/ÓL. o* DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2014 https://archive.org/details/donquixotedelama01cerv DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. THANSÍ.ATEI) FROM THE SPANISH OP MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA, CHARLES JARVIS, ESQ. CA.HBPITI.LY KEVISEU AND CORRECTP.I). I LASTRATE® ©V T®1MV JOMAN M@T 9 ¿Ltf& ©WSHSJS0. VOL. I. LONDON: HENRY G. BOHN, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. MDCCCXLII. NORMAN, PRINTER, MAIDEN LANE, COVENT GARDEN. I *WE GETTY CENT® LIBRARY INDEX TO TUB CHAPTERS CONTAINED IN THE FIRST VOLUME. Paget Memoir of Cervantes, With a notice of li is works : translated from the French of Louis Viardot . . . ix The Author's Preface . . . . .1 PART I. BOOK I. Chap. I. Which treats of the quality and manner of life of the renowned Don Quixote de la Mancha . . . .9 Chap. II. Of the first sally the ingenious Don Quixote made from his village . . . . 20 Chap. III. In which is related the pleasant method Don Quixote took to he dubbed a Knight . . . «31 Chap. IV. Of what befel our Knight after he had sallied out from the inn . . . . . .39 INDEX. Pages Chap. V. Wherein is continued the narration of our Knight's mis- fortune . . . . . .48 Chap. VI. Of the pleasant and grand scrutiny, made by the priest and the barber, in our ingenious gentleman's library . . 54 Chap. VII. Of the second sally of our good Knight Don Quixote de la Mancha . . . . .65 Chap. VIII. Of the good success which the valorous Don Quixote had in the dreadful and never-before-mentioned adventure of the wind- mills, with other events worthy to be recorded . . 75 BOOK II. Chap. I. Wherein is concluded, and an end put to, the stupendous battle between the vigorous Biscayan and the valiant Manchegan 85 Chap. II. Of the discourse Don Quixote had with his good Squire Sancho Panza . . . . .93 Chap. III. Of what befel Don Quixote with certain goatherds . 101 Chap. IV. What a certain goatherd related to those that were with Don Quixote . . . . .110 Chap. V. The conclusion of the story of the shepherdess Marcella, with other events . . . .117 Chap. VI. Wherein are rehearsed the despairing verses of the de- ceased shepherd, with other unexpected matters . .131 BOOK III. Chap. I. Wherein is related the unfortunate adventure which befel Don Quixote, in meeting with certain bloody-minded Yangueses 142 Chap. II. Of what happened to the ingenious gentleman in the inn which he imagined to be a castle . . .153 Chap. III. Wherein are continued the numberless hardships which the brave Don Quixote and his good Squire Sancho Panza under- went in the inn, which he unhappily took for a castle . .163 INDEX. Pages Chap. IV. In which is rehearsed the discourse which Sancho Panza held with his master Don Quixote; with other matters worth relating . . • . . .174 Chap. V. Of the sage discourse that passed between Sancho and his master, and the succeeding adventure of the dead body ; with other famous occurrences . ' . .189 Chap. VI. Of the unheard-of adventure achieved by the renowned Don Quixote de la Mancha, with less hazard than ever any was achieved by the most famous knight in the world . .199 Chap. VII. Which treats of the high adventure and rich prize of Mambrino's helmet, and other things which befel our invincible Knight . . . . . .216 Chap. VIII. How Don Quixote set at liberty several unfortunate persons who were being carried, much against their wills, to a place they did not like .... 233 Chap. IX. Of what befel the renowned Don Quixote in the Sierra- Morena, being one of the most curious and uncommon adventures related in this curious history .... 247 Chap. X. A continuation of the adventure in the Sierra-Morena . 263 Chip. XI. Which treats of the strange things that befel the valiant Knight of La Mancha in the Sierra- Morena ; and how he imitated the penance of licltenebros . . . 274 Chap. XII. A continuation of the refinement practised by Don Quixote as a lover in the Sierra-Morena . . . 294 Chap. XIII. How the priest and the barber put their design in execution, with other matter worthy to be recited in this his- tory ...... 305 BOOK IV. Chap. I. Which treats of the new and agreeable adventure that befel the priest and the barber in the Sierra-Morena. 327 Chap. II. Which treats of the sjcntlc artifice made use of to withdraw our amorous Knight from the rude penitence that he practised . 348 INDEX. Pages Chap. III. Which treats of the delicacy of wit displayed by the beau- tiful Dorothea, with other matters singularly diverting . . 364 Chap. IV. Of the relishing conversation which passed between Don Quixote and his Squire Sancho Panza, with other adventures . 378 Chap. V. Which treats of what befel Don Quixote's whole company in the inn . . . . . . 393 Chap. VI. In which is recited the novel of " The Curious Imper- tinent" . .... 404 Chap. VII. In which is continued the novel of the " Curious Imper- tinent" ..... 430 Chap. VIII. Which treats of the dreadful battle between Don Quixote and certain skins of red wine, and in which is concluded the novel of the " Curious Impertinent" . . . 455 Chap. IX. Which treats of other uncommon adventures that happened in the Inn ..... 469 Chap. X. Wherein is continued the history of the famous Infanta Micomicona ; with other pleasant adventures . .481 Chap. XI. The continuation of Don Quixote's curious discourse upon arms and letters ..... 496 Chap. XII. Wherein the Captive relates his life and adventures . 503 Chap. XIII. In which is continued the history of the Captive . 518 Chap. XIV. In which the Captive continues the story of his adven- tures ...... 536 Chap. XV. Which treats of what farther happened in the inn, and of many other things worthy to be known . . . 564 Chap. XVI. Which treats of the agreeable history of the young mule- teer, with other strange accidents that happened in the inn . 575 Chap. XVII. In which are continued the unheard-of adventures of the inn . . . . 590 Chap XVIII. In which the dispute concerning Mambrino's helmet and the pannel is decided, with other adventures that really and truly happened ..... 603 INDEX. Pagel Chap. XIX. In which is finished the notahle adventures of the archers of the Holy Hermandad, with the great ferocity of our good Knight Don Quixote . . . .613 Chap. XX. Of the strange and unheard-of manner in which Don Quixote de la Mancha was enchanted, with other remarkahlc occurrences . . . . .024 Chap. XXI. In which the Canon prosecutes the subject of books of chivalry, with other matters worthy of his genius . . 638 Chap. XXII. Of the ingenious conference between Sancho Panza and his master Don Quixote .... 650 Chap. XXIII. Of the ingenious contest between Don Quixote and the Canon, with other events .... 664 Chap. XXIV. Which treats of what the Goatherd related to all who accompanied Don Quixote .... 676 Chap. XXV. Of the (pjarrel between Don Quixote and the Goatherd, with the rare adventure of the White Penitents, which he happily accomplished with the sweat of his brow . . . 687 MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, WITH A NOTICE OF HIS WORKS. Nr. passage in the admirable memoir of M. Viardot, which we are about to sub- mit to the English reader, states, that many of the allusions to be found in the works of Cervantes, can only he under- stood by those who are acquainted with the events of hia life. Those events are so varied in their character, and so deeply interesting', that we should feel gnat surprise at their being passed over so briefly as they have been when former editions of Don Quixote were published, if we did not recollect what insuperable obstacles present them- selves to acquiring minute particulars of the course of eminent men, who have lived even within a few years of our own time, and how many of the greatest magnitude might, in the ordinary course of vol. i. b X MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, things, be expected to baffle the industry which aspired to collect materials for the complete history of an author, who lived three centuries ago. A happy coincidence gave M. Viardot opportunities for prosecuting such an enquiry which were denied to his predecessors. Not only had he facilities for studying Spanish manners, in all the several grades which society can furnish, but, favoured by the highest political, as well as the highest literary authorities in the country, he was enabled to make an extended and successful search for documents, facts, and traditions, and the result is a most gratifying picture, in detail, of the Author of Don Quixote. He has rendered a worthy service to letters and to humanity, for the cha- racter of Cervantes well deserves to be known. Like our own Raleigh it was his fate to shine in strangely dissimilar situations. His was a life of awful vicissitude. But a noble and generous spirit made him great in all, — whether we look at him on the day of battle, in the gloom of a Moorish dungeon, or contending with the consuming cares of ordinary life — we must admire the warrior, the captive, and the man. It may generally be said, M. Viardot remarks, that the history of an author, like that of an artist, is confined to the works which survive him : that his writings are his actions, and that, in fine, the man is lost in the author. This is not so in the case of Cervantes. Distinguished as a man, before he became illustrious as a writer, he performed great actions before he gave to the world an immortal book. His history would interest without the superadded recom- mendation of a glorious name ; and his life, not less than his work, is replete with entertainment and morality. Unknown till his death, or indeed it may be said until long after that event, Cervantes had no biographers at that period when contemporary attention, fixed on a celebrated man, usually collects, with religious care, the peculiarities of a glorious existence. All the efforts of posthumous admiration, slow to arouse itself, were necessary to supply, with the aid of tradition as well as authentic documents, conjecture as well as certainty, a memoir, at last incomplete, of a long and active life. Many difficulties opposed the performance of the task, many doubts were to be cleared up, but that which is known as having been averred, and that which is shown to be probable, is sufficient to give us a just idea of what was the true destiny of one of the greatest minds that ever reflected lustre on the human race. Even now, the place which contains the tomb of Cervantes is unknown, and the world was long ignorant of that which had seen his cradle. Eight cities claimed the distinction of being his birth-place, Madrid, Seville, Toledo, Lucena, Esquivias, Alcazar de San Juan. Consuegra, and Alcalá de Henares. It is in the last that he was born and baptized in the parish church of St. Mary the Greater, October 9th, 1547. His family, originally of Galicia, afterwards established in Castile, without belonging to the titled nobility, was at least reckoned among those respectable houses, the members of which are called sons of somebody (hijos de algo, or hidalgos). From the thirteenth century, we find the name of Cervantes mentioned with honour in the annals of Spain. There were warriors who bore it at the time of the great conquests of Ferdi- WITH A NOTICE OF HIS WO BES. xi nand at the taking of Baeza and Seville. They liad a share in the territorial divisions then made, when they re-peopled with Christians the lands evacuated hy the Moors. Others of his ancestors are celebrated among' the conquerors of the new world, as having carried into those distant regions some branches of the ancient stock. Early in the sixteenth century, Juan de Cervantes was corregidor of Ossuna. His son, Hodrigode Cervantes, married, about the year 1540, Donna Leonora de Cortinas, a lady of a noble family, from the village of Barajos. Two daughters were the fruits of that union, Uonna Andrea and Donna Louisa, and afterwards two sons, Rodrigo and Miguel. This latter was the youngest of that family, poor as it was honourable. Few incidents connected with the youtli of Cervantes are known. It is probable, being born in a university city, to which the youth of Madrid repaired for purposes of study, the capital being distant but four leagues, that there his education was commenced. That which is known of him, and from himself is, that he had, from his most tender years, a great taste for letters, and he was fond of reading to such a degree, that he would culled scraps of 'papar in the street to peruse them. His inclination for poetry and for the theatre showed itself in his admiration of the street-performances of the famous Lope de Rueda, an itinerant actor and founder of the Spanish theatre, whose per- formances Cervantes witnessed, at Segovia and Madrid, before he was eleven years of age. The young Miguel, having reached adolescence, set out for Salamanca, where he passed two years, and matriculated among the students of that celebrated university. It is known that he lived in the street Los Moros. It was there that lie became acquainted with the manners of the students, which he has so well depicted in some of his works, among others, in the second part of Do.n Quixote, and in two of his best novels, Le Licencié Vidriara (The Graduate Vidriera), and La Tia Fingida (The Feigned Aunt). Somewhat later, we hud Cervantes at the school of a professor of considerable note, named Juan Lopez de Hoyos. This person, as Regent of the College, was directed by the munici- pality of Madrid, to compose allegories and devices, which were to adorn in the church of Las Descalzas Reales, the mausoleum of Queeen Elizabeth of Valois, on the occasion of the magnificent funeral ceremony celebrated there on the 24th of October, 15G8. Hoyos required the assistance of some of his ablest pupils, and Cervantes is mentioned among the first. In the report which the Professor published, where he recounts, in detail, the sickness, the death, and the obsequies of the Queen, he mentions the work of Cervantes, whom he repeatedly terms "his dear and well-beloved disciple" — several pieces, the first an epitaph in the form of a sonnet, and, among the others, an elegy, composed in the name of all the class, and addressed to the Cardinal Dun Diego de Espinosa, President of the Council of Castile, and Grand Inquisitor. These first essays were applauded, and it was doubtless, at this time, en- couraged by his success at school, that he composed the little pastoral poem of Filena, several sonnets and romanoes, and also some miscellaneous poetry These he mentions, at a later period of his life, in his " Voy age to Parnas- sus," but none of them are now extant. xii MEMOIR OF CERVANTES. It was then that the mysterious and sanguinary drama was to be acted in the palace of Philip II., of which the double denouement was the death of the Infant Don Carlos, and that of the Queen Elizabeth, who survived him but two months. Pope Pius V. sent immediately a nuncio to Madrid, to offer to the King of Spain his compliments of condolence, and to claim also, through the medium of this embassy of etiquette, certain rights of the church, which had been denied, by Philip, to his Italian dominions. The nuncio was a Roman prelate, named Giulio Acquaviva, son of the Duke of Atri, who received the Cardinal's hat on his return from Spain. His mission was any thing but agreeable to Philip, who had peremptorily ordered that no one, prince or subject, should speak to him on the death of his son, and who, devout as he was, would never give way on any point to the court of Rome. In consequence of this state of things, the delegate of the Pope made but a short stay at Madrid. He received his passports on the 2nd of December, 1568, two months after his arrival, with orders to return immediately to Italy, by the route of Valencia and Barcelona. As Cervantes assures us himself that he served the Cardinal Acquaviva, at Rome, in quality of valet, it is probable that the nuncio, to whom the young Miguel had been presented among the poets who had cele- brated the obsequies of the queen, conceived a regard for him, and feeling for his situation, and being struck with his talents, consented to admit him into what was then called the family of a great personage, which was not considered exactly the same as passing into his domestic service. It was, moreover, a very common practice for Spanish young gentlemen to accept of such situa- tions, without being thought to degrade themselves, in the service of the Roman purple, either with the view of visiting Italy at little expense, or in the hope of gaining church preferment, from the favour and influence of their patrons. It was in accompanying his new master, on his return to Rome, that Cer- vantes travelled, taking the road through Valencia and Barcelona, of which he repeatedly sounds the praise in his writings. He also visited the southern provinces of France, which he describes in his Galatea, for at no other period of his life could he have seen those countries. Notwithstanding the luxurious indolence which the ante-chamber of the Roman Prelate might offer to him, and the opportunity, more delightful still, which it afforded him for indulging his taste for poetry, Cervantes did not remain long in this situation. In the following year, 1569, he enrolled his name among the Spanish troops, who then occupied part of Italy. For gentlemen in poor circumstances, no prospect of advancement was open, but that offered by the church or the army ; Cervantes preferred arms, and became a private soldier. The word, by-the-way, had not exactly the same signification as at present, it meant the first step towards military rank, from which a youth could immediately be made an ensign, or even a captain. He did not, therefore, go for a common soldier, but, as the Spanish phrase run, asentar plaza de soldado, took the place of a soldier or volunteer. The moment was well chosen for a man of courage like Cervantes. At that period a great quarrel had just broken out, which arrayed Christianity and Islamism against each other. Selim the Second, violating treaties, invaded, in a WITH A NOTICK OF HIS WOHKS. xiii time of profound poace, the Isle of Cyprus, which belonged to the Venetians. The latter implored aid from Pope Pius V., who immediately ordered his ^allies to join those of Spain, under the order of Marc-Antony Colona, and the Venetian gallies. The combined fleet took its departure early in the summer of 1570 for the Levant, with a view of arresting the progress of the common enemy. But misunderstandings and indecision, on the part of the commanders, caused the first campaign to prove a failure. The Turks took Nicosie by assault, and extended their conquest over the whole island, while the Cbristian squadrons, separated by storms, were obliged severally to return to the ports from which they had started. Among the forty-nine Spanish gallics, which had united with the naval force of the Pope, under the superior orders of John André Dorea, were twenty Neapolitan gallies, commanded by the Marquis of Santa Cruz. These had reinforced their crews with five thousand Spanish soldiers, among which were comprehended the company of the brave Captain Diego de Urbina, which was detached from the regiment of Miguel de Moneada. It was in this company that Cervantes was then enrolled, and made the first trial of his new profession. While he wintered with the fleet in the Port of Naples, military preparations were carried on vigorously by the three maritime powers of the South of Europe, and the diplomacy of the times laid the basis of a strict alliance. Eventually, on the 20th May, 1571, the famous treaty of the League was signed, between the Pope, the King of Spain, and the Republic of Venice. In the same treaty the powers agreed to receive, for the generalissimo of their combined forces, the natural son of Charles V., Don Juan of Austria, who had just distinguished himself by his debut in arms, having put an end to the long revolt of the Moors in Grenada. Don Juan collected, with all possible expedition, in Barcelona, the veteran troops, whose vaiour he had proved in the war of Alpuxarres, and, among others, the famous regiments of Don Miguel de Moneada, and of Don Lope de Figueroa ; and setting; sail for Italy without delay, he entered, on the 96th of June, the harbour of Genoa with forty-seven gallies. After distributing the troops and the crews in the different vessels of the squadron, he proceeded to the port of Messina, in Sicily, where the combined fleet reassembled. In this arrangement, the Italian gallies of Jean André Doria, then in the service of Spain, received two new companies of veterans, formed from the regiments of Moneada d' Urbina and Rodrigo de Mora : Cervantes followed his Captain on board the galley Marquesa, commanded by Francesco Santo-Pietro. The fleet of the confederates, having succoured Corfu, and cleared for some time the enemy's squadron, discovered it on the morning of the 7th of October, at the entrance of the gulf of Lepanto. An action commenced shortly after noon by the wing of liarbarigo, extending itself nearly along the whole line, which terminated at the close of day, in one of the most signal and murderous, but at the same time one of the most useless victories, recorded in the annals of modern times. Cervantes was then sutt'ering from an intermitting fever, and when the battle was about to begin, his captain and comrades earnestly pressed him to xiv MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, withdraw to the lower deck of the galley ; but the generous descendant from the conquerors of Seville, though enfeebled by sickness, far from yielding to this