretches, they have but their deserts." By this the 
 chain of slaves came up, when Don Quixote, in very 
 civil terms, desired the guards to inform him why 
 these people were led along in that manner ? " Sir," 
 answered one of the horsemen, " they are criminals, 
 condemned to serve the king in his galleys : that is 
 all I have to say to you, and you need inquire no 
 farther." " Nevertheless, sir," replied Don Quixote, 
 " I have a great desire to know in few words the 
 cause of their misfortune, and I will esteem it an ex- 
 traordinary favor, if you will let me have that satis- 
 faction." " We have here the copies and certificates 
 of their several sentences," said the other horseman, 
 "but we can't stand to pull them out and read 
 them now ; you may draw near and examine the 
 men yourself: I suppose they themselves will tell 
 you why they are condemned ; for they are such 
 honest people, they are not ashamed to boast of 
 their rogueries." 
 
 With this permission, which Don Quixote would 
 have taken of himself had they denied it him, he 
 rode up to the chain, and asked the first, for what 
 crimes he was in these miserable circumstances ? 
 The galley-slave answered him, that it was for being 
 
238 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 ill love. "What, only for being in love? " cried Don 
 Quixote ; " were all those that are in love to be used 
 thus, I myself might have been long since in the 
 galleys." "Ay, but," replied the slave, " my love was 
 not of that sort which you conjecture: I was so 
 desperately in love with a basket of linen, and em- 
 braced it so close, that had not the judge taken it 
 from me by force, I would not have parted with it 
 willingly. In short, I was taken in the fact, and so 
 there was no need to put me to the rack, it was prov- 
 ed so plain upon me. So I was committed, tried, 
 condemned, had the gentle lash; and besides that, 
 was sent, for three years, to be an element-dasher, 
 and there is an end of the business." "An element- 
 dasher," cried Don Quixote, " what do you mean by 
 that?" "A galley-slave," answered the criminal, 
 who was a young fellow, about four-and-twenty 
 years old, and said he was born at Piedra Hita. 
 
 Then Don Quixote examined the second, but he 
 was so sad and desponding, that he would make 
 no answer; however, the first rogue informed the 
 knight of his affairs : " Sir," said he, " this canary- 
 bird keeps us company for having sung too much." 
 " Is it possible ! " cried Don Quixote, " are men sent 
 to the galleys for singing ? " "Ay, marry are they," 
 quoth the arch rogue ; " for there is nothing worse 
 than to sing in anguish." " How ! " cried Don Quix- 
 ote ; " that contradicts the saying, Sing away sor- 
 row, cast away care." "Ay, but with us the case is 
 different," replied the slave ; " he that sings in disaster, 
 weeps all his life after." " This is a riddle which I 
 cannot unfold," cried Don Quixote. " Sir," said one 
 of the guards, " Singing in anguish, among these jail- 
 
DON QinXOTB. 239 
 
 birds, means to confess upon the rack : this fellow 
 was put to the torture, and confessed his crime, which 
 was stealing of cattle ; and because he squeaked, or 
 sung, as they call it, he was condemned to the gal- 
 leys for six years, besides an hundred jirks with a 
 cat of nine tails that have whisked and powdered 
 his shoulders already. Now the reason why he goes 
 thus mopish and out o'sorts, is only because his 
 comrogues jeer and laugh at him continually for not 
 having had the courage to deny ; as if it had not 
 been as easy for him to have said no as yes ; or as 
 if a fellow, taken up on suspicion, were not a lucky 
 rogue, when there is no positive evidence can come 
 in against him but his own tongue ; and in my opi- 
 nion they are somewhat in the right." " 1 think so 
 too," said Don Quixote. 
 
 Thence addressing himself to the third, "And 
 you," said he, *' what have you done ? " " Sir," an 
 swered the fellow, readily and pleasantly enough, 
 " I must mow the great meadow for five years to- 
 gether, for want of twice five ducats." " I will give 
 twenty with all my heart, " said Don Quixote, " to 
 deliver thee from that misery." " Thank you for 
 nothing," quoth the slave; "it is just like the pro- 
 verb. After meat comes mustard; or, like money 
 to a starving man at sea, when there are no victuals 
 to be bought with it : had I had the twenty ducats 
 you offer me before I was tried, to have greased the 
 clerk's [or recorder's] fist, and have whetted my law- 
 yer's wit, I might have been now at Toledo in the 
 market-place of Zocodover, and not have been thus 
 led along like a dog in a string. But heaven is 
 powerful. Basta ; I say no more." 
 
S40 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 Then passing to the fourth, who was a venerable 
 old Don, with a gray beard that reached to his bo- 
 som, he put the same question to him ; whereupon 
 the poor creature fell a-weeping, and was not able 
 to give him an answer ; so the next behind him lent 
 him a tongue. " Sir," said he, " this honest person 
 goes to the galleys for four years, having taken his 
 progress through the town in state, and rested at 
 the usual stations." " That is," quoth Sancho, " as I 
 take it, after he had been exposed to public shame." * 
 " Right," replied the slave ; " and all this he is con- 
 demned to for being a broker of human flesh : for, 
 to tell you the truth, the gentleman is a pimp, and, 
 besides that, he has a smack of conjuring." " If it 
 were not for that addition of conjuring," cried Don 
 Quixote, " he ought not to have been sent to the 
 galleys purely for being a pimp, unless it were to be 
 general of the galleys : for, the profession of a bawd 
 pimp, or messenger of love, is not like other common 
 employments, but an office that requires a great 
 deal of prudence and sagacity ; an office of trust and 
 weight, and most highly necessary in a well-regu- 
 lated commonwealth; nor should it be executed but 
 by civil well-descended persons of good natural parts, 
 and of a liberal education. Nay, 'twere requisite there 
 should be a comptroller and surveyor of the profes- 
 sion, as there are of others ; and a certain and set-. 
 tied number of them, as there are of exchange-brok- 
 ers. This would be a means to prevent an infinite 
 number of mischiefs that happen every day, because 
 
 * Instead of the pillory, in Spain, they carry malefactors on an 
 ass, and in a particular habit, along the streets, the crier going 
 before, and proclaiming their crime. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. '241 
 
 the trade or profession is followed by poor ignorant 
 pretenders, silly waiting women, young giddy-brain- 
 ed pages, shallow footmen, and such raw inexpe- 
 rienced sort of people, who in unexpected turns and 
 emergencies stand with their fingers in their mouths*, 
 know not their right hand from their left, but suffer 
 themselves to be surprised, and spoil all for want of 
 quickness of invention either to conceal, carry on, 
 or bring off a thing artificially. Had I but time I 
 would point out what sort of persons are best qua- 
 lified to be chosen professors of this most necessary 
 employment in the commonwealth ; however, at 
 some future season I will inform those of it who 
 may remedy this disorder. All I have to say now, 
 is, that the grief I had to see these venerable gray 
 hairs in such distress, for having followed that no 
 less useful than ingenious vocation of pimping, is 
 now lost in my abhorrence of his additional charac- 
 ter of a conjurer ; though I very well know that no 
 sorcery in the world can effect or force the will, as 
 some ignorant credulous persons fondly imagine : 
 for our will is a free faculty, and no herb nor charms 
 can constrain it. As for philters, and such-like com- 
 positions, which some silly women and designing 
 pretenders make, they are nothing but certain mix- 
 tures and poisonous preparations, that make those 
 who take them run mad ; though the deceivers la- 
 bor to persuade us they can make one person love 
 another; which, as I have said, is an impossible 
 thing, our will being a free, uncontrollable power. " 
 " You say very well, sir," cried the old coupler ; " and 
 upon my honor, I protest I am wholly innocent, as 
 to the imputation of witchcraft. As for the business 
 VOL. I, 16 
 
24a THE ACHIEVEMENTS 01" 
 
 of pimping, I cannot deny it, but I never took it to 
 be a criminal function ; for my intention was, that 
 all the world should taste the sweets of love, and 
 enjoy each other's society, living together in friend- 
 ship and in peace, free from those griefs and jars 
 that unpeople the earth. But my harmless design 
 has not been so happy as to prevent my being sent 
 now to a place whence I never expect to return, 
 stooping as I do under the heavy burden of old age, 
 and being grievously afflicted with the strangury, 
 which scarce affords me a moment's respite from 
 pain." This said, the reverend procurer burst out 
 afresh into tears and lamentations, which melted 
 Sancho's heart so much, that he pulled a piece of mo- 
 ney out of his bosom, and gave it to him as an alms. 
 Then Don Quixote turned to the fifth, who seem- 
 ed to be nothing at all concerned. " I go to serve 
 his majesty," said he, " for having been somewhat 
 too familiar with two of my cousin-germans, and 
 two other kind-hearted virgins that were sisters ; by 
 which means I have multiplied my kin, and begot 
 so odd and intricate a medley of kindred, that it 
 would puzzle a convocation of casuists to resolve 
 their degrees of consanguinity. All this was proved 
 upon me. I had no friends, and, what was worse, 
 no money, and so was like to have swung for it 
 however, I was only condemned to the galleys for 
 six years, and patiently submitted to it. I feel my- 
 self yet young, to my confort ; so if my life does 
 but hold out, all will be well in time. If you will 
 be pleased to bestow something upon poor sinners, 
 heaven will reward you: and when we pray, we 
 will be sure to remember you, that your life may be 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 243 
 
 as long and prosperous, as your presence is goodly 
 and noble." This brisk spark appeared to be a 
 student by bis habit, and some of the guards said 
 he was a fine speaker, and a good latinist. 
 
 After him came a man about thirty years old, a 
 clever, well-set, handsome fellow, only he squinted 
 horribly with one eye : he was strangely loaded with 
 irons ; a heavy chain clogged his leg, and was so 
 long, that he twisted it about his waist like a girdle: 
 he had a couple of collars about his neck, the one 
 to link him to the rest of the slaves, and the other, 
 one of those iron-ruflFs which they call a keep-friend, 
 or a friend's foot ; from whence two irons went 
 down to his middle, and to their two bars were 
 riveted a pair of manacles that griped him by the 
 fists, and were secured with a large padlock ; so that 
 he could neither lift his hands to his mouth, nor 
 bend down his head towards his hands. Don Quix- 
 ote inquiring why he was worse hampered with 
 irons than the rest, " Because he alone has done 
 more rogueries than all the rest," answered one of 
 the guards. " This is such a reprobate, such a devil 
 of a fellow, that no gaol nor fetters wiU hold him ; 
 we are not sure he is fast enough, for all he is 
 chained so." " What sort of crimes then has he 
 been guilty of," asked Don Quixote, " that he is 
 only sent to the galleys ? " " Why," answered the 
 keeper, " he is condemned to ten years slavery, 
 which is no better than a civil death : but I need 
 not stand to tell you any more of him, but that he. 
 is that notorious rogue, Gines de Passamonte, alias 
 Ginesillo de Parapilla." " Hark you, sir," cried the 
 slave, " fair and softly ; what a pox makes you give 
 
244 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 a gentleman more names than he has ? Gines is my 
 Christian name, and Passamonte my surname, and 
 not Ginesillo, nor Parapilla, as you say. Blood! 
 let every man mind what he says, or it may prove 
 the worse for him." " Don't you be so saucy, Mr. 
 Crack-rope," cried the officer to him, "or I may 
 chance to make you keep a better tongue in your 
 head." " It is a sign," cried the slave, " that a man 
 is fast, and under the lash ; but one day or other 
 somebody shall know whether I am called Parapilla 
 or no." " Why, Mr. Slipstring," replied the officer, 
 " do not people call you by that name ? " " They 
 do," answered Gines, " but I'll make them call me 
 otherwise, or I'll fleece and bite them worse than I 
 care to tell you now. But you, sir, who are so 
 inquisitive," added he, turning to Don Quixote, " if 
 you have a mind to give us any thing, pray do it 
 quickly, and go your ways ; for I don't like to stand 
 here answering questions ; broil me ! I am Gines 
 de Passamonte, I am not ashamed of my name. 
 As for my life and conversation, there is an account 
 df them in black and white, written with this nu- 
 merical hand of mine." " There he tells you true," 
 said the officer, " for he has written his own history 
 himself, without omitting a tittle of his roguish 
 pranks ; and he has left the manuscript in pawn in 
 the prison for two hundred reals." " Ay," said Gt- 
 nes, " and will redeem it, burn me ! though it lay 
 there for as many ducats." " Then it must be an 
 extraordinary piece," cried Don Quixote. " So 
 extraordinary," replied Gines, " that it far outdoes 
 not only Lazarillo de Tormes, but whatever has 
 been, and shall be written in that kind ; for mine is 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 245 
 
 trae every word, and no invented stories can com- 
 pare with it for variety of tricks and accidents." 
 « What is the title of the book? " asked Don Quix- 
 ote. " The life of Gines de Passamonte," answered 
 the other. " Is it quite finished ? " asked the knight. 
 " How the devil can it be finished and I yet living? " 
 cried the slave. " There is in it every material point 
 from my cradle, to this my last going- to the galleys." 
 ',' Then it seems you have been there before," said 
 Don Quixote. " To serve God and the king, I was 
 some four years there once before," replied Gines : 
 " I already know how the biscuit and the bulls- 
 pizzle agree with my carcass : it does not grieve 
 me much to go there again, for there I shall have 
 leisure to give a finishing stroke to my book. I have 
 the devil knows what to add ; and in our Spanish 
 galleys f here is always leisure and idle time enough 
 o'conscience : neither shall I want so much for what 
 I have to insert, for I know it all by heart." 
 
 " Thou seemest to be a witty fellow," said Don 
 Quixote. " You should have said unfortunate too," 
 replied the slave ; " for the bitch Fortune is still 
 unkind to men of wit." " You mean to such wick- 
 ed wretches as yourself," cried the officer. " Look 
 you, Mr. Commissary," said Gines, " I have already 
 desired you to use good language. The law did not 
 give us to your keeping for you to abuse us, but 
 only to conduct us where the king has occasion for 
 us. Let every man mind his own business, and 
 give good words, or hold his tongue ; for by the 
 blood — I will say no more, murder will out ; there 
 will be a time when some people's rogueries may 
 come to light, as well as those of other folks." 
 
246 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 With that the officer, provoked by the slave's threats, 
 held up his staff to strike him; but Don Quixote 
 stepped between them, and desired him not to do 
 it, and to consider, that the slave was the more to 
 be excused for being too free of his tongue, since 
 he had ne'er another member at liberty. Then ad- 
 dressing himself to all the slaves, " My dearest breth- 
 ren," cried he, " I find, by what I gather from your 
 own words, that though you deserve punishment 
 for the several crimes of which you stand convicted, 
 yet you suffer execution of the sentence by con- 
 straint, and merely because you cannot help it. Be- 
 sides, it is not unlikely but that this man's want of 
 resolution upon the rack, the other's want of money, 
 the third's want of friends and favor, and, in short 
 the judges perverting and wresting the law to your 
 great prejudice, may have been the cause of your 
 misery. Now, as heaven has sent me into the world 
 to relieve the distressed, and free suffering weakness 
 from the tyranny of oppression, according to the 
 duty of my profession of knight-errantry, these con- 
 siderations induce me to take you under my protec- 
 tion. But because it is the part of a prudent man 
 not to use violence where fair means may be effect- 
 ual, I desire you, gentlemen of the guard, to release 
 these poor men, there being people enough to serve 
 his majesty in their places ; for it is a hard case to 
 make slaves of men whom God and nature made free ; 
 and you have the less reason to use these wretches 
 with severity, seeing they never did you any wron^. 
 Let them answer for their sins in the other world ; 
 heaven is just, you know, and will be sure to punish 
 the wicked, as it will certainly reward the good. 
 
DON- QUIXOTE. 247 
 
 Consider besides, gentlemen, that it is neither a 
 Christian-like, nor an honorable action, for men to 
 be the butchers and tormentors of one another ; 
 principally, when no advantage can arise from it. 
 I choose to desire this of you, with so much mildness, 
 and in so peaceable a manner, gentletnen, that I 
 may have occasion to pay you a thankful acknow- 
 ledgment,- if you will be pleased to. grant so reason- 
 able a request : but if you provoke me by refusal, I 
 must be obliged to tell ye, that this lance, and this 
 sword, guided by this invincible arm, shall force you 
 to yield that to my valor which you deny to my 
 civil entreaties." 
 
 "A very good jest, indeed," cried the officer ; " what 
 a devil makes you dote at such a rate ? would you 
 have us set at liberty the king's prisoners, as if we 
 had authority to do it, or you to command it ? Go, 
 go about your business, good Sir Errant, and set 
 your basin right upon your empty pate ; and pray 
 do not meddle any further in what does not concern 
 you, for those who will play with cats must expect 
 to be scratched." 
 
 " Thou art a cat, and rat, and a coward to boot," 
 cried Don Quixote ; and with that he attacked the 
 officer with such a sudden and surprising fury, that 
 before he had any time to put himself into a pos- 
 ture of defence, he struck him down, dangerously 
 wounded with his lance ; and, as fortune had or- 
 dered it, this happened to be the horseman who 
 was armed with a carbine. His companions stood 
 astonished at such a bold action, but at last fell 
 upon the bold champion with their swords and 
 darts, which might have proved fatal to him, had 
 
248 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 not the slaves laid hold of this opportunity to break 
 the chain, in order to regain their liberty ; for the 
 guards, perceiving their endeavors to get loose, 
 thought it more material to prevent them, than to 
 be fighting a madman: but, as he pressed them 
 vigorously on one side, and the slaves were oppos- 
 ing them and freeing themselves on the other, the 
 hurly-burly was so great, and the guards so per- 
 plexed, that they did nothing to the purpose. In 
 the mean time, Sancho was helping Gines de Pas- 
 samonte to get off his gyves, which he did sooner 
 than can be imagined ; and then that active despe- 
 rado having seized the wounded officer's sword and 
 carbine, he joined with Don Quixote, and some- 
 times aiming at one, and sometimes at the other, as 
 if he had been ready to shoot them, yet still with- 
 out letting off the piece, the other slaves at the same 
 time pouring volleys of stone-shot at the guards, 
 they betook themselves to their heels, leaving Don 
 Quixote and the criminals masters of the field. 
 Sancho, who was always for taking care of the main 
 chance, was not at all pleased with this victory ; for 
 he guessed that the guards who were fled, would 
 raise a hue and cry, and soon be at their heels with 
 the whole posse of the holy brotherhood, and lay 
 them up for a rescue and rebellion. This made 
 him advise his master to get out of the way as fast 
 as he could, and hide himself in the neighboring 
 mountains. " I hear you," answered Don Quixote 
 to this motion of his squire, " and 1 know what I 
 have to do." Then calling to him all the slaves, 
 who by this time had uncased the keeper to his 
 skin, they gathered about him to know his pleasure, 
 
BON QUIXOTE. 249 
 
 and he spoke to them in this manner : « It is the 
 part of generous spirits to have a grateful sense of 
 the benefits they receive, no crime being more odi- 
 ous than ingratitude. You see, gentlemen, what I 
 have dofle for your sakes, and you cannot but be 
 sensible how highly you are obliged to me. Now 
 all the recompense I require is, only that every one 
 of you, loaden with that chain from which I have 
 freed your necks, do instantly repair to the city of 
 Toboso ; and there presenting yourselves before the 
 Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, tell her, that her faith- 
 ful votary, the Knight of the Woful Countenance, 
 commanded you to wait on her, and assure her of 
 his profound veneration. Then you shall give her 
 an exact account of every particular relating to this 
 famous achievement, by which you once more taste 
 the sweets of liberty ; which done, I give you leave 
 to seek your fortunes where you please." 
 
 To this the ringleader and master thief, Gines de 
 Passamonte, made answer for all the rest, "What 
 you would have us to do," said he, " our noble de- 
 liverer, is absolutely impracticable and impossible ; 
 for we dare not be seen all together for the world. 
 We must rather part, and skulk some one way, 
 some another, and lie snug in creeks and corners 
 under ground, for fear of those damned man-hounds 
 that will be after us with a hue and cry ; therefore 
 all we can and ought to do in this case, is to change 
 this compliment and homage which you would 
 have us pay to the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, into 
 a certain number of Ave Maries and Creeds, which 
 we will say for your worship's benefit ; and this 
 may be done by night or by day, walking or stand- 
 
250 THE ACHIEVEMBNTS OF 
 
 ing, and in war as well as in peace : but to imagine 
 we will return to our flesh-pots of Egypt, that is to 
 say, take up our chains again, and lug them the 
 devil knows where, is as unreasonable as to think 
 it is night now at ten o'clock in the morning. 
 'Sdeath, to expect this from us, is to expect pears 
 from an elm-tree." " Now, by my sword," replied 
 Don Quixote,^' sir son of a whore, Sir Ginesello de 
 Parapilla, or whatever be your name, you yourself, 
 alone, shall go to Toboso, like a dog that has 
 scalded his tail, with the whole chain about your 
 shoulders." Gines, who was naturally very chole- 
 ric, judging by Don Quixote's extravagance in free- 
 ing them, that he was not very wise, winked on his 
 companions, who, like men that understood signs, 
 presently fell back to the right and left, and pelted 
 Don Quixote with such a shower of stones, that all 
 his dexterity to cover himself with his shield, was 
 now ineffectual, and poor Rozinante no more obey- 
 ed the spur, than if he had been only the statue of 
 a horse. As for Sancho, he got behind his ass, and 
 there sheltered himself from the volleys of flints 
 that threatened his bones, while his master was so 
 battered, that in a little time he was thrown out of 
 his saddle to the ground. He was no sooner down, 
 but the student leaped on him, took off his basin 
 from his head, gave him three or four thumps on 
 the shoulders with it, and then gave it so many 
 knocks against the stones, that he almost broke it 
 to pieces. . After this, they stripped him of his upper 
 coat, and had robbed him of his hose too, but that 
 his greaves hindered them. They also eased San- 
 cho of his upper coat, and left him in his doublet ; 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 251 
 
 then, having divided the spoils, they shifted every 
 one for himself, thinking more how to avoid being 
 taken up, and linked again in the chain, than of 
 trudging with .it to my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso. 
 Thus the ass, Rozinante, Sancho, and Don Quix- 
 ote, remained indeed masters of the field, but in an 
 ill condition : the ass hanging his head, and pensive, 
 shaking his ears now and then, as if the volleys of 
 stones had still whizzed about them ; Rozinante 
 lying in a desponding manner, for he had been 
 knocked down as well as his unhappy rider ; San- 
 cho uncased to his doublet, and trembling for fear 
 of the holy brotherhood : and Don Quixote filled 
 with sullen regret, to find himself so barbarously 
 used by those whom he had so highly obliged. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 WHAT BEFELL THE EENOWNED DON QUIXOTE IN THE SIEKKA 
 MOEENA, (black MOUNTAIN,) BEING ONE OF THE RAREST 
 ADVENTURES IN THIS AUTHENTIC HISTORY. 
 