prudent suggestion, begged, as a favour, that his captain would assign to him a post of the greatest peril. He was placed near the shallop, among twelve soldiers of the élite. His galley, the Marquesa, was one of those most distin- guished in the action : she boarded The Captain of Alexandria, killed nearly five hundred Turks, with their commander, and captured the royal standard of Egypt. In the midst of this bloody struggle, Cervantes received three arque- buss-wounds, two in the breast and one in the left hand, which was broken, in consequence of which he remained maimed through all his future life. Justly proud of having acted so noble a part in that memorable combat, Cervantes never regretted the loss of his hand, but often declared that he applauded himself for having paid this price, that he might be counted among the soldiers of Lepanto ; and in proof of his courage, which he prized himself for, much more than for his wit, he loved to show the wounds received, as he would say, " on the most glorious occasion which had occurred in that century, or in those which had preceded it, or which, it could reasonably be hoped, would be wit- nessed for ages to come, — a triumph, which was amoug the stars destined to guide future warriors to the Heaven of honour.'' Don Juan could have wished to follow up his victory, to carry the castles of Lepanto and Saint Maure, and to blockade the Turks in the Dardanelles, but the advanced season of the year, the want of provisions, the great number of sick and wounded which he had under his charge, and the express commands of his brother Philip, obliged him to return to Messina, which he reached on the last day of October. The troops were distributed in winter quarters, and the regiment of Moneada was stationed in the south of Sicily. For Cervantes, sick and wounded as he was, he could not quit Messina, and was compelled to remain six months in thehospital of that place. Don Juan, who had taken the most lively interest in his fate since the day after the battle, when he visited the different camps of his naval force, did not forget Cervantes in his sad retreat. Mention is made of little pecuniary grants sent to him from the pay office of the fleet, under date of the 15th and 23rd of January, and the 9th and 17th of March, 1572. Subsequently, when Cervantes had regained his health, an order of the Generalissimo, addressed on the 29th of April to the official paymaster of the fleet, gave the high allowance of three crowns per month to the soldier Cervantes, who served in a company of the regiment of Figueroa. The campaign which followed that distinguished by the battle of Lepanto, was far from presenting the grand results which had been expected from it. Pius V., the soul of the league, was dead ; the Venetians, whose interests suffered from the interruption of their commerce in the Levant, were no longer hearty in the cause ; the Spaniards found themselves engaged almost single- handed against the Turks, who, strengthened by the diversion France made in their favour, against the Catholic king, the very year of the massacre of St. Bartholomew, threatening Spanish Flanders, had made great preparations, and threatened in their turn the coast of Sicily. Marc-Antony Colona, however, set sail on the 6th of June, for the Archipelago, with a portion of the confede- WITH A NOTICE OF HIS WOIIKS. XV rate fleet, and, among others, with thirty-six gallies of the squadron of the Marquis de Santa Cruz, with which was the company of the regiment of Figueroa, in which Cervantes had entered. Don Juan of Austria took his departure on the 9th of August with the rest of the fleet, hut the two squadrons vainly sought to meet during the first part of the season. Afterwards, when they had at length joined, in the month of September, they lost, through the ignorance of the pilots, the opportunity for attacking, with advantage, the Turkish fleet, which had imprudently divided its forces in the ports of Navarin and Modon. After an useless attempt on the castle of Navarin, Don Juan was obliged to rc-embark his troops, and to return at the commencement of November to the port of Messina. Cervantes recounts at length, in his history of " The Captive Captain," the details of the unsuccessful expedition 1572, in which he had taken a part. Philip II., however, had not yet abandoned his design. He hoped to assemble, by the spring of the following year, three hundred gallies at Corfu, and to strike a blow at the Ottoman fleet which it should never recover. But the Venetians, who treated secretly with Selim, through the intervention of France, signed a treaty of peace in March, 1573. This unexpected de- fection broke up the league, and necessarily caused the projected attack on the Turks to be abandoned. To occupy the forces assembled by Spain, it was resolved to make a descent either on Algiers or Tunis: Philip and Don Juan both preferred attempting the latter, but the King only wished to overthrow the throne of the Turk Aluch-Aly, to place on it the Moor Muley-Mohammed, and to dismantle the fortresses which it cost so much to keep up, while the prince, his brother, to whom he denied the title of Infant of Spain, wished to make himself king of that country, in which the Spaniards, from the time of Charles V., had possessed the fort of (íoletta. The expedition was at first successful. After having landed his men at Goletta, Don Juan sent the Marquis of Santa Cruz at the head of several companies, the élite of his force, to take possession of Tunis, which had been abandoned by the Turkish garrison and nearly the whole of the inhabitants. Philip, however, not a little disturbed by the designs of the royal adventurer, sent an order for his immediate return into Lombardy. Don Juan obeved, leaving but a weak garrison at Goletta and in the fort, which the Turks carried by assault towards the close of that year. Cervantes, after being at Tunis with the Marquis of Santa Cruz, in the ranks of that famous regiment of Figueroa, which made, according to the historian Vander-IIamen, "the earth tremble at their muskets," returned to Palermo with the fleet. Thence he embarked under the Duke de Sesa, who attempted, but unsuccessfully, to relieve Goletta. Afterwards he went into winter quarters at Sardinia, and was thence recalled into Italy, with the gallies of Marcel Doria. It was at that time that Cervantes obtained from Don Juan, who had returned to Naples in June 1575, permission to return to Spain, from which he had been absent seven years. From his connexion with these military expeditions, Cervantes was enabled to travel through Italy. He visited Florence, Venice, Rome, Naples, Palermo, xvi MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, and the college of Bologna, founded for Spaniards by Cardinal Albornoz. He acquired the Italian language, and applied himself assiduously to the study of that literature which had formerly boasted the names of Boscan, Garcilaso, Hurtado de Mendoza, and which presented in his time those of Mesa, Virues, Mira de Amescua, and the brothers Leonardo de Argensola. This study had great influence on his subsequent labours, and on his general style, in which some of his contemporaries, belonging to the sect of Anti-Petrarchists, point out a number of Italianisms, which he took little care to disguise. Cervantes, at that period twenty-eight years of age, lame, weakened by the fatigues of three campaigns, and having always served as a common soldier, re- solved to visit his native country and bis family. He might hope, in approach- ing the court, to gain a suitable recompense for his brilliant services. He obtained from his general more than a mere furlough : Don Juan of Austria gave him letters to the King, his brother, in which, warmly eulogising the soldier who was wounded at Lepanto, he entreated Philip immediately to confer on him the command of one of the companies, then in the course of being raised in Spain, to serve in Italy or Flanders. The viceroy of Sicily, Don Carlos of Arragon, Duke de Sesa, recommended also to the favour of the King and his ministers a soldier, till then neglected, who had won by his valour, his wit, and his exemplary conduct, the esteem of his comrades and also of his commanders. Provided with such powerful recommendations, which promised a happy issue to his voyage, Cervantes embarked at Naples in the Spanish galley El Sol (the Sun), with his elder brother, Rodrigo, a soldierlike himself, the general of artillery, Pero Diez Carrillo de Quesada, the late governor of Goletta, and many other military officers of distinction, who were, like himself, returning to their country. But new trials awaited Cervantes, and the period of repose had not yet arrived for him. On the 26th of September, 1575, the galley El Sol was surrounded by an Algerine squadron, under the command of Mami, an Albanian, who had gained the title of " Captain of the Sea." Three Turkish vessels boarded the Spanish galley, and, among others, a galleon, with twenty-two benches of rowers, commanded by Dali-Mami, a Greek renegade, who was called the Cripple. After a combat, as obstinate as it was unequal, in which Cervantes displayed his wonted bravery, the galley, obliged to strike her flag, was conducted in triumph to the port of Algiers, where the captives were divided among their conquerors. It was the lot of Cervantes to fall into the hands of Dali-Mami, who had acted so important a part in capturing the Christian ship. This man was equally avaricious and cruel. As soon as he had read the letters addressed to the King by Don Juan of Austria and the Duke de Sesa, he supposed his prisoner to be a Spanish gentleman of the most noble family, and of the greatest importance to his own country. To obtain a high price and an early ransom, he loaded him with chains, threw him into prison, and sub- jected him to all kinds of privations and tortures. Such was the custom of those barbarous corsairs, when captives of distinction fell into their hands. They subjected them to the most cruel treatment, at least during the first period of their captivity, either to compel them to deny their faith, or to induce them WITH A NOTICE OF IMS WOIIK.S. XVÜ to consent that their relations and friends should be importuned to send promptly the price fixed for their redemption. In this struggle against incessant persecution, Cervantes exhibited a high degree of heroism, more rare and more noble than mere courage, the heroism of patience — " that second description of valour," as it is called by Solis, '' and the daughter of the heart, which the first inhabits." Far from yielding— far from sinking, Cervantes then conceived the project, afterwards repeatedly hazarded by him, of attempting to regain his liberty by his boldness and his perseverance. He wished also to restore all his companions to freedom, of whom he became the soul and the guide, by the superiority of his mind and his high character. Of these, the names of several have been preserved, and among them those of Don Francisco de Meneses, the ensigns Rios and Castañeda, a Serjeant named Navarrete, a certain Don Beltran del Salto y Castilla, and another gentleman named Osorio. Their first design, according to P. Haedo, was to proceed by land, as other captives had done, to Oran, which belonged at that time to Spain. They so far succeeded as to get out of Algiers with the assistance of a Moor of the country, who had been gained over by Cervantes to act as guide. This man, however, abandoned them on the second day, and the fugitives had no resource but to return to the houses of their masters, there to receive chastisement for their attempt to escape. Cervantes was considered the chief actor in the plot. Some of his companions, among others the ensign Gabriel de Castañeda, were ransomed about the middle of the year 1Ó76. Castañeda took upon himself to carry letters to the parents of Cervantes — letters, in which the two brothers gave an account of their deplorable situation. Rodrigo de Cervantes, their father, sold or mortgaged the small patrimony of his son, his own properly, which was little more considerable, and even the dowries of his two unmarried sisters ; thus condemning the whole family to poverty. These affectionate efforts, alas ! were all useless. When the produce of the sales and the mortgage had been sent to Cervantes he wished to come to an arrangement with his master, Dali-Mami, but the renegade set too high a value on his captive to admit of his being ransomed on moderate terms. His demands were so exor- bitantthat Cervantes was obliged to renounce the hope of purchasing hisliberty. He generously appropriated his share of the money to effect the redemption of his brother, which, a lower price being set upon him, was brought about in August, 1077. On leaving he promised to fit out, from Valencia or the Balearic Isles, very speedily an armed frigate, which should proceed to a certain indicated part of the African coast, to liberate his brother and the other Christians. He carried with him pressing letters, praying that this might be done, from many captives of high birth, to the viceroys of the maritime provinces. This project was connected with a plan long since formed by Cervantes. Three miles from Algiers, on the eastern side of the town, there was a garden and summer-house belonging to Kaid Hassan, a renegade Greek. One of his slaves, named Juan, a Spaniard, native of Navarre, had secretly dug in this garden, which lie was employed to cultivate, a sort of cave, or subterranean apartment. Thither, in obedience to directions given by Cervantes, from the end of February. 1 ">77, the captive Christians successively repaired, as oppor- VOL. I. C xviii MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, tunity offered, and made it their residence. Their number, when Rodrigo left for Spain, already amounted to fourteen or fifteen. Cervantes then, without quitting his master, governed this little subterranean republic, providing for the wants and the safety of its members. This fact, which proves the great resources of his mind, might be somewhat doubted, if it were not proved by a multitude of testimonies and documents. He had, for his principal assistants in this enterprise, Juan, the Navarrese above mentioned, who kept the wicket, and would not suffer any one to approach Hassan's garden ; and, afterwards, another slave called el Dorador (the Gilder), who, when very young, had forsaken his religion, and who had recently again become a Christian. The latter was charged with the task of carrying food to the cavern, which no one was allowed to leave but in the darkness of night. When Cervantes thought the arrival of the frigate might be expected, which his brother had undertaken to get sent, he made his escape from the house of Dali-Mami, and on the 28th of September, after taking leave of his friend, the Doctor Antonio de Sosa, who was too ill to accompany or follow him, he proceeded to take up his abode in the subterranean retreat. His calculation was correct. In the interval which had passed, a ship was fitted out from Valencia or Majorca, under the command of an officer named Viana, who had but lately been ransomed; aman, active, brave, and well acquainted with the coast of Barbary. The frigate arrived within sight of Algiers on the 28th of September ; and, after keeping the high sea all day, she approached at night the spot agreed upon, near the garden, to communicate with the captives, whence they might be embarked in a few moments. Un- fortunately, some fishermen, who had not yet left their vessel, perceived, notwithstanding the gloom of night, the Christian frigate. They gave the alarm, collected a force to act against it, and Viana was obliged to retire to the open sea. He subsequently attempted to approach the shore a second time, but his attempt had a disastrous issue. The Moors were on their guard, they surprised the frigate where it was intended to effect a landing, made prisoners of all on board, and thus defeated the projected escape. Up to that period, Cervantes and his companions had patiently endured, in the hope of regaining their liberty, all the privations, annoyances, and even the sickness which had been created among them by a long residence in their humid and gloomy cave. But that hope now failed them. The morning after the capture of the frigate, the Gilder, the renegade, who had been reconciled to the Church, and in whom Cervantes had reposed the utmost confidence, abjured it again, and hastened to make known to the Dey of Algiers, Hassan-Aga, the retreat of the captives whom Viana had purposed to carry off. The Dey, delighted with such intelligence, which enabled him, according to the custom of that country, to appropriate all those Christians, as lost slaves, to himself, sent the commandant of his guards, with thirty Turkish soldiers, to arrest the fugitives, and the gardener who concealed them. The soldiers, conducted by the treacherous informer, made their appearance unexpectedly, sword in hand, in the cavern. While they were securing the astonished Christians, Cervantes raised his voice, and, with a noble firmness, declared that "none of his com- WITH A NOTICE OF HIS WORKS. XIX panions were at all to blame ; that he alone had induced them to fly, had concealed them ; and that, as he alone was the author of the plot, he alone ought to suffer for it." Astonished at conduct so generous, which went to draw down on the head of Cervantes all the wrath of Elassan-Aga, the Turks sent a messenger to their master, to make him acquainted with what had occurred. The Dey ordered that the captives should be conducted to a building reserved for his slaves, and that their chief should be immediately brough' before him : Cervantes, loaded with chains, was conducted from the cavern, on foot, to the palace of Hassan, amidst the angry hootings of the excited populace, The Dey interrogated him many times, and employed alternately the most flattering promises and most terrible threats, to induce him to betray his accomplices. Cervantes, deaf to all he could urge, inaccessible to fear, persisted in accusing himself alone. The Dey, tired of attempting to shake his resolution, and doubtless, in some degree touched by his magnanimity, contented himself with ordering him to be chained in his slave-house, or prison. Kai'd Hassan, from the garden in which the fugitives had been taken, ran to the Dey, to demand that severe punishment should be awarded to all the captives; and, beginning with his slave Juan, the gardener, lie banged him with his own hands. The samo fate would undoubtedly have been shared by Cervantes and his companions, had not the avarice of the Dey abated in some measure his natural cruelty. Jiut the greater part of the prisoners were claimed by their former masters, and Cervantes himself was again placed in the power of Dali-Mami. Whether he had given the Dey some offence, or whether the latter thought this particular captive would be likely to be ran- somed at a high price, is not known ; but he, (the Dey,) purchased him shortly afterwards, paying for him five hundred crowns. Hassan- Aga, who was of Venetian origin, and whose real name was Andreta, was one of the most ferocious wretches who had given Barbary an infamous celebrity by their monstrous crimes. What P. Haedo recounts of the atrocities, committed during his government, surpasses all belief, and makes the reader shudder with horror. He was not less terrible to his Christian slaves, of whom the number amounted to nearly two thousand, than lie was to his Mussulman subjects. On this subject Cervantes says, in his " Captive Captain" — " Nothing caused us so much torment as the witnessing of the stupid cruelties which my master perpetrated on the Christians. Every day he ordered one to be hanged. One he impaled; he cut the ears off another, and that for nothing at all, or for offences so trifling, that the Turks themselves acknowledged that he committed crime merely for the pleasure of being criminal, and because his natural instinct led him to act the part of butcher to the human race." Cervantes was purchased by Hassan-Aga about the end of February, 1577. Notwithstanding the rigour of hiscaptivity. not withstanding the imminent peril which threatened him on each attempt to escape, he never ceased using, to that end, all the means which circumstances offered, or which could be gained by his own address. In the course of the year 1078, he contrived to send a Moor to Oran, with letters addressed to Don Martin de Cordova, governor of the fortress ; but this emissary was arrested, at the moment the object of his expedition was XX MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, on the point of being attained, and he, with his despatches, was brought back 10 the Dey of Algiers. Hassan-Aga caused the unfortunate messenger to be impaled; and condemned Cervantes, whose signature was attached to the letters to receive two thousand lashes. Some friends, however, who at the time sur- rounded the Dey, interposed their good offices, and once more the pitiless Hassan pardoned him. His clemency in this case was the more remarkable, as at this period, the barbarian caused three Spanish captives to be beaten to death in his presence, whose crime was, that they had attempted to fly by the same road, and who had been seized, and brought back to Algiers by the natives. So much misfortune, and such repeated disasters, could not, however, conquer the resolution of Cervantes, and his mind was unceasingly occupied with plans for effecting his own emancipation, and that of the companions most dear to him. About September, 1579, he formed an acquaintance with a Spanish renegade, who was a native of Grenada, where he called himself the licentiate Giron, but who had assumed with the turban the name of Abd-al-Rhamen. This person seemed to repent the course he had pursued, and manifested a desire to return to his own country, and to seek a reconciliation with the Catholic Church ; in concert with him, Cervantes formed a new project for effecting his escape. They applied to two Valencian merchants, established in Algiers, whose names were Onofre Exarque, and Balthazar de Torres. Both favoured the scheme ; and the former gave about fifteen hundred doubloons to buy an armed frigate, with twelve benches of rowers, which the renegade Abd-al-Rhamen purchased, under the pretence of going on a cruise. The crew was engaged, and many persons of distinction, apprized by Cervantes of what was in contemplation, only waited for the signal to embark. One con- temptible wretch sold them all ; the Doctor Juan Blanco de Paz, a Dominican monk, went, like another Judas, attracted by the vile hope of gain, and betrayed to the Dey the scheme of his countrymen. Hassan-Aga chose at first to dissemble. He wished, by seizing on the parties at the moment of making their attempt, to acquire the right of appropriating them to himself, as slaves condemned to death. Notwithstanding this, news of the perfidious betrayal got abroad, and the Valencian merchants could not doubt but the Dey was well acquainted with the arrangement in which they had participated, and had been the moving instruments. Trembling for his fortune and for his life, Onofre Exarque desired that Cervantes should escape by himself, as of his evidence he stood greatly in fear, expecting that con- fession would be extorted from him on the rack. He offered to ransom him at any price, and to send him immediately to Spain. But Cervantes, incapable of flight while impending danger was about to fall on his friends, rejected this offer, but he consoled the merchant, by swearing to him that neither torture, nor the dread of death, should induce him to accuse any one. At this time, being ready to leave Algiers in the renegade's frigate, he had concealed himself in the dwelling of one of his old companions in arms, the ensign Diego Castellano. An order, issued by the Dey, was soon proclaimed in the streets, demanding the slave Cervantes, and threatening whoever should harbour him, with the severest punishment. Always generous, Cervantes WITH A NOTICE OF HIS WORKS. xix promptly relieved his friend from this dangerous responsibility ; andvoluntarily presented himself before the Dey, in some measure protected by the inter- cession of a renegade from Murcia, named Morato Raez Maltrapillo, who had gained the good graces of Hassan-Aga. The latter demanded from Cervantes the names of all his accomplices ; and, in order to intimidate him the more, caused his hands to be tied behind his back, a rope being passed round his neck, giving him to understand that, failing to comply, he should be instantly conducted to the gallows. Cervantes manifested the same firmness of soul for which he had been distinguished before; he accused no one but himself ; and declared that he had no accomplices but four Spanish gentlemen, who had re- cently obtained their liberty. His answers were sonoble, and so ingenious, that Hassan-Aga was again moved. He contented himself with exiling the licen- tiate Giron to the kingdom of Fez ; and with sending Cervantes to a cell in the prison of the Moors, where the sufferer languished for five whole months, shackled aud chained. Such was the price of that magnanimous act which procured for him, in the words of an ocular witness, the ensign Louis de Pe- droso, " renown, honour, and a crown of glory, among his fellow Christians.'' These several adventures, of which, Cervantes says, " that they would long remain in the recollection of the people of that country ;" and P. Haedo likewise tells us, that " they would form a history by themselves," gave our author s" much credit, both with the Christians and the Moors, that Hassan lived in constant apprehension of some enterprise being undertaken of a more general and more important character. Previously, two brave Spaniards had attempted to bring about an insurrection in Algiers. Cervantes, looked up to by twenty thousand captives then in the capital of the regency, might very well have entertained the same idea. One of his later historians, Fernandez-Navarrete, makes him do so ; and even affirms that the attempt might have succeeded, but for the malevolence and ingratitude of which he was so often the victim. Be that as it may, Hassan-Aga stood so much in fear of his courage, his address, and the influence which he had gained over his companions in captivity, that he said of him, " while I keep this Spanish cripple under a secure guard, my capital, my slaves, and my gallies are safe." Nevertheless, (such is the power of true greatness,) Cervantes was the only prisoner whom the barbarian treated with forbearance and moderation. This is proved by the latter ; who, speaking of himself in " The Captive Captain," says, " One only got on well with him. This was a Spanish soldier, named Saavedra ; who performed actions which will long be remembered in that country, the object of them all being to recover his liberty. Hassan -Aga, however, never gave him a blow with the stick, nor caused him to be struck by others, nor addressed to him one injurious word; whilst each of the numerous attempts made by this captive to escape, made us all fear that he would be impaled ; and he himself expected more than once, that such would be his fate." Cervantes, chained in his cell, had little more to lament than the slaves, who were said to be free, and whose condition now became intolerable. By monopolising the commerce in grain, and all kinds of provisions, Hassan-. \ga caused such a famine, that the streets of the city were strewed with the dead xxii MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, bodies of the native inhabitants who died from hunger and disease. The Christians, fed from avarice rather than from compassion, did not receive from the Turks, their masters, more than was absolutely necessary to sustain life ; notwithstanding they were still, without intermission, overwhelmed with the most severe tasks ; for the great preparations which Philip the Second, was then making against Portugal, while announcing an expedition against Algiers, had alarmed the regency ; and they compelled the prisoners to work day and night, to repair the fortifications, and to re-fit the fleet. While Cervantes was making so many useless attempts in Algiers to win his liberty, his parents had recourse to every effort at Madrid, to procure it for him by the ordinary means of ransom. Having exhausted all their resources in 1577, to procure the release of his elder brother, they now caused an enquiry to be instituted, before one of the alcaldes of the court, under date of March 17th, 1578 ; at which many witnesses came forward to prove the honourable services of Cervantes, in the campaigns of the Levant, and the great distress of his family, which put it out of their power to effect his liberation by their own means. To this document, which was transmitted to the king, the Duke de Sesa, the late viceroy of Sicily, added a sort of certificate, in which he warmly recommended his old soldier to the benevolence of the monarch. The death of the father of Cervantes interrupted these proceedings, and overwhelmed the unhappy family with the deepest affliction. In the following year Philip the Second resolved to send to Algiers commissioners of ransom. The father Fray Juan Gil/procurator-general to the order of the Holy Trinity, and who had besides the title of Redeemer for the crown of Castile, was en- trusted with this mission, to which they joined another monk of the same order ; named Fray Antonio de la Bella. Before these religious functionaries, on the 31st July, 1579, Donna Leonora de Cortinas and her daughter, Donna Andrea de Cervantes, presented themselves, bringing with them three hundred ducats to be applied towards the ransom of Miguel de Cervantes, their son and brother. Two hundred and fifty ducats were offered by the poor widow, and fifty by the daughter. The redeemers set out on their journey, and reached Algiers, May 29th, 1580. They immediately commenced their honourable labours. But great difficulties for a long time opposed the liberation of Cervantes. The Dey, his master, demanded a thousand crowns for his freedom, being double the sum he had given for him ; and threatened, if this were not paid immediately, to carry his slave to Constantinople. In effect, a firman from the Grand- Seignior, having been received, appointing a successor to the Government of the Regency, Hassan- Aga, prepared to carry off with him his wealth, and had already chained Cervantes to one of his gallies. The father Juan Gil, moved with compassion, and trembling lest this interesting prisoner should lose for ever the opportunity of regaining his liberty, used such earnest prayers and entrea- ties, that he at length effected his ransom, on paying five hundred crowns in Spanish gold. To raise this sum, he had found it necessary to borrow from several European merchants ; and, at the same time, to draw heavily on the general redemption fund. At length, after having paid nine doubloons, as a • WITH A NOTICE OF HIS WORKS. xxiii compliment to the officers of the galley, in which lie had been placed as a rower, Cervantes was permitted to go on shore on the 19th Sept., 1580 ; at the very moment when Hassan-Aga, set sail for Constantinople. Thus was Cer- vantes preserved for his country and the world. The first use which he made of his liberty, was to refute, in the most public and most convincing manner, the calumnies of which he had lately been the victim. His infamous traducer, the monk Juan Blanco de Paz, who falsely arrogated to himself the dignity of Commissary to the Holy office, had taken advantage of the close confinement of Cervantesco attribute to him the exile of the renegade Giron ; and also the failure of the last attempt of the captives to escape. Cervantes was no sooner free than he prayed the father Juan Gil to institute an enquiry into the facts. Eventually, the apostolic notary received the declarations of eleven Spanish gentlemen, of the highest distinction, among the captives, in answer to twenty-five questions which were submitted to them. This proceeding, in connection with which are found, minutely recounted, all the circumstances of the captivity of Cervantes, furnishes, besides, interesting details relating to his wit, his character, the purity of his manners, and that noble devotion to the cause of the unhappy, which gained him so many friends Among the testimonials thus obtained, may be mentioned one by Don Diego de Benavides ¡ which states, that, on his arrival at Algiers, desiring to be informed who were the principal Christian captives, Cervantes was named to him in the first rank, because he was loyal, noble, virtuous, of excellent character, and beloved by the other gentlemen. This Benavides sought for the friendship of Cervantes ; and was so cordially received, that he describes himself as having iound in him a father and mother. The carmelite monk, Fray Feliciano, likewise declares, that, after detecting the falsehood of a calumnious accusation circu- lated against Cervantes, be had become his friend ; like all the other captives who envied the reputation he enjoyed for his noble conduct, his Christian, honourable and virtuous character. In addition to what has already been stated, Louis de l'edrosa declares, that, of all the gentlemen residing in Algiers, no one had rendered more pood than Cervantes had done to the other prisoners, or been more distinguished by unsullied honour. Signalized above all the rest, there was an indescribable grace attached to li is actions ; and for high- minded feeling, prudence and reflection, few men could be compared with him. Is it matter of astonishment, when the strange events of his captivity are considered, that Cervantes preserved the memory of them in his after life, and found in his own adventures, subjects for dramas and novels, and that he made, in almost all his works, allusions not easily to be understood, without a previous acquaintance with the course of his eventful life ? He never forgot the manner in which he had been restored to freedom, and gratitude dictated to him, in the tale called the Anglo-Spaniard, a just eulogium on the good redeemers. Provided with the minutes of the enquiry made by the notary Pedro de Bibera, and the individual certificate of father Juan Gil, he about the end of October, 1580, experienced, to use his own expression, " one of the greatest joys a human being can taste in this world ; that of returning, after a long period of xxiv MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, slavery, safe and sound to his native land" " for, on earth," he adds in another place, " there is no good which can equal that of regaining 1 lost liberty." Misfortune soon drove him from the bosom of his family. At the period of his return, Philip II. remained convalescent at Badajoz, after the death of his second wife, Anne of Austria. That monarch entered Portugal on the 5th of December, which the Duke of Alba had recently conquered and tranquillized. The Spanish army, however, still occupied the country, as well to secure its submission, as to pave the way for an attack on the Azores, where the friends of the Prior of Ocrato continued to hold out. Rodrigo de Cervantes, after his ransom, had re-entered the service, and had probably re-joined his old corps, the regiment of the Camp Major General, Don Lope de Figueroa. Our author determined to do the same ; and the man whom the Dey of Algiers had feared, though chained in his slave prison-house, resumed, with his mutilated hand, the musket of a private soldier. Cervantes embarked, in the summer of 158], in the squadron of Don Pedro Valdes, who had orders to make a descent on the Azores, and to protect the commerce of the Indies. He made the campaign in the following year, under the orders of the Marquis de Santa Cruz; and was in the naval battle which that admiral gained on the 25th of Ju'y, within sight of the island of Terceira, over the French fleet, which had taken part with the insurgents of Portugal. The galeón San- Mateo, which carried the veterans of Figueroa, among which Cervantes was unquestionably to be found, took a most conspicuous part in this victory. Afterwards, the two brothers made the campaign of 1583, and were at the taking of Terceira, which was captured by assault. Rodrigo de Cervantes distinguished himself in this affair, and was one of the first to spring on shore, for which he received the rank of ensign, on the return of the fleet. Notwithstanding his humble rank in the army, from which merit only could redeem him, in the absence of fortune, Cervantes boasts, on his return to Portugal, where he went into winter quarters, that he was admitted into the most distinguished circles. He had there, by a lady of Lisbon, a natural daughter named Donna Isabel de Saavedra, who continued with him the re- mainder of his life, even after his marriage, as he never had another child. It was love that caused Cervantes to devote himself to the study of letters. In the interval between his campaigns, he made the acquaintance of a young lady of a noble family of the little town of Esquivias, in Castile : her name was Donna Catalina de Palacios Salazar y Vozmediano. He became passionately in love with her, and found means, in the midst of a soldier's stormy life, to write in her honour the poem called Galatea. This poem, which he calls an eclogue, is a pastoral novel, wholly in the manner of that time, in which he contrived to recount, as a tale of fiction, part of his own adventures ; to praise the leading wits of the day ; and, above all, to offer the lady, the object of his affection, a delicate but impassioned homage. It cannot be doubted, from the example of Rodrigo de Cota, author of the Celestina — of Jorge de Montemayor, author of the Diana ; and from the direct testimony of Lope de Vega, that Cervantes, under the name of Elicia, a shepherd on the shores of the Tagus, represented WITH A NOTICE OF HIS WORKS. XXV the story of his own love for Galatea, a shepherdess, bom on the shores of the same river. Nor can it he doubted, that the other shepherds introduced into the fable, T ircis, Damon, Meliso, Siralvo, Lauso, Larsileo, Artidoro, are intended to image Francisco de Figueroa, Pedro Lainez, Don Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, Luis Galvez de Montalvo, Luis Barahona de Soto, Don Alonzo de Ercilla, Andres Rey de Artieda, his own friends, all writers, more or less celebrated in their day. The Galatea, of which we have but the first part, is remarkable foi the purity of its style, the beauty of the descriptions, and the delicacy of it pictures of love. But the shepherds of Cervantes are too erudite, too philo- sophical, too eloquent ; and the somewhat ill-regulated fecundity of his genius led him to heap up episode upon episode, with too little order, and with bu indifferent taste. These are the defects of which Cervantes accuses himself in the prologue to his pastoral ; and which he would, doubtless, have avoided in the second part, which he often promised, but never made the promise good. The Galatea, dedicated to the abbot of Saint Sophia, Ascanio Colona, son of Marc Antonio Colona, the admiral under whom he had formerly served, was published at the close of 1584; and on the 14th of December, in that year, Cervantes, then thirty-seven years of age, married the heroine of his poem. The father of Donna Catalina de Palacios Salazar was dead, and the widow promised, when her daughter was affianced, to give her a moderate dower, in moveable goods and other property. This was done two years afterwards ; and in the contract of marriage, dated August the 9th, 158G, before the notary Alonzo de Aguilera, Cervantes, in like manner, settles on his wife one hundred ducats, which are stated to be the tenth part of his property. Having left the army, after so many years of service, a private soldier as he had entered it, and become a citizen of Ksquivias, the monotonous dullness of which life ill-accorded with the activity of his mind, Cervantes, urged by his circumstances to seek for some addition to his very moderate means, recalled his earlier dreams, and resumed the first occupation of his youth. The proximity of Madrid enabled him to visit the capital frequently, and, indeed, almost to reside there. It was there that he figain became intimate with many authors of the time, and, among others, with Juan Rufo, Lopez Maldonado, and, above all, with Vicente Espinel, the author of the romance of Marcos de Ohregon, which Le Sage has turned to such good account in his Gil Bias. It is even probable, that Cervantes was admitted to a sort of academy, which a nobleman had just opened in his house at Madrid; who thus did, near the court of Philip II., what had made Ferdinand Cortes illustrious at that of Charles V. Cervantes, at least, speaking in one of his novels of the Italian academies, mentions the imitatorial academy of Madrid. During the four years immediately following his marriage, Cervantes again became a man of letters, as well as a citizen of Ksquivias, and gave up pastoral poetry, which brought him nothing, to devote himself exclusively to the theatre. It was while he was yet a child, that the Spanish theatre, emancipated from the church and secularized, if such an expression may lie used, began to exhibit in public the entertainments of Lope de Rueda, a wandering /Eschylus, author as well as actor, the humble, but the undoubted founder of the stage which wa» VOL. I. d xxvi MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, subsequently to be illustrated by Lope de Vega, Calderón, Moreto, Tirso de Molina, and Solis, whence Corneille and Moliere were to derive their inspiration. The court of Spain, which had always been accustomed to move from the capital of one province to another, fixed its residence permanently at Madrid in 1561 ; and, about the year 1580, the two theatres, de la Cruz and del Principe, which still exist, were erected. At that time, there were some superior minds, who did not disdain to labour for the scene, which till then had been neglected or abandoned to the heads of strolling companies, who composed for them- selves the farces, which formed their stock list. Cervantes was one of the earliest to enter on this new career, and his first production was a comedy, written in six acts, founded on his own adventures, and entitled Los Tratos de Argel. This was followed by more than twenty others, among which he himself mentions, with satisfaction and with praise, La Numancia, La Batalla Naval, La Gran-Turquesca, La Entretenida, La Casa de los zelos, La Jerusalen, La Amaranta o la del Mayo, El Bosque amoroso, La Unica y bizarra Arsinda, and, above all, La Confusia, which appeared, as he thought, to admirable advantage on the stage. " I," said he, " did not hesitate to reduce comedies to three acts from five, in which they had been written till then. I was the first who represented imagination and the secret thoughts of the soul ; giving moral impersonations to the theatre, for the gratification of the public, who received them with general applause. I wrote, at this period, from twenty to thirty comedies, which were all well received, wthout having a single cucumber or projectile