 Don Quixote, finding himself so ill treated, said 
 to his squire : " Sancho, I have always heard it said, 
 that to do a kindness to clowns, is like throwing 
 water into the sea.* Had I given ear to thy advice, 
 1 had prevented this misfortune ; but since the thing 
 is done it is needless to repine ; this shall be a 
 warning to me for the future." " That is," quoth 
 Sancho, " when the devil is blind : but since you 
 
 • It is labor lost, because they are ungfateful. 
 
252 THE ACHIHVBMENTS OF 
 
 say, you had escaped this mischief had you believed 
 me, good sir, believe me now, and you will escape 
 a greater ; for I'must tell you, that those of the holy 
 brotherhood do not stand in awe of your chivalry, 
 nor do they care a straw for all the knights-errant 
 in the world. Methinks I already hear their arrows 
 whizzing about my ears." * " Thou art naturally 
 a coward, Sancho," cried Don Quixote ; " neverthe- 
 less, that thou mayest not say I am obstinate, and 
 never follow thy advice, I will take thy counsel, and 
 for once convey myself out of the reach of this 
 dreadful brotherhood, that so strangely alarms thee ; 
 but upon this condition, that thou never tell any 
 mortal creature, neither while I live, nor after my 
 death, that I withdrew myself from this danger 
 through fear, but merely to comply with thy en- 
 treaties : for if thou ever presume to say otherwise, 
 thou wilt belie me ; and from this time to that time, 
 and from that time to the world's end, I give thee 
 the lie, and thou liest, and shalt lie in thy throat, as 
 often as thou sayest, or but thinkest to the contrary. 
 Therefore do not offer to reply ; for shouldest thou 
 but surmise, that I would avoid any danger, and 
 especially this which seems to give some occasion 
 or color for fear, I would certainly stay here, though 
 unattended and alone, and expect and face not only 
 the holy brotherhood, which thou dreadest so much, 
 but also the fraternity or twelve heads of the tribes 
 of Israel, the seven Maccabees, Castor and Pollux, 
 and all the brothers and brotherhoods in the uni- 
 verse." "An't please your worship," quoth Sancho, 
 
 ♦ The troopers of the holy brotherhood used cross-bows. 
 
DON QTJIXOTB. 253 
 
 " to withdraw is not to run away, and to stay is no 
 wise action, when there is more reason to fear than 
 to hope ; it is the part of a wise man to keep him- 
 self to-day for to-morrow, and not venture all his 
 eggs in one basket, And for all I am but a clown, 
 or a bumpkin, as you may say, yet I would have 
 you to know I know what's what, and have always 
 taken care of the main chance ; therefore do not be 
 ashamed of being ruled by me, but even get on 
 horseback an you are able : come, I will help you, 
 and then follow me ; for my mind plaguily misgives 
 me, that now one pair of heels will stand us in more 
 stead than two pair of hands." 
 
 Don Quixote, without any reply, made shift to 
 mount Rozinante, and Sancho on his ass led the 
 way to the neighboring mountainous desert called 
 Sierra Morena,* which the crafty squire had a de- 
 sign to cross over, and get out at the farthest end, 
 either at Viso, or Almadovar del Campo, and in the 
 mean time to lurk in the craggy and almost inacces- 
 sible retreats of that vast mountain, for fear of fall- 
 ing into the hands of the holy brotherhood. He 
 was the more eager to steer this course, finding that 
 the provision which he had laid on his ass had escap- 
 ed plundering, which was a kind of miracle, con- 
 sidering how narrowly the galley-slaves had searched 
 everywhere for booty. It was night before our two 
 travellers got to the middle and most desert part of 
 
 * Sierra, though Spanish for a mountain, properly means (not 
 a chain, but) a saw, from the Latin Serra, because of its ridges 
 rismg and falling like the teeth of a saw. This mountain (called 
 Morena from its Moorish or swarthy color) parts the kingdom 
 of Castile from the province of Andalusia. 
 
254 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 the mountain ; where Sancho advised his master to 
 stay some days, at least as long as their provisions 
 lasted; and accordingly that night they took up 
 their lodging between two rocks, among a great 
 number of cork-trees : but fortune, which, accord- 
 ing to the opinion of those that have not the light 
 of true faith, guides, appoints, and contrives all 
 things as it pleases, directed Gines de Passamonte 
 (that master-rogue, who, thanks be to Don Quix- 
 ote's force and folly, had been put in a condition 
 to do him a mischief) to this very part of the moun- 
 tain, in order to hide himself till the heat of the 
 pursuit, which he had just cause to fear, were over. 
 He discovered our adventurers much about the time 
 that they fell asleep ; and as wicked men are always 
 ungrateful, and urgent necessity prompts many to 
 do things, at the very thoughts of which they per- 
 haps would start at other times, Gines, who was a 
 stranger both to gratitude and humanity, resolved 
 to ride away with Sancho's ass ; for as for Rozi- 
 nante, he looked upon him as a thing that would 
 neither sell nor pawn : so while poor Sancho lay 
 snoring, he spirited away his darling beast, and 
 made such haste, that before day he thought him- 
 self and his prize secure from the unhappy owner's 
 pursuit. 
 
 Now Aurora with her smiling face returned to * 
 enliven and cheer the earth, but alas ! to grieve and 
 affright Sancho with a dismal discovery : for he had 
 no sooner opened his eyes, but he missed his ass , 
 and finding himself deprived of that dear partner of 
 his fortunes, and best comfort in his peregrinations, 
 he broke out into the most pitiful and sad lamenta- 
 
DON QTJIXOTE. 255 
 
 tions in the world ; insomuch that he waked Don 
 Quixote with his moans. " O dear child of ray 
 bowels," cried he, " born and bred under my roof, 
 my children's playfellow, the comfort of my wife, 
 the envy of my neighbors, the ease of my burdens, 
 the staff of my life, and in a word, half my main- 
 tenance ; for with six-and-twenty maravedis, which 
 were daily earned by thee, I made shift to keep half 
 my family." Don Quixote, who easily guessed the 
 cause of these complaints, strove to comfort him 
 with kind condoling words, and learned discourses 
 upon the uncertainty of human happiness : but no- 
 thing proved so effectual to assuage his sorrow, as 
 the promise which his master made him of drawing 
 a bill of exchange on his niece for three asses out of 
 live which he had at home, payable to Sancho 
 Panza, or his order; which prevailing argument 
 soon dried up his tears, hushed his sighs and moans, 
 and turned his complaints into thanks to his gene- 
 rous master for so unexpected a favor. 
 
 And now, as they wandered further in these 
 mountains, Don Quixote was transported with joy 
 to find himself where he might flatter his ambition 
 with the hopes of fresh adventures to signalize his 
 valor ; for these vast deserts made him call to mind 
 the wonderful exploits of other knights-errant, per- 
 formed in such solitudes. Filled with those airy 
 notions, he thought on nothing else : but Sancho 
 was for more substantial food ; and now, thinking 
 himself quite out of the reach of the holy brother- 
 hood, his only care was to fill his belly with the 
 relics of the clerical booty ; and thus sitting side- 
 ling, as women do, upon his beast, he slily took out 
 
256 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 now one piece of meat, then another, and kept his 
 grinders going faster than his feet. Thus plodding 
 on, he would not have given a rush to have met 
 with any other adventure. 
 
 While he was thus employed, he observed, that 
 his master endeavored to take up something that 
 lay on the ground with the end of his lance : this 
 made him run to help him to lift up the bundle, 
 which proved to be a portmanteau, and the seat of 
 a saddle, that were half, or rather quite rotted with 
 lying exposed to the weather. The portmanteau 
 was somewhat heavy, and Don Quixote having or- 
 dered Sancho to see what it contained, though it 
 was shut with a chain and a padlock, he easily saw 
 what was in it through the crack, and pulled out 
 four fine hoUand shirts, and other clean and fashion- 
 able linen, besides a considerable quantity of gold 
 tied up in a handkerchief. *' Bless my eye-sight," 
 quoth Sancho; " and now, heaven, I thank thee for 
 sending us such a lucky adventure once in our 
 lives ; " with that, groping further in the portman- 
 teau, he found a table-book richly bound. " Give me 
 that," said Don Quixote, " and do thou keep the 
 gold," " Heaven reward your worship," quoth San- 
 cho, kissing his master's hand, and at the same time 
 clapping up the linen and the other things into the 
 bag where he kept the victuals. " I fancy," said- 
 Don Quixote, " that some person, having lost his 
 way in these mountains, has been met by robbers, 
 who have murdered him, and buried his body some- 
 where hereabouts." " Sure your worship's mis- 
 taken," answered Sancho, " for, had they been high- 
 waymen, they would never have left such a booty 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 257 
 
 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 ta» 
 ble-book, perhaps we shall find something written 
 in that, which will help us to discover what I would 
 know." With that he opened it, and the first thing 
 he found was the following rough draught of a son- 
 net, 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, 
 
 Or cruelty's his darling attribute ; 
 Else he'd ne'er force me to complain, 
 
 And to his spite my raging pain impute. 
 
 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 V No : why do I pause ? 
 
 Such cruel ills ne'er boast so sweet a cause ; 
 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. 
 
 " The devil of any thing can be picked out of 
 this," quoth Sancho, " unless you can tell who that 
 same Phyll is." « I did not read Phyll, but Phyllis," 
 said Don Quixote. " O then, mayhap, the man has 
 lost his filly-foal." « Phyllis," said Don Quixote, 
 
 VOL. I. 17 
 
258 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 " 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 judgment." "Why then," 
 quoth Sancho, " 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 writ- 
 ten aU in verse to carry to my Lady Dulcinea del 
 Toboso : for, I must tell thee, friend Sancho, all the 
 knights-errant, or at least the greatest part of them, 
 in former times, were great poets, and as great mu- 
 sicians ; those qualifications, or, to speak better, 
 those two gifts, or accomplishments, being almost 
 inseparable from amorous adventures: though I 
 must confess the verses of the knights in former 
 ages are not altogether 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." " O ! good your worship," 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 fol- 
 lows : 
 
 " The falsehood of your promises, and my de- 
 spair, hurry me from you for ever ; and you shall 
 sooner hear the news of my death, than the cause 
 
 * Cervantes himself. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 25S> 
 
 of my complaints. You have forsaken me, ungrate- 
 ful 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 un- 
 thinking sex, I must presume to say, I should have 
 no reason to envy the wealth of others, and no mis- 
 fortune 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, O ! 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 perfidi- 
 ousness concealed, lest it should cost your repent- 
 ing heart a sigh for the injustice you have done tO' 
 so faithful a lover, and so I should be prompted to. 
 a revenge which 1 do not desire to take. Farewell." 
 
 " This letter^" quoth Don Quixote,, " does not 
 give us any further insight iato 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 were legible, and 
 some so scribbled, that he could make nothing 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, 
 Sancbo was rummaging the portmanteau, and the 
 seat of the saddle^ with that exactness, that he did 
 
260 THE ACHIEVBMBNTS OP 
 
 not leave a corner unsearched, nor a seam unripped, 
 nor a single lock of wool unpicked ; for the gold he 
 bad found, which was above an hundred ducats, 
 bad but whetted his greedy appetitej 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 
 fisticuffs of the lewd carrier, the loss of his cloak, 
 his dear wallet, 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 dis- 
 dain and unkindness of his mistress had driven to 
 despair. At length, however, he gave over the 
 thoughts of it, discovering nobody through that vast 
 d:esert ; and so he rode on, wholly guided by Rozi- 
 Hante's discretion, which always made the grave, 
 sagacious creature choose the plainest and smooth- 
 est way^ the master still firmly believing, that in 
 those woody uncultivated forests he should infalli- 
 bly start some wonderful adventure. ^ 
 And indeed, while these hopes possessed him, he 
 spied upon the top of a stouy crag just before him 
 a man that skipped from rock to rock, over briars 
 and bushes., with wonderful agility- He seemed to 
 him naked from the waist upwards, with a thick 
 blac^ beard, his bai; ]ojtg, and strangely tangled, 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 261 
 
 his head, legs, and feet bare ; on his hips a pair of 
 breeches, that appeared to be of sad-colored velvet, 
 but so tattered and torn, that they discovered his 
 skin in many places. These particulars were ob- 
 served 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 port- 
 manteau. But Rozinante, 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 Woful Figure resolved to find out 
 that unhappy creature, though he were to bestow a 
 whole year in the search ; and to that intent he or- 
 dered 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 from you, I am al- 
 most frighted out of my seven senses : and let this 
 serve you hereafter for a warning, that you may not 
 send me a nail's breadth from your, presence." 
 " Well," said the knight, " I will take thy case into 
 consideration ; and it does not displease me, San- 
 cho, 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 body. Fol- 
 low 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, v/here, 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, 
 
262 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 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 much better, without making so 
 much ado, to let me keep it bond 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 endeavor to find him out, and re- 
 store it to hinl ; ,the rather, because should we not 
 now strive to meet him, yet the strong presumption 
 we have that the goods belong to him, would make 
 us possessors of them maM 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 Bozinante ; and Sancho, 
 not very well pleased, followed him, comforting 
 himself, however, with the hopes of the three asses 
 which his master had promised him. So when 
 they had rode over the greatest part of the moun- 
 tain, they came to a brook, where they found a* 
 mule lying dead, with her saddle and bridle about 
 her, and herself half devoured by beasts and birds 
 of prey; which discovery further confirmed them 
 in their suspicion, that the man who fled so nimbly 
 from them was the owner of the mule and port- 
 manteau. Now as they paused and pondered upon 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 263 
 
 this, they heard a whistling like that of some shep- 
 hefd 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 
 desired him to come down ; but the goat-herd, in- 
 stead of answering him, asked them in as loud a 
 tone, how they came thither in those deserts, where 
 scarce any living creature resorted except goats, 
 wolves, and other wild beasts ? Sancho told him 
 they would satisfy him as to that point, if he wotdd 
 come where they were. With that the goat-herd 
 came down to them ; and seeing them look upon 
 the dead mule, " That dead mule," said the old fel- 
 low, " 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 no- 
 body," answered Don Quixote ; " but we found a 
 portmanteau and a saddle-cushion not far from this 
 place." " I have seen it, too," quoth the goat-herd, 
 " 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 the devil a 
 bit would I 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 bell- 
 wether, shall be discovered by the bell." " Tell 
 me^ honest friend," asked Don Quixote, " dost thou 
 
264 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 knowwho is the owner of those things?" "All I 
 know of the matter," answered the goat-herd, " 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, proper 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 fre- 
 quented 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 how you could 
 get even thus far ; for there is neither highway nor 
 foot-path that may direct a man this way. Now, 
 as soon as the young gentleman had heard our an- 
 swer, he turned about his mule, and made to the 
 place we showed him, leaving us all with a hugeous 
 liking to his comeliness, and strangely marvelling at 
 his demand, and the haste he made towards the mid- 
 dle of the mountain. After that we heaxd no more 
 of him in a great while, till one day by chance one 
 of the shepherds coming by, he fell upon him with- 
 out saying why or wherefore, and beat him without 
 mercy : after that he went to the ass that carried 
 our victuals, and, taking away all the bread and • 
 cheese that was there, he tripped back again to the 
 mountain with wondrous speed. Hearing this, a 
 good number of us together resolved to find 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 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 265 
 
 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 sa- 
 luted us courteously, 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 be- 
 hooved him so to be, that he might fulfil a certain 
 penance enjoined him for the great sins he had com- 
 mitted. We prayed him to tell us who he was, but he 
 would by no means do it : we likewise desked him 
 to let us know where we might find him, that when- 
 soever he wanted victuals we might bring him some, 
 which we told him we would be sure to do, for 
 otherwise he would be starved in that barren place ; 
 requesting him, that if he did not like that motion 
 neither, he would at leastwise come and ask us for 
 what he wanted, and not 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 henceforwards 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 be- 
 fore : for, as I said, he was a very fine comely young 
 man, and by his speech and behaviour we could 
 guess him to be well born, and a courtlike sort of 
 
266 THE ACHIEVEMENTS 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 ground ; 
 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 his 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 with- 
 out saying a word, leaping over the bushes and 
 brambles at such a strange rate, that it was impossi- 
 ble 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 young 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 shoiuld find hiin out, either by fair means or 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 267 
 
 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 what 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 nimbly by 
 you ; " for Don Quixote had by this time acquainted 
 the goat-herd of his having seen that man skipping 
 among the rocks. 
 
 The knight was wonderfully concerned when he 
 had heard the goat-herd's story, and renewed his re- 
 solution of finding out that distracted wretch, what- 
 ever 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, muttering somewhat to himself, 
 which they could not well have understood 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 chamois 
 waistcoat, 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 unhappy creature came near them, he 
 saluted them very civilly, but with a hoarse voice. 
 Don Quixote returned his civilities, and, alighting 
 from Eozinante, accosted him in a very graceful 
 
268 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OP 
 
 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, could not forbear stepping back a 
 little, and laying his hands on the companion'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 behold 
 Don Quixote's countenance, armor, and strange 
 figure, as Don Quixote did to see his tattered con- 
 dition : but the first that opened his mouth after this 
 pause was the Ragged Knight, as you shall find by 
 the sequel of the story. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE ADVENTtJKE IN THE SIERBA-MORENA CONTINUED. 
 
 The history relates, that Don Quixote listened 
 with great attention to the disastrous Knight of the 
 Mountain, who made him the following compliment, 
 " Truly, sir, whoever you be, (for I have not the ho- 
 nor to know you,) I am much obliged to you for 
 your expressions of civility and friendship ; and I 
 could wish I were in a condition 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 unprofitable wishes." 
 " Sir," answered Don Quixote, "I have so hearty a 
 desire to serve you, that I was fully resolved not to 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 269 
 
 depart these mountains till I had found you out, 
 that I might know from yourself, whether the dis- 
 contents that have urged you to make choice of this 
 unusual course of life, might not admit of a reme- 
 dy ; 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 sor- 
 rows with you, and, by sharing your load of grief, 
 help you to bear the oppressing weight of affliction ; 
 for it is the only comfort of the miserable to have 
 partners in their woes. 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 bury yourself alive in this horrid soli- 
 tude, where you linger out a wretched being, a 
 stranger to ease, to all mankind, and even to your 
 very self. " And I solemnly 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 disaster, if it 
 is not past redress ; or at least I will become your 
 partner in sorrow, and strive to ease it by a society 
 in sadness. " 
 
 The Knight of the Wood, hearing the Knight of 
 theWoful Figure talk at that rate, looked upon him, 
 
270 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 steadfastly for a long time, and viewed, and reviewed 
 him from head to foot ; and when he had gazed a 
 great while upon him, " Sir," cried he, " if you have 
 any thing to eat, for heaven's sake give it me, and 
 when my hunger is abated, I shall be better able to 
 comply with your desires, which your great civili- 
 ties and undeserved offers oblige me to satisfy." 
 Sancho and the goat-herd, 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 immediately fell on 
 with that greedy haste, that he seemed rather to de- 
 vour 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 as- 
 suaged 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 t<J eating, 
 he began in this manner : 
 
 " Gentlemen," said he, "if you intend to be in- 
 formed of my misfortunes, you must promise me 
 beforehand not to cut off the thread of my doleful 
 narration with any questions, or any other interrup- 
 tion ; 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 pre- 
 
BON QTJIXOTE. - ' 271 
 
 caution," added the ragged knight, "because 1 
 would be quick in my relation ; for the very reraemr 
 brance of my former misfortune proves a new one 
 to me, and yet I promise you, 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 atten- 
 tion, he proceeded in this manner : 
 
 " My name is Cardenio, 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 deepest 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 charming Lucinda, the most beauti- 
 ful creature that ever nature framed, equal in descent 
 and fortune to myself, but more happy and less con- 
 stant. I loved, nay adored her almost from her in- 
 fancy ; and from her tender years she blessed me 
 with as kind a return as is suitable with the inno- 
 cent freedom of that age. Our parents were con- 
 scious of that early friendship ; nor did they oppose 
 the growth of this inoffensive passion, which they 
 perceived 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'a 
 father, either judging our usual familiarity prejudi- 
 cial to his daughter's honor, or for some other rea- 
 sons, sent to desire me to discontinue my frequent 
 
272 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OE 
 
 visits to his house : but this restraint proved but 
 like that which was used by the parents of that lov- 
 ing Thisbe, so celebrated by the poets, and but ad- 
 ded flames to flames, and impatience to desires. 
 As our tongues were now debarred their former pri- 
 vilege, 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 belov- 
 ed object often heightens a certain awe and bash- 
 fulness, that disorders, confounds, and strikes dumb, 
 even the most passionate lover. How many letters 
 have I wrote to that lovely charmer ! how many soft 
 moving verses have I addressed 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, lan- 
 guishing and wasting with desire, deprived 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 demand- 
 ing 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 
 obtained as well as his, and who was the most pro- 
 per person to make such a proposal. I thanked him 
 for his civil answer, and thought it carried some 
 show of reason, not doubting but my father would* 
 readily consent to the proposal. I therefore imme- 
 diately went to wait on him, with a design to beg 
 his approbation and assistance. 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. 
 
DON QlJlXOTE. 273 
 
 « Cardenio,' said he, 'you will see by this letter the 
 extraordinary kindness that Duke Ricardo has for 
 you.' I suppose I need not tell you, gentlemen, 
 that this Duke Ricardo is a grandee of Spain, most 
 of whose estate lies in the best part of Andalusia. 
 I read the letter, and found it contained so kind and 
 advantageous an offer, that my father Could not but 
 accept of it with thankfulness ; for the duke entreat- 
 ed him to send me to him with all speed, that I 
 might be the companion of his eldest son, promis- 
 ing withal to advance me to a post answerable to 
 the good opinion he had of me. 
 