thrown at them ; and each had its run, without encountering hisses, hootings, or groanings." All these pieces, as part of our author's writings, were long known but by name ; and their loss was much regretted. It was thought that, with an imagi- nation so rich, so much vivacity, an understanding of so high an order, and a taste so pure, — that with his knowledge of the rules of the drama, as displayed in many parts of Don Quixote, — and after the praises which he so ingenuously bestows on himself, as a comic playwright, together with the singular talent which he has really displayed in his interludes ; — it was thought, all these things borne in mind, that his so lauded dramatic compositions must be pre-eminent. Unfortunately for his theatrical renown, three or four of them have been recovered; and, among others, La Numancia, La Entretenida, and Los Tratos de Argel. These pieces are far from justifying the regrets which their loss had excited; and the reputation of their author would assuredly have gained by their only being known from the parental judgment which he had pronounced upon them It is a curious instance, and not the only one which he furnishes, of the incapacity of a man of superior genius to form a just estimate of his own works. Of the plays, above mentioned as regained, the best is, unquestionably, the Numancia. Though far removed from perfection, it is incomparably better than the tragedies of Lupercio de Argensola, on which Cervantes is prodigal of eulogium. (vide Don Quixote, part I. chap. 48 ;) a circumstance very remarkable, coming, as it does, from a pen so little accustomed to flattery. In the heroic sentiments of a people who devote themselves to death, rather WITH A NOTICE OF HIS WORKS. xxvii than submit to lose their liberty ; in the touching episodes which grow out of a catastrophe so immense; in the enthusiasm, the friendship, the love, and the maternal fondness displayed in connection with it — he displays all the energy and delicacy of a soul so noble, and yet so tender. But still, taken altogether, the drama is defective ; the plan vague and unconnected, the details incoherent, and the interest, being too much divided, fatigues attention and exhausts itself. Upon the whole, the best productions which Cervantes has given to the stage, are his interludes, little pieces called sainétés, farcical enter- tainments ; which were acted then, not after a regular play, but between the acts of more important performances. Nine interludes, by Cervantes, have been discovered, El Juez de los divorcios, El Rujian viudo, La Elección de los alcaldes, 8fc. which are, for the most part, models of whimsical buffoonery. Poor Cervantes did not long find, in theatrical success, the profit and glory which he had expected. That source of emolument was soon dried up. "Comedies," as he himself says, in his prologue, " have their times and seasons." It was at this period, that that prodigy of nature, the great Lope de Vega came to claim the comic monarchy as his own ; to bring under his jurisdiction all actors, and to fill the world with his plays." Driven from the theatre, like many others, by the unheard of fecundity of Lope de Vega, Cervantes was compelled to seek another occupation — one, undoubtedly, less to his taste, less brilliant, and less noble ; but which might give him bread, More than forty years of age, without patrimony, unrecompensed for his twenty years of service and suffering, he had to sustain the burthen of a family, which was increased by two sisters and his natural daughter. A counsellor of finance, Antonio de Guevara, was appointed, in 1588, as Commissary at Seville to victual ships and fleets sailing to the Indies; with the right of naming four commissioners to assist in the performance of his duty. At this time he was engaged in complet- ing the equipment of that invincible Armada, which the English and the tempests destroyed. Guevara offered one of these situations to Cervantes, who, in conse- quence, set out for Andalusia, accompanied by all his family, with the exception of his brother Rodrigo, who was still serving with the army in Flanders. Here then we see the author of ' Galatea,' the dramatist twenty times success- ful, compelled to become clerk to a victualler of the navy ! But this was not all : he solicited from the king by a petition dated May 1590, some employment as paymaster in New Grenada, or as corregidor in the little town of Goeteinala. He, in fact, wished to go to America, which he mentions as " the common refuge for desperate Spaniards." Happily his petition was buried among the papen of the Council of the Indies. The abode of Cervantes at Seville was of long duration. Excepting several excursions into Andalusia and a single journey to Madrid he remained there ten consecutive years. After having been clerk to the victualler of the fleet, Guevara, up to 1590, he filled the same situation for the ensuing two years, under Pedro de Isunza, the successor of Guevara. Afterwards, when this sub- ordinate situation failed him, by the suppression of the superior office, he became a business agent, and lived for many years by the commissions given him by municipal bodies, and rich individuals, among whom may be named Don Her- xxvin MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, nando de Toledo of Cigales, whose affairs he managed, and made a friend of his employer. In the midst of occupations so unworthy of him, and so uncongenial to his taste, Cervantes, would not bid the muses a last adieu : he still secretly worship- ped at their shrine, and carefully kept alive the sacred fire of his genius. The house of the celebrated painter Francisco Pacheco, master and father-in-law of the great Velasquez, was open then to every variety of merit. The studio of the artist, who likewise cultivated poetry, was, to use the words of Rodrigo Caro, the regularly established academy or rendezvous for all men of genius in Seville. Cervantes was among its most constant visitors, and his portrait figures in that invaluable gallery, containing more than a hundred distinguished persons, who had been painted and brought together by the pencil of its proprietor. In that academy he contracted a friendship with the illustrious lyric poet Fernando de Herrera, whose memory has been almost suffered to perish by his countrymen ; as they neither know the date of his birth nor that of his death, nor any particu- lars of his life, and whose works, or rather the few of them which remain, were found in fragment in the portfolios or scrap books of his friends. Cervantes wrote a sonnet on the death of Herrera, but was equally the friend of another poet, Juan de Jauregui ; the elegant translator of the Aminta of Tasso, whose translation, equalling the original, has the rare privilege of being so accounted among classic works. The painter Pacheco, studied poetry; the poet Jauregui, practised painting, and, as well as his friend, produced a portrait of Cervantes. It was during his abode at Seville, that Cervantes wrote most of his novels ; which successively increased in number, were collected and published long after- wards, between the two parts of Don Quixote. The adventures of two celebrated robbers, who were apprehended at Seville, in 1569 ; and of whom the history was still generally known, furnished matter for his Rinconete y Cortadillo. The plunder of Cadiz, where on the 1st July, 1596, an English force was landed from the fleet, commanded by Admiral Howard and the Earl of Essex, suggested to him the idea of the Anglo Spaniard. He also wrote at Seville El Curioso imper- tinente, which he inserted in the first part of Don Quixote ; El Zeloto Estremeno, and La Tia fingida, founded on recollections of his abode at Salamanca, of which, for a long period the title only was known, and which has but lately been discovered in manuscript. Up to the time of Cervantes, since the wars of Charles the Vth., which opened to Spain a knowledge of Italian literature, Spanish writers had confined them- selves to translating the licentious tales of the Decameron, and to imitations of Boccacio. Cervantes, therefore, is justified in saying in his prologue, " I pre- sent myself as the first who has written novels in Spanish, for though there are a great number printed and circulated in our language, they are all borrowed from foreign authors. Those which I have produced are mine ; they are neither imitations nor thefts ; my mind engendered and my pen gave them birth." He termed them Novelas ejemplares, " example novels," to distinguish them from Italian tales, and because, as he said, there was no one of them from which some useful example might not be drawn. They are further divided into two classes, serious and jocose. Of the former there are seven, and eight of the latter. WITH A NOTICE OK HIS WORKS. \X1X On the occasion of the death of Philip II., which occurred on 13th September, 1598, a magnificent catafalque was erected in the cathedral of Seville, " the most wonderful funereal monument," writes one who saw and recorded the ceremony, " that human eyes had ever the happiness to behold." It was on this occasion, that Cervantes wrote that famous búrleseme sonnet, in which he ridicules with so much humour the bombast of the Amlalusians, the Gascons of Spain, and which he calls, in one of his late works, " The Journey to Parnassus," the prin- cipal honour of his writings. The date of that sonnet serves to fix the time of his residence at Seville, which he left shortly afterwards never to return. The cause of this was as follows. Cervantes, who in many respects resembled Camoens, experienced the worst misfortune which embittered the life of that great man, when he was accused of malversations, in his oihee of commissioner of the victualling department at Macao, thrown into prison, and brought before the tribunal of accounts. Like the poet of the Lusiad, Cervantes remained poor, and clearly proved his innocence. Towards the close of 1594, when engaged at Seville, in settling the accounts of his commissariat, and when he was recovering with difficulty some arrears, Cervan- tes transmitted repeatedly sums of money to the treasurer at Madrid, in bills of exchange drawn from Seville. One remittance arising from the taxation of the district of Velez-Malaga, and amounting to 7,400 reals was sent by him in specie to a merchant at Seville, named Simon Freiré de Lima, who undertook to convey it to the treasury in Madrid. It was then that Cervantes made a journey to the capital, and not finding there the cash which he had transmitted, he reclaimed from the merchant the sum which he had confided to him, but, in the mean time, Freiré hud failed, and fled from Spain. Cervantes returned immediately to Seville, where he found that all the goods of his debtor had been seized by other creditors. He upon this, addressed a petition to the king, and a decree of the 7th August, 1595, ordered doctor Bernardo de Olmedilla, judge of los yrados, at Seville, to take by privilege from the assets of Freiré, the sum which had been remitted by Cervantes. That judge effectually enforced the claim, and forwarded the amount to the Treasurer General, Don Pedro Mesia de Tobar, by a bill of exchange drawn November 22, 159G. The tribunal of the Treasury exerted the greatest severity in adjusting the accounts of all connected with the Exchequer, which had been completely drained by the conquests of Portugal and Terceira, by the campaigns in Flan- ders, the destruction of the invincible Armada, and the ruinous experiments made by certain charlatans in finance, who were called at that time arbitristas. The inspector general, to whom Cervantes had been but the agent, was con- ducted to Madrid to make up his accounts. He represented, that all the docu- ments necessary as vouchers, were at Seville in the hands of Cervantes. A royal order dated Sept. G, 1597, directed in a summary way, the judge Gaspar de Vallejo, to arrest, and to send Cervantes under a proper escort to the prison of the capital, there to be dealt with by the tribunal of accounts. He was in con- sequence, forthwith committed to prison, but, having offered security for the pay- ment of 2,641 reals, to which the alleged deficiency was reduced, he was re- leased under a second order dated December 1st, of the same year, on condition XXX MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, that he presented himself before the court within thirty days to pay the balance. It is not exactly known how this first proceeding against Cervantes terminated ; but, some years afterwards, he was again disturbed on account of this paltry claim for 2,641 reals. The inspector of Baza, Gaspar Osorio de Tejada, presented in his accounts, at the end of 1602, an acknowledgement from Cervantes, proving, that that sum had been received by him in 1594, when he was commissioned to recover arrears of claims on that city and district. Having consulted on this point, the judges of the court of the Treasury, made a report dated Valladolid Jan. 24th, 1603, in which they gave an account of the arrest of Cervantes in 1597, for this same sum, and of his conditional enlargement, adding, that since he had not appeared before them. It was on this occasion that Cervantes went with all his family to Valladolid, where for two years Philip the III., had held his Court. Proof has been obtained, that, on the 8th February 1603, his sister Donna Andrea was engaged in superintending the household and wardrobe of a certain Don Pedro de Toledo Osorio, Marquis de Villafranca, who had returned from the expedition to Algiers. Among the papers found there are house-keep- ing accounts, which prove the distress of Cervantes, and of his family and many notes and bills, in his hand writing. He settled his affairs with the tribunal of accounts either by proving an anterior payment, or by satisfying the claim at this period, for the suit commenced against him ceased, and he passed the rest of his life peaceably in the vicinity of that tribunal by which he had been so sharply treated. The honour of Cervantes requires that these minute details should thus be stated ; but if it were necessary to prove by other evidence that his probity stood above all suspicion, it would suffice to recall the fact, that he himself mentions in a spirit of gaiety, his numerous imprisonments. It would have been too much for effrontery itself to do this, if he had been subjected to them by any disgraceful action ; and his enemies, those who envied his talents and detracted from his merit in every possible way, and reproached him even with his crippled hand, would not have failed to wound, in the most vulnerable part, the self-love of the gifted writer. The materials for tracing the course of Cervantes here present a serious hiatus. Nothing is known of him with certainty from 1598, when he wrote at Seville the sonnet on the tomb of Philip II, till 1603, when he had returned to Valladolid where the court then resided. It is, however, during this interval of five years, that he conceived, commenced, and nearly finished the first part of Don Quixote. Many circumstances render it probable that he quitted Seville with his family about the year 1599, and that he settled in some village of La Mancha, a pro- vince where he had relations established, and where he had a variety of engage- ments. The promptitude with which he appeared before the tribunal of accounts held at Valladolid, in 1603, seems to prove that be must have been residing at some place nearer than Andalusia ; and the perfect knowledge which he shows in his romance of the localities, and manners of La Mancha, likewise prove, that he must have remained there for a considerable period. It is probable that he had fixed his abode at Argamasilla de Alba, and that, in placing himself there, the country of his insane gentleman, he designed to ridicule the inhabitants of WITH A NOTICE OF HIS WORKS. xxxi that village, who precisely at that date were carrying on, for certain claims to pre eminence, quarrels so disgraceful, and law-suits so obstinate, that, according to the chronicles of the time, they had, from the ruin they caused, and the con- stant collision of individuals, the effect of diminishing the numbers of the popu- lation not a little. When we see it announced by Cervantes, in his prologue to Don Quixote, that the offspring of his genius was "The history of a child, meagre, adust, and whimsical born in a prison, where every inconvenience keeps its resi- dence, and every dismal sound its habitation;" we ask, with eager curiosity, on what occasion, at what period, and in what country, did he obtain the sad leisure for his mind to give birth to one of the finest efforts of human wit ? It has generally been the opinion out of Spain, for a long time, that he conceived and begun his work in the cells of the Holy Inquisition. It would be difficult, as Voltaire says, for any one to calumniate the Holy Inquisition whatever he might say; but, in the midst of all his troubles, Cervantes had at least the happiness to avoid any quarrel with that fraternity. On the subject of his imprisonment in La Mancha, a thousand conjectures have been hazarded; but all is still uncertainty : some believe that this misfortune befel him in the village of Toboso, in consequence of a bitter sarcasm, addressed to a female, whose offended relatives took this method of avenging the insult. It is, how- ever, almost generally admitted, that it was the inhabitants of the village of Argamasilla de Alba, who threw Cervantes into a gaol, being exasperated against him, either because he exacted from them the arrears of tithes claimed by the grand priory of San Juan, or because that he deprived them of the small rills that irrigated their lands, which they had drawn from the waters of the Guadiana, to carry on the Government salt-petre works. It is certain that they show to this day, in that village, an ancient edifice called the Casa de Medrano, which the immemorial tradition of the country has distinguished as the prison of Cervantes. It is equally certain that the poor commissioner of tithes, or of gunpowder, remained there a very long time; and in so miserable a condi- tion, that he was obliged to have recourse to his uncle, Don Juan Barnabe de Saavedra, citizen of Alcazar de San Juan, to solicit protection and assistance. The recollection of a letter, written by Cervantes at that time to his uncle, is pre- served, which commenced with these words, " Long days and short, or rather sleepless nights fatigue me in this prison, or, to speak more correctly, this cavern." It is in reference to this severe treatment, that he begins Don Quixote with an expression of mild resentment. " Domiciled in a village of La Mancha, the name of which I purposely omit." Returned, after an absence of thirteen years, from what was called the Court, that is to say to the city in which the residence of the king was established, Cervantes found himself as in a foreign country. Another prince, and other favorites governed the state, and his former friends were dead, or widely dis- persed. If the soldier of Lcpanto, if the author of Galatea, had found neither justice nor protection while his titles to consideration were fresh in the minds of men, what could he hope for from the successors of Philip the second, and his ministers, after being forgotten for so many years. Notwithstanding the dis- couragements of his situation, pressed by the necessities of his family, Cervan- xxxii MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, tes resolved on a last effort. He presented himself at the levee of the duke of Lerma, the Atlas, as he was called, who thus sustained the whole weight of the monarchy, who was, in other words, the omnipotent dispenser of court patronage. The proud favorite treated him with contempt ; and Cervantes, wounded to the bottom of his proud but susceptible soul, renounced, for ever, the part of dancing attendance on the great. From that time, his hours were divided between busi- ness agencies and the labours of his pen. He lived, resigned to his lot, in re- tirement, and with humble means, on the produce of his labours, and the assist- ance he received from his patrons, the Count de Lemos, and the Archbishop of Toledo. The unfortunate situation in which Cervantes found himself, poor and des- pised, caused him to hasten the publication of Don Quixote, at least of the first part of it, in which he had already made great progress. He obtained permis- sion of the king to print it under date of the 26th Sept. 1604. It was, however, necessary to find a Macaenas to accept the dedication, and to allow it to be brought forward, under the protecting shadow of his name. In conformity with esta- blished custoin, this was indispensable to Cervantes, poor and unknown, and for a work like his. If his book, the title of which might mislead, were taken for a mere romance of chivalry, it might have fallen into the hands of people, who, not finding in it the extravagancies they sought, would have been incapable of appreciating the delicate satire it threw on a taste depraved like theirs. On the other hand, if it should be immediately recognised and comprehended, the subtile and bold criticisms there combined, in a thousand allusions to the princi- pal object of criticism, rendered high protection eminently desirable. The pa- tronage of a grandee, would avert the evil he dreaded on either hand. Cervan- tes, under these circumstances, made choice of Don Alonzo Lopez de Zuniga y Sotomayor, seventh duke of Bejar, one of those specimens of noble blood, who condescend to bestow on letters and the fine arts, the encouraging