 " This unexpected news struck me dumb ; but 
 my surprise and disappointment were much greater, 
 when I heard my father say to me, ' Cajdenio, you 
 must get ready to be gone in two days : in the mean 
 time give heaven thanks for opening you a way to 
 that preferment which I am so sensible you deserve.' 
 After this he gave me several wise admonitions both 
 as father and a man of business, and then he left me. 
 The day fixed for my journey quickly came ; how- 
 ever, 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 bestowing of his daughter till I 
 had been with Duke Ricardo, which he kindly pro- 
 mised me : and then, Lucinda and I, after an ex- 
 change of vows and protestations of eternal 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 
 
 vox,. I. IS 
 
274 THE ACmBVBMBNTS OP 
 
 duke, who received and entertained me with that 
 extraordinary kindness and civility that soon raised 
 the envy of his greatest favorities. But he that 
 most endearingly caressed me, was Don Ferdinand, 
 the duke's second son, a young, airy, handsome, 
 generous gentleman, and of a very amorous dispo- 
 sition ; 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, rel3dng 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 admira- 
 tion of all those who approached her : and those 
 uncommon endowments had so charmed the soul 
 of Don Ferdinand, that, finding it absolutely im- 
 possible to corrupt her chastity, since she would not 
 yield to his embraces as a mistress, be resol\red 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 re- 
 solved to inform the duke his father with his inten- 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 275 
 
 tions: but Don Ferdinand 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 upon such 
 a marriage as highly prejudicial to them both, he 
 made it his business to hinder me from betraying 
 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 bad I heard this plausible propo- 
 sal but I approved it, swayed by the interest of my 
 own love, that made me fond of an opportunity to 
 see my absent Lucinda. 
 
 " I have heard since, that Don Ferdinand, had 
 already been blessed by his mistress, with all the 
 liberty of boundless love, upon a promise of mar- 
 riage, and that he only waited an opportunity to 
 discover it with safety, being afraid of incurring 
 his father's indignation. But as what we call love 
 in young men, is too often only an irregular pas- 
 sion, and boiling desire, that has no other object 
 than sensual pleasure, and vanishes with enjoy- 
 ment, while real love, fixing itself on the perfec- 
 tidns of the mind, is still improving and perma- 
 nent ; as soon as Don Ferdinand had accomplished 
 his lawless desires, his strong affection slackened, 
 and his hot love grew cold : so that if at first his 
 
276 THE ACHIEVBMBNTS OF 
 
 proposing to try the power of absence was only a 
 pretence, that he might get rid of his passion, there 
 was nothing now which he more heartily coveted, 
 that he might thereby avoid fulfilling his promise. 
 And therefore having obtained the duke's leave, 
 away we posted to my father's house, where Don 
 Ferdinand was entertained according to his qua- 
 lity ; 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 any thing 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 
 intimate a friend, who had so generously intrusted 
 me with his ; and therefore, to my eternal ruin, I 
 unhappily discovered to him my passion. I prais- 
 ed Lucinda's beauty, her wit, her virtue, and prais- 
 ed them so like a lover, so often, and so highly, 
 that I raised in him a great desire to see so ac- 
 complished a lady ; and, to gratify his curiosity, I 
 showed her to him by the help of a light, one eve- 
 ning, at a low window, \Yhere we used to have our 
 amorous interviews. She proved but too charming, 
 and too strong a temptation to Don Ferdinand ; 
 and her prevailing image made so deep an impres- 
 sion on his sou], that it was sufficient to blot out' 
 of his mind all those beauties that had till then 
 employed his wanton 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 despera- 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 277 
 
 tion, 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 impor- 
 tuned me to communicate to him some of her let- 
 ters, 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 
 that tenderness and discretion, that, when he had 
 read it, he presently cried out, that the amorous 
 charms which were scattered and divided among 
 other beauties, were all divinely centred in Lucinda, 
 and in Lucinda alone. Shall I confess a shameful 
 truth ? Lucinda's praises, though never so deserv- 
 ed, 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, be- 
 cause he would be still improving the least oppor- 
 tunity of talking of her, and insensibly turning the 
 discourse he held of other matters, to make her the 
 subject, though never so far-fetched, of our constant 
 talk. Not that I was apprehensive of the least in- 
 fidelity from, Lucinda : far from it ; she gave me 
 daily fresh assurances of her inviolable affection; 
 but I feared every thing from my malignant stars, 
 and lovers are commonly industrious to make them- 
 selves 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 Cardenio mentioned knight-errantry, 
 when Don Quixote interrupted him : " Sir," said 
 
278 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 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, thbse infallible 
 guides to sense, though indulgent nature had strove 
 to bless her with the richest gifts she can bestow, I 
 might justly enough have doubted whether her per- 
 fections 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 Rugel of 
 Greece ; for I am certain the Lady Lucinda would 
 have been extremely delighted with Daryda and 
 Garaya, as also with the discreet shepherd Darihel, 
 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 masterpieces, if you 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 dar- 
 ling 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 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 279 
 
 giving you this interruption, contrary to my pro- 
 mise ; but when I hear the least mention made of 
 knight-errantry, it is no more in my power to for- 
 bear 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 beseech you 
 to go on." 
 
 While Don Quixote was running on with this im- 
 pertinent digression, Cardenio hung down his head 
 on his breast with all the signs of a man lost in 
 sorrow ; nor could Don Quixote, with repeated en- 
 treaties, 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 convinced," cried he, " nor shall 
 any man in the world ever persuade me to the con- 
 trary; and he's a blockhead who says, that great 
 villain. Master Elisabat,* never lay with Queen Ma- 
 dasima." 
 
 " It is false ! " cried Don Quixote, in a mighty 
 heat; "by all the powers above, it is all scandal 
 and base detraction to say this of Queen Madasi- 
 raa! She was a most noble and virtuous lady ; nor 
 is it to be presumed 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." 
 
 * Elisabat is a skilM surgeon in Amadis de tiaul, who per- 
 forms wonderful cures ; and Queen Madasima is wife to Gantar 
 sis, and makes a great figure in the aforesaid romance ; lihey tra- 
 vel and lie together in woods and deserts, without any imputation 
 on her honor. 
 
280 THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF 
 
 Cardenio very earnestly fixed his eyes on Don 
 Quixote, while he was thus defying him, and taking 
 Queen Madasima's part, as if she had been his true 
 and lawful 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 guts, like a baker in a 
 dough-trough. Nay, the goat-herd, who was offer- 
 ing 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 goat-herd, railing 
 at him for not forewarning them of the Ragged 
 Knight's mad fits, that they might have stood upon 
 their guard. The goat-herd answered, he had given 
 them warning at first, and if he could not hear, it 
 was no fault of his. To this Sancho replied, and * 
 the goat-herd made a rejoinder, till from Pros and 
 Cons they fell to a warmer way of disputing, and 
 went to fisticuffs together, catching one another 
 by the beards, and tugging, hauling, and belaboring 
 one another so unmercifully, that, had not Don 
 Quixote parted them, they would have pulled one 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 281 
 
 another's chins off. Sancho, in great warmth, still 
 keeping his hold, cried to his master, " Let me alone. 
 Sir Knight of the Woful Figure : this is no dubbed 
 knight, but an ordinary fellow like myself; I may 
 be revenged on him for the wrong he has done me ; 
 let me box it out, and fight him fairly hand to fist 
 like a man." " Thou mayest fight him as he is thy 
 equal," answered Don Quixote ; " but thou oughtest 
 not to do it, since he has done us no wrong." After 
 this he pacified them, and then addressing himself 
 to the goat-herd, he asked him whether it was pos- 
 sible to find out Cardenio again, that he might hear 
 the end of his story? The goat-herd answered, 
 that, as he had already told him, he knew of no 
 settled place he used, but that if they made any 
 stay thereabouts, he might be sure to meet with 
 him, mad or sober, some time or other. 
 
NOTES 
 
 DON QUIXOTE. 
 
 Note I. p. IS. 
 At a certain village in La Mancha, of which I cannot remember 
 the name. — It is clear that the author meant to assign no special 
 locality to the Aldea, or village of the renowned Hidalgo. But 
 in this, as in other cases, commentators became desirous of see- 
 ing farther into the mill-stone, and have assigned to Argasamilla 
 de Mba, the honor of being Don Quixote's habitation. Avellen- 
 ada first named it as such, in his Continuation of Don Quixote. 
 
 Note II. p. 13. 
 
 A lance upon a rack. — In Spain, as in the other parts of Eu- 
 rope, the country gentlemen, when called on to discharge military 
 duty, used the lance, which was usually deposited upon a rack, 
 in the hall or porch of their habitations. 
 
 Note HI. p. 13. 
 
 Griefs and groans. — Duelos y quebrantos. — This dish has 
 puzzled the critics, having been termed by Stevens, eggs and 
 collops, by Audin, eggs and beer; by Jervis, an omelet; by 
 others, fcied hams ; by others, pease, herbs, or such other windy 
 diet, as was like to engender cholic ; while Ozell hints, it means 
 a dish of nothing at all. Pelicer explains the dish to be com- 
 posed of sausages, made of sheep which had died of disease, or 
 
284 NOTES ON 
 
 otherwise, without the butcher's Eissistance — taking its name, 
 therefore, from the sentiment which the loss excited in the farmer 
 or owner. 
 
 Note IV. p. 14. 
 
 Feliciana de Sylva. — This learned and eloquent CastiUan 
 composed (or, according to the title page, amended and edited 
 from the ancient version of Zerfea, Queen of the Argines) the 
 history of the two valiant knights, Don Florisel de Niquea, and 
 the brave Anaxartes, printed at Saragossa in 1584. The author 
 was the son of Tristan de Sylva, the historian of Charles V. 
 
 NoTB V. p. 15. 
 
 Don Belianis of Greece. — A romance of chivalry, formed on 
 the model of the Amadis, but with infinitely less art and inte- 
 rest, and on a much coarser plan. It seems to have had a great 
 share of popularity, however, in its day ; and made its appear- 
 ance in aU the languages in which romances were written. 
 There is, among others, an English abridgment, (in quarto,) enti- 
 tled " The Honour of Chivalry, or the Famous and Delectable 
 History of Don Belianis of Greece, containing the valiatit Exploits 
 of that magnanimous and heroic Prince, son unto the Emperor 
 Don Belianis of Greece, wherein are described the strange and 
 dangerous adventures that befell him, with his love towards the 
 Princess FlorisbeUa, daughter to the Suldan of Babyloun, &c. &c. 
 London, at the three Bibles, in London Bridge, 1683." 
 
 The aUusion in the text is to these words, at the end of the 
 original Don Belianis, " Suplir yo con fingimientos historia tan 
 estimada seria aggravio, &c. &c. 
 
 Note VI. p. 15. 
 
 Had taken his degrees at Siguenza. — A Spanish university of 
 minor note. 
 
 Note VH. p. 15. 
 
 Palmerin of England, or Amadis de Gaul. — These knights 
 have been made so well known to the British public, by the ex- 
 
DON QinXOTB. 285 
 
 cellent abridgments, which ]VIr. Southey has made of their ad- 
 ventures, that it is only necessary to refer to books in the hands 
 of every lover of ancient literature. It is no small debt we owe 
 to the author of Thalaba, Kehama, and Don Eoderick, that he 
 could stoop from his own lofty sphere of original composition, to 
 the task of presenting to us, in an intelligible and pleasing form, 
 whatever was characteristic and interesting in the ancient ro- 
 mance. 
 
 Note Vm. p. 16. 
 
 TJie Cid Ruydiaz. — A romantic champion, well known by 
 CorneiMe's tragedy of the Cid, as well as by Southey's curious 
 version of the Chronicle of his exploits. He was, like most po- 
 pular heroes, an ill requited chief, banished from Castile by his 
 sovereign, and reduced to live the life of an outlaw, and support 
 himself and his followers by warring upon the Moors on his own 
 account The real history of this remarkable personage is lost 
 in a cloud of romantic fiction. He is said to have conquered 
 Valentia from the Moors. 
 
 A distinguished German critic speaks thus of the old Spanish 
 poem on the exploits of the Cid — a production of which some 
 curious specimens are admirably translated by Mr. Frere, at the 
 end of Mr. Southey's Chronicle. 
 
 " The literature of Spain possesses a high advantage over that 
 of most other nations, in its historical heroic romance of the Cid. 
 This is exactly that species of poetry which exerts the nearest 
 and most powerful influence over the national feelings and cha- 
 racter of a people. A single work, such as the Cid, is of more 
 real value to a nation than a whole library of books, however 
 abounding in wit or intellect, which are destitute of the spirit of 
 nationality. Although in the shape in which it now appears, the 
 work was probably produced about the 11th century, yet the 
 whole body of its inventions belongs to the older period antece- 
 dent to the Crusades. There is here no trace of that oriental 
 taste for the wonderful and the fabulous, which afterwards be- 
 came so predominant. It breathes the pure, true-hearted, noble 
 old Castilian spirit, and is in feet the true history of the Cid, 
 first arranged and extended into a poetical form, very shorfly, it 
 is probable, after the age of that hero himself. I have abeady 
 
286 NOTES ON 
 
 taken notice that the heroic poetry and mythology of almost all 
 nations is in its essence tragical and elegiac. But there is an- 
 other less serious Tiew of the heroic life, which was often repre- 
 sented even by the ancients themselves. Hercules and his bodily 
 strength, and his eating, are drawn in the true colors of comedy, 
 and the wandering adventures and lying stories of Ulysses, have 
 been the original of all amusing romances. But, in truth, speci- 
 mens of this sort of representation are to be found in the histo- 
 ries of almost all great heroes. However powerfiilly history 
 may represent the hero's superiority in magnanimity, in bravery, 
 and in corporeal strength, it efiects its piirpose by depicting him 
 not among the poetical obscurities of a world of wonders, but 
 surrounded by the realities of life; and it is then that we receive 
 the strongest impression of his power, when we see it exerted in 
 opposition, not to imaginary evils of which we have little concep- 
 tion, but to the every day difficulties and troubles of the world, to 
 which we ourselves feel that ordinary men are incapable of of- 
 fering any resistance. We have many instances of this comic 
 sort of writing in the Spanish Cid ; for example, there is the 
 description of his rather unfair method of raising money to 
 support his war against the Moors, by borrowing from a 
 Jewish usurer, and leaving a chest erf old stones and lumber as 
 his pledge; and the account of the insult offered to his dead 
 body by another of that race, and the terror into which he was 
 thrown by the Cid starting up on his bier, and drawing his sword 
 a span's length out of the scabbard. These are touches of popu- 
 lar humor by no means out of place in a romance founded on 
 popular traditions. But there is a spirit of more delicate irony 
 in those sorrowful lamentations with which Donna Ximena is 
 made to address the King on account of the protracted absence 
 of her husband, as well as in the reply of the monarch." — See 
 flcMegel on the History of LitercUure, vol.. i. p. S43» 
 
 Note IX. p. 16. 
 
 Bernardo del Carpio. — Of this personage, we find little or 
 nothing in the French romances of Charlemagne. He belongs 
 exclusively to Spanish History, or rather to Spanish Romance ; 
 in which the honor is claimed for him of slaying the famous Or- 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 287 
 
 lando, or Roland, the nephew of Charlemagne, in the fatal field 
 of Roncesvalles. His history is as follows : — 
 
 The continence which procured for AImizo, who succeeded to 
 the precarious throne of the Christians, in the Asturias, about 
 795, the epithet of The Chaste, was not universal in his family. 
 By an intrigue with Sancho, Count of Saldenha, Donna Xime- 
 na, sister of this virtuous prince, bcffe a sou. Some historians 
 attempt to gloss over this incident by alleging that a private 
 marriage had taken place betwixt the lovers ; but King Alphon- 
 so, who was wellnigh saluted for living only in platonic union 
 with his own wife Bertha, took the scandal greatly to heart. He 
 shut the peccant . princess up in a cloister, and imprisoned her 
 gallant in the castle of Luna, where he caused him to be de- 
 prived of sight. Fortunately, his wrath did not extend to the 
 offspring of their stolen affections, the famous Bernardo del Car- 
 pio. TVTien the youth had grown up to manhood, Alphonso, ac- 
 cording to the Spanish historians, invited the Emperor Charle- 
 magne into Spain, and having neglected to raise up heirs for the 
 kingdom of the Goths in the ordinary manner, he proposed the 
 inheritance of his throne as the price of the alliance of Charles. 
 But the nobility, headed by Bernardo del Carpio, remonstrated 
 against the king's choice of a successor, and would on no ac- 
 count consent to receive a Frenchman as heir of their crown. 
 Alphonso himself repented of the invitation he had given to 
 Charlemagne, and when that champion of Christendom came to 
 expel the Moors from Spain, he found the conscientious and 
 chaste Alphonso had united with the infidels against him. An 
 engagement took place in the renowned pass of Roncesvalles, in 
 which the French were defeated, and the celebrated Roland, or 
 Orlando, was slain. The victory was ascribed chiefly to the 
 prowess of Bernardo del Carpio. 
 
 In several of the old ballads, which record the real or imagin- 
 ary feats of Bernardo, his royal uncle is represented as having 
 shown but little gratitude for the great champion's services, in 
 the campaign against Charlemagne. It appears that the king 
 had not relented in favor of Don Sancho, although he had come 
 under some promise of that sort to his son, at the period when 
 his (the son's) services were most necessary. The following is a 
 translation of one of the oldest of the Spanish ballads in which 
 this part of Carpio's story is told. 
 
288 NOTES ON 
 
 BBKNARDO AND ALPHONSO. 
 
 I. 
 
 With, some good ten of his chosen men, Bernardo hath appear'd 
 Before them aJl in the palace hall, the lying King to beard; 
 With cap in hand and eye on ground, he came in reverend guise, 
 But ever and anon he frown' d, and flame broke from his eyes. 
 
 n. 
 
 "A curse upon thee," cries the King, " who comest unbid to me ; 
 But what from traitor's blood should spring, save traitors like to thee? 
 His sire. Lords, had a traitor's heart; perchance our Champion brave 
 May think it were a pious part to share Don Sancho's grave." 
 
 in. 
 
 " Whoever told this tale the Bang, hath rashness to repeat," 
 Cries Bernard, " here my gage I fling before the liab's feet! 
 No treason was in Sancho's blood, no stain in mine doth lie — 
 Below the throne what knight will own the coward calumny? 
 
 IV. 
 
 " The blood that I like water shed, when Eoland did advance, 
 By secret traitors bought and led, to make us slaves of France; 
 The life of King Alphonso I saved at Bonseval, — 
 Your words. Lord £^g, are recompense abundant for it alL 
 
 V 
 " Your horse was down — your hope was flown — ve saw the faulchion 
 
 shine. 
 That soon had drunk your royal blood, had I not ventured mine; 
 But memory soon of service done deserteth the ingrate. 
 And ye've thank'd the son for life and crown by the father's bloody fate> 
 
 VI. 
 "Ye swore upon your kingly faith, to set Don Sancho free, 
 But curse upon your paultiing breath, the light he ne'er did see ; 
 He died in dungeon cold and dim, by Alphonso's base decree. 
 And visage blind, and mangled limb, were all they gave to me. 
 
 VH. 
 
 " The Bang that swerveth from his word, hath stain'd his purple black, 
 No Spanish Lord will draw the sword behind a liar's back; 
 But noble vengeance shall be mine, and open hate I'll show — 
 The King hath injured Carpio's line, and Bernard is his foe." 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 289 
 
 vni. 
 
 "Seize — seize him! " — loud tlie King doth scream — "There are a 
 
 thousand here — 
 Let his fonl blood tliis instant stream, — What ! Caitiffs, do ye fear? 
 Seize — seize the traitor! " But not one to move a finger daretli, — 
 Bernardo standeth by the throne, and calm his sword he bareth. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He drew the faulohion from the sheath, and held it up on high. 
 And all the hall was still as death — cries Bernard, " Here am I, 
 And here is the sword that owns no lord, excepting heaven and me ; 
 Fain would I know who dares his point — King, Coude, or Grandee." 
 
 X. 
 
 Then to his mouth the horn he drew — (it hung below his cloak) 
 His ten true men the signal knew, and through the ring they broke ; 
 With helm on head, and blade in hand, the knights the circle brake. 
 And back the lordlings 'gan to stand, and the false King to quake. 
 
 XI. 
 " Ha! Bernard," quoth Alphonso, " what means this warlike guise? 
 Ye know full well I jested — ye know yojir worth I prize." 
 But Bernard turned upon his heel, and smiling pass'd away — 
 Long rued Alphonso and Castile the jesting of that day. 
 
 I shall venture on inserting a translation of part of another 
 of the many ballads founded on the story of this champion. It 
 describes the enthusiasm excited among the Leonese, when Ber- 
 nard first reared his standard, to oppose the progress of Charle- 
 magne. This ballad was, as might have been expected, extremely- 
 popular in Spain during the late war. It was sung frequently 
 by the Guerillas, while on their march. 
 
 Bernardo's march. 
 
 L 
 
 With three thousand men of Leon, from the city Bernard goes, 
 To protect the soil Hispanian from the spear of Franldsh foes: 
 From the city which is planted in the midst between the seas, 
 To preserve the name and glory of old Pelayo's victories. 
 
 IL 
 
 The peasant hears upon his field the trumpet of the knight. 
 He quits his team for spear and shield, and garniture of might; 
 VOL. I. 19 
 
290 NOTES ON 
 
 The shepherd hears it mid the mist — he flingeth down his crook, 
 And rushes from the mountain like a tempest-troubled brook. 
 
 m. 
 
 The youth who shews a maiden's chin, whose brows have ne'er been 
 
 bound 
 The helmet's brazen ring within, gains manhood from the sound; 
 The hoary sire beside the fire forgets his feebleness, 
 Once more to feel the cap of steel a warrior's ringlets press. 
 
 IV. 
 
 As through the glen his spears did gleam, these soldiers from the hills, 
 They swell'd his host, as mountain-stream receives the roaring rills ; 
 They round his banner flock'd, in scorn of haughty Charlemagne, 
 And thus upon their swords are sworn the faithful sons of Spain. 
 
 V. 
 " Free were we bom," 'tis thus they cry, " though to our King, we owe 
 The homage and the fealty behind his crest to go ; 
 By God's behest our aid he shares, but God did ne'er command, 
 That we should leave our children heirs of an enslaved land. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Our breasts are not so timorous, nor are our arms so weak. 
 Nor are our veins so bloodless, that we our vow should break. 
 To sen our freedom for the fear of Prince or Paladin, — 
 At least we'll sell our birthright dear, no bloodless prize they'll win. 
 
 vn. 
 
 " At least King Charles, if God decrees he must be lord of Spain, 
 Shall witness that the Leonese were not aroused in vain ; 
 He shall bear witness that we died, as lived our sires of old, 
 Nor only of Numantium's pride shall minstrel tales be told, 
 
 vni, 
 
 " The Lion * that hath bathed his paws in seas of Lybian gore. 
 
 Shall he not battle for the laws and liberties of yore? • 
 
 Anointed cravens may give gold to whom it likes them well, 
 
 But steadfast heart and spirit bold Alphonso ne'er shall sell." 
 
 Note X. p. 16. 
 The giant Morgante. — This g^nt was for some time Esquire 
 to Orlando. 
 
 * The arms of Leon. 
 
BON QUIXOTE. 291 
 
 Dimmi a Carlo dioeva anoora Orlando 
 lo pel mondo vo peregrinando 
 E di ch'i'ho con meco un gigante 
 Cli'e battezzato, appeUato Morgante. 
 
 PoLci, M. M. C. C. 48-9. 
 
 Note XI. p. 17. 
 
 Rinaldo of Montalban. — The name of this redoubted knight, 
 -son of the Great Duke Aymon, is familiar to all readers of 
 romance, as being one of the most renowned Paladins, as they 
 •were called, who were alleged to compose the cycle of heroes 
 around the throne of Charlemagne. He was bold, stout, and 
 gallant ; but although one of the most redoubted champions of 
 Christendom, he was as frequently at war as in league with his 
 liege lord Charlemagne. When he was in disgrace with the 
 ■emperor, he was wont to retreat to his strong fortress of Montal- 
 ban, where, with his three brothers, he maintained himself by 
 pillage. Orlando and he were cousins-german, but often fought 
 together, divided either by Rinaldo's quarrels with the Emperor 
 Charles, to whom his nephew Orlando was dutifully attached, or, 
 .as represented in Ariosto, by their rivalry for the love of the 
 feir Angelica. In the Espejo de Cavallerias, these two famous 
 cavaliers are introduced as holding the following somewhat rough 
 colloquy: The names by which they address each other, are 
 pretty much in the same taste with those which Homer puts into 
 the mouths of Agamemnon and Achilles, at the opening of the 
 Iliad. 
 
 " El conde Roldan dixo, sus /also cavaliero, Ifc. No le res- 
 ponds el huen Renaldo corteses paldbras, antes con bravo sem- 
 ilante le dixo. O Bastardo, hijo de mala Hembra mientes en 
 todo lo que has dicho, que robar a los paganos de Espana no es 
 Tobo, pues yo solo, a pesar de quarenta mil Moros, y mas, les 
 xiuite un Mahomet de oro que ove menester para pagar mis Solda- 
 ■dos. — F.l. C. 46. 
 
 Note XH. p. 17. 
 Idol o/]\fahomet. — " Est Lapis antiquus altissimus super quern 
 elevatur Imago ilia de auro optima in Effigiem hominis fusa, su- 
 ,per pedes suos." — Tubpinus, L. 1. C. 28. 
 
292 NOTES ON 
 
 Note XHI. p. 17. 
 TTioL traitor Galalon. — Galalon or Ganalon, of Mayenee, was 
 one of the best soldiers Charlemagne had, but he afterwards 
 became a practised traitor, and being at length convicted of be- 
 traying Orlando to his fate at KoncesvaUes, was condemned to 
 be torn in pieces by " four most fierce horses." — TuKpnsr, Book 
 1. C. 26. There is a ballad in the Silva de Ronces, upon an- 
 other base trick which this Galalon played oflF against Rinaldo 
 de Montalban. 
 
 No passaron muohos dias, 
 
 Quel traydor de Galalon 
 
 Aquel traydor desleal 
 
 Embio Cartas a Aliarde : 
 
 Cartas para le avisar 
 Que en su corte tenia 
 A Eenaldos de Montalban, &o. 
 
 Sylva, F. 66. 
 
 ; Pnlci frequently mentions him : as for example, 
 
 Aldinghier grido: s'io ben ti sqnadro 
 Non se tu Gamclon, iradHiar Ladro; 
 Traditor doloroso, can ribaldo, 
 Traditor nato per tradir Einaldo. 
 
 M. M. C. 22. 127. 
 
 Note XIV. p. 18. 
 A worse jade than OonUa's. — Gonnella was an Italian buffoon 
 of great celebrity. Several of his jokes are recorded in Poggio'a 
 Facetioe; but they were thought worthy of occupying a sepa- 
 rate volume; viz. ih& " Buffonerie di Gonnella;" published at 
 Florence in the year 1568. He was domestic jester to a noble- 
 man of Ferrara, the Marchese Borso ; and boasted one day, in 
 his master's presence, of a miserable horse he commonly rod© 
 upon. The Marquis inspected the animal, and quoted the line 
 from Plautus, which is here requoted by Cervantes : Ossa aique 
 pellis iotus est, Sfc. (Aulularia, Act 3. Sc. 6.) The jester, no- 
 thing dismayed, wagered his steed would take a leap which no 
 horse in the Marquis's own stud would venture upon ; viz. from 
 a certain balcony many feet high, to the pavement; and he won 
 his wager. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 293 
 
 Note XV. p. 18. 
 Alexander's Bucephalus, and the Cid's Bavieca. — Montaigne, 
 in his curious Essay, entitled " Des Destriers," says that all the 
 •world knows every thing about Bucephalus. The name of the 
 favorite charger of the Cid Euy Diaz, is scarcely less celebrated. 
 Notice is taken of him in almost every one of the hundred bal- 
 lads concerning the history of his master, — and there are one 
 ■or two of these, of ■wrhich the horse is more truly the hero than 
 his rider. The following contains some very characteristic traits. 
 " El Rey aguardava al Cid," ^c. — (Deppings Sammlung Spa- 
 nischer romanzen, p. 182.) 
 
 BATIECA. 
 
 L 
 
 The king look'd on him kindly, as on a vassal true ; 
 Then to the king Kuy Diaz spake after reverence due, 
 ^' king, the thing is shameful, that any man beside 
 Tlie liege lord of Castile himself should Bavieca ride : 
 
 II. 
 
 ^' For neither Spain nor Araby could another charger bring 
 
 So good as he, and, certes, the best befits my liiing. 
 
 But that you may behold him, and Iinow him to the core, 
 
 I'U make him go as he was wont when his nostrils smelt the Moor." 
 
 III. 
 
 With that, the Cid, clad as he was in mantle furr'd and wide, 
 •On Bavieca vaulting, put the rowels in his side ; 
 And up and down, and round and round, so fierce was his career, 
 -Stream'd like a pennon on the wind Euy Diaz' minivere. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And all that saw them praised them — they lauded man and horse. 
 As matched well, and rivalless for gallantry and force ; 
 Ne'er had they Jook'd on horseman might to this knight come near, 
 Uor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier. 
 
 V. 
 Thus, to and fro a-rushing, the fierce and fiirious steed. 
 He snapt in twain his hither rein: — " God pity now the Cid," 
 " God pity Diaz," cried the Lords,— but when they look'd again. 
 They saw Euy Diaz ruling him with the fragment of his rein; 
 
294 NOTES ON 
 
 They saw Mm proudly ruling with gesture firm and calm, 
 Like a trueLord commanding, — and obeyed as by a lamb. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And so he led him foaming and panting to the king, 
 
 But " No," said Don Alphonso, " it were a shameful thing 
 
 That peerless Ba-vieca should ever be bestrid 
 
 By any mortal but Bivar — mount, mount again, my Cid," &o. 
 
 In one of these ballads, tlie Cid is giving directions about hia 
 funeral ; he desires that they shall place his body " in full armor 
 upon Bavieca," and so conduct him to the church of San Pedro, 
 de Cardena. This was done accordingly ; and says another bal- 
 lad— 
 
 Truxeron pues a Babieca ; 
 
 Y en mirandole se puso 
 
 Tan triste como si fuera 
 
 Mas rasonable que bruto. 
 
 ■ In the Cid's last will, mention is also made of this noblfr 
 charger. " When ye bury Bavieca, dig deep," says Buy Diaz, 
 "for shameftd thing were it, that he should be eat by. curs, who. 
 tath trampled down so much currish flesh of Moors." 
 
 Note XVI. p. 20. 
 A kniglit-errant without a Mistress. 
 
 Hora ti prego 
 Se mai fosti anchora inamorato 
 Perohe ogni cavalier ch'e semia amore 
 Sen vista e vivo e vivo senza cuore. 
 Kispose il conte " quel' Orlando sono, 
 "Amor m'ha posto tutto in abandono ; 
 " Voglio che sappi che'l mio cor e in mano 
 " De la figliola' del Ee Galafrone 
 " Che ad Albraoca dimore nel girone." 
 
 BoiAKDO, L. 1. 18. 467. 
 
 Note XVH. p. 20. 
 Lady, I am the giant Caraculiamhro, Ifc. — Speeches of this 
 kind occur passim in the Eomances ; e. jr. in Perceforest, chap- 
 ter 46, the title of which runs thus : " Comment le roy Perce- 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 295 
 
 forest envoya deux cheyaliers prisonniera devers la Koyne 
 d'Angleterre sa femme. A la qual un de ceux dit, H me con- 
 quit par force d'armes et me fit jurer que je viendroye en vostre 
 prison de par luy que est mon Seigneur." And again in the 
 text, " Quant il eut ce dit prent son espee per la poynte et sagi- 
 nouille devant la Koyne et dist. Dame je me presente de mon 
 cher seigneur le Eoy d'Angleterre vostre prisonnier, ainsi que le 
 vouldrez ordonner soit de mort on de vie," &c. Perhaps the 
 name Caraculiamiro, may be in allusion to that of Calaucolocon, 
 one of the many huge men who figure in the Merlin. 
 
 NoTB XVin. p. 23. 
 
 The ancient and celebrated plain of Montiel. — The celebrity 
 of the plain of Montiel arose from its having been the scene of 
 one of the darkest tragedies in the early history of Spain. 
 
 The death of Don Pedro, called the Cruel, by the hands of 
 his brother, Henry of Transtamara, is an incident more than 
 once alluded to by Cervantes. The English reader will proba^- 
 bly remember, that Don Pedro, King of Castile, deposed by his 
 subjects on account of his excessive cruelty, was replaced on the 
 throne by the assistance of our Black Prince, who, in 1366, at 
 the battle of Nejara, defeated Henry of Transtamara, the natu- 
 ral brother of Pedro, who had been called to the throne by the 
 insurgents. In 1368, when this formidable ally of Don Pedro 
 had retired into Gascony, Henry, in his turn, came back from 
 exile at the head of a small but gallant army, most of whom 
 were French auxiliaries, commanded by the celebrated Bertram 
 Du Gleaquin, or, as he is more commonly called, Du Guesclin. 
 He encountered Don Pedro, at the head of an army six times 
 more numerous than that which he commanded, but which con- 
 sisted partly of Jews, Saracens, and Portuguese, miscellaneous 
 auxiliaries, who gave way before the ardor of the Prench chi- 
 valry, so that Henry remained victorious, and Pedro was com- 
 pelled to take refuge in the neighboring castle of Montiel. The 
 fortress was so strictly blockaded by the victorious enemy, that 
 the king was compelled to attempt his escape by night, with only 
 twelve persons in his retinue, Ferdinand de Castro being the 
 person of most note among them. As they wandered in the 
 dark, they were encountered by a body of French cavalry mak- 
 
296 NOTES ON 
 
 ing the rounds, commanded by an adventurous knight, called Le 
 Begue of Villaines. Compelled to surrender, Don Pedro put 
 himself under the safeguard of this officer, promising him a rich 
 ransom, if he would conceal him from the knowledge of his 
 brother Henry. The knight, according to Froissart, promised 
 him conceahnent, and conveyed him to his own quarters. But 
 in the course of an hour, Henry was apprised that he was taken, 
 and came with some of his followers, to the tent of Allan de la 
 Houssaye, where his unfortunate brother had been placed. In 
 entering the chamber, he exclaimed, " Where is that whore-son 
 and Jew, who calls himself King of Castile ? " Pedro, as proud 
 and fearless as he was cruel, stepped instantly forward and re- 
 pUed, " Here I stand, the lawful son and heir of Don Alphonso, 
 and it is thou that art but a false bastard." The rival brethren 
 instantly grappled like lions, the French knights and Du Gues- 
 clin himself looking on. Henry drew his poniard and wounded 
 Pedro in the face, but his body was defended by a coat of mail ; 
 and in the struggle which ensued, Henry fell across a bench, 
 and his brother being uppermost, had wellnigh mastered him, 
 when one of Henry's followers seizing Don Pedro by the leg, 
 turned him over, and his master gaining the upper hand, in- 
 stantly poniarded him. Froissart calls this man the "Vicompte 
 de Eoquebetyn, and others the Bastard d'Anisse. Menard, in 
 his History of Du Guesclin, says, that while all around gazed 
 like statues on the furious struggle of the brothers, Du GuesoUn 
 exclaimed to this attendant of Henry, " What! will you stand by 
 and see your master placed at such a pass by a false renegade — 
 Make forward and aid him, for well you may." 
 
 Pedro's head was cut off, and his remains were meanly buried. 
 They were afterwards disinterred by his daughter, the wife of 
 John of Gaunt, and deposited in Seville, with the honors due to 
 Lis rank. His memory was regarded with a strange mixture of 
 horror and compassion, which recommended liinn as a subject for 
 legend and for romance. He had caused his wife Blanche de 
 Bourbon to be assassinated — had murdered three of his bro- 
 thers — banished his mother, and committed numberless cruel- 
 ties upon his subjects. He had, which the age held equally 
 scandalous, held a close intimacy with the Jews and Saracens, 
 and had enriched him at the expense of the church. Yet, in 
 spite of all these crimes, his undaunted bravery and energy of 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 297 
 
 character, together with the strange circumstances of his death, 
 ■excited nulder feelings towards his memory. There are many 
 ballads founded on Don Pedro's history. That which Sancho 
 sifterwards quotes more than once, giving an account of his 
 vdeath, may be thus translated : 
 
 THE DEATH OF DON PEDKO. 
 
 I. 
 
 Henry and King Pedro clasping. 
 
 Hold in straining arms each other; 
 Tugging hard, and closely grasping, 
 
 Brother proves his strength with brother 
 
 n. 
 
 Harmless pastime, sport fraternal. 
 
 Blends not thns their hmbs in strife; 
 Either aims with rage infernal. 
 
 Naked dagger, sharpened knife. 
 
 in. 
 
 Close Don Henry grapples Pedro, , 
 
 Pedro holds Don Henry strait. 
 Breathing this triumphant fury, 
 
 That despair and mortal hate. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sole spectator of the struggle. 
 
 Stands Don Henry's page afar. 
 In the chase who bore his bugle. 
 
 And who bore his sword in war. 
 
 V. 
 Down they go in deadly wrestle, 
 
 Down upon the earth they go. 
 Fierce King Pedro has the vantage. 
 
 Stout Don Henry falls below. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Marking then the fatal crisis, 
 
 Up the page of Henry ran. 
 By the waist he caught Don Pedro, 
 
 Aiding'thus the fallen man. 
 
298 NOTES ON" 
 
 vn. 
 
 " lung to place, or to depose him, 
 Dwelleth not in my desire, 
 
 But the duty which he owes him, 
 To his master pays the squire." 
 
 vm. 
 
 Now Don Henry has the upmost. 
 Now Eing Pedro lies beneath, 
 
 In his heart his brother's poniard 
 Instant finds its bloody sheath. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Thus with mortal gasp and quiver, 
 While the blood in bubbles weU'd, 
 
 Fled the fiercest soul that ever 
 In a Christian bosom dweU'd. 
 
 There is another old Spanish ballad on the death of Pedro,, 
 of ■which Depping, the German collector, speaks in terms of 
 high conunendafion. As Pedro's story is so frequently alluded 
 to by Cervantes, I shall insert a translation of this also. 
 
 THE PKOCLAMATION OF KING HENRY. 
 
 I. 
 
 At the feet of Don Henrique now King Pedro dead is lying, 
 Not that Henry's might was greater, but that blood to heaven was crying- 
 Though deep the dagger had its sheath within his brother's breast, 
 Firm ou the frozen throat beneath Don Henry's foot is prest. 
 
 n. 
 
 So dark and sullen is the glare of Pedro's lifeless eyes, * 
 
 Still half he fears what slumbers there, to vengeance may arise. 
 So stands the brother; on his brow the mark of blood is seen. 
 Yet had he not been Pedro's Cain, his Cain had Pedro been. 
 
 m. 
 
 Close round the scene of cursed strife, the armed knights appear 
 Of either band, with silent thoughts of joy fulness or fear; 
 All for a space, in silence, the fratricide survey. 
 Then sudden bursts the mingling voice of triumph and dismay- 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 29&' 
 
 IV. 
 
 Glad shout on shout from Henry's host, ascends unto the sky; 
 " God save King Henry — save the King — King Henry! " is their cry. 
 But Pedro's Barons clasp their brows, in sadness stand they near, 
 ■Whate'er to others he had been, their friend hes murdered here. 
 
 The deed, say those, was justly done — a tyrant's soul is sped; 
 These ban and curse the traitorous blow, by which a king is dead. 
 " Now see," cries one, how heaven's amand asserts the people's rights ; '" 
 Another — " God will judge the hand that God's anointed smites." 
 
 VI. 
 
 " The Lord's yicegerent," quoth a priest, " is sovereign of the land. 
 And he rebels 'gainst heaven's behest, that shghts his king's command.'*' 
 " Now heaven be witness, if he sinn'd," thus speaks a gallant young, 
 " The fault was in PadiUa's eye, that o'er him magic flung. 
 
 vn. 
 
 " Or if no magic be her blame, so heavenly fair is she. 
 
 The wisest, for so bright a dame, might well a sinner be. 
 
 Let none speak ill of Pedro — No Koderick hath he been. 
 
 He dearly loved fair Spain, although 'tis true he slew the Queen." 
 
 vra. 
 
 The words he spoke they all might hear, yet none vouchsafe reply, 
 " God save great Henry — save the King >— King Henry! " is the cryf 
 While Pedro's liegemen turn aside, their groans are in your ear, 
 " Whate'er to others he hath been, our friend lies slaughtered here ! " 
 
 IX. 
 
 Nor paltry souls are wanting among King Pedro's band. 
 That now their King is dead, draw near to kiss his murderer's hand 5 
 The false cheek clothes it in a smile, and laughs the hollow eye. 
 And wags the traitor tongue the while with flattery's ready lie. 
 
 X. 
 
 " The valour of the Kmg that is — the justice of his cause — 
 The blindness and the tyrannies of him the king that was— 
 All— all aie doubled in their speech, yet truth enough is there 
 To sink the spkit shivering near, in darkness of despair. 
 
300 NOTES ON 
 
 XI. 
 
 The murder of the Master,* the tender Infant's doom, 
 
 And blessed Blanche's thread of life snapt short in dungeon's gloom, 
 
 "With tragedies yet unreveal'd, that stain'd the king's abode, 
 
 By lips his bounty should have seal'd, are blazon'd black abroad. 
 
 XII. 
 Whom served he most at others' cost, most loud they rend the sky, 
 " God save great Henry — save our King — King Henry! " is the cry. 
 But still, amid too many foes, the grief is in your ear 
 Of dead King Pedro's faithful few — "Alas! our lord lies here!" 
 
 xm. 
 
 But others' tears, and others' groans, what are they, match'd with thine 
 Maria de Padilla — star of thine exiled line ! 
 Because she is King Henry's slave, the damsel weepeth sore, 
 because she's Pedro's widow'd love, alas ! she weepeth more. 
 
 XIV. 
 ■" Pedro! Pedro! hear her cry — how often did I say 
 That wicked counsel and weak ti-ust would haste thy life away; " 
 She stands upon her turret top, she looks down from on high, 
 Where mantled in his bloody cloak she sees her lover lie. 
 
 XV. 
 Low lies King Pedro in his blood, while bending down ye see 
 "Caitiffs that trembled ere he spake, crouch'd at his murderer's knee; 
 They place the sceptre in his hand, and on his head the crown. 
 And trumpets clear are blovm, and bells are merry through the town. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The sun shines bright, and the gay rout with clamors rend the sky, 
 " God save great Henry — save the King — King Henry! " is the cry; 
 But the pale Jewess weeps above, with many a bitter tear, 
 Whate'er he was, he was her love, and he lies slaughtered here. 
 
 xvn. 
 
 At first, in silence down her cheek the drops of sadness roll, 
 But rage and anger come to break the sorrow of her soul; 
 The triumph of her haters — the gladness of their cries, 
 lEnkindle flames of ire and scorn within her tearful eyes. 
 
 • The Master of the order of Calatrava, who was treacherously invited 
 -to a banquet, and slain by Pedro shortly before. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 301 
 
 xvra. 
 
 In her hot cheek the blood mounts high, as she stands gazing down, 
 Now on prond Henry's royal state, his robe and golden crown, 
 And now upon the trampled cloak that hides not from her view 
 The slaughter'd Pedro's marble brow, and lips of livid hue. 
 
 XIX. 
 With fiirions grief she twists her hands among her long black hairs, 
 And all from off her lovely brow the blameless locks. she tears: 
 She tears the ringlets from her front, and scatters all the pearls 
 King Pedro's hand had planted among the raven curls. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " Stop, caitiff tongues ! " — they hear her not — " King Pedro's love 
 
 am I." 
 They heed her not — " God save the King — great Henry ! " still they cry. 
 She rends her hair, she wrings her hands, but none to help is near, 
 " God look in vengeance on their deed, my lord lies murdered here ! " 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Away she flings her garments, her broider'd veil and vest. 
 As if they should behold her love within her lovely breast — 
 As if to call upon her foes the constant heart to see. 
 Where Pedro's form is still enshrined, and evermore shall be. 
 
 XXH. 
 
 But none on fair Maria looks, by none her breast is seen. 
 Save angry Heaven, remembering well the murder of the Queen, 
 The wounds of jealois harlot rage, which virgin blood must staunch. 
 And all the scorn that mingled in the bitter cup of Blanche. 
 
 xxra. 
 
 The utter coldness of neglect that haughty spirit stings. 
 
 As if a thousand fiends were there, with all their flapping wings; 
 
 She wraps the veil about her head, as if 'twere all a dream — 
 
 The love — the murder — and the wrath — and that rebellious scream ; 
 
 XXIV. 
 For still there's shouting on the plain, and spurring far and nigh, 
 " God save the King — ^Amen ! amen ! — King Henry ! " is the cry ; 
 While Pedro all alone is left upon his bloody bier. 
 Not one remams to cry to God, " Our lord lies murder'd here ! " 
 
 The story of Blanche of Bovirbon has been alluded to so fre- 
 
302 NOTES ON 
 
 ■quently, that 1 shall venture on inserting a translation of au- 
 -other of these ballads, in which her murder is described. 
 
 THE DEATH OP QUEEN BLANCHE. 
 
 Maria de Padilla, be not thus of dismal mood, 
 
 For if I twice have wedded me, it all was for thy good, 
 
 But if upon Queen Blanche ye will that I some scorn should show, 
 
 For a banner to Medina my messenger shall go ; 
 
 The work shall be of Blanche's tears, of Blanche's blood the ground; 
 
 Such pennon shall they weave for thee, such sacrifice be found. 
 