smile of their titled ignorance. It is stated that the duke, on learning that Don Quixote was a work of raillery, fancied it would compromise his dignity, and refused to accept its dedication. Cervantes, affecting to give way to the repugnance thus manifested by the duke, only requested the favour of being permitted to read one chapter of the work to his lordship. This being conceded, such was the surprise and the pleasure which the reading afforded to his auditory, that from chapter to chapter, he was obliged to go on to the end of the book. The author was overwhelmed with praise, and the duke, yielding to the general prayer of those present, permitted himself to be immortalized. It is likewise said, that an ecclesiastic, steward to the Duke of Bejar, who at the same time regulated his house and governed his conscience, shocked at the success of Cervantes, censured the book and the author with equal bitterness, and severely reproached the duke for the favourable reception which both had received from him. This morose monk had no doubt great influence over his client, for the duke forgot Cervantes, who, in his turn, dedicated nothing else to him. He indeed revenged himself after his own fashion, by representing the scene which has been described, with the several personages engaged in it, in the second part of Don Quixote. The first part was published in 1605. It may be as well before going further WITH A NOTICE OF HIS WORKS. xxxin with this narrative, to explain what was, as to the special object of the book, the state of things at the time when it made its appearance. The period at which it is supposed knight-errantry flourished, and within which the adventures of the paladins is comprehended, is between the extinction of ancient, and the rise of modern civilization. It was in those days of darkness and barbarism, when might was right, when justice was rendered by wager of battle, when feudal anarchy incessantly desolated the land, when religious power called to the aid of the civil authority, could find no other means than " The truce of God," to secure to a nation a few days of peace. Certainly at such an epoch, it might have been well that a brave knight should devote himself to the defence of the unfortunate and the protection of the oppressed. A warrior of high rank, lance in hand, and covered with armour, who should thus have traversed the world seeking occasions to exercise his noble profession, the gene- rosity of his heart, and the prowess of his arm, might have been a glorious benefactor entitled to the gratitude and admiration of mankind. When he had destroyed some of the banditti who infested the high roads, or drawn from their retreats other escutcheoned robbers, who, from their castles built on the summits of the rocks, pounced like an eagle from his nest, on the helpless pas- sengers who presented themselves an easy prey to violence ; when he had deli- vered captives from their chains, snatched an innocent man from punishment, brought a murderer to justice, hurled a usurper from the throne — when he had in fact renewed in this primeval age of modern society, the labours of Hercules, of Theseus, of the demi-gods of a former world in its infancy — then his name, repeated from mouth to mouth, would have been preserved in the memory of men, with all the decorations of traditional history. On the other hand, women, whom public manners did not as yet protect from outrage, which they wanted bodily strength to resist, would become the principal object of the generous care of the knight-errant. Gallantry, that new description of love, unknown to antiquity, the gallantry to which Christianity has given birth, mingling with sensual pleasures, respect, and a species of religious worship, would blend the knight's sweetest enjoyments with the justice his lance might administer, and thus divide bis existence between war and love. There was assuredly in the subject, treated in a certain way, matter not for a book, but for the whole literature of a country. It was easy to connect with the history of knights-errant, that of the customs of the age in which they lived, descriptions of tournaments and fetes, the gallant justice of the courts of love, the songs of troubadours, the exhibitions of dancers and the pilgrimages of monks or warriors to the Holy-Land; and the east was open, with all its wonders, to the writer of romance. But it was not thither that they shaped their course, or at least it was not there that authors of chivalry were content to stop. Without respect for truth, or even for probability, they heaped up at pleasure the grossest blunders in history, in geography, in philosophy and even added the most dangerous errors in morals. They only knew how to tell of blows of the lance and blows of the sword, of perpetual battles, of incredible exploits, of inconsistent adventures put together from end to end without plan, connection, or intelligence ; they mixed tenderness with ferocity, vice with super- VOL. i. « xxxiv MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, stition ; they called to their aid giants, monsters, enchanters, and in fine each strove to surpass by exaggerations, impossibilities and wonders. Nevertheless, by their very defects, books of this description could not fail to please. At the time when they appeared, some learned men had, it is true, made a noble beginning to seek the treasures of antiquity among its ruins : but the multitude, ignorant and idle, were still without wholesome aliment to fill up their leisure and the void left in their minds. On such prey they sprang with greediness. Besides, since the crusades, a general taste for adventurous enter, prises had marvellously prepared them for chivalric romances, and if these had found in Spain more popular and more lasting success than any where else, it was because in Spain, more than in any other place, the taste for a chivalrous career was deeply rooted. To eight centuries of incessant warfare against the Moors and the Arabs, had succeeded the discovery and conquest of the New World, and then came the wars of Italy, Flanders and Africa. How can we be asto- nished at the passion evinced for books of chivalry, in a country where the examples set forth in them had been actually reduced to practice ? Don Quixote was not the first madman of his kind, and the fictitious hero of La Mancha had had living precursors, models of flesh and blood. If we open the " Illus- trious Men of Castile," by Hernando del Pulgar, we sh all there see the well known extravagance of Don Suero de Quiñones, son of the chief magistrate of the Asturias, spoken of with praise, who, having agreed to break three hundred lances, in order to ransom himself from the chains cast around him by his lady, defended during thirty days the pass of Orbigo, as did Rodomont the bridge of Montpellier. The same chronicler, without departing from the reign of John II., (from 1407 to 1454,) mentions a crowd of warriors personally known to him, such as Gonzalo de Guzman, Juan de Merlo, Gutierre Quejada, Juan de Polanco, Pero Vazquez de Sayavedra, Diego Várela, who not only visited their neighbours the Moors of Grenada, but traversed foreign countries, like true knights-errant, France, Germany and Italy, offering to break a lance in honour of their ladies, with any who would accept of their challenge. This immoderate taste for romance of chivalry soon bore its fruits. Young persons estranged from the study of history, which did not offer sufficient mat- ter for their ill-regulated curiosity, took the books of their choice, offering as models both in language and manners. Obedience to the caprice of women, adulterous amours, false points of honour, sanguinary vengeance for the most tri- vial injuries, unbridled luxury, contempt for social order, all these were brought into practice, and books of chivalry thus became not less fatal to good manners, than to good taste. These fatal consequences excited at first the zeal of the moralists. Luis Vivés, Alexo Venegas, Diego Gradan, Melchor Cano, Fray Luis de Granada, Malón de Chaíde, Arias-Montano, and other sensible and pious writers, express- ed aloud their indignation at the evil effects produced by such reading. The laws afterwards came to their aid. A decree of Charles V. issued in 1543, ordered the viceroys and courts of the New-World not to suffer, by either Spaniard or Indian, any romance of chivalry to be printed, sold or read. In 1555 the Cortes of VaUadolid claimed, in a very energetic petition, the same prohibí- WITH A NOTICE OF HIS WORKS. XXXV tion for the Peninsula, and still more, demanded that all the books of that de- scription then in existence, should be collected and burnt. Queen Jane, pro- mised a law on this subject, which however never appeared *. But neither the declamations of rhetoricians or moralists, nor the anathemas of legislators, could put a stop to the contagion. All these remedies were im- potent opposed to the prevailing taste for the marvellous, a taste over which reason, philosophy and science, cannot gain a perfect triumph. Romances of chivalry were still written and read. Princes, lords and prelates, accepted the dedications of them ; and Saint Theresa, very much attached in her youth to this kind of literature, invented a chivalrous romance, before writing The interior of the Chateau, and her other mysterious works. Charles V. devoured in secret the Don Belianis of Greece, one of the most monstrous productions of this literature run mad, even while he was issuing against it decrees of proscrip- tion ; and when his sister the Queen of Hungary, wished to give a grand enter- tainment on her return to Germany, she could find nothing better to offer in the celebrated fétes of Bins, 1549, than the realization of the adventures of a book of chivalry, in which all the lords of the court, and the austere Philip II. himself, took a part. This taste had even penetrated the cloisters ; they read there, and even wrote romances. A franciscan monk, who was called Fray Gabriel de Mata, caused to be printed, not in the thirteenth century, but in the year 1589, a chivalric poem, of which the hero was Saint Francis the patron of his order, and the poem was entitled ell caballero Asisio, the knight of the Assizes. For a frontispiece it had a portrait of the saint on horseback and armed at all points, after the manner of those figures which decorate the Amadis de Gaul and the Eplandian. His horse was gaily caparisoned and adorned with magnificent plumes. He wore on the head-piece of his casque, a cross with nails and a crown of thorns. On his shield, the representation of the five wounds appeared, and on the standard of his lance, one of Faith holding * The following are some of the passages contained in this curious petition. " Wc further say that the mischief is most notorious which has hecn done, and is now doing to the youth of both sexes, by the reading of books of lies and vanities, such as Amadis, and all the books of like character, published since that period. For as young men and young women, from idleness, principally occupy themselves with these, they imbibe a taste for those reveries and adventures of which they read, as well in love us in war, and at the same time fall into other follies, and for these hav- ing once conceived a passion, when favourable opportunities occur, they give a loose run to extravagance, much more than but for such reading they would ever have done. Very often it will happen that the mother will leave her daughter shut up in the house, believing that she may leave her with safety in such a retreat, when the latter will so well employ her time in these studies, that the mother may find it would have been much wiser to have taken her child out with her. Not only docs this lead to the prejudice and disparagement of individuals, but to the great detriment of con- science, for the more the parties become attached to such foolery, the more will they become indifferent to the holy, true and christian doctrine. To remedy the above mentioned evil, we supplicate your Majesty to order, under severe penalties, that no books of this description, or approaching to it, shall be read or printed, and further that those which have already been published may be collected and burnt. Doing this your Majesty will render a great service to God, in taking from young persons the reading of books of vanity, and in compelling them to read religious works, which will edify their souls and reform their lives, and your Majesty will further confer on these kingdoms a great benefit and favour." xxxvi MEMOIR OF CERVANTES. the cross and the chalice with this legend, " In this there can be no failure." This singular book was dedicated to the constable of Castile. Such was the state of things, when Cervantes, shut up in his little village of La Mancha, conceived the idea of overthrowing from top to bottom the whole fabric of chivalric literature. It was then in the zenith of its popularity, of its success, of its triumph, when he resolved, poor, humble, unknown, without a protector, having no power at his command but his wit and his pen, to attack the hydra which had set common sense and law at defiance. But he opposed to it arms much more efficacious in the cause of reason, than arguments, ser- mons and legislative prohibitions — ridicule. His success was complete. The moralists and legislators who had previously opposed books of knight-errantry, might say as Buffon said of J. J. Rousseau, with regard to nursing mothers: " We had all advised the same thing ; he alone dared to order it and made him- self obeyed." A gentleman of the court of Philip III., Don Juan de Silva y Toledo, lord of Canada-Hermosa, had published in 1602, the chronicle of the prince Don Policisne de Baria. This book, one of the most extravagant of its kind, was the last romance of chivalry produced in Spain. After the appearance of Don Quixote, not only was there no new romance published, but the old ones wholly ceased to be re-printed, which thus rendered scarce, have no longer value but as bibliographic curiosities. There are many of which the names only are known, and doubtless there were many more of which not even the names have been preserved. In a word, the success of the history of Don Quixote was such, that some moody critics have complained, that by the excessive power of the remedy, an opposite disease has been produced, and they have not scrupled to affirm that the irony of this satire, over-shooting the mark, had hit and severely shaken the maxims till then revered, of the old Castilian point of honour. Having explained the primitive object of Don Quixote, it is now time to return to the history of the book and its author. According to a tradition generally admitted, and which is not at variance with probability, the first part of the work when it originally came out, was received with the most perfect indiffer- ence. As Cervantes had reason to fear, it was read by people who could not understand it, and so neglected by those who ought to have been able to com- prehend all its merit. A thought struck him then, to publish under the title of Buscapié, (a name, given to those little fusees or serpents, thrown forward in military operations to give light to a night-march,) an anonymous pamphlet, in which, affecting to criticise his book, (as Pope did his pastorals a century later,)heex- plained its real object, at the same time hinting, imaginary as they were, that his characters and their actions had some reference to the men and the events of the times. This little trick completely answered the purpose. Excited by the imperfect disclosures of Buscapié, the leading wits of the day read the book, and from that time Cervantes saw the indifference of the public rapidly resolve itself into insatiable curiosity. The first part of Don Quixote was reprinted four times in Spain in one year, 1605, and almost immediately found its way into foreign parts,— editions of it being printed in France, Italy, Portugal and Flanders. The dazzling success of his work was destined to have for Cervantes a result WITH A NOTICE OF HIS WORKS. XXXVii more certain than the drawing of him from obscurity and misery — that of ex- citing envy, and raising up enemies against him. It is not meant to speak merely of that base vanity which all merit offends, and which the glory of ano- ther's triumph always exasperates ; but there was in Don Quixote enough of literary satire — enough of arrows launched against the authors or the admirers of the books and publications of the time, to put in motion all who were in any way connected with letters. As is ever the case, great reputations can receive, without being disturbed, the blows dealt to them ; and thus Lope de Vega, per- haps the most ill-treated of all, exhibited no rancour against the new writer, who ventured to mingle a few drops of wormwood with the nectar of praise with which the public had conspired to intoxicate his brains. His fame and his wealth enabled him to be generous. He had even the courtesy to declare that Cervantes wanted neither grace nor style. But it was not so with authors of the second rank, who had to defend their trumpery characters and interests. From them there was a regular out-breaking against poor Cervantes, a concert of public censures and secret diatribes. One, from the height of his pedantic erudition, treated him as having the mind of a lay. brother, wanting culture and science ; another, thinking to demolish, entitled him a Quixote-ist j one railed at him in small pamphlets, the journals of the time ; another addressed to him under cover a sonnet most injurious in its character, which Cervantes to re- venge the outrage, took care to publish himself. Among men of some reputa- tion for courage who appeared most ardent to make war upon him, the poet Don Luis de Gongora, founder of the sect of cultos, may be named as envious from nature, as critical from the turn of his wit ; doctor Cristo val Suarez de Figueroa, another writer, cynical and jealous; and thus down to t lie hair-brained D'Esteban Villegas, who gave his poems dated from college, the title of " Deli- cious morsels," and had the modesty to cause his likeness to be given for the frontispiece, in which he was represented as a rising sun, dimming the lustre of the stars, adding to this device, lest by some it should be thought too obscure, a motto well calculated to guard against all ambiguity : sicut soli matutinas me suryente, (¡uidistaf Cervantes, who had as little malice as vanity, must have laughed at these attempts of self-love on the part of his adversaries, vainly to arrest the progress of his rising glory ; hut what must have most deeply wounded his affectionate heart, was the desertion of some of his friends, or those at least, who are such so long as their contemporaries do not rise above their level, but who never pardon in their associates the crime of transcending themselves. It is painful to number among these the name of Vicente Espinel, a romance-writer, poet and musician, the author of Muráis tic Ohrvtjott — who invented the strophe called espinela, and who gave the fifth cord to the guitar. Cervantes would have been too happy if he had not experienced that alloy which always mingles with the joy consequent on success. It is sufficient to mention this once for all, as that which is inevitable, and it will therefore be un- necessary to recur to it. The period of the publication of Don Quixote, is that of the birth of Philip IV., which took place at Valladolid, April 8, 16()5. In the preceding year, Don Juan Fernandez de Velasco, constable of Castile, had been sent to xxxviii MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, England, to negocíate a peace. James I., in return for this high compli- ment, despatched Admiral Lord Howard to present the treaty of peace to the king of Spain, and to congratulate him on the birth of his son. Lord Howard landed at Corunna with six hundred English, and entered Valladolid, May 26th 1605. He was received with all the magnificence that the court of Spain could display. Among the religious ceremonies, the bull-fights, the masked-balls, the reviews and the games or tourneys, where the king himself ran at the ring, and all the fetes which were lavished on the admiral, mention is made of a dinner given to his lordship by the constable of Castile, where twelve-hundred dishes were served of meat and fish, without mentioning the dessert and a superabundance of other delicacies. The duke of Lerma had an account of these ceremonies written, which was printed at Valladolid in the same year. Cervantes is believed to be the author, at least an epigrammatic sonnet of Gongora, who was an eye witness, seems to give proof of it* It was in the train of these rejoicings, that an unhappy event occurred to distress the family of Cervantes, and conduct him, for the third time, to prison. A knight of St. James, named Don Gaspar de Ezpeleta, wishing to pass, on the night of the 27th of June, 1605, over the wooden bridge of the river Esqueva, was prevented by a stranger ; a quarrel ensued, and the two combatants drawing their swords, Don Gaspar was pierced with several wounds. Crying for help, he took refuge, covered with blood, in one of the neighbouring houses : one of the two apartments on the first floor of this house, was occupied by Donna Luisa de Montoya, widow of the historian Esteban de Garibay, with her two sons, and the other by Cervantes and his family. At the cries of the wounded man, Cervantes hastened to him, with one of the sons of his neighbour ; they found Don Gaspar lying under the portico, his sword in one