 Then to the Lord of Ortis, that excellent baron, 
 
 Ho said, " Now hear me, Ynigo, forthwith for this begone." 
 
 Then answer made Don Ynigo, " Such gift I ne'er will bring, 
 
 For he that harmeth Lady Blanche, doth harm my lord the King." 
 
 Then Pedro to his chamber went, his cheek was burning red. 
 
 And to a bowman of his guard the dark command he said. 
 
 The bowman to Medina pass'd ; when the queen beheld him near, 
 
 •"Alas ! " she said, " my maidens, he brings my death I fear." 
 
 Then said the archer, bending low, " The king's commandment take, 
 
 And see thy soul be ordered well with God that did it make. 
 
 For lo ! thine hour is come, therefrom no refuge may there be." 
 
 Then gently spoke the Lady Blanche, " My friend, I pardon thee ; 
 
 Do what thou wilt, so be the king hath his commandment given, 
 
 Deny me not confession — if so, forgive ye heaven." 
 
 Much grieved the bowman for her tears, and for her beauty's sake, 
 
 While thus Queen Blanche of Bourbon her last complaint did make : — 
 
 ■" Oh France ! my noble country — oh blood of high Bourbon, 
 
 Not eighteen years have I seen out before my life is gone. 
 
 The king hath never known me. A vir^n true I die. 
 
 Whate'er I've done, to proud Castille no treason e'er did I. 
 
 The crown they put upon my head was a crown of blood and sighs, 
 
 God grant me soon another crown more precious in the skies." 
 
 These words she spake, then down she knelt, and took the bowman'* 
 
 blow— 
 Her tender neck was cut in twain, and out her blood did flow. 
 
 Note XIX. p. 25. 
 Expecting that some Dwarf mould appear on the battlements. — 
 The DWAKF is a personage -familiar to every reader of romance ; 
 and without doubt the writers of romances took him from their 
 own observation of actual manners. In the natural deformity, 
 which is contemplated in these days with no feelings but those 
 
DON QXIIXOTE. 303 
 
 ipf pain and pity, it seems undeniable that even the " delicatisr 
 simo donzelle " of the elder time had found much store of such 
 mirth as suited their fancy. The readers of Aiiosto, and the 
 other wits of the old Italian school, do not need to be reminded 
 of the more enviable parts sometimes ascribed to these " Sgrin- 
 uti monstri e contrafatti." It is only within these few years that 
 the Dwarf has ceased to be a regular piece of furniture in the 
 saloons of the great ladies of Poland and Kussia. 
 
 The expectation under which the Don approaches the ima- 
 gined castle, is quite in character. In the Espejo, p. 1. c. 86, 
 we find that, " A un lado de la fuerte casa estava un Enano per 
 avisar la venida del ladron Minapreso, el qual sond el cuerno ; " 
 and in Boiardo, (L. 1. c. 29. v. 41,) the arrival of a noble pep- 
 ■sonage is announced in the same manner. 
 
 " Orlando verso el Pmo se n'andava, 
 Ecoo sopra una torre appare un Nano, 
 Che inoontinente un gran corno sonava." 
 
 Again in the Gyrone, L. 15. 89. 
 
 " Ne molte stan che della torre un corno 
 Con horrlbil romor nell' aria suona, 
 Ecco apparir sopra un cavallo adomo 
 Un cavalier con lucide arme intomo." 
 
 And in our own old Romance : 
 
 A dwarf shall wend by her side, 
 Such was Launoelot's oommandement; 
 So were the manners in that tide, 
 When a maid on message went. 
 
 See also Ariosto, C. 2. 48. C. 4. 15. &c. 
 
 Note XX. p. 28. 
 There never was on earth a knight 
 So waited on by ladies fair. 
 The lines which the Don here applies to himself, form the 
 opening of one of the innumerable ballads, with which the ro- 
 mantic story of Launcelot of the Lake has furnished the Spanish 
 minstrels. The tone of the ballad is considerably different from 
 
304 NOTES ON 
 
 that which English readers have been accustomed to meet witl* 
 in the narratives of the loves of Queen Ginevra and her knight. 
 See Depping's Sammlung, p. 308. 
 
 NUNCA FTJEKA CAVALLERO, &0. 
 
 Ne'er was cavalier attended 
 
 So by damsel and by dame, 
 As Sir Launcelot the -worthy, 
 
 When from Brittany he came. 
 
 Ladies fair attended on him. 
 
 Highborn damsels dress' d his steed, 
 She, the courteous Quintanona, 
 
 Pour'd herself the wine and mead. 
 
 Tell, I pray, the reason wherefore. 
 
 So to him they minister'd — 
 Sure of lovely Queen Ginevra, 
 
 Ne'er the story have you heard. 
 
 Once, when dark was all the valley. 
 
 To Ginevra came her knight, 
 By her lonely lamp he saw her — 
 
 " Ha ! " quoth he, " your cheek is white I " 
 
 "If I'm pale," quoth Queen Ginevra, 
 
 " 'Tis for anger, not for fear. 
 But yon knight had never said so. 
 
 Had my Launcelot been near. 
 
 " Words he spaJse might well enrage me, 
 Scornful words the false, knight spake." 
 
 " Ha ! " quoth Launcelot, " securely 
 Sleeps he that to death shall wake." 
 
 Forth, ere yet the day is dawning. 
 
 Gaily rides Sir Launcelot, 
 Soon he meets the ribald scomer, 
 
 Yonder pine-trees mark the spot. 
 
 Underneath the verdant pine-trees, 
 
 Launcelot his charger reining. 
 Dares the knight to mortal combat, 
 
 For his words of foul disdaining. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 305 
 
 In the first career their lances 
 
 Both are shiver' d at the thrust, 
 They have drawn their battle-axes, 
 
 Blood-drops raiu upon the dusL 
 
 Ha ! within the ribald's bosom 
 Quakes and droops his conscious sonL 
 
 Soon the blow of rightful vengeance 
 Gives him in the dust to roll. 
 
 Fair Ginevra^s smile was sweet. 
 
 Balmy were the words she said. 
 When her true-love at her feet, 
 
 Toss'd tliat night the caitiffs head. 
 
 The story of this ballad seems to be merely a different v^ersion 
 of Sir Launeelot's famous battle with Sir Mador, by which 
 Queen Ginevra was saved from expiating at the stake her sup- 
 posed guilt in relation to the death of " the Scottish knight that 
 Queen Ganore by poison slough.'' 
 
 But those who are read in the old romances, know how fre- 
 quently gifts of " caitiffs' heads " were received with delight, by 
 feir hands, fi-om the peerless Sir Launcelot du Lake. They 
 know also how irresistible were the personal attractions of the 
 cavalier to whom Don Quixote, in the text, compares himself 
 There is, for example, the whole adventure of the amorous 
 young lady of the Castle of Ascalot, which is detailed with infi- 
 nite naivete in the Morte Arthur. 
 
 Launceht mst what was her wUl, 
 
 Well he hnew by other mo, 
 Her brother cleped he him till, 
 
 And to her chamber gonne they go. 
 
 He set him downe for the maiden's sake, 
 
 Upon her bed there she lay; 
 Courteously to her he spake, 
 
 For to comfort that fair May. 
 
 In her arms she gan him take. 
 
 And these words gan she say, 
 " Sir, but gif that ye it make. 
 
 Save my life no leech may." 
 
 VOL. I. 20 
 
306 NOTES ON 
 
 " Sir, gif that your will it were, 
 Sith I of thee ne may have mair, 
 
 Something ye would leave me here, 
 To look on when me langeth sair," ( 
 
 There is no agreement among the critics of romance as to the 
 parentage of the first history of the Achievements of Launcelot 
 of the Lake. Mr. Ellis says, that of all the versions of that 
 strange .history, the most meritorious^is that written in verse by 
 Chretien de Troyes in the 12th century, and entitled, "La Cha- 
 rette." The general outline cannot be better told than in Mr. 
 Ellis's own words. 
 
 " King Ban, whose acts of prowess we have so often witnessed, 
 having returned in his old age to Britany, was again attacked 
 by his inveterate enemy Claudas ; and, after a long war, saw 
 himself reduced to the possession of a single fortress, the impreg- 
 nable castte of TriUe, where he was besieged by the enemy. Li 
 this extremity, he determined to solicit the assistance of Arthur, 
 and escaped in a dark night with his infant son Lancelot and his 
 queen Helen, leaAing the castle of Trible in the hands of his 
 seneschal, who immediately betrayed the place to Claudas. The 
 flames of his burning citadel reached the eyes of the unfortu- 
 nate monarch during his flight, and he expired with grief. The 
 wretched Helen, abandoning for a moment the care of her in- 
 fant son, flew to the assistance of her husband, and, returning 
 after the fruitless attempt to restore his life, discovered the little 
 Lancelot in the arms of a nymph, who, on her approach, sud- 
 denly sprung with the child into a deep lake, and instantly dis- 
 appeared. This nymph was the beautiful Vivian, the mistress 
 of the enchanter Merlin, who thought fit to undertake the edu- 
 cation of the infant hero at her court, which was situated within 
 this imaginary lake ; and hence her pupil was afterwards distin- 
 guished by the name of Lancelot du Lac. 
 
 " The queen, after this double loss, retired to a convent, where 
 she was soon joined by the widow of Bohort ; for this good king, 
 on learning the death of his brotier, died also of grief, leaving 
 two infant sons, Lyonel and Bohort ; who, having been for some 
 time secreted by a faithful knight, named Farien, from the fury 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 307 
 
 of Claudas, were aftorwards carried off by the lady of the lake, 
 and educated in company with their cousin Lancelot. 
 
 " The fairy, when her pupil had attained the age of ein-hteen, 
 conveyed him to the court of Arthur, for the purpose of de- 
 manding his admission to the honor of knighthood ; and at the 
 first appearance of the youthful candidate, the graces of his per- 
 son, which were not inferior to his courage and activity, made 
 an instantaneous and indelible impression on the heart of Gue- 
 never, while her charms inspired him with an equally ardent 
 and constant passion. The amours of these lovers threw a very 
 singular coloring over the whole history of Arthur. It is for the 
 sake of Guenever that the amorous Lancelot achieves the con- 
 quest of Northumberland; that he defeats Gallehaut, King of 
 the Marches, who afterwards becomes his secret and most at- 
 tached confidant ; that he cleaves down numberless giants, and 
 lays whole cargoes of tributary crowns at the feet of his suze- 
 rain, finding, in his stolen interviews with the queen, an ample 
 indemnification for his various hardships and labors. But this 
 is not all. Arthur, deceived by the artifices of the false Gue- 
 never, who was, as we have seen, the illegitimate daughter </' 
 Leodegan, declares her the partner of his throne, and dismisses 
 his queen to a distant province ; where she is immediately joined 
 by her lover, and follows without restraint the natural bent of 
 her inclinations. Yet Lancelot is dissatisfied ; it is necessary to 
 the dignity of his mistress, that she should still share the bed of 
 Arthur, and that, protected in her reputation by the sword of 
 her lover, she should lead a life of ceremonious and splendid 
 adultery. This point is accomplished, and their intercourse con- 
 tinues as usual." 
 
 But the same learned and elegant critic who followed Sir 
 Walter Scott in believing, that many of the romantic legends 
 received their first shape from the minstrels of " the North 
 Countrie," finds strong confirmation of his theory in the scenery 
 amongst which the achievements of Sir Launcelot and his com- 
 panions are represented to have taken place: For example, 
 upon the authority of Knighton, he fixes the " Chateau de la 
 joyeuse Garde," the favorite residence of Sir Launcelot, at Ber- 
 wick-upon-Tweed ; and adds, that at Meigle in Angus, tradition 
 still points out the tomb of " Dame Ganore," the beautiful and 
 lascivious Queen Guenever. For all manner of information 
 
308 NOTES ON 
 
 ooncerning the Knight of the Lake, see Mr. Southey's Edition 
 of the Morte Arthur, Ellis's Specimens of the Metrical Bo- 
 mances. Vol. I., and the Notes to Marmion and Sir Tristrem. 
 
 This note has run out to an unreasonable length, but it would 
 be wrong to conclude it without quoting one of the most beauti- 
 fiil passages that is to be found either in romance or in poetry — 
 the speech of Sir Bohart, delivered over the dead body of Sir 
 Launcelot du Lake : — "And now, I dare say, that Sir Launce- 
 lot, there thou liest, thou were never matched of none earthly 
 knight's hands. And thou were the courtliest knight that ever 
 bare shielde — And thou were the truest friend to thy lover that 
 ever bestrode horse — And thou were the truest lover of a syn- 
 ful man that ever loved woman — And thou were the kindest 
 man that ever stroke with swerde — And thou were the goodliest 
 person that ever came among prece of kuyghtes — And thou 
 were the meekest man, and the gentillest, that ever eate in hall 
 among ladies — And thou were the sternest knyghte to thy mor- 
 tal foe that ever put speare in rest." — Maloey. 
 
 Long after the old romances had past into oblivion, the name 
 of Launcelot was kept alive among our common people by bal- 
 lads of the same class with those Spanish ones of which a speci- 
 men has been given above. The most popular was that which 
 begins : — 
 
 When Arthur first in court began, 
 And was approved king, &o. 
 
 Note XXI. p. 81. 
 
 This night I will walch my armor in the chapel of yon castle. — 
 This was invariably a part of the ceremonial described on all 
 such occasions in the romances ; thus, " aveys de saber," &c. 
 Santiago, 49. — " You must know that antiently it was after this 
 feshion the order of knighthood was conferred ; the night before 
 any one was to assume the spurs, it behoved him to be armed 
 cap-a-pee, and so armed, to repair unto the church, and to stand 
 there on his feet all that night in prayer." 
 
 " Venuta la vigilia tutti quei Giovani che intendeano di esser 
 cavalier novelli tornavano alia chiesa ove devotamente vigliavano 
 infino che di buon mattino fusse la messe ceUbrata." Gyrone, 
 ded. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 309 
 
 The posture seems, however, to have been indifferently either 
 that of standing or kneeling. Thus, in the Amadis, c. 4, " Ori- 
 ana came before the king, and said, now dub me this young man 
 knight; and in so saying, he pointed towards Amadis, where 
 (armed at. all points, save only the head and the hands) he was 
 kneeling before the altar." 
 
 St. Ignatius of Loyola conformed, on a very different occasion, 
 to the same ceremonial. Kibadeneira, in his life of the saint, 
 says, that " Ignatius, as he had read in his books of chivalry, how 
 the knights were accustomed to watch their arms ; so, to imitate, 
 as a new knight of Christ this knightly fashion, he also watched 
 the whole of that night before the image of Our Lady, some- 
 times standing on foot, and sometimes kneeling on the marble." 
 Vida 1. 1. c. 5. The reader must remember the very coarse 
 caricature of all this adventure, in Smollett's Sir Launcelot 
 Greaves, where Captain Crowe's noviciate is described. 
 
 Note XXH. p. 32. 
 The Percheks of Malaga, ^c. — These were all places noted 
 for rogueries and disorderly doings. The Percheles of Malaga 
 form a sort of suburb of that town, where the fish-market is 
 held. Don Louis Zapata, in treating of the great plague which 
 raged in the city of Malaga, in the year 1582, says, " it was sup- 
 posed to have been brought thither by a stranger, who died of 
 his illness, and whose foul linen was forthwith sold to some of 
 those of the Percheles." The " Isles of Riaran " are not to be 
 found in any map ; but the place where the custom-house stands, 
 still goes by that name. See Carter's Journey from Gibraltar to 
 Malaga, London, 1 780. It would appear that there had been a 
 few small islets of sand close to the shore, some of which had 
 shifted their station, while the space between others of them and 
 the mainland had gradually become filled up. " The compass of 
 Seville '' was (or is) the name of an open space before one of 
 the churches of that city, the scene of fairs, shows, auctions, &c. 
 The "Azozuejo de Segovia," translated in the text, " Quicksilver 
 house," is said by Bowles to mean nothing but a certain small 
 place, OT square, — at once the Monmouth Street and Exeter- 
 Chan^e of Segovia. The " Potro " of Cordova — so called from 
 a fountain, the water of which gushes from a horse's mouth — ■ 
 
310 NOTES ON 
 
 was another place of the same species. They had all become 
 proverbial before the days of Cervantes ; thus, " 1 say not that I 
 was born in the Potro of Cordova, nor refined in £he Quickalyer 
 house of Segovia," &c. — Rojas, 282-3. 
 
 Note XXHI. p. 33. 
 
 Sending them some damsel or dwarf through the air in a cloud, 
 Sj'c. — An instance of this species of cure may be found in Ama/- 
 dis de Grecia. " Now Amadis felt from the sword such heat, 
 that it seemed to him he was burning with living flames. But 
 forthwith there appeared a cloud, which covered both him, and 
 Urganda, and Lisuarte, which in an instant opened, and they 
 perceived themselves to be surrounded with a company of four- 
 and-twenty damsels, and in the midst of them was that honored 
 old Alquife, who held in his hand a large glass phial of water ; 
 with which when he had smitten upon the helmet, the phial 
 broke, and the water rushing down immediately, there passed 
 from him all that burning glow of the sword." — P. 2. c. 62. 
 
 The fair Jewess in Ivauhoe, has her medical skill in common 
 with almost all the damsels of romance ; thus, 
 
 •' Bernardo de an Elaga, fne carado, 
 Per maoos de la ya libra Donzella." 
 
 Garrido, 0. 7. 78. 
 
 " Una fanciulla ohe il lor oste aveva, 
 Medicava Binaldo." 
 
 PvJci, M. M. C. 20. 79, &c. &c. 
 
 I need scarcely refer the reader to the story of the pretty 
 Beguine, in Tristram Shandy, for the best account of this speciM 
 of clinical practice. 
 
 Note XXIV. p. 36. 
 " Thmt Qneen of Beauty," said he, bracing on his shield, 5"C. — 
 ■This invocation to Dulcinea, is copied almost literatim from one 
 in Olivante. "Ay, soberana Senora," &c. " O, sovereign lady, 
 grant me thy favor in this battle. Help me, fairest lady, and 
 desert me not utterly." See 1. 2. c. 4. The efficacy of tHs spe- 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 311 
 
 eies of prayer is thus noticed in Amadis of Gaul. See 1. 2. o. 55. 
 " Beltenebros descended against the giant, and, before he came 
 close to him, looking towards the place where Miraflores was 
 ' O, my lady Oriana,' said he, ' never do I begin any deed of 
 arms, trusting in any strength of mine own, whatsoever it may 
 be, but in thee only ; therefore, oh now, my dear lady, succor 
 me, seeing how great is the necessity.' And with this, it seemed 
 that there came to liim so much Vigour, that all Fear was fortli- 
 with fain to fly away." 
 
 Note XXV. p. 37. 
 He was mad, and consequently the law would acquit him, al- 
 though he should kill them, ifc. — The technical description, in the 
 civil law, of " the madman not to be punished," viz. "Absurda et 
 tristia sibi dicens atque fingens," could most certainly fit no one 
 more exactly than the guest of whom the good innkeeper spoke 
 thus. In the tragical story of Lord Ferrers, (see the Stata 
 Trials,) we have the very striking example of a man proceeding 
 deliberately and calmly to the perpetration of an atrocious mur- 
 der, under the belief, that the plea of hereditary insanity would 
 be available to save himself from the last severity of the law. 
 Hence, the obvious propriety of limiting, as narrowly as possible, 
 the application of the doctiine laid down by the innkeeper. 
 
 Note XXVI. p. 38. 
 
 He lifted up his sword, and gave him a good Wow on the neck, 
 Ifc. — This practical joke seems to have occurred to other con- 
 ferrers of knighthood, besides mine host of the castle. 
 
 Thus, " Franc chevalier donnez moi la coUee de chevalerie. 
 Certes Passellion, dit Lionnel, je le feray voulontiers, a taut il 
 haulse la main dextre et I'enfant baisse le col, et le chevalier 
 ferit dessus complement en disant Certes, Gentil Passellion, 
 Chevalier Soyes. Quand Passellion, eut receu la collie que luy 
 fit douloir le col par sa grandeur," &c. — Perceforest, V. 4. C. 14. 
 
 Queen Elizabeth is introduced in Kenilworth, as giving a 
 collie of malicious sincerity on a similar occasion. — See Du- 
 cange sub voce Alapa Militaris. 
 
 Note XXVII. p. 43. 
 Everi man is the son of his own works, Sj-c. — There is no 
 
312 NOTES ON 
 
 country in the world that has suffered more from the excessive 
 respect allowed to the pretension of birth, thanSpain ; and none 
 by whose authors the same pretension is more severely ridiculed. 
 There is something of amusement in the gravity with which 
 Villa Diego speaks : " Hidalgo igitur ille solus dicetur qui Chris- 
 tiana virtute pollet. Fidalgo, id est filius bonorom operum et 
 virtutum ; et inde vulgo dicitur cada ano es hijo de aus obras." — 
 ViLL. F, 25. 
 
 Note XXVIH. p. 46. 
 
 Confess that there is not in the universe a more heavtiful damsel 
 than the empress of La Mancha, Sj'c. — The terms here proposed 
 by Don Quixote are, after all, modest, compared with what we 
 find in some of the romances by whose light he walked. In the 
 Amadis de Grecia, (p. 1. c. 64.) there is the fallowing passage, 
 which may serve for an example. " The Duke said, Sir Knight, 
 it is now time you should be made to know that the beauty of 
 Infaliana surpasses in worth that which so greatly you prize. 
 Brimartes made answer, Sir Knight, for certain no such know- 
 ledge can I possess, for in those who have never seen nor known 
 Infaliana, how can knowledge of such a thing be found? But 
 what are arguments, since we stand here at the proof? The 
 proof fain would I see, quoth the Duke. And when he had said 
 so, they couched their lances, and at the full career of their 
 horses, they encountered, being well covered with their shields. 
 »*»»*« ^Ije Duke fell so heavily, that he could stir 
 neither foot nor hand. Brimartes stooped and unlaced his vizor. 
 The Duke slowly recovered himself; and then said Brimartes, 
 Sir Knight, you are a dead knight, if you do not on the instant 
 acknowledge that your lady in nothing equals the beauty of Ho- 
 noria. The Duke said not a word," &c. &c. 
 