hand, and his shield in the other, and they took him in to widow Garibay's, where he expired on the following day. An inquest was immediately held, by the alcalde de casa y corte, Cristobal de Villaroel ; they took the depositions of Cervantes, of his wife Donna Catalina de Palacios Salazar, of his natural daughter Donna Isabel de Saavedra, then twenty years of age, of his sister Donna Andrea de Cer- vantes, a widow, having a daughter twenty-eight years of age, called Donna Constanza de Ovando, of a nun Donna Magdalena de Sotomayor, who was also said to be the sister of Cervantes, of his servant Maria de CevaUos, and lastly of two friends, who happened to be in the house Senor de Cigales and a Portuguese named Simon Méndez. Supposing, whether right or wrong, that * The following is the substance of the sonnet : — " The queen is delivered ; the Lutheran is come, with his six hundred heretics and as many heresies ; we have spent a million in a fortnight, to give him jewels, ban- quets and wine. " We have made a parade, or a grand display, and given feasts, which were so many tumults, to the English legate, and the spies of him who swore to observe the peace, by Calvin. " We have baptized the son of a monarch, who is born to be king of Spain, and we have made a dance of enchantments. " We remain poor, Luther is become rich, and these great exploits have been written by Don Quixote, by Sancho and by his ass." . WITH A NOTICE OF HIS WORKS. XXXIX Don Gaspar had been killed in a love affair with the daughter or the niece of Cervantes, the judge had those ladies arrested, as well as Cervantes himself and his sister, the widow Ovando. It was not till the end of eight or ten days, after examinations and hearing witnesses, and even giving bail, that the four prisoners were released. The depositions to which this disagreeable incident gave rise, prove that at this time, to sustain the burthen of four women, of whom he was the only support, Cervantes still occupied himself with agencies, and mixed with the cultivation of literature the dull, but less barren pursuits of business. It may be presumed that Cervantes followed the court to Madrid in I606, and that he fixed his residence from that time forward, in that capital, where he was near to his relations at Alcalá, to those of his wife at Esquevias, and well placed at the same time for his literary engagements and his business agencies. It has been lately established, that in June, lCOO, he lived in the street de la Mag. dalena, and shortly afterwards behind the college of Notre-Dame-de-Lorette ; in June, 1610, in the street del Leon, No. 9 ; in 1614, in the street Las Huer- tas ; afterwards in the street due d'Albe, at the corner of that of San Isidoro; thence he is traced to the spot, whence he took his final departure in 1 6 1 6, in the street del Leon, No. 20, at the corner of that of Francos, where he died. After his return to Madrid, Cervantes, growing old, without fortune and having to struggle for a numerous family, experienced the same ingratitude in regard to his talents that he had met with for his services, at a period when, if sordid dedications produced pensions for their authors, books brought them nothing; neglected by his friends, outraged by his rivals, and having been hrought by long and painful experience, to a state, which from the absence of every gay illusion, the Spanish describe by the word desengaño, Cervantes sought complete retirement. He lived as a philosopher, without murmuring, without complaining, not in that state of golden mediocrity, which Horace commends to the votaries of the muses, but in poverty and distress. He found however two patronizing friends, Don Bernardo de Sandoval y Rojas, archbishop of Toledo, and a distinguished and enlightened nobleman, Don Pedro Fernandez de Castro, Count de Lemos, author of the comedy entitled la Casa Confusa, which brought round him, in 1610, a little literary court in his vice-royalty at Naples, who did not forget, in a situation at once so exalted and so distant, the old wounded soldier who was unable to follow him. One thing really inexplicable, which, however, does as much honour to the independent spirit of Cervantes, as it reflects shame on those who had the dis- pensing of royal favours, is the obscurity in which this illustrious man was left, while crowds of small wits received allowances, which they had begged by their pitiful strains in prose and verse. It is mentioned that one day Philip III., being at the balcony of his palace, perceived a student, who was walking with a book in his hand, on the margin of the Manzanares. This man, wrapped up in a black cloak, stopped every minute, struck his forehead with his hand and burst out in loud peals of laughter. Philip, observing this pantomime from a distance, exclaimed,—" That student is a madman, or he is reading Don Quix- ote." Some of the courtiers ran immediately to ascertain if royal penetration was, in this instance right, and returning, announced to the king that it was xl MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, really Don Quixote the student was engaged with and from which he received so much delight ; but it occurred to none of them to advise the prince of the neglect under which the author of a work so popular and so admirable then languished. Another anecdote of a somewhat later period, it may not be improper to in- sert here, to shew still more decidedly the high estimation in which Cervantes was held, as well as the poverty to which he was reduced. The party from whom this fact is obtained, the licentiate Francisco Márquez de Torres, chap- lain to the archbishop of Toledo, who was instructed to censure the second part of Don Quixote, shall speak for himself. He says, — " I truly certify, that on the 25th of February of this year, 16 15, the most illustrious lord cardinal arch- bishop, my lord and master, having been to pay a visit to the ambassador of France, many French gentlemen who had accompanied the ambassador, as well courtiers as scholars and friends to polite literature, came to me and the other chaplains of the cardinal, desirous of learning from us what books of imagina- tion we had that were then in vogue. I happened to mention Don Quixote, which I had critically examined. Scarcely had they heard the name of Miguel de Cervantes, when they began to whisper to each other, and spake much of the admiration excited in France and the neighbouring states, for his various works. The Galatea, one of them knew almost by heart, as also the first part of Don Quixote, and the Novels. Their applause was so enthusiastic that I offered to take them to see the author of the books we had mentioned, an offer which they welcomed with a thousand demonstrations of lively satisfaction. They questioned me much in detail as to his age, his profession, his birth and his fortune. I was obliged to reply that he was old, a soldier, a gentleman and poor ; to which one of them replied precisely in these words : — ' What then, has Spain not made such a man rich ? Is. he not provided for by the state ?' One of the gentlemen taking up this idea, ingeniously remarked : — ' if it is necessity that urges him to write, Heaven grant that he may never know abundance, so that from his remaining in poverty, the world may be enriched with more of his books.'" The first edition of Don Quixote, that of 1635, had been published while the author was at a great distance, and from a manuscript in his hand writing, which it was very difficult to make out ; in consequence it was full of faults. One of the first cares of Cervantes, when established at Madrid, was to publish a second edition of his book, which he carefully revised and corrected. This second edition, published in 1608, was greatly superior to its predecessor, an has been used as a model for all the reprints which have since been given to the world. Four years after, in 1612, Cervantes published the twelve novels, which form with the two episodes given in Don Quixote, and the one discovered at a sub- sequent period, the collection of fifteen novels which he had composed since he resided at Seville. They have already been mentioned in a former part of this memoir. This book, which is described in the privilege granted for pub- lication, " as a very laudable and entertaining work, in which the nobleness and fecundity of the Castilian language are displayed," was received in Spain and WITH A NOTICE Of HIS WORKS. sli in foreign countries, with as much favour as Don Quixote. Lope de Vega imitated him in two different ways, in composing in his turn, novels very in- ferior to those written by Cervantes, and in bringing on the stage several of the subjects treated by the latter. Other great dramatists drew from the same source, and among them, the monk Fray Gabriel Tellez, known under the name of Tirso de Molina, who pronounced Cervantes to be the Spanish Boc- eado, Don Agustino Moreto, Don Diego de Figueroa, and Don Antonio Solis. After the novels, Cervantes published, in lGl4, his poem, entitled, A journey to Parnassus. In this work, which was written in imitation of that of Cesare Caporali, of Perouse, he praises the good authors of his time, and attacks with- out mercy those adepts of the new school, who by their ridiculous and delirious innovations had impaired and almost annihilated the beautiful language of the Golden Age. In the dialogue, he complains of the actors, who would neither perform any of the plays which he had formerly written, nor those which he had recently prepared for the stage. Lope de Vega, continued to be so much the rage that the productions of other writers were regarded with perfect indiffer- ence. Cervantes felt hurt at the neglect which he experienced. On this sub- ject in his preface to his plays, he thus breathes his resentment. "Some years ago, I had recourse again to my old amusement; and, on the supposition that the times were not altered since my name was in some estima- tion, I composed a few pieces for the stage; but found no birds in last year's nests: my meaning is, I could find no player who would ask for my perform- ances, though the whole company knew they were finished ; so that I threw them aside, and condemned them to perpetual silence. About this time, a cer- tain bookseller, (his name was Villaroel,) told me that he would have purchased my plays, had he not been prevented by an actor, who said, that from my prose much might be expected, but nothing from my verse. I confess I was not a little chagrined at hearing this declaration; and said to myself either I am quite altered, or the times are greatly improved, contrary to common observation, by which the past is always preferred to the present. I revised my comedies, to- gether with some interludes which had lain some time in a corner, and I did not think them so wretched, but that they might appeal from the muddy brain of this player to the clearer perception of other actors less scrupulous and more judicious. Being quite out of humour, I parted with the copy to a bookseller, who offered me a tolerable price ; I took his money, without giving myself any farther trouble about the actors, and he printed them as you see. I could wish they were the best in the world, or at least possessed of some merit. Gentle reader, thou wilt soon see how they are, and if thou canst find anything to thy liking, and afterwards shouldst happen to meet with any back-biting actor, de- sire him for me, to take care and mend himself; fori offend no man : as for the plays, thou mayest tell him, they contain no glaring nonsense, no palpable absurdities." Though severe the opinion expressed by the actor, it was not very ill founded. It must, however, have been acutely felt by Cervantes, who rhymed in despite of Minerva, and who clung with childish fondness to his fame as a poet. Fight comedies were printed by Villaroel, in 1615, and as many interludes, with a vol. i. f xlii MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, dedication to Count de Lemos, and a prologue, which is not only very lively, but also very interesting, as connected with the history of the Spanish stage. Lope de Vega continued to reign at that period, and the rival who was to de- throne him, Calderón, had just commenced his career. The public received with indifference the best pieces of Cervantes, and the actors did not think fit to represent one of them. Both the public and the players were ingrates perhaps, but not very unjust. Who can blame them for having left unnoticed comedies, of which Blas de Nasarre, reprinting them a century afterwards, supposes that Cervantes had written them badly by design, to burlesque the ex- travagant follies which had in his time been so much in vogue. In the same year, 16 15, another little work by Cervantes saw the light, which was connected with a circumstance of some interest. Spain preserved still the custom of joutes poétiques, or struggles, which are still kept up in the South of France, under the name of Floral games. Paul V., having canonised in 1614, the famous saint Theresa de Jesus, the triumph of that heroine of the cloisters was given as a subject for poetical competition, of which Lope de Vega was appointed one of the judges. It was ordered that the ecstacies of the saint should be sung in the form of the ode, called canción castellana, and in the metre of the first eclogue of Garcilaso de la Vega, the sweetly melancholy shep- herd-poet. All the writers of any name took part in the contention, and Cer- vantes, turning lyric poet at the age of sixty-two, sent his ode with the rest, which though it did not gain the prize, was at least printed as among the best which the occasion had produced, in the history of the fetes which all Spain celebrated to the glory of her illustrious daughter. It was also in the same year 1615, that the second part of Don Quixote ap- peared. This work was far advanced, and it had been announced in the prologue to his novels and he still laboured at it assiduously, when about the middle of the year 16 14, a continuation of the first part appeared at Tarragona, as the work of the licentiate Alonzo Fernandez de Avellaneda, a native of Tordesillas. This was a fictitious description under which was concealed the insolent plagiarism which, while the original author was living, dared to steal from him the title and the subject of his book. It has not been possible to discover the real name of the writer ; it however appears to be proved from the researches of Mayans, of P. Murillo, and of Pellicer, that it was an Arragonese monk of the preach- ing order, and one of the play-writers, at which Cervantes laughs so hear- tily in the first part of Don Quixote. Like certain robbers on the highways who outrage the unfortunate persons they rob, the pretended Avellaneda commenced his book by vomiting all the gall which a heart full of hatred and jealousy could pour forth, overwhelming Cervantes with the grossest abuse. He called him cripple, old man, hangman, calumniator, — he reproached him with his misfor- tunes, with his imprisonments and his poverty, and finally accused him of being destitute of wit and talent, and boasted that he would spoil the sale of his second part. When this book fell into the hands of Cervantes, when he saw so many insults offered to him, at the opening of an insipid work, a work at once pedan- tic and indecent, piqued by such effrontery, he prepared to take vengeance on WITH A NOTICE OF II IS WORKS. the assailant in a manner worthy of himself. He hastened to finish his own hook, and made such efforts that the last chapters exhibit some marks of pre- cipitation. He however, was anxious that there should he nothing in it that would render it possible for his work to be compared with the book of Avella- neda. In dedicating his comedies to the Count de Lemos, at the opening of the year 1615, he says " Don Quixote has put on his spurs that he may hasten to kiss the feet of your excellency. I believe he will appear a little peevish, because at Tarragona, he was bewildered and ill-treated, nevertheless, it has been esta- blished by a diligent enquiry, that it is not really he who figures in that history, but an impostor who wishes to pass for him, yet cannot accomplish his object." Cervantes did better still ; even in the text of Don Quixote, (prologue and chap- ter 59,) he replies to the grossest insults, offered by his plagiarist, without ever deigning to mention his name, by raillery the most playful, delicate and witty ; thus proving himself as superior to such an adveisary by the nobleness and dig- nity of his resentment, as by the overwhelming merit of his writings. But in order to withdraw from future Avellanedas all temptation to continue the adven- tures of his hero, he in this volume carries him to his death-bed : receives his will, his confession and his last sigh : he buries him, supplies his epitaph, and then feels himself justified in exclaiming with a noble and a just pride : " Here Cid Hamet Ben Engcli, puts down his pen; but he has placed it so high that no one henceforth will think it prudent to make a new attempt at seizing it." It cannot be mentioned but with regret, that the flat and miserable continuation published by the licentiate of Tordesillas, was translated into French, by the author of Gil Bias, and that the great body of French readers confounded it till latterly with the genuine work of Cervantes. We pause here for a moment to examine Don Quixote, not merely for its ob- jects and its origin, but for itself; to consider finally under its general aspect this imperishable work, the glory alike of its author and his country. In his Persian letters, Montesquieu, makes one of his characters 6ay : " The Spaniards have but a single admirable book that which shows the absurdity of all the rest of their literature." This is one of those amusing sarcasms which please by their very extravagance, and which the Spaniards ought not to have taken seriously. Is any one angry in France, because Rica, the character whose remark has just been quoted, says, at the close of the very same letter, that : "At Paris, there is a house where madmen are confined.... Unquestionably the French, much decried in neighbouring countries, find it necessary to shut up a few of their number in a mad-house, to persuade the world that those suffered to go at large are not mad." The banter in this one case is about as good as it is in the other. The remark of Montesquieu on Don Quixote, is however, equally incorrect, for the character of the eulogium pronounced on that work, and the unmeasured condemnation pronounced on every other. If it had no merit but that of parodying romances of chivalry, it would not have long survived. Its object accomplished, after a time the conqueror would have been buried with the conquered. Is it the criticism on Amadis, on Eeplandian, on Platir, and on Kyrie-Eleison, that we seek in it now ? No doubt Cervantes calculated among its merits, that it would utterly ruin and overthrow that extravagant and dan- Xliv MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, gerous literature, which had too long prevailed in Spain. His book in this respect is a moral work, which unites in the most eminent degree the merits of true comedy, to amuse and correct at the same time. Don Quixote is anything but a mere satire on the old romances, and it may not be improper to attempt pointing out the transformations which the subject underwent in the mind of the author. It is certainly probable, that in commencing the work, Cervantes had no object in view, but to attack with the weapons of ridicule, all the chivalric literature of his country. This is indeed stated in clue form in his prologue. Further it may suffice to remark the strange negligence, the contradictions, the absurdities %vhich abound in the first part of Don Quixote, to prove from these very defects, (if after all they are really defects,) that he began it in a mirthful moment, in a whim without any prepared plan, letting his pen run at random as imagination prompted, to find himself at last the romancer, as La Fontaine did himself tobe, the fabulist of nature, and not attaching any great premeditated importance to the work of which as yet, he had not comprehended all the grandeur. Don Quixote at first is but a madman, a complete madman ; a madman, bound, and even beaten, for the poor gentleman, receives more blows from beasts and men, than even the haunches of Rocinante could support. But this is only for a short time. Could Cervantes long confine himself between madness and stupidity ? He manifests an affection for his heroes — the children of his understanding as he calls them, and soon in equal and well-regulated portions, he divides between them his judgment and his wit. To the master he gives reason, elevated and enlarged, which in a sound mind would give birth to study and reflection; to the servant an instinct, limited but unerring, innate good sense, a natural clearness of perception, when not disturbed by the interests of the moment, which all men may receive with their birth, and which common experience will suffice to cultivate. Don Quixote is but the case of a man of diseased brain ; his monomania is that of a good man who revolts at injustice, and who would exalt virtue. He indulges a day dream of making himself the comforter of the afflicted, the champion of the weak, the terror of the proud and the wicked. On all other subjects he reasons admirably, he utters eloquent dissertations ; he is fitter, as Sancho says, ' rather to be a preacher than a knight-crrant.' On his part, Sancho assumes a new shape ; he is sly though coarse, subtle though blunt. As Don Quixote, has but one grain of madness, his squire has but one of credulity, which however is justified, by the superior intelligence of his master, and accounts for the attachment to him which he feels. They furnish an admirable spectacle. We see these two men, become inse- parable, like the soul and body, sustaining and completing each other ; united for an object, at once noble and ridiculous, performing foolish deeds, but making wise speeches ; exposed to the mirth if not to the brutality of spectators, and bringing to light the vices and the follies of those by whom they are mocked or more seriously mal-treated ; exciting at first the contempt of the reader, after- wards his pity, and finally his most lively sympathies. They affect almost as much as they amuse ; they give at the same moment a mirthful entertainment and a moral lesson; forming, in short, by the perpetual contrast of one with the WITH A NOTICE OF HIS WORKS. xlv other and of both with all the rest of the world, the unfailing materials for a drama, immense in its design, and always new. It is more especially in the second part of Don Quixote, that we discover the new plan of the author, ripened by age and greater experience of the world. There is no question of knight-errantry, more than is necessary to continue the original idea that the same general plan may embrace the two parts. It is no longer a playful parody on chivalric romance ; it is a book of practical philoso- phy, a collection of maxims or rather of parables, a mild and judicious critique on human nature generally. The new personage introduced to the familiarity of the hero of La Mancha, Samson Carrasco ; what is he but an incredulous sceptic who laughs at everything without restraint and without respect. To give another example, who has not thought, reading the second part of Don Quixote for the first time, that Sancho invested with the government of the island of liarataria, would provoke laughter by his foolery ? who has not ex- pected that this improvisatore monarch, would commit more extravagances on the scat of justice than Don Quixote could accomplish in his penitence on the Sierra Morena ? They find themselves mistaken. The genius of Cervantes looks much further than the mere amusement of the reader, without however, forgetting even that. He wished to prove that the so loudly boasted science of government is not the secret of one family, or of a particular caste, but that it is accessible to all, and that it is necessary, constantly to exercise other qualities more precious than a knowledge of the laws and the study of politics, good sense and good intentions. Without departing from his character — without exceeding the limits of the sphere of his mind as previously defined, Sancho Panza judges and reigns like king Solomon. The second part of Don Quixote did not appear till ten years after the first; and Cervantes when he published the latter did not think of supplying a con- tinuation. It was then fashionable to leave works of imagination unfinished. The writers of that day were accustomed to bring their histories to a conclusion, as Ariosto did the songs of his poem, in the midst of the most complicated ad- ventures and in the most interesting part of the action. Le Lazarille ile Tornies and he Diable Boiteux, have no denoumcnt, neither has the Calatea. Even in France, Gil Bias was written in three fragments. It was not the continuation of Avellaneda, which decided Cervantes to furnish the second part of Don Quixote, as he had nearly written it when the imitation appeared. If Don Quixote had been but a literary satire it might have remained unfinished. It is clearly with the design which has been ascribed to him, that Cervantes re- sumed and continued the subject. Therefore it is that the two portions of the work offer an instance perfectly unique in the annals of literature, of a second part, being written on an after-thought, which not only equals, but surpasses the first. It is because the execution is not inferior, and the original idea is greater and more fertile — it is because the work addresses itself to all nations ami to all times — it is because it speaks the universal language of human nature : it is in fine perhaps the only one which elevates to the highest rank that rare and pre- cious quality above all others, with which the human mind is endowed, common sense, which is so scarce ; good sen' e, so good indeed that nothing can be better. xlvi MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, It is here only intended to give an explanation in some degree historical of the book of Cervantes, for of what use would it be to pronounce its eulogium ; Who has not read it ? who does not know it by heart ? who has not thought with Sir Walter Scott, the greatest admirer, as he is the noblest rival of Cervan- tes, that it is one of the master-pieces of human genius. Is there any tale more popular ? is there any history which affords more pleasure to readers of all ages, of all tastes, of all characters, and of all conditions. Have we not always before our eyes Don Quixote, tall, grim and solemn, and Sancho fat, short and humourous, the housekeeper of the former, the wife of the latter, and the curate, and the barber master Nicholas, the servant Maritornes, and the bachelor Car- rasco, and all the other characters of the history including Rocinante and the ass, another pair of inseparable friends ! Can it be forgotten how this book is conceived ? how it is executed ? Can we have failed to admire the perfect unity of the plan, and the immense diversity of the details ? The imagination of Cer- vantes is so fruitful, is so lavish of its gifts that it more than satisfies the curio- sity of the most insatiable reader. The infinite skill with which the incidents succeed and are blended with each other, always animated by an interest continu- ally varied continually increasing, and which however are notwithstanding quitted without regret for the still more lively pleasure of resuming the thread of the two heroes' adventures. Their similarity and their contrast at the same time, the speeches of the master, the sallies of the valet, a gravity never heavy, a light humour never trifling, a close and natural alliance of the burlesque and the sub- lime, of laughter and emotion, amusement and morality. In a word is it possible not to have felt the charms and beauties of that harmonious, magnificent and graceful language, adapting itself to every shape and every manner ; of that style in which all styles are united, from the most familiar comic to the most lofty eloquence, and which elicited the remark that the book was " divinely writ- ten in a divine language !" But this last satisfaction is only enjoyed in perfection by those who are so for- tunate as to be able to read it in the original. Of such there are comparatively but few on this side of the Pyrenees : We no longer live in the times when Spanish was spoken at Paris, Brussels, Munich, Vienna, Milan and Naples, where it was the language of courts, of politics, and of high fashion : the French tongue has dethroned it. On the other hand, however, it is easy for every one to fancy that he can read Don Quixote, finding it translated into his own idiom. If no book can boast of having so many readers, none assuredly can boast of having had more translators. It is found in Holland, in Denmark, in Sweden, and in Russia. In German there are authors not less celebrated than Tieck and Soltau, who have not thought it beneath them to translate into the language of their country, the great work of Cervantes. In England it has had eight or ten translators, and the names of Jarvis and Smollett are among the number. Per- haps it may boast of as many in Italy from Franciosini down to the anonymous translators of 1815, for whom the engravings of Novelli were designed. In France the translations which have been made, are still more numerous, if we include all the versions which have appeared since its first sketches of Caesar Oudin and tie Rosset, contemporaries of the book, down to the two translations produced in the present century. That offered by Filleau de Saint Martin, WITH A NOTICE OF HIS WORKS. xlvii about the middle of the last, is, if not the best, at least the most extensively diffused. In the introduction supplied by M. Auger in 1819, he made the remark that the number of editions of that single translation, published in France, amounted at the time of his writing, — will it be credited ? — to fifty one ! Since that time a fifty second edition has appeared. This success, which is perhaps wholly unex- ampled proves in a striking manner the immense merit of the original work, and the curiosity always new, — always on the increase, which it continues to make from age to age. From this it of necessity results that Don Quixote is most powerfully endowed with the principle of life, or rather that it bears on its front the stamp of immortality to have so gloriously survived the rude mutila- tions of its translators. It was written with too much wit and address to be comprehended by every one, and it was necessary to use some ingenuity, to put the emissaries of the holy office on a false scent. This will account for the caution observable in some instances, and we cannot too much admire the adroit management, the double meaning, the sly allusions, and the delicate irony so cleverly veiled, which Cervantes used to disguise to the inquisition, thoughts too boldly conceived, too insulting, and too profound to be openly and without reserve avowed. It was in fact necessary for two hundred years, to read Don Quixote as the epitaph of the licentiate Pedro Garcías, was read, and like the student in Gil Bias, to raise the tomb stone in order to know what soul was there interred. Now many of the allusions to the author's contemporaries, necessarily escape us, and it becomes more difficult to comprehend the meaning of Cervantes. The words alone are seen, the object which he had in view, is concealed, and the Spaniards themselves do not in every instance fully under- stand the meaning of their favorite author. The key is wanting, and that can only be found in the recent commentaries of the Rev. John Bowles, of Pellicer, of the Spanish academy of Fernandez Xavarrette, of Los Rios, of Arrieta, and of Ck'mencin. No translator has till now had the Opportunity of profit- ting by their labours to understand Cervantes, and to make him understood. Such assistance however was desirable — was indispensable. Of these aids M. Viardot, has been on the alert to avail himself, and the fruits of his industry will be found in many pages of the present edition of Don Quixote. More than sixty years of age, toiling with all the ardour, and all the energy of a young man, Cervantes was engaged at the same moment in writing several important works. In that noble dedication, every way worthy of him, which in October 1615, he addressed to his patron the Count de Lemos, published with the second part of Don Quixote, he announced to him the speedy appearance of another romance, " Persiles and Sigismunda," (Los trabajos de Persiles y Sig- ismundo.) In the same way he had promised on other occasions, the second part of the " Galatea," and two novels the exact description of which is not known, entitled (Las Semanas del Jardín.) Of the works last mentioned, not even a frag- ment remains. As to " Persiles and Sigismunda," that was published by his widow in lGl/. Strange to say in the moment when Cervantes destroyed the. romance of chivalry, by the darts of irresistible satire, with the same pen which hurled those murderous weapons, he wrote a romance almost as absurd as any of those which had turned the brain of his Hidalgo. He made himself at once xlvüi MEMOIR OF CERVANTES. the censor and the apologist, imitating those he ridiculed, and heing the first to commit the sin, on which he had poured his anathema. Not less strange is it, that it was for this work that his warmest eulogium and fondest predilections were reserved, like those parents whose blind admiration is lavished on the sickly and ill-formed offspring of their old age, rather than on their elder, robust and comely progeny. Of Don Quixote he speaks with modesty, almost witn embarrassment, but he pompously proclaims to the world the wonders of " Persiles and Sigismunda." This was like Corneille, placing Nicoméde before Cinna ; or Milton preferring " Paradise Regained," to " Paradise Lost." It is difficult to say to what class of works of imagination the romance of " Persiles and Sigismunda," properly belongs, for it has a touch of all without being dis- tinctly identified with any. It is a tissue of episodes interlaced with each other, like those of one of Calderon's intrigues, consisting of extravagant adventures, silly rencounters, astounding prodigies, preposterous characters, and extravagant sentiments. Cervantes the exact, the judicious painter of the physical and the moral, would in this instance have done well to lay his scene in the hyperborean regions, for the adventures he recounts, belong to an imaginary world and have no relation to the one which he had before his eyes. The reading however of this breaking out of a great mind, which might easily be made to furnish matter for twenty dramas and a hundred tales, cannot fail to make us admire the ima- gination of one almost seventy years of age, as rich, as fertile as that of Ariosto, nor can we praise too much that pen, which always noble, elegant and bold, covers the absurdities of his narrative with the magnificent dress of his language. The " Persiles and Sigismunda," is more correct and more polished than Don Quixote. It is in many parts a perfect model of style, and perhaps the most classical book in Spain. It may be compared to a palace, built wholly of marble and cedar wood, but without order, without proportions, without shape, and in fact offering instead of an architectural design, a mass of precious materials. Looking at the subject of the work, at the name of the author, and at the pre- ference which he gave it over all his other labours, together with the excellent touches which are thus so madly thrown away, we are justified in regarding his " Persiles and Sigismunda," as one of the most striking aberrations of the human mind. Cervantes could neither enjoy the fame which he complacently promised to this last effusion of his genius, this Benjamin of the children of his mind, nor the durable and legitimate success of that work which constituted his true claim to immortality. Always unfortunate, he was not permitted to see through con- temporary praise the immense glories he was to receive from posterity. At the moment when he published the second part of Don Quixote, towards the close of the year 1615, being then sixty-eight years of age, he was attacked without chance of remedy, by that malady which shortly afterwards closed his life. Hoping at the commencement of the fine season to find some relief from the air of the country he set off on the 2nd of April following, for the village of Esqui- vias, where his wife's relations still resided. At the end of a few days, finding his illness increase, he was obliged to return to Madrid, being brought back by two friends who took care of him on the road. It was on this occasion return- WITH A NOTICE OF HIS WORKS. xlix ing from Ksquivias, that a little incident occurred, which he converted into the prologue to " Perfiles and Sigismunda," and which gives us the only detailed relation extant of the character and progress of his malady. The three friends were quietly pursuing their road, when a student who was behind them, mounted on an ass, culled to them to stop for him, and regretted on joining them, that he had not been able sooner to overtake and enjoy their company. One of the villagers from Esquivias replied, that the fault lay with the horse of Senor Miguel de Cervantes, which had a very long step. On hear- ing the name of Cervantes, which he passionately admired without knowing the man, the student sprang from his seat, seized the hand of our author, and pressing it between his own, exclaimed : " Yes, yes, here is the maimed but potent hand, the all famous, the mirthful writer,— in short the prime favorite of the Muses." Cervantes finding himself thus improvisatorised, overwhelmed with caresses and eulogies, replied to them with his wonted modesty, and desired the student to remount his animal, that they might continue their journey toge- ther. " We held in our horses a little," Cervantes continues, " and on the road conversed on the subject of my illness. My sentence was soon pronounced by the good student. ' Your complaint,' said he, ' is dropsy which could not be cured by all the waters of the ocean, even though you should drink them drop by drop. Your worship, Senor Cervantes, should in drinking allow yourself but short rations, and do not forget to eat well, and attending to these directions you will get better without any other medicine.' ' That is what many people have told me already,' I replied, ' but I can no more refrain from drinking with all my might, than could one, who was born for no other purpose. My life is about to close, and with the short beatings of my pulse, which will cease at the latest by Sunday next, I shall finish my course. You, sir, have arrived at the wrong moment to make my acquaintance, as I have not time enough left, to show the gratitude I feel for the interest you so kindly take in my welfare.' While conversing thus, we came to the bridge of Toledo, which I crossed, while the student turned off', to go to that of Segovia." This prologue, without sequel or connection, from the burlesque portrait which he draws of the student, at least shows that Cervantes retained all his former gaiety when on the point of bidding a long adieu to his merry friends. It was the last effort of his pen, his disease made frightful progress ; he took to his bed and received extreme unction on the 18th of April. It was then that the return of his friend the count de Lemos, was announced, who had just been removed from the vice royalty of Naples to the presidency of the council. The last thoughts of Cervantes were identified with sentiments of gratitude ; a tender recollection of his fonner protector. Almost in his dying moments, he dictated the following letter which is translated word for word. " Those ancient verses, which were celebrated in their time, and which begin thus, ' One foot already in the grave,' " I could wish were less appropriate in this my letter, for almost with the same words I may properly commence and say : vol. i. g I MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, ' One foot already in the grave, And in the agonies of death, Great lord I write these lines to thee.' 1 " Yesterday they gave me extreme unction, and to-day I write this letter. My time is short ; my sufferings increase, hope fades, and with all this to deplore, I sustain existence from a wish that I have to retain life a little longer, and to stay the progress of my disease, till I can approach to kiss the feet of your excellency. Perhaps the joy of seeing you well and in Spain again, would be so great that it would restore me to health. But if it is decreed that I should lay down my life, why then let Heaven's will be accomplished. May your excel- lency be made acquainted with this wish of mine, and know that you had in me a slave so desirous of serving, that he would even come from beyond the grave to evince his attachment. I rejoice at the return of your excellency ; I rejoice to see you every-where successfully command ; and I rejoice still more that my hopes are accomplished, established on the fame of your virtues ." This letter which ought, according to Los Rios, to be always present to the view of great men and authors, to teach the one, generosity, the other, grati- tude, most clearly proves the perfect serenity which the soul of Cervantes preserved, even to the last. Attacked soon after by a wearisome languor, he expired on Saturday the 23rd April, 1616. The Rev. John Bowie has made the remark that the two greatest geniuses of that celebrated era, both comparatively little known to their contemporaries, and both signally avenged by posterity, Miguel de Cervantes, and William Shakespeare, departed this life on the very same day. It will certainly be found in the biographical sketches of Shakespeare, that he died on his birth- day on the 23rd of April, 1616 ; but it should be borne in mind that the English did not adopt the Gregorian calendar till 1752, and consequently up to that period they were behind the Spaniards in their dates, as the Russians are now behind the rest of Europe. Shakespeare, therefore, survived Cervantes twelve days. By his will, Cervantes named as executors, his wife Donna Catalina de Pala- cios Salazar, and his neighbour the licentiate Francisco Nunnez, and he ordered that he should be buried in the convent of a religious brotherhood called the Trinitarians, founded four years before, in the street del Humilladero, where his daughter, Donna Isabel de Saavedra, driven to it probably by the poverty of the paternal house, had recently taken the veil. It is probable that this last wish of Cervantes was respected ; but in 1633 the monks del Humilladero, re- moved to a new convent in the street de Cantaranas, and it is not known what became of the ashes of Cervantes, of which no tomb, no stone, no inscription, indicates the last resting place. 1 ' Puesto ya el pie en el estribo, Con las ansias de la muerte, Gran señor, esta te escribo.' WITH A NOTICE OF II IS WORKS. tí From similar negligence, the two portraits made of him by Jauregui and Pacheco, have been suffered to perish. Only a single copy of one of them has been preserved till our time. It is of the reign of Philip IV, the grand epoch of Spanish painting, and some attribute it to Alonzo del Arco, others to the school of Vicencio Carducho or of Eugenio Cajés. Be this as it may, whoever was the artist, it answers exactly to the picture Cervantes has drawn of himself, in the prologue to his novels. He supposes that one of his friends wishes to engrave his portrait to serve as a frontispiece to the book, and the following inscription was to be placed under it. " He whom you see here, with an acquiline counte- nance, and chesnut hair ; the forehead smooth and uncovered, the nose awiy, though well proportioned ; the beard silver (it is not twenty years since it was gold ;) large moustachios, a small mouth, teeth not very numerous, for he has but six in front, and yet more, they are in bad condition and worse arranged, since they do not correspond one with another ; the figure between the two extremes, neither large nor small ; the complexion clear, rather pale than brown ; a little stooping in the shoulders, and not very light about the feet ; this is the author of ' Galatea' and of 'Don Quixote de la Mancha,' and other works, thrown on the town which may have lost their road, the name of their master being unknown. He is commonly called Miguel de Cervantes Saavcdra." He afterwards speaks of his left hand, which was injured at the battle of Lepanto, and finishes his por- trait in the following words : " In fine, since this opportunity has ottered, and since I may remain in blank without form, I am forced to make myself of some importance by my tongue, which though it may stammer and speak rather confusedly here, utters only such truths, as may be understood by signs." All has now been stated that could be collected of this illustrious man, one of those who pay by suffering through a whole life, for the tardy honours of post- humous fame. Born of a family, honourable, but poor ; receiving in the first instance a liberal education, but thrown into domestic servitude by calamity ; page, valet de chambre, and afterwards soldier; crippled at the battle of Lepanto; distinguished at the capture of Tunis; taken by a Barbary corsair; captive for five years in the slave-depots of Algiers ; ransomed by public charity, after every effort to effect his liberation by industry and courage had been made in vain ; again a soldiei in Portugal and the Azores; struck with a woman noble and poor, like himself ; recalled one moment to letters by love, and exiled from them the next by distress ; recompensed for his services and talents by the magnificent appointment of clerk to a victualling board; accused of mal- versation with regard to the public money; thrown into prison by the king's ministers, released after proving his innocence ; subsequently again imprisoned by mutinous peasants ; become a poet by profession, and a general agent; transacting, to gain a livelihood, negotiations by commission, and writing dramas for the theatre ; discovering when more than fifty years of age, the true bent of his genius; ignorant what patron he could induce to accept of the dedication of his work ; finding the public indifferent to a book at which they condescended to laugh, but did not appreciate, and could not comprehend ; finding also jealous- rivals, by whom he was ridiculed and defamed ; pursued by want even to old lii MEMOIR OF CERVANTES, age ; forgotten by the many, unknown to all, and dying at last, in solitude and poverty ; such, during his life and at his death, was Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. It was not till after the lapse of two centuries, that his admirers thought of seeking for his cradle and his tomb, that they adorned with a medallion in marble the last house in which he lived, that they raised a statue to his memory in the public square, and that, effacing the cognomen of some obscure but more fortunate individual, his countrymen inscribed at the coiner of a little street in Madrid that great name, the celebrity of which resounds through the civilized world. It is thus that M. Viardot sums up the strangely varied, the brilliant but frequently overclouded career of Cervantes. We have followed his narrative with feelings of lively interest throughout, the precursors we trust, of those which the subscribers to this work will experience in their turn. Still we cannot help remarking that had the glow of admiration which our French contemporary brought to his editorial task, been less fervent, his shrewdness would have dis- covered some passages in the eventful story, which almost justify suspicion that Cervantes was imprudent enough to furnish his contemporaries with too plausible an excuse for leaving him in poverty. Generous and brave as he was, it is but too probable that he was not free from the besetting weakness, which has abased and destroyed some of the admired possessors of genius in our own time. He tells us himself in a tone of merriment, awfully at variance with the subject of the communication, that in his last illness when admonished by the student who joined him on the road to Toledo, to drink little, he replied that : "he could no more refrain from drinking with all his might, than if he were born for nothing else." And this was his feeling when on the very brink of the grave ; when as he states, he fully expected that in a few days his pulse would cease to beat for ever. If thus circumstanced, Cervantes could so feel and so express himself, it is not very unlikely that indulging so fatal a passion, he sometimes lost his reason, and fell into inexcusable negligence, or acts of culpable indiscretion. Hence perhaps, arose some of the pecuniary and other embarrassments which he had so frequently to strive against. What has here been offered, is thrown out with no wish to inculpate Cervantes, but for the purpose of accounting in some degree fur the poverty and neglect in which he lived. We cannot refrain from blaming his contemporaries for neglecting to render to his genius the homage that it deserved ; but at the period in which he lived, few authors, however exalted their powers, enjoyed their WITH A NOTICE OF HIS WORKS. liii glory during their life-time. It is to posterity alone, that they owe the long delayed but immortal wreath. Speaking on the subject of his translation of Don Quixote, M. Viardot, says : " The translation of a justly celebrated book, of one of those works which belong less to an individual literature than to all human nature, is not solely a matter of taste and style ; it is a matter of conscience, and I should almost say of probity, I think that the translator's strict duty is to direct his efforts incessantly, not only to render the sense in all its truth, in all its rigour, but further to re-produce the effect of every period, of every phrase and of almost every word. I think that, with every respect to the rules and exactions of his own language, he ought to conform himself to the style of his author, in the whole and in the detail, that the original may be continually felt under the copy ; that he ought to succeed, not in tracing, as it has frequently been said, the engraving of a picture, that is to say a discoloured imitation, but to paint the picture a second time, with its general colour, and particular shades. I think again that the translator ought to reject as a culpable thought, as he would a temptation to robbery or sacrilege, every wish to suppress the least fragment of the text, or to make the slightest addition of his own ; he should, according to Cervantes's words, ' nothing omit and nothing add.'" On the principle thus laid down, M. Viardot has resolutely acted. With a similar feeling on the English editor's mind, the translation by Charles Jarvis has been preferred to Motteux or Smollett, as being by far the closest to the great original, and the fittest vehicle for the masterly designs of M. Johannot, the only illustrator of Cervantes who has succeeded in really depicting the scenes and characters he describes. Every sheet has been scrupulously read with M. Viardot's translation, and his annotations faithfully translated and appended. Where we have been compelled to diverge from Jarvis's text, it has been to modify the obsolete forms of expression which are numerously scattered through his translation, and to abate some few details which could no longer please in the present advanced state of society. Doing this in some fewinstances it lias been anxiously attempted to remove the excrescence without injury to the tree, to repress coarseness without frittering away the humour of the author. In conclusion we think it will be conceded to us that we did not in the outset overstate the advantages possessed by our French contemporary, in the performance of his task, nor the almost idolatrous zeal with which he devoted himself to its perfect fulfilment. If, carried away by a generous en- thusiasm, he sometimes is betrayed into an excess of applause, which the cold severity of deliberate criticism, would arraign, the error is one which the English reader will pardon, if he do not share it. The approbation — the cordial flattering approbation bestowed on that portion of the present edition which has already issued from the press, by the most distinguished critics, justifies a hope that it has little to fear from the professed reviewer ; and it is confidently expected that the notes, now for the first time appended, will in many instances serve to correct the misconceptions of former editors, and cause the true mean- ing of the author to lie more, universally understood than it has hitherto been; while the characteristic sketches of Spanish scenery, and Spanish character, liv MEMOIR OF CERVANTES. found in the engravings, will enable the English reader to effect the possible approach to that enjoyment, which was formerly regarded as exclusively reserved for the native of Spain. THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE. oving Reader, you may believe me without an oath, that I wish this book, as the child of my understanding, were the most beau- tiful, the most sprightly and th* most ingenious that can be imagined. jS But I could not con- trol the order of na- ture, whereby each thing engenders its like ; and, therefore what could my sterile and uncultivated genius produce but the history of a child, meagre, adust and whimsical, full of various wild imaginations never thought of before ? like one you may suppose born in a prison, where every inconvenience VOL. I. A 2 author's preface. keeps its residence, and every dismal sound its habitation. Doubtless repose of body, a desirable situation, unclouded skies, and above all, a mind at ease, can make the most barren Muses fruitful, and produce such offspring to the world, as fill it with wonder and content. It often falls out, that the parent has an ugly child, without any good quality ; and yet fatherly fondness claps such a bandage over his eyes, that he cannot see its defects : on the contrary, he takes them for wit and pleasantry, and recounts them to his friends for smartness and humour. But I, though I seem to be father, being really but the step-father of Don Quixote, will not go down with the stream of custom, nor beseech you, almost, as it were, with tears in my eyes, as others do, dearest reader, to pardon or dissemble the faults you shall discover in this my child. You are neither his kinsman nor friend ; you have your soul in your body, and your will as free as the bravest of them all, and are as much lord and master of your own house, as the king of his subsidies, and know the common saying, " Under my cloak, a fig for the king." All this exempts and frees you from every regard and obligation ; and therefore you may say of this history whatever you think fit, without apprehension of being calumniated for the evil, or hope of reward for the good you shall report. I would fain give it you neat and naked, without the ornament of a preface, or the rabble and catalogue of the accustomed sonnets, epigrams, and en- comiums, that are wont to be placed at the beginning of a book. For, let me tell you, though it cost me some pains to write the history, I reckoned none greater than the writing of what you are now reading. I often took pen in hand, and as often laid it down, not knowing what to say: and once upon a time, being in deep suspense, with the paper before me, the pen behind my ear, my elbow on the table, and my cheek on my hand, thinking what I should say, unexpectedly, in came a friend of mine, a pleasant gentleman, and of a very good understanding ; who, seeing me so pensive, asked me the cause of my thoughtfulness. Not willing to conceal it from him, I answered, that I was musing on what preface I should make to Don Quixote, and that I was so much at a stand about it, that I intended to make none at all, nor even to publish the achievements of that noble knight : for would you have me not be concerned at what that ancient law-giver, the vulgar, will say when they see me, at the end of so many years slept away in the silence of oblivion, appear, with all my years upon my back, with a legend as dry as a kex, empty of in- vention, the style flat, the conceits poor, and void of all learning and erudition ; author's preface. 3 without quotations in the margin, or annotations at the end of the book ; seeing that other books, though fabulous and profane, are so full of sentences of Aristotle, of Plato, and of all the tribe of philosophers, that the readers are in admiration, and take the authors of them for men of great reading, learning and eloquence ? When they cite the Holy Scriptures, they pass for so many St. Thomas's and doctors of the church; observing herein a decorum so ingenious, that in one line they describe a raving lover, and in another give you a little scrap of a Christian homily, that it is a delight, and a perfect treat 4 author's preface. to hear or read it. All this my book is likely to want ; for I have nothing to quote in the marg-in, nor to make notes on at the end ; nor do I know what authors I have followed in it, to put them at the beginning, as all others do, by the letters A, B, C, beginning with Aristotle, and ending in Xenophon, Zoilus, or Zeuxis, though the one was a railer and the other a painter. My book will also want sonnets at the beginning, at least sonnets whose authors are dukes, marquisses, earls, bishops, ladies, or celebrated poets ; though, should I desire them of two or three obliging friends, I know would promptly furnish me, and with such, as those of greater reputation in our Spain could not equal. In short, my dear friend, continued I, it is resolved that signor Don Quixote remain buried in the records of La Mancha, until Heaven sends somebody to supply him with such ornaments as he wants ; for I find myself incapable of helping him through my own insufficiency and want of learning ; and because I am naturally too idle and lazy to hunt after authors, to say what I can say as well without them. Hence proceeds the suspense and thought- fulness you found me in, sufficiently occasioned, you must own, by what I have told you. My friend, at hearing this, striking his forehead with the palm of his hand, and setting up a loud laugh, said, " By Jove, brother, I am now perfectly undeceived of a mistake I have been in ever since I knew you, still taking you for a discreet and prudent person in all your actions ; but now I see you are as far from being so, as heaven is from earth. For how is it possible that things of such little moment, and so easy to be remedied, can have the power to puzzle and confound a genius so ripe as yours, and so well made to break through and trample upon greater difficulties ? In laitn, this does not spring from want of ability, but from an excessive laziness, and penury of right reasoning. Will you see whether what I say be true 1 Then listen atten- tively, and you shall perceive, that, in the twinkling of an eye, I will confound all your difficulties, and remedy all the defects that you say suspend and deter you from introducing into the world the history of this your famous Don Quixote, the light and mirror of all knight errantry." " Say on," replied I, hearing what he said to me ; " after what manner do you think to fill up ( the vacuity made by my fear, and reduce the chaos of my confusion to clearness V He answered, " The first thing you seem to stick at, concerning the sonnets, epigrams, and eulogies, that are wanting for the beginning, and should be the work of grave personages and people of quality, author's preface. 5 may be remedied by taking some pains yourself to make them, and then bap. tizing them, giving them what names you please, fathering them on Préster John of the Indies or on the emperor of Trebizond, of whom I have certain intel- ligence that they are both famous poets ; and though they were not such, and though some pedants and bachelors should backbite you, and murmur at this truth, value them not two farthings ; for, though they should convict you of a lie, they cannot cut off the hand that wrote it. As to quoting, in the margin, the books and authors from whom you col- lected the sentences and sayings you have interspersed in your history, there is no more todo but to contrive it so that some sentences and phrases may fall in pat, which you have by heart, or at least which will cost you very little trouble to find : as, for example, treating of liberty and slavery, 1 Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro.' And then in the margin cite Horace, or whoever said it. If you are treating of the power of death, presently you have, ' Pallida mors aequo pulsat pede Pauperum tabernas regum turres.' If of friendship and loving our enemies as God enjoins, go to the Holy Scrip- ture, if you have never so little curiosity, and set down God's own words : • Ego autem dico vobis, diligite inimicos vestros.' If you are speaking of evil thoughts, bring in the Gospel again, ' De corde exeunt cogitationes malte.' On the instability of friends, Cato will lend you his distich, ' Donee eris felix, multos numerabis amicos ; Témpora si fuerint nubila, solus cris.' And so with these scraps of Latin, and the like, it is odds but people will take you for a great grammarian, which is a matter of no small honour and advan- tage in these days. As to clapping annotations at the end of the book, you may 6 author's preface. do it safely in this manner : if you name any giant in your book, see that it be the giant Goliah ; and with this alone, (which will cost almost nothing) you have a grand annotation : for you may put, The giant Golias, or Goliat, was a Philistine, whom the shepherd David slew with a great blow of a stone from a sling, in the valley of Terebinthus, as related in the book of Kings, iu the chapter wherein you shall find it. Then, to shew yourself a great scholar, and skilful in cosmography, let the river Tagus be introduced into the history, and you will gain another notable annotation, thus : The river Tagus was so called from a certain king of Spain : it has its source in such a place, and is swallowed up in the ocean, first kissing the walls of the famous city of Lisbon ; and some are of opinion its sands are of gold, &c. If you have occasion to treat of robbers, I will tell you the story of Cacus, for I have it by rote. If you write of courtezans, there is the bishop of Mondonedo will lend you a Lamia, Lais, and Flora ; and this annotation must needs be very much to your credit. If you would tell of cruel women, Ovid will bring you acquainted with Medea. If enchanters and witches are your subject, Homer has a Calypso, and Virgil a Circe. If you would give us a history of valiant commanders, Julius Csesar offers you himself in his Commentaries, and Plutarch will furnish you with a thousand Alexanders. If you treat of love, and have but two drams of the Tuscan tongue, you will light on Leon Hebreo, who will give you enough of it. And if you care not to visit foreign parts, you have at home Fonseca, " Of the love of God," where he describes all that you, or the most ingenious persons, can imagine upon that fruitful subject. In fine, there is no more to be done but using these names, or hinting these stories, in your text, and let me alone to settle the annotations and quotations ; for I will warrant to fill the margins for you, and enrich the end of your book with half a dozen leaves into the bargain. We come now to the catalogue of authors, set down in other works, that is wanting in yours ; the remedy whereof is very easy ; for you have nothing to do but to find a volume that has them all, from A down to Z, as you say, and then transcribe that very alphabet into your book. And suppose the falsehood be ever so apparent, from the little need you have to make use of them, it signifies nothing; and perhaps some will be so foolish as to believe you had occasion for them all in your simple and sincere history. But, though it served for nothing else, that long catalogue of authors will, at the first sight, author's puf. face. 7 give some authority to the book. And who will go about to disprove whether you follow them or not, seeing they can get nothing by it ? After all, if I take the thing right, this narrative of yours has so need of the ornaments you say it wants ; for it is only an invective against the books of chivalry, which sort of books Aristotle never dreamed of, Saint Basil never mentioned, nor Cicero once heard of. Nor does the relation of its fabulous extravagancies fall