 If the reader wishes to be amused with an excellent account, 
 of a more splendid and authentic specimen of the Combats pour 
 Vhonneur des dames, I refer him to the fifth volume of the 
 " Melanges tirees d'une Grand Bibliotheque," where, among 
 other French MSS. of the 15th century, a very singular one is 
 described, containing the history of a famous festival of gallantry, 
 celebrated a. d. 1493, at the castle, and by the Lord of Sandri- 
 court, near Pontoise, and therefore known by the name of Le 
 pas de Sandricourt. It appears, that the scheme was first started 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 313 
 
 by some young lords of the court of Charles Vm., and that 
 their plan was put into execution under the immediate patron- 
 age of the Duke of Orleans. After mentioning the names of 
 the young knights who were " to defend against all comers, for 
 the honour of their ladies, the Castle of Sandricourt," (among 
 whom we find those of the Sire de Saint- Vallier, father to the 
 famous Diana de Poitiers — of Bernardin de Clermont, Viscount 
 of Tallard — of Louis de Hedouille — of Georges de Sully, &c. 
 &c.) — the author proceeds to his chivalrous relation at great 
 length. Vide Melanges, Vol. V. p. 33. 
 
 Note XXIX. p. 50. 
 His folly brought to his remembrance the story of Baldwin and 
 the Marquis of Mantua, Sj-c. — Cervantes is here evidently amus- 
 ing himself at the expense of one Geronimo Trevino, whose 
 ballad or romance of Baldwin (in three parts) had been printed 
 in Alcala, anno 1598. The story of the romance is, that Char- 
 lot, (or Carloto,) sou of Charlemagne, came unawares upon 
 Baldwin (or Baldovinos) in the Floresta Sin Ventura ; his pur- 
 pose being no other than to kill Baldwin, and then marry his 
 widow. He gave him, it appears, no less than two-and-twenty 
 mortal wounds, (we can scarcely imagine the Don to have made 
 as exact a computation of the blows he himself had just received 
 from the muleteer,) and then left him for dead in the forest. By 
 good fortune, however, Baldwin's uncle, the Marquis of Mantua, 
 happened to be passing at the moment through the wood, and 
 hearing the wounded knight's l&mentations, was soon drawn to 
 the spot where he lay. He sent a message to the emperor, who 
 resided at Paris, by the " Count Dirlos, Viceroy beyond the Sea,'" 
 demanding justice ; and Charlemagne immediately pronounced 
 sentence of death upon his son Chariot. Such is the story. The 
 passage of the romance, which Cervantes alludes to, is that 
 which contains the lamentations of the wounded man, after he 
 had received all his wounds. It would be too much to quote the 
 whole of the verses which Cervantes says the Don applied to his 
 own case ; but these may serve as a sufficient specimen of a very 
 flat and unprofitable composition. 
 
 ' my princely Infant Marian ! my cousin Montesin ! 
 my Reynold! and Orlando! thou knightly Paladin I 
 
314 NOTES ON 
 
 ***** 
 " my noble Lord of Mantwa, thy soldier trae, and sister's son 
 Lies here wounded in the forest — hears nor helps him never one! 
 Baldwin was my christan'd name — " The Frank" they oall'd me tooj 
 I am the king of Dacia's son, from him my blood I drew. 
 He was my father and my lord, and I was belted knight, 
 To eat bread at his table, and for his banner fight. 
 
 ***** 
 " The beautiful SeviDa, she pledged her troth to me ; 
 She was my wedded wife, but my widow soon she'll be. 
 Chariot, it was no other, this wicked deed hath done ; 
 I lie here slain by Chariot, the good King Charles's son. 
 He coveted my wife, and full well I know thatl 
 Lie here, that with my widow my murderer may lie." 
 
 Note XXX. p. 52. 
 
 He hethougJit Mmself of the Moor Abindarraez, ^c. — The 
 loves of the Moor Abindarraez, and of the beautiful Xarifa, 
 were a favorite subject of song amongst the Moorish, as well as 
 the Christian minstrels of Spain; and Montemayor has intro- 
 duced them into his celebrated pastoral called Diana. The tale 
 runs briefly thus — 
 
 During the reign of King Ferdinand of Arragon, while the 
 Moorish kingdom of Grenada was nodding to its fall, a gallant 
 Spanish knight, Eodrigo de Narvaez, was named constable or 
 governor of the Ceistle of Alhora, near the boundaries of the 
 Moorish territory. As he was, according to his custom, one 
 night making a reconnoissance at the head of several of his fol- 
 lowers, to prevent a surprise from the enemy, he met a young 
 Moorish cavalier splendidly armed and accoutred, who for some 
 time defended himself valiantly against the superior force of his 
 enemies ; but was at length severely wounded, and made prison- 
 er. The CastiUan endeavored to comfort his noble captive, and 
 treated him so generously, that he extracted from him his story. 
 The Moor Abindarraez had been bred up with Xarifa, daughter 
 of the Alcayde of Coyn, under the belief that she was his sister, 
 until he learned by chance that he was not of her blood, but de- 
 scended from the renowned, but unfortunate family of the Aben- 
 cerrages. Fraternal affection then gave place to a stronger 
 passion, which Xarifa repaid with equal warmth. The meeting 
 of the lovers could only be by night, and by stealth ; for Abia- 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 315 
 
 darraez, after the discovery of his birth, resided no longer in her 
 father's castle. Xarifa had assigned her lover a rendezvous upon 
 the unfortunate night when he fell into the power of Don Kod- 
 rigo, and he was on the road to Coyn, when he encountered the 
 Castilian knight. Don Rodrigo de Narvaez was affected by the 
 captive's story ; and on his promise to return within three days, 
 and surrender himself to his captor at the Castle of Alhora, he 
 gave him liberty to keep his appointment. He arrives there in 
 safety, and Xarifa, reunited to her lover, refuses again to part 
 with him. She returns with him to the castle of Don Rodrigo, 
 who, charmed with their mutual love, the constancy of Xarifa, 
 and the gallantry and faith of Abindarraez, restores them to 
 liberty, and obtains the consent of the Alcayde of Coyn to their 
 union. There are many ballads on this romantic story, of which 
 the following may serve as a specimen. 
 
 ABINDAEEAEZ AND XARIFA. 
 
 I. 
 
 The bold Moor, young Abindarraez, 
 
 Nigh the castle checks his rein. 
 Where his love, the fair Xarifa, 
 
 Long had watch'd, and wept in vain. 
 
 n. 
 
 " Do I live to hope that coldness, 
 
 Or some brighter maiden's charms, 
 Keep the faithless Abindarraez 
 
 From the fond Xarifa's arms ? 
 
 in. 
 
 " Yes, I hope neglect or falsehood, 
 
 Anght but perils, cause him stay; 
 Aught, save that the prowling CInistiana 
 
 Met him on his midnight way. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " 'Gainst their numbers, small assistance 
 
 Sabre, lance, or targe could givej 
 Gone is gallant Abindarraez, 
 
 And Xarifa will not live. 
 
316 NOTES OS 
 
 V. 
 " Who that loves would live forsaken, 
 
 When her valiant lover fell? 
 Ne'er such tale of Moorish maiden 
 
 Shall a Moorish minstrel tell." 
 
 VI. 
 With such plaints she toss'd at midni^t 
 
 On her couch that knew not rest ; 
 With such plaints by day lamented, 
 
 Gazing from the turret's crest. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Bold in love, the night she fear'd not, 
 Nor the solitude so drear; 
 
 And the voice of tempest heard not. 
 Howling in the mountains near. 
 
 vra. 
 
 Long, long, she kept her lofty station. 
 Gazed in vain on earth and sky; 
 
 And at length, her hopes renouncing, 
 Left it with a heavy sigh. 
 
 IX. 
 Then the Moorish lance gave signal. 
 
 Striking thrice upon the gate ; 
 And Xarifa's trusty maiden, 
 
 Onen'd to her lover straight. 
 
 X. 
 
 how gay and gallant shew'd he. 
 When he sought her chamber door, 
 
 In his tunic, loop'd with silver, 
 Like a brave and noble Moor. 
 
 XI. 
 With the plumage on his turban, 
 
 Gather'd with a golden check; 
 And his golden handled sabre, 
 
 Hilted with an eagle's neck. 
 
 xn. 
 
 Thns stood gallant Abindarraez, 
 But for rapture naught could speakj 
 
 Till in broken exclamations, 
 Love and Joy a passage seek. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 317 
 
 Note XXXI. p. 53. 
 The twelve peers of France, nay the nine worthies, ifc. — Who 
 the twelve peers of France were, every body knows. It is not 
 quit« so well known, that the nine i*orthies in the language of 
 romance (los nueve de la fama) were, three of them Hebrews, 
 viz. Joshua, David, and Judas Maccabeus ; three Gentiles, viz. 
 Hector of Troy, Alexander of Macedon, and Julius Caesar ; and 
 three Christians, King Arthur, Charlemagne, and Godfrey of 
 Bouillon. — See Carranza, F. 255. 
 
 Note XXXH. p. 54. 
 He had killed four giants as Kg as any steeples, Ifc. — " The 
 beautiful Brandamante, and Aquilante, and Grifon, and Malgcsi, 
 eiicountered then those four fierce giants, who stood like four 
 towers waiting for them," &c. — Espejo, L. H. C. 9. 
 
 Note XXXHI. p. 54, 55. 
 The sage Esquife, — the enchantress Urganda. — These per- 
 sonages occur in almost all the books of the lineage of Amadis. 
 We have had occasion already to observe one wonderful cure 
 performed by Alquife (corrupted into Esquife by the niece of Don 
 Quixote) in the Amadis de Greeia. Urganda, witch, enchant- 
 ress, prophetess, &c., &c., appears in the original Amadis some- 
 times in the likeness of a young damsel, sometimes as the most 
 venerable of crones ; but in the later volumes of Esplaudian, 
 &c., she is invested with all the more serious terrors of a Medea. 
 Her final departure is very mysterious ; whence her appellation 
 of la desconoscida. 
 
 Note XXXIV. p. 58. 
 The Exploits of Esplandian. — "El Eamo que de los quatre 
 libros de Amadis de Gaula sale Ilamado las Sergas del muy esfor^ 
 zado Cavallero Esplandian hijo del exelente Eey Amadis de 
 Gaula," Alcala, 1588. Such is the title-page of a continuation 
 of the Amadis, by one Garci Ordonez de Montalvo, who, having 
 edited the original romance, thought it necessary, it would seem;- 
 invito Minerva, to try his hand at something original. In the 
 preface, he pretends that the " deeds " (epya) of Esplandian had 
 been originally narrated in Greek " del Mano del Maestro Heli- 
 
318 NOTES ON 
 
 zabad." Helizabad is frequently mentioned by Cervantes. He 
 was the well-employed surgeon who comjnonly cured the wounds 
 of Amadis de Gaul &c. 
 
 Note XXXV. p. 58. 
 This is Amadis of Greece, and I'm of opinion that all those 
 that stand on this side, are of the same family, Ifc. — The first 
 four books of Amadis of Gaul alone are considered by Cervan- 
 tes as worthy of being preserved from the flames. The other 
 twenty books, filled with the exploits of the Amadis family, were 
 for the most part composed originally, not in Spanish or Portu- 
 guese, (like those which Cervantes preserves,) but by French 
 imitators of very inferior genius. Vicente Placcio, in his The- 
 atrum Anonymorum et Pseudonymorum, characterises the whole 
 collection as " a most pernicious library, engendered or composed 
 by Spanish fathers, although mightily augmented by the French," 
 p. 673, §2731. Amadis of Greece occupies the ninth book of 
 the collection. He was the son of Lisuarte of Greece, who was 
 the son of Amadis of Gaul. The huge folio which Cervantes 
 places in his hero's library, was printed at Lisbon in 1596. The 
 title runs thus : " Chronica del muy valiente y esforzado Principe 
 y Cavallero de la ardienta Espada Amadis de Grecia." The 
 history is divided into two parts, and at the beginning of the 
 second there is a notice, that " Esta Cronica fue sacada de Grie- 
 00 en Latin y de Latin en Romance segun lo escrivio el gran 
 sabio Alquife en las Magicas." The whole ends with these words : 
 " Aqui hace fin el noveno libro de Amadis de Gaula : que es la 
 chronica del cavalliero de la ardiente Espada Amadis de Grecia 
 hijo de Lisuarte de Grecia." The Queen Pintiquiniestra, and 
 the shepherd Darinel, are both of them personages that figure in 
 the Amadis de Grecia. The former is a giantess of most formi- 
 dable appearance. , 
 
 Note XXXVI. p. 69. 
 Ollvante de Laura, and the Garden of Flowers. — Both the 
 stupid romance of Olivante and the Jardin deflores, were pro- 
 ductions of one Antonio de Torquemada. The title of the second 
 of fhem conveys no very perfect notion of its character ; for, in 
 fact, it is nothing but one fearful mass of diablerie, interspersed 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 319 
 
 with a few, probably more authentic, blossoms of murder, rape, 
 &c. Torquemada was a popular author in his day ; but hia po- 
 pularity was not so much founded on either of the works satir- 
 ized by Cervantes, as on his Hexamebon, which was translated 
 into French, soon after it was written, by Chapius. This very 
 curious work consists of six dialogues, professedly on subjects of 
 natural history and physics ; but Torquemada takes occasion to 
 introduce in the course of his discussions, an infinity of curious 
 stories and anecdotes, which no doubt the readers of his time 
 must have found much more interesting than his philosophy : 
 For example, he fills a great many pages with the natural history 
 of giants, and, among other things, tells us, he had frequently 
 seen with his own eyes a well authenticated tooth of St. Chris- 
 topher, in the cathedral of Coria ; and a fragment of his jaw- 
 bone, in the church of Astorga. These must have been tremen- 
 dous relics ; for the philosophic Torquemada states, that he had 
 made an exact computation, and found, that if St. Christopher 
 was formed in due proportion, he must have stood exactly as 
 tail as the great tower of Segovia. He states also, that the bones 
 of the Paladins, preserved in the abbey of Roncesvalles, were 
 quite of gigantic dimensions. In truth, Torquemada seems to 
 have been a fortunate person, for many are the strange 
 things and persons he gravely tells us he had seen. Inter alia, 
 he speaks at much length of a certain lady of his acquaintance, 
 abbess of a convent at Monviedra, who, having lived on to the 
 age of a hundred, with all the appearance of other old women, 
 began of a sudden to manifest many grateful symptoms, exter- 
 nal and internal, of returning youth ; she became to all men's 
 view, says he, a comely young religieuse of eighteen years ; she 
 was excessively admired, and liked admiration too ; but, he adds, 
 was, after a little reflection, somewhat ashamed both of her looks 
 and her sensations, and was never seen to trip across the cloister 
 without holding a handkerchief to her face. She enjoyed this 
 second bloom for several merry years, and expired with the 
 brownest of curls, and the brightest of eyes, being cut off by a 
 sudden and most unexpected access of fever, at the age of 110. 
 With sorcerers and magicians of the most terrific power, but all 
 of them most amiably communicative, Antonio de Torquemada 
 appears to have cracked many a bottle. From his accounts of 
 these personages, one would imagine them to have been just an 
 
320 NOTES ON 
 
 fond of telling all the horrors they had ever perpetrated, as the 
 most respectable " Senor soldado de Carlos quinto" could' have 
 been of fighting his battles over again. 
 
 Note XXXVIL p. 59. 
 Florismart of Hyrcania. — Another dull and affected folio, 
 written by " Melchior de Orteza Caballero de Ubeda ; " and 
 printed at Valladolid in the year 1566. The " wonderful birth " 
 of the hero alluded to by the curate in the text, is narrated at 
 great length in the tenth chapter of the romance. His mother 
 was brought to bed in a desert place, and he saw the light under 
 the auspices of a certain sage femme, by name Belsagina. Hia 
 father's name being Florisan, (of Misia,) and his mothei-'s, Marte- 
 dina, this dame suggested that the boy should take part of both 
 of these fine names, and be called Florismarte. The mother, 
 however, preferi-ed Felixmarte, for reasons of which Mr. Shandy 
 would have approved. 
 
 Note XXXVm. p. 59. 
 The noble Don Platir, Sfc. — An edition of " O cronico del 
 muy valiente y esforzado Caballero Platii", hijo del Emperador 
 Primaleon,'' was printed at Valladolid in 1533. This, like most 
 of the same sort of books, was anonymous. 
 
 Note XXXIX. p. 60. 
 The Knight of the Cross. — The " Book of the invincible 
 knight Lepolemo, called from his achievements the Knight of 
 the Cross," forms the twelfth part of the Amadis Library. The 
 " Chronicle of Leandro the Beautiful, as it was composed by the 
 sage King Artidorus, in the Greek tongue," is the thirteenth ; 
 they are both from the pen of one Pedro de Luxan. The pre- 
 liminary fiction concerning the adventures of the Knight of the « 
 Cross, is, that they were "originally written in Arabic, by a 
 Moor named Xarton, at the command of the Sultan Zulema, 
 and translated into Castilian by a captive of Tunis." Then fol- 
 low two dedications, one by Xarton to Zulema, and another by 
 the Tunisian captive, addressed to the Conde de Saldana. 
 Luxan was author of another work equally stupid, entitled " Col- 
 loquies Matrimoniales." 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 321 
 
 Note XL. p. 60. 
 The mirror of knighthood.— The " Espejo de CabaUerias," 13 
 frequently alluded to by all the Spanish commentators on Cer- 
 vantes. It is a huge collection of all manner of romantic stories, 
 in four parts, formed by as many different writers. The first 
 part (which is alluded to in the text) appeared in 1562, and was 
 dedicated by its author, Diego Ordonez de Calahorra, to Martin 
 Cortes, son of the great Hernan Cortes. 
 
 Note XLI. p. 60. 
 The twelve peers of France, and that faithful historian Tur- 
 pin, Sj-c. — The achievements of the twelve peers fill a mighty 
 proportion of the Espejo de CabaUerias, and, of course, the 
 venerable Turpin is throughout cited as the most unquestioned 
 of authorities. Thus, in P. 1. C. 1. we are informed, that " En 
 las Historias Autiguas de Francia una mas verdadera por mano 
 de Arzobizbo Don Turpin se halla." Such is the character uni- 
 formly given of Turpin by the grateful bards, who, as Cervantes 
 expresses it, " spun their webs " out of his history. In Boiardo, 
 Pulci, Ariosto, one meets at every turn, 
 
 " Turpin che mai non mente in alcun loco " — 
 
 The absurd chronicle attributed to Turpin (or Tilpin) seems to 
 have been composed in Latin, about the end of the 11th, or be- 
 ginning of the 12th century, but owed much of its celebrity to 
 the innumerable versions and paraphrases of it, which soon after 
 began to make their appearance — first in French, and then in 
 Spanish, English, and all the other vulgar dialects. The ori- 
 ginal work itself was first printed in a collection, entitled " Ger- 
 manioarum Kerum quatuor chronographi." Frankfort, 1566, 
 folio. Stories of miracles, relics, churches founded, conversions, 
 &c., &c., fill the far greater part of the monkish chronicle ; but 
 from the absurd thread of fiction concerning Charlemagne, on 
 which these monastic pearls are strung, there can be no doubt 
 that almost the whole web of the second greatclass of romances 
 was spun. Those who wish to see what are the most plausible 
 conjectures that have been formed, concerning the origin of all 
 these extraordinary falsifications of the splendid history of the 
 VOL. I. 21 
 
322 NOTES ON 
 
 great Frankish Emperor, may be referred to Warton, Ellis, Ley- 
 den, and Schlegel. The opinions of these critics are so differ- 
 ent, and the details, without which these opinions would be unin- 
 telligible, so extensive, that it would be useless and absurd to 
 attempt giving any account of this " great controversy," in the 
 shape of a note upon Don Quixote. As to the extent of these 
 falsifications themselves, a tolerable guess may be formed from 
 the initiatory lines of Roland and Ebebagus, a romance ex- 
 tant in the Auohinleck MS., which, so far as it goes, presents a 
 pretty faithful compendium of Turpin's original Magnum Opus. 
 
 "An Jmndred years it was and three, 
 Sithan God deed upon the tree, 
 
 That Charles the king 
 Had all France in his hand, 
 Denmark and Etiglmtd, 
 
 Withouten any lesing: 
 Lorraine and Lombardie, 
 Gascoyne, Bayonne, and Ficaf die, 
 
 Was still his bidding; 
 Aad Emperor he was of Rome, 
 And Lord of all Christendom, 
 
 Then was he a high lording." 
 
 Note XLII. p. 60. 
 "J have him at home in Italian," said the iarier; " but I can't 
 v,nderstand him." "It is no great matter," replied the curate, Sfc. 
 Jarvis supposes, from the style of the conversation here, that 
 Cervantes had no great relish for Ariosto. But Pellicer very 
 justly laughs at Jarvis for this remark. The curate's contempt 
 ds evidently not of Ariosto, (whose "graces" he has just been 
 praising,) but of the poor barber, whom he does not think capa^- 
 ble of reading, or at least of relishing, any thing so beautiful as 
 the Orlando Furioso. Don Geronimo Ximenes de Urrea is thef 
 " good captain," whose Spanish version of the Orlando, Cervan- 
 tes in the next sentence satirizes. Son Diego de Mendoza is 
 equally severe upon this gallant translator. " He hath gained," 
 ■quoth Mendoza, " not only fame, but, what is much better, many 
 a good dinner by translating the Orlando Eurioso ; i. e. by hav- 
 ing said, " Cavalleros for cavaglieri, armas for arme, amoves for 
 umori." He adds, "Puez de esta arte yo me haria, mas libros que 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 323 
 
 fiizo Matuzalen." But perhaps, after all, even that might be no 
 •very laborious undertaking. 
 
 Note XLIII. p. 61. 
 Bernardo de Carpio, Sfc. — This condemned book is a long and 
 •dull poem on the exploits of the Hero, of whom enough has al- 
 ready been said, written in the rima ottava, and published at 
 Toledo in 1585. The author's name was Augustin Alonzo. 
 
 Note XLIV. p. 61. 
 Palmerin de Oliva — Palmerin of England. — "Libro del fa- 
 moso CabaUero Palmerin de Oliva que por el mundo grandes 
 hechos en armas hizo, sin saber cuyo hijo fuese. Toledo, 1580." 
 It was probably this edition of this well known romance that 
 ■figured in Don Quixote's library. The hero, the secretly pro- 
 duced oifspring of Angricona, daughter to the "emperor of Con- 
 stantinople, is carried off as soon as he is born, and concealed 
 "beneath a palm tree on the Mount of Olives. He is there dis- 
 covered by a rustic, who names him from the place where he is 
 found. As to the very superior romance of Palmerin of Eng- 
 land, the reader is once more referred to Mr. Southey's admi- 
 rable abridgment. I may mention, however, in passing, that the 
 royjil parentage of that fine romance, although Cervantes would 
 seem to have believed in it, is much more than doubtful ; and 
 that it is even far from being certain, that Sir Palmerin made his 
 first appearance in the language of Portugal. 
 
 Note XLV. p. 62. 
 Don Belianis, and his castle of fame. — " There appeared a 
 castle as beautiful and as rich as ever mortal beheld. It was so 
 large, that with ease one might imagine two thousand knights to 
 be its garrison, and it was drawn along by forty elephants of in- 
 credible hugeness. From this castle there came forth nine 
 knights, each one having painted on his shield the image of 
 Fame, by which device they signified that they were the Knights 
 of Fame." — Belianis, 1. iii. c. 19. 
 
 Note XL VI. p. 62. 
 Tirante the White. — The hero of this fine old romance (for 
 
324 NOTES ON 
 
 Cervantes is far too severe on its merits) derives his name partly 
 from his father, partly from his mother ; the former being " Lord 
 of the Seigniory of Tirania, on the borders of England," the- 
 latter, Blanca, daughter of the Duke of Brittany. The common 
 opinion is, that this romance was originally composed in the Va- 
 lencian dialect about the year 1460. The Dons Kyrie-eleison,. 
 (i. e. Lord have mercy upon us,') and Thomas of Montalban, the 
 Knight Fonseca, &c., are personages who appear in the story of 
 Tirant lo Blanch. The most interesting of them all, are the em- 
 press and her lover, the gentleman-usher BSppolyto. To please- 
 her swain, the empress sings to him on one occasion, " Un ro- 
 mance de Tristan co se planya de la lancada del Key March."' 
 "A song of Tristram, in which he laments over a blow he had- 
 received from the lance of King Mark." This song is represented 
 to have excessively moved the tender-hearted gentleman-usher ;- 
 insomuch, that "Ab la dol(jor del cant destiUaren dels sous ulls 
 vives lagremes." — (Cap. 264.) The first edition oi Tirant vias. 
 published at Valencia in 1490. A CastUian version appeared at 
 VaUadolid in 1511 ; and from this was executed the Italian trans- 
 lation of Lelio Manfredi, which was printed at Venice in 1638. 
 Detirante, a few lines lower in the text, is a misprint for Tirante, 
 which seems to have passed from edition to edition, ever since 
 Don Quixote was first published. 
 
 Note XL VII. p. 63, 64. 
 The Dianas of Montemayoi — Salmantino, Gil Polo, Sfc. — 
 Cervantes does not seem to have been aware, that the Diana, 
 who gives name to the celebrated performance of Jorge de Mon- 
 temayor, was a real personage. Pellicer, however, has collected 
 abundant evidence that such was the fact ; inter alia, he cites, 
 from a MS., in the Koyal Library at Madrid, a passage which 1 
 shall translate literatim, because the story it tells is in itself in- 
 teresting. [The writer is the same Father Sapolveda, with 
 whose printed works all are acquainted.] " When the sove- 
 reigns, Don Philip III. and Donna Margarita, were on their way 
 back from Portugal, in 1602, they halted for a night in the city 
 of Valencia, and their host there was the Marquis de las Navas, 
 and they were also entertained by that famous woman Diana, 
 whom George de Montemayor so greatly commends and celc- 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 325 
 
 Ibrates in his history and verses ; for, though very old, this 
 Diana is still alive, and they say, whoever visits her may discover 
 j)lainly, that in her youth she must have been exceedingly beau- 
 tiful. She is the most wealthy and rich person in the town. 
 But it was on account of her being so famous, and of the praises 
 of George de Montemayor, that the sovereigns and all their 
 court repaired to the house of this woman, being desirous to see 
 her as a thing worthy of wonder and admiration. And, indeed, 
 the is a very sensible and well-spoken woman." Lope de Vega 
 also alludes to the real Diana, in his Dorotea, p. 52. 
 
 Montemayor himself was not distinguished by his writings 
 .alone ; for he was both a great musician and a gallant soldier. 
 His Diana was the most popular work of its day, and gave rise 
 to as many Dianas, as Lord Byron's Harold, in our own time, 
 has to Childes. Gil Polo, whom Cervantes rather commends, 
 "wrote a professed continuation of the original performance of 
 Montemayor, which has been reprinted in Madrid so lately as 
 1778. M. Florian ventures, in spite of the authority of Cervan- 
 tes, to express a great contempt for Gil Polo ; but Pellicer, more 
 likely to be a good judge, talks of him as " Insigne Poeta Valen- 
 ciano." The second Diana, that of Alonzo Perez, a physician 
 •of Salamanca, (the Salmantino of the text,) was published at 
 Alcala in 1564. For very elegant abstracts of all these pasto- 
 Tals, see Mr. Dunlop's History of Fiction. 
 
 Note XLVHI. p. 64. 
 Ten Books of the Fortunes of Love, by Anthony de Lofraco, 
 Jfc. — The true name of this author was Antonio de lo Frasso. 
 He was a native of Llaguer, a town in Sardinia, but wrote good 
 •CastUian. His work, entitled "Los diez libros de Fortuna 
 •d'Amor, donde hallaran los honestos y apacibles amores del pas- 
 tor Frexano et de la hermosa pastora Fortuna," was published 
 at Barcelona by one Pedro Malo, in 1573. It is a pastoral, writ- 
 ten partly in prose, partly in verse, like its prototype (the Diana.) 
 There is every reason for thinking that Cervantes by no means 
 intended to identify himself with the curate as to the opinion 
 •expressed concerning this work. Nevertheless, entirely on the 
 strength of such an idea, an edition of these wretched " diez li- 
 fcros de fortuna " was actually printed in London, not a great 
 
326 NOTES ON 
 
 many years ago, under the auspices of Pineda, the lexicographer 
 of course without the smallest success. The other pastoral pro* 
 ductions mentioned in the text are all utterly contemptible, withi 
 the exception of the Shepherd of Filida, which Lope de Vega 
 praises in his Dorotea, (p. 52,) asserting, that its author also, like 
 Montemayor, had been inspired by the charms of a real mis- 
 tress. This book appeared in 1582. It was written by Luis Gal- 
 vez de Monfalvo, who is designed as " Criado de Don Enrique- 
 de Mendoza y Aragon, nieto de los Duques del Infantado." 
 
 Note XLIX. p. 65. 
 The treasure of divers poems. — This is a collection of the same 
 class with the Sylvm, Delicice, Sfc, formed by Don Pedro Padilla, 
 a gentleman who, after spending an active life in military ser- 
 vice, assumed in his latter days the garb of a Carmelite Friar, 
 and died in that sanctified, and, as he probably thought, all-aton- 
 ing garb, at Madrid, in 1595. Gayton, in his " Festive Notes," 
 talks boldly of this book, as if it had been a dictionary, and as 
 if he had himself turned over its leaves. He had evidently not 
 imaged there could be any Thesauri, except of the same class 
 with his Stephanus. 
 
 Note L. p. 65. 
 Lopez Maldonado. — " The Concionero, o Coleccion de varias.-. 
 poesias'' of this author, was first published by Droy, in Madrid, 
 in 1586, in quarto. 
 
 Note LI. p. 65. 
 The Galatea of Cervantes. — See Life of Cervantes. 
 
 Note LU.p. 66. 
 The Tears of Angelica. — The author so highly commerided\. 
 by Cervantes, is Luis Baratrona de Soto, who, Uke Cervantes 
 himself, was a soldier as well as a poet Nay, Baratrona was ds 
 physician to boot. His " Lagremas de Angelica" va. 12 cantos, 
 appeared in 1586. 
 
 Note Lin. p. 67. 
 The Carolea and Leon of Spain. Don Louis de Avila, Ifc. — 
 The Carolea is a poem treating of the victories of Charles V.,. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 327 
 
 printed in Valencia in 1560. Its author was Geronimo de San 
 Pedro, or Senipere. The Leon de Espafia is a poem in twenty- 
 nine cantos, treating of the martial glories of the Leoneze. It 
 was written by Pedro de la Vecilla, and published at Salamanca 
 in 1586. Pellicer contends that Cervantes is wrong in attribut- 
 ing " the deeds of the Emperor" to Don Lewis d'Avila ; and is 
 at great pains to convince us that he must have meant Don Lewis 
 Zapata. Avila was author of the Guerra de Almania, and there- 
 fore entitled to be talked of as having celebrated " the deeds of 
 the Emperor;" but Zapata's work, on the other hand, bore the 
 very title of " Hechos del Emperador." The same person pub- 
 lished a long poem on the same subject, the Carlo Famoso ; of 
 which he himself relates that it cost him 4000 maravedis to print 
 it, and that he had . no return whatever, but what he calls the 
 " alongamiento de mi voluntad " — a species of profit with which 
 Don Lewis Zapata professes himself to have been by no means 
 satisfied. 
 
 Note LIV. p. 70. 
 The Enchanter Freston. — This personage figures in many ter- 
 rible scenes of the Belianis. 
 
 Note LV. p. 77. 
 Diego Perez de Vargas. — The name of this Castilian gentle- 
 man occurs frequently both in the ballads and other records of 
 the Moorish wars. He acquired, or was said to have acquired, 
 the name of Machuca (i. e. Bruiser, or Pounder,) from an inci- 
 dent which I find related as follows in one of the ballads pub- 
 lished by Sepulveda. 
 
 MACHUCA 
 
 I. 
 
 The Christians have beleaguer'd the famous walls of Xeres, 
 Among them are Don Alvar and Don Diego Perez, 
 And many other gentlemen, who, day succeeding day, 
 Gave challenge to the Saracen and aU. his chivalry. 
 
 n. 
 
 When rages the hot battle before the gates of Xeres, 
 
 By trace of gore ye may explore the dauntless path of Perez. 
 
328 NOTES ON 
 
 No knight like Don Diego — no sword like his is found 
 In all the host, to hew the boast of Paynims to the ground. 
 
 m. 
 
 It fell one day when fariously they battled on the plain, 
 Diego shivered both his lance and trusty blade in twain; 
 The Moors that saw it shouted, for esqnh-e none was near, 
 To serve Diego at his need with faulchion, mace, or spear. 
 
 IV. 
 JjOud, loud, he blew his bugle, sore troubled was his eye. 
 But by God's grace, before his face there stood a tree full nigh, 
 A comely tree with branches strong, close by the wall of Xeres — 
 " Yon goodly bough will serve, 1 trow," quoth Don Diego Perez. 
 
 V. 
 A gnarled branch he soon did wrench down from that olive strong, 
 "Which o'er his head piece brandishing, he spurs among the throng. 
 God wot ! full many a Pagan must in his saddle reel ! — 
 What leech shall cure, what criest shall shrive, if once that weight 
 ye feel? 
 
 VI. 
 But when Don Alvar saw him thus bruising down the foe. 
 Quoth he, " I've seen some flail-arm'd man belabour barley so ! 
 Sure mortal mould did ne'er enfold such mastery of power; 
 Let's call Diego Perez Machuca from this hour." 
 
 Note LVI. p. 78. 
 A knight-errant must never complain of his wounds, although 
 his towels were dropping out through them, Sfc. — The Don's doc- 
 trine is here, as it generally is, quite correct. Marquez, in re- 
 counting the statutes of the order de la Banda, (an order insti- 
 tuted by Alphonzo XI.,) says, its ninth law was " Que ninguu 
 caballero se quexasse de alguna herida que tuviesse." F. 50. 
 
 Note LVII. p. 81. 
 
 They wore riding masks, with glasses at the eyes, Sfc. — The 
 
 Benedictines being the most wealthy order of reli^ous in Spain, 
 
 at the period when Cervantes wrote, furnished, of course, the 
 
 most common subjects for this species of satire ; but it should 
 
DON QUIXOTE. ;-{29 
 
 never be forgotten, that, unlike many of their brethren, the 
 Benedictines were, in general, both the followers and the liberal 
 patrons of literature. The princely style of their literary specu- 
 lations — their edition of the French historians, &c., &c., will be 
 sufficient to preserve their memory in honor, even should they 
 be deprived in Spain, as they have been elsewhere, of all their 
 great possessions. They have still many magnificent establish- 
 ments of education under their control at Vienna, Katisbone, 
 and other places of the Austrian dominion. 
 
 Note LVm. p. 84. 
 Bad Biscayan and worse Spanish. — To understand fully the 
 frequent allusions which Cervantes makes to the provincial dia- 
 lects in Spain, one must of course be a Spaniard, and a learned 
 Spaniard to boot. In general, it may be sufficient to observe, 
 that the Latin language was gradually corrupted all over the 
 peninsula, after the invasion of the Goths ; and that out of this 
 corruption three main dialects were by degrees formed. One of 
 these, the Catalonian, (for the Valencian was nearly the same 
 thing,) partook very much of the character of that spoken aU 
 over Provence, and the southern districts of France. In it 
 several books were written, (particularly the fine romance of 
 Tyrant lo Blanch,) but Uke the sister Provencal, the soft and 
 beautiful language of the Troubadours, it never received the last 
 finish of cultivation. In Portugal and Galicia, a second dialect 
 was formed, which the Castilians complain of as being effeminate 
 in comparison with their own, but which can never perish, since 
 the Lusiad has been written in it. The Castilian, finally, (the 
 third great branch,) is much more near of kin to the Portuguese 
 than to the Catalonian, and bears the same sort of relation to it 
 which the Swedish does to the Danish, or which the English 
 (but for political events) might have done to the Scotch. All 
 the other provinces of the peninsula, except Portugal, being by 
 denrees consolidated into one empire under a Castilian dynasty, 
 the language of the court became the language of Spain — as 
 the modern High-Dutch has supplanted, under somewhat diffisr- 
 ent circumstances, the multifarious dialects of Germany. The 
 Castilian, however, did not assume this preeminence until about 
 the middle of the 16th century. 
 
330 NOTES ON 
 
 The language of the original inhabitants of Spain, previous tO' 
 the Carthaginian and Eoman conquests, found early and secure 
 refuge among the Pyrenees, and in the mountainous province of 
 Spanish Biscay. It is undoubtedly a Celtic dialect, of the same 
 parentage with those which still survive in Wales, Brittany, Ire- 
 land, and the Highlands of Scotland. It never altered its main 
 characteristics, nor borrowed any thing more than vocables from 
 the language of any of the nations who successively conquered 
 the peninsula. The Spanish spoken by the Biscayan in the text 
 of Cervantes, is therefore about the same sort of thing with the 
 English spoken by the Highland personages who figure in Wa- 
 verley, the Legend of Montrose, Sfc. 
 
 Note LIX. p. 84. 
 TU try titles with you, as the man said. — The original is, 
 "Aora lo veredes dixo Agrajes." — Agrajes is one of the cham- 
 pions who figure in the Amadis, and one of the most quarrelsome 
 of them all. This phrase, part of which is always in his mouth 
 at the beginning of a fray, seems to Ijave been passed into a 
 sort of by-word ; for it occurs just in the same sort of way in 
 Quevedo's visions, &o. 
 
 Note LX. p. 89. 
 A Morisco that understood Spanish, l^c. — In the original, 
 " Morisco Aljamiado." Aljamia (from AJjama, a frontier,) was 
 a term applied by the pure Arabs to denote the corrupted lan- 
 guage of the Moors long settled in Spain. In one of the old 
 ballads, a Moor, who communicates to the Cid a certain plot that 
 is going on against him, is styled " Moro Latinado.'' How much 
 the two languages must have been mingled in the elder times, 
 may easily be imagined, when we remember that there are still 
 extant several papal rescripts directed against the use of the 
 Arabic language by the Spanish Christians ; that, in spite of all 
 these, it was found necessary, after some space, to translate the 
 common devotional books of the Christian religion into Arabic 
 for their use ; and that, at Cordova, the Gothic laws rendered 
 into Arabic, were appealed to in the courts of justice, whenever 
 the parties were Christians. (See Murphy's Moors in Spain, 
 and Bontekweck's Geschichte der Spanisches Liieratur.') Cer- 
 
BON QUIXOTE. 331 
 
 Tantes adheres closely to the romances which he designs to satir- 
 ize in all this fiction about the discovery and translation of the' 
 history of this Don. The Amadis de Gaul, the Belianis, &c., &c.,- 
 are aU represented as having been originally composed in the 
 Greek tongue by "the Saga Alquife," Friston, Artemidorus,. 
 Lirgandeus, and the like learned personages. The origin of all 
 romantic adventures was, in the eye of Cervantes' contempo- 
 raries, Moorish, and therefore he takes a Moor in place of a 
 Greek. The Spanish commentators, finally, have discovered 
 that Oi'd Harriet Ben Engeli, is, after all, no more than an Ara- 
 bian version of the name of Cervantes himself. Cid, as all the 
 world knows, means lord or signior. Harriet is a common Moor- 
 ish prefix. Ben Engeli signifies the son of a stag, which, being 
 expressed in Spanish, is Mj'o del ciervo, cerval, or cervanteno. It 
 is said in p. 91, that this Morisco translated the whole of Ben- 
 Engeli's MS. in less than six weeks ; but this is nothing to Shel- 
 ton, the first English translator of Cervantes, (and perhaps in 
 some respects the best,) who says, in his preface, that he finished 
 his version in forty successive days. 
 
 Note LXI. p. 96. 
 The holy brotherhood. — The reader of modern romances may 
 at first sight imagine that the Inquisition is meant, but it is not 
 so. The terror with which the words, " holy office," on all oc- 
 casions inspire honest Sancho, was indeed felt, at the time of hia 
 supposed existence, by every man, woman, and child, within the 
 Spanish dominions. Under Ferdinand and Isabella, the injunc- 
 tions of the papal bulls for the establishment of inquisitions^ 
 were first carried into fuU efiect in Castile, and afterwards in 
 Ajragon. Ximenes, Torquemada, and a long series of artfid 
 bigots, effectually riveted the chain ; and the delicacy observed 
 by Cervantes himself, in all his allusions to the functionaries and 
 functions of the holy office, is one of the most striking proofs of 
 the extent to which this spiritual tyranny had, in the course of 
 less than a century, bowed down aU Spanish thought and lan- 
 guage beneath its sway. In the most of the Spanish historians, 
 I find the establishment of the Inquisition spoken of in terms of 
 most hypocritical adulation. In Mariana, however, although the, 
 Jesuit (himself at one time an Inquisitor) by no means says alL 
 
^32 NOTES ON 
 
 :he thinks, enough is said to let us understand something of his 
 true sentiments. The plain and obvious arguments against a 
 ■secret, a bloody, and a bigoted tribunal, are set forth very pow- 
 erfully, and he has fact enough to manage it so, that the effect 
 of these is not at all done away by the pompous arguments he, 
 as in his own person, is compelled to adduce per contra. See 
 Mariana's whole chapter, entitled " Inquisitores Castellae dati ; " 
 ■and particularly the passage beginning, " Grave provincialibus 
 visum est Pareutum Scelera filiorum pcenis lui ; occulto aocusa- 
 tore reos fieri ; neque cum indioe compositos damnari ; contra 
 quam olim factum erat peccata in reli^one vindioari morte ; illud 
 gravissimum adimi per inquisitiones loquendi liberi, audiendique 
 commercium dispersis per urhes et oppida et agros observatoribus 
 quod extremum in servitute credebant," Sj-c. For a full account 
 of the Spanish Inquisition, see Llorente's Histoire de I'Inquisition 
 en Espagne ; a masterly and very learned article by Mr. Sou- 
 they, in the Quarterly Keview; and an ablfe essay under the 
 head of Inquisition, lately published in the Encyclopaedia 
 Edinensis, by the Rev. Dr. John Hodgson, of Blantyre. The 
 " Holy Brotherhood," alluded to on the present occasion, was a 
 very necessary and useful association for the prevention of rob- 
 beries and -murders in the less popidous districts of Spain. The 
 state in which the country had been left, after a long series of 
 wars and tumults, rendered it necessary for well-disposed indivi- 
 duals to take such steps in aid of the (in such matters) too dila- 
 tory arm of the Spanish executive. Shortly afterwards, Cervan- 
 tes mentions the " Santa Hermandad vieja" of Toledo, which 
 was a particular branch of this institution, having its separate 
 prison, &c. 
 
 Note LXH. p. 96. 
 Out of the hands of the Chaldeans. — So the Moors were fre- 
 quently called by the early Spaniards, whose archaic phraseo- 
 logy is continually in the mouth of Don Quixote. 
 
 Note LXUI. p. 97. 
 Had I but bethought myself of making a small bottleful of the 
 •balsam of Fierabras, Sfc. — Sir Ferumbras or Eierabras, was one 
 of the greatest heroes of the Kound-table of Charlemagne, al- 
 
DON QUIXOTE. SSS' 
 
 though he has not the advantage of being commemorated in the 
 original Magnum Opus of the Archbishop of Bheims. Mr. El- 
 lis has given an analysis of an English unprinted metrical ro- 
 mance upon his story, which appears to be nothing more than a 
 translation from the French one. According to all these author- 
 ities, Laban, Sovereign of Babylon, possessor of the renowned 
 city of Agramore, on the Eiver Elagote, was a sore enemy of 
 the Christians, and drove them out of the Holy Land. Not con- 
 tented with this, he sent his son Sir Ferumbras, after the poor 
 Christians into Europe, where Ferumbras demeaned himself like 
 a true son of the terrible Laban, and, among other well-authen- 
 ticated exploits, took possession of Rome itself Charlemagne 
 forthwith senili some of his paladins to give knightly combat to 
 this fearful Saracen, and a long series of romantic adventures 
 ensues, in which dwarfs, giants, cavaUers, virgins. Moors, priests, 
 and enchanters, walk through their usual paces, all more or less 
 for the exaltation of the glory of Sir Ferumbras, the Prince- 
 Koyal of Babylon. At last, however, Oliver meets with the 
 hero, and then the tables are turned. The combat is long and 
 doubtful, chiefly m consequence of two bottles of balsam which 
 Ferumbras carries, (in his holsters,) a simple drop of which, 
 taken internally, is sufficient to restore the continuity of the 
 most cruelly mangled skin ; of which Sir Ferumbras of course 
 avails himself on the receipt of every blow ; and, more wonder- 
 ful far, of which he constantly offers a few drops to his antago- 
 nist, every time he sees his own sword come back bloody from 
 the body on which he is exercising its edge with all the accus- 
 tomed fury of a Babylonian. In the Carlo Magna, we have 
 him introduced upon this occasion as using these expressions, 
 " O Senor Olivero, O vos bolved a curer de vos Uagas, o beved 
 del balsamo que commego trago, y luego serez salvo, y assi po- 
 dreys pelear y defendar vuestra vida," &c. Instead of accepting 
 this polite offer, the fierce OUver aims a back blow at Sir Ferum- 
 bras's saddle, the two bottles tumble into a river, and the pagan 
 is then as easily beaten as Antaeus was, when Hercules lifted him 
 off the ground. In a word, the son of Laban, the Emperor of 
 Babylon, gives in. " I am so hurt," says he, (to give the worda 
 of the English romance,) 
 
 " I am so hurt, I may uot stonde; 
 I put me all in tliy grace: 
 
334 NOTES ON 
 
 My God's beene false by water and lond; 
 I reng them all here in this place ; 
 Baptized now wiU I bene," &o. 
 
 The baptized Ferumbras is forthwith created a paladin and a 
 peer, and heads on all occasions the host of Charlemagne. His 
 fatiher hearing of his sudden conversion, immediately brings a 
 huge army to fight Charlemagne and his son ; but, as might be 
 ■expected, they overcome him, and it is only by the intercession 
 of Ferumbras that the head of the Emperor Laban is permitted 
 to remain upon his royal shoulders. Charlemagne spares him, 
 and on the instant 
 
 " Bade them ordain a great vat. 
 To baptize the Sowdan in, 
 And look what he shall hat, (be called.) 
 
 The Sowdan, unfortunately, is afflicted, on sight of this great 
 vat, with a very impious species of hydrophobia ; and after a 
 great many vain attempts to reconcile him to baptism, Charle- 
 magne is compelled to have recourse to immediate decapitation, 
 as the only alternative that had occurred either to him or to any 
 of his company. " It was done," quoth the romancer, — 
 
 " It was done at the king's command ; 
 His sonl was sent to hell, 
 To dance in that sorry land. 
 With devils that were fall fell." 
 
 Sir Ferumbras, being invested with one half of the kingdom of 
 Spain, prefers settling there to claiming the allegiance of his 
 father's pagan subjects. He marries, and is crowned in due 
 form; and becomes on the whole a peaceable character, but 
 amuses himself now and then with cutting and carving both his 
 own body and the bodies of his friends, merely for the pleasure 
 of exhibiting the wonderful virtues of the " Balsam of Fiera- 
 bras " — the receipt for concocting the which, Don Quixote will 
 give us in proper form a few pages farther on. 
 
 Note LXIV. p. 98. 
 To lead a l\fe like the Marquis of Mantua, Sfc. — Of this story 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 335 
 
 I have already said something. The yow of the Marquis runs 
 thus in the ballad : 
 
 Juro per dios verdadevo 
 
 De nunca peynar mis comas^ 
 
 Ni los barbas mi tooare, 
 
 De no vestir otras ropas 
 
 Ni renovar mi oalzare, 
 
 Ni las armas mi quitare; 
 
 Sino fuera par un bora; 
 
 De no comer en mantele, 
 
 Ni a mesa mi assentare 
 
 basta matar a Don Carloto, &c. 
 
 See a preceding note on the story of Baldwin, &c. Sylva de 
 Bomances, F. 38. 
 
 Note LXV. p. 99, 100. 
 Saccrapante — Albracea, Sfc. §•£. — For all these, I refer the 
 reader to Boiardo and Ariosto. 
 
 Note LXVI. p. 105. 
 happy age, he cried, which our first parents calVd the age of 
 gold. — This beautiful speech, for it is throughout beautiful and 
 classical in the highest degree, is little more than a translation of 
 one of the finest passages in Tasso's Aminta. "0' heW eta" Sfc 
 end of act first. 
 
 Note LXVH. p. 112. 
 His parents being ruled ly him, grew rich in a short time, Sfc. — 
 Cervantes here has in his eye that passage in Aristotle's politics, 
 where the story is told of a Cretan sage, who, being reproached 
 with the unproductiveness of his philosophical pursuits, answered, 
 he could, if he chose, draw an abundant revenue from his sci- 
 ence ; and, accordingly, did soon realize a fortune, in conse- 
 quence of arranging his crops, &c., so as to suit the weather he 
 foresaw. 
 
 Note LXVm. p. 113. 
 The plays which the young lads in ourneighhorhood enacted on 
 Corpus Christi day. — These plays were of the same nature with 
 
336 NOTES ON 
 
 our own mysteries, founded, namelj', upon subjects taken from, 
 holy writ Such performances were usual all over Europe at 
 this time on Corpus Christi day, and several other festivals of 
 the church. 
 
 Note LXIX. p. 120. 
 King Arthur never died, tut was turned into a crow hy en- 
 chantment; for which reason the people of Great Britain dare not 
 kill a crow, Sj'c. — It is supposed that the superstition alluded ta 
 in the text had, in reality, gone so far, as to have influence at 
 least on the Welch legislators ; for in the laws of Hoel the Good, 
 we find a heavy fine appointed to be paid by every person who- 
 IdUs a raven, (Leges Hoeli Boni, Londini, 1730, p. 334,) and I 
 do not think any origin of such a law could be pointed out either 
 more rational or more probable, than the prevalence of this reve- 
 rential feeling towards Arthur. The inscription on the tomb- 
 stone of Arthur was, (according to the monkish chronicles, too 
 often rivals of the romancers,) 
 
 Mcjacet Arthwus Rex gmndam Eexque Fuiurus. 
 
 Note LXX. p. 123. 
 Some knights have at last hy their valor been raised to thrones: 
 and empires, Sj-c. — Of such elevations, we have already had oc- 
 casion to notice several instances. They are as plenty as black- 
 berries, in the romances. Keynaldo de Montalban became Em- 
 peror of Trebizond, (according to the Sylva de Romances, p. 76.^ 
 In Esplandian, c. 177, we are told, that " El emperador casando 
 a su hija Leonorina con Esplandian les renuncio todo su impe- 
 rio.'' Bernard del Carpio " se casa con Olympia haziendole Rev 
 de Irlanda," (Espinosa, canto 33.) Palmerin d'Oliva became 
 Emperor of Constantinople. Tirant the White became " Prin- 
 cipe y Csesar del Imperio de Grecia," &c. &c. 
 
 JSToTE LXXI. p. 124. 
 You never commend yourselves to God, but only to your mis- 
 tresses. — The same reproach was once made to Tirant the 
 White. His answer was, " El que a muohos sirve no sirve a nin- 
 gimo." — Lib. iii. cap. 28. 
 
DON QinxOTB. 337 
 
 Note LXXH. p. 128. 
 Let none iiU he those arms deface, 
 Who will Orlando's fury face, Sfc. 
 See Ariosto, Canto 24. 
 
 - NesBun le muova 
 
 Che star non possa con Boldan a prnova, &o. 
 
 Note LXXin. p. 128. 
 I draw my pedigree from the Cachopines ofLoredo. — Bowles, 
 upon the authority of the venerable Sir Isaac Heard, mentions 
 that an old house was pulled down at St. Andrews not very long 
 Eigo, on a stone in the interior wall of which appeared this in- 
 scription : 
 
 "Antes falten Robles y Enzinas 
 Que las casas Cacbopinas." 
 
 Note LXXIV. p. 143. 
 Yanguesian carriers. — The people of a certain district in Cash 
 tile, the principal village of which is Yanguas. 
 
 Note LXXV. p. 148. 
 Amadis de Gaul in the power of Archelaus. — See the Amadis, 
 chap. xix. and Ixix. For the Knight of the Sun, mentioned im- 
 mediately after, see Palmerin of Oliva, cap. 43. 
 
 Note LXXVI. p. 149. 
 The laws of duels. — The most complete code of duelling is 
 to be found in Maffei's treatise, Delia Scienza Cavalleresca. 
 Most minute rules are there laid down concerning more impro- 
 bable contingencies than that alluded to in the text. Insults are 
 classed and subdivided, as accurately as crimes against life and 
 property have ever been in statute-books ; and the proper quan- 
 tum, of revenge to be exacted in every supposable case, is laid 
 down with all the gravity of a Numa ; e. g. when you are insult- 
 ed by a lame man, you must tie up your leg before you take the 
 field against him, &c. &c. 
 
 Note LXXVH. p. 151. 
 The Lovely Obscure. — Bbltenebros is the name given to 
 VOL. I. 22 
 
338 NOTES ON 
 
 Amadis in all the romances, on occasion of this adventure. This 
 has been often cited as one of the most conTincing proofs of the 
 Spanish, or, more properly, the Peninsular ori^n of the romance j 
 but in the old French Amadis, it is Beltenebreux. 
 
 Note LXXVIH. p. 153. 
 Mariiornes. — Malitorne is old French for " mechante femme." 
 
 Note LXXIX. p. 164. 
 A knight-errant ! cried the wench ; pray what is that f 
 
 lo son nutrito sotto il Santo impero 
 \ Del magnanimo Artus real e pio, 
 E da lui fatto erranit cavaliero, 
 Vo cercando ameniime, hor quinoi her quindi. 
 
 Gykone, L. 2. 75. 
 
 Note LXXX. p. 157. 
 Nay, some do not stick to say, CM Harriet Benengeli was some- 
 what akin to the muleteer. — Cervantes probably means to insinu- 
 ate, that the muleteer was himself a Moor, one of the many who 
 made outward profession of Christianity, after Mahometanism 
 became a crime in Spain ; which, as all the world knows, hap- 
 pened in Cervantes's own day, to the great injury of the com- 
 merce and agriculture of the Spanish dominions. Before their 
 total expulsion, it would seem the Moriscos were very much em- 
 ployed as carriers and muleteers ; for, says the author of certain 
 " Discourses on the Provision of the Court," (never published, 
 but quoted by Pellicer, and composed in 1616,) " By the ex- 
 pulsion of the Moors, Spain lost about four or five thousand car- 
 riers, who were of infinite advantage in transporting all kinds of 
 merchandise. Between 1608 and 1616, the charge of carriage 
 from Seville to Madrid has been more than tripled. In Tiem- 
 blo, (a little town fourteen leagues from Madrid,) I remember 
 eighteen carriers, and now there is not one. There used to be 
 not less than five-and-twenty at Talamea, (forty-eight leagues 
 from Madrid,) and now there is only one in the whole place." 
 
 Note LXXXI. p. 165. 
 The enchanted Moor of this castle. — The fair Kosaliana, in 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 339 
 
 Belianis of Greece, uses these words : " Acabad de matar aquel- 
 los malos gigantes, por que en el entretanto que alguno delloa 
 fuere vivo no scran deshechos los encantamentos de este Castillo." 
 L. 3. 0. 9. 
 
 Note LXXXH.p. 172. 
 You must excuse me from paying any thing ; it was never 
 known that hnights-errant paid in any inn whatever. — There is a 
 contrary authority in Pulci. Morg. Magg. C. 21. 
 
 Orlando ohe sentito ha gia il romore 
 Presto s'arma per andare a vedere : 
 Ma rOstier suo per non pigliar errore, 
 Voile ohe pegno lasoiasse il destrire 
 Che non ista delli Scotti alia fede. 
 Orlando sooppia di duolo e dl pena, 
 Ma da pagar non aveva moneta: 
 Che solea sempre dar bastioni o spade 
 AW Oste, quando i dojnar gU mwnccmrmo. 
 
 Note LXXXm. p. 179. 
 Emperor of the vast island of Taprobana, Ifc. — The most of 
 the fine-sounding names in this catalogue, are to be found (or, 
 at least, something like them) in the Romances. The 
 
 " utmost Indian isle, Taprobane," 
 
 is one of the few places enumerated, which it is worth while to 
 seek for on any map. 
 
 " Such forces met not, nor so -wide a camp, 
 
 When Agrioan, with aU his northern powers 
 
 Besieged Albracca, as romances tell, 
 
 The city of Gallaphrone, from whence to win 
 
 The fairest of her sex, Angelica, 
 
 Her daughter sought by many prowest knights, 
 
 Both Paynim and the peers of Charlemagne." 
 
 Note LXXXIV. p. 198. 
 Knight of the Woful Figure, §-c. — " Caballero de la triste 
 figura," is translated by Shelton, " Knight of the ill-favored 
 face;" but Smollett's " Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance," 
 
340 NOTES ON 
 
 expresses far better than either of these the sense of Cervantes. 
 At a certain chivalric spectacle given by Queen Mary of Hun- 
 gary, the Count D'Aremberg jousted under the title of " Knight 
 of the Griphon,'* with Don Juan de Saavedra, who was arrayed 
 in sable armor, and styled " the Sorrowful Knight." 
 
 Note LXXXV. p. 199. 
 Remember what befell the CM Ituy Diaz, when he broke to 
 pieces the chair in the Pop^s presence, for which he was excom- 
 municated. — Don Quixote alludes very inaccurately to one of 
 the most evidently apocryphal of all the Cid's achievements. 
 The ballad in which the story is told, must have been composed 
 at some period when the precedence of France and Spain was 
 matter of courtly dispute ; therefore long after the time when 
 the best of the Spanish ballads concerning the Cid were framed, 
 1 shall translate, notwithstanding, 
 
 THE EXCOMMUNICATION OF THE CID. 
 
 I. 
 
 It was when from Spain across the main the Cid had como to Rome, 
 He chanced to see chairs four and three beneath Saint Peter's dome. 
 "Now tell, I pray, what chairs be they? " " Seven kings do sit thereon. 
 As well doth suit, all at the foot of the holy father's throne. 
 
 n. 
 
 " The Pope he sitteth above them all, that they may kiss his toe. 
 Below the keys the Flower-de-lys doth make a gallant show; 
 For his great puissanoe, the King of France next to the Pope may sit, 
 The rest more low, all in a row, as doth their station fit." 
 
 in. 
 
 " Ha! " quoth the Cid, "now God forbid! it is a shame, I wiss. 
 To see the Castle * planted beneath the Flower-de-lys.f 
 ' No harm, I hope, good father Pope — although I move thy chair." 
 — In pieces small he kiok'd it all, ('twas of the ivory fair.) 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Pope's own seat he from his feet did kick it far away. 
 And the Spanish chair he planted upon its place that day; 
 
 * The arms of Castile. t The arms of France. 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 341 
 
 Abovo them all he planted it, and laugh'd right bitterly, 
 Looks sour and bad I trow he had, as grim as grim might be. 
 
 V. 
 Now when the Pope was aware of this, he was an angry man, 
 His lips that night, with solemn rite, pronounced the awful banj 
 The curse of God, who died on rood, was on that siimer's head — 
 To hell and woe man's soul must go if once that curse be said. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I wot, when the Cid was aware of this, a woful man was he. 
 At dawn of day, he came to pray at the blessed father's knee : 
 "Absolve me, blessed father, have pity upon me. 
 Absolve my soul, and penance I for my sin will dree." — 
 
 vn. 
 
 " Who is this sinner," quoth the Pope, " that at my foot doth kneel? " 
 — " I am Eodrigo Diaz, a poor Baron of Castile." 
 Much marvell'd all were in the haU, when that name they heard him say, 
 — " Kise up, rise up," the Pope he said, " I do thy guilt away." 
 
 vin. 
 
 "I do thy guilt away," he Said, " and my curse I blot it out— 
 God save Bodrigo Diaz, my Ohristian champion stout; 
 I trow, if I had known thee, my grief it had been sore, 
 To curse Buy Diaz de Bivar; God's scourge upon the Moor." 
 
 NoTi? LXXXVI. p. 209. 
 
 The shepherd and his goats got at last to the river Guadiana. — 
 This story (oiiginally told by Petrus Alphonsus) may be found 
 in its most perfect form in the Cento Novella Antiche. 
 
 " H favolatore incommencio a dire una favola de uno viUano 
 che avea suoi cento bisante ; ando a uno Mercato a comperire 
 berbeci ed ebbene due per bisante. Tornando con le sue peoore 
 uno fiume che avea passa era molto cresciuto. Stando a la riva 
 brigossi d'accioire in questo modo che vide uno pescator povero 
 con uno suo burchiello, a dismisura picciohno, si che non vi capea 
 se non il viUano ed una pecora per volto. Lo villano commen- 
 cio a passare con una berbice, e eominoio a vocare il fuime era 
 largo. Voga h passa. E lo favolatore non dicea pui : B Mes- 
 sere Azzolino disse ; chefai ? via oltre. Lo favolatore rispose, 
 Messere lasciate passare le pecore, poi conteremo lo fatto ; che 
 le pecore no sarebbono passate in uno anno, si che in tantopuote 
 bene adagio dormire."— Nov. xxx. 
 
M2 NOTES ON 
 
 Note li^tXVn. p. 220. 
 Mambrino's Helmet. — 1 J^er to Orlando Furioso passim, for 
 the -whole history of the enchanted and invulnerable head-piece, 
 originally the property of King Mambrino. 
 
 Note LXXXVm. p. 226. 
 " Well, then," quoth Sancho, " I have been thinking to myself 
 of late how little is to be gained by hunting up and down," Spc. — 
 The reader of romance does not need to be told how faithfully 
 Don Quixote, in reply to this saying of his squire, has abridged 
 the main story of many a ponderous folio. The imaginary car 
 reer of glory which he unfolds before the eyes of Sancho, is 
 paralleled almost ad literatim in the romance of Sir Degore, so 
 admirably analyzed by Mr. EUis. This conclusion of Belianis is 
 almost exactly the same sort of adventure. 
 
 Note LXXXIX. p. 243. 
 He is that notorious rogue Qines de Passamonte. — Cervantes 
 makes even the galley-slaves play upon Don Quixote's foible ; 
 for Passamonte is the name of a gigantic brother of the illus- 
 trious Giant Morgante, slain by Orlando in the Morgante Mag- 
 giore. Gines pretends to have Written his own life while in the 
 galleys. The preliminary fiction of Guzman d'Alfarache is of 
 the same species. 
 
 Note XC. p. 244. 
 Lazarillo de Tormes. — About the most popular book in Spain, 
 at the time when Cervantes wrote, was the Life of Lazarillo de 
 Tormes, a work of very extraordinary genius, written at a Very 
 early period of his career, by the great Spanish historian, poet, 
 soldier, and statesman, Don Diego de Mendoza. It was the first 
 comic romance that had appeared in the modern world, or at 
 least the first that had ever made any noise in the world. The 
 species of tricks and adventures in which Lazarillo is engaged, 
 had indeed been long in great favor among the Spaniards, but 
 Mendoza first embalmed such materials in the elegancies of dic- 
 tion, and adorned them with the interest of an artificial narra- 
 tive. The contrast his shrewd and humorous representation of 
 human life afibrds to the pompous romances of chivalry, which 
 
DON QUIXOTE. 343 
 
 then formed almost the sole reading of the Spaniards, is such, 
 that no one can be surprised with the great success of this first 
 effort of Mendoza's genius. Lazarillo de Tormes was immedi- 
 ately translated into Italian and French, and both abroad and at 
 home gave birth to innumerable imitations. The best of all 
 these is, without doubt, the History of Guzman d'Alfarache, com- 
 monly called the Spanish Rogue, which made its appearance a 
 few years before the publication of Don Quixote. Like its pro- 
 totjrpe, this book became exceedingly popular all over Europe ; 
 and there soon appeared (among many others) an excellent ver- 
 sion of it in English, which ought, without doubt, to be reprinted 
 in its original shape. From these books, Le Sage derived a great 
 many of the best stories with which we have all been made so 
 familiar by his Gil Bias and Batchelor of Salamanca. Indeed, 
 in Le Sage's own abridgment of Guzman d'Alferache, many of 
 the best stories in the whole book are omitted, for no other rea^ 
 son but that Le Sage had already appropriated them in his Gil 
 Bias. Mendoza's rich and beautiful style, however, gives a 
 charm to his LazariUo, which the dry and caustic Aleman (the 
 author of Guzman) could never rival. Mendoza composed 
 poems of many sorts, satires, lyrics, epistles, sonnets, pastorals, 
 and ballads; but, next to his Lazarillo de Tormes, which he 
 wrote before he left college at Salamanca, his most celebrated 
 work is his History of the War of Granada, which he composed 
 towards the decline of his life, and which was not suffered to be 
 printed until thirty years after his death, in consequence of the 
 hardihood of some of the opinions expressed in it. With the 
 exception of Machiavelli and Guicciardini, there is perhaps no 
 modern writer who has produced any thing so nearly approach- 
 ing to the pure and classical character of the great historical 
 monuments left us by the Greeks and Romans. The life of 
 Mendoza himself was a very extraordinary one. He owed his 
 rise to letters, and he never ceased to cultivate them during the 
 whole of a very long life ; and yet he was engaged continually 
 in public business, and even bore the first part in many of the 
 most important transactions of his time. He was taken from 
 college by Charles V., soon after he had published his Lazarillo 
 de Tormes, and sent ambassador to Venice, where he greatly 
 distinguished himself in the management of several very difficult 
 intrigues. He afterwairds represented the person of the same 
 
344 NOTES ON DON QUtXOTll. 
 
 . monarch at the Counca of Trent, and stil^'-]&ter at the Court of 
 Kome. In the Italian wars of those days he acquired the cha» 
 racter of a skilful and decided commander. He was governor 
 of Sienna ; and from thence, it may almost be said, he adminis- 
 tered the whole affairs of Italy during a period of six years. 
 After harmony was restored between the Papal See and his own 
 prince, Mendoza was appointed to the high office of gonfalonier 
 of the church, and in that capacity was commander-in-chief of 
 all the ecclesiastical forces. He retired to Spain on the accession 
 of Philip IL, who does not appear to have treated him with the 
 same confidence as his father, inasmuch as,- for the most part, the 
 rest of his life was passed in comparative privacy and literary 
 leisure. Nevertheless, he accompanied Philip into France, and 
 was present at the great battle of St. Quintin, in 1557. Nor had 
 old age any power to check the fervor of his spirit, if we may 
 put faith in some of the anecdotes commonly recorded of him : 
 For example, we are told, that " long after his hairs were gray," 
 he quarrelled with a nobleman who was his' rival in some amour, 
 and coming to high words one day in the presence-chamber of 
 Philip, expressed himself with so much scorn, that his adversary 
 laid his hand on his poniard. Mendoza, observing this, seized 
 the man, who was far younger than himself, and flung hiin furi- 
 ously over the balcony into the street. Altogether, the career 
 of Mendoza was like that of Cervantes himself, a striking exam- 
 ple, not only of the versatility of genius, but of the benefit 
 which literature, in many of its finest walks, may derive from 
 being cultivated by the active and energetic spirits of the world. 
 
 Note XCI. p. 252. 
 "Methinks,'' quoth Sancho, " / already hear the arrows whizzing 
 about my ears." — It appears that when the officers of the Holy 
 Brotherhood found any one in the act of guilt, or, as we express 
 it in Scotland, red-hand, their custom was to tie him to a stake, 
 and shoot at him with their arrows till he died. " Sic deprehen- 
 sum," says Munsterus, (in his Cosmographia, p. 60,) "vivum 
 palo alligatum sagittis conficiunt." Charlss V., by an edict, di- 
 rected that the man should be hanged first, and then shot at in 
 this manner. 
 
 END OP VOL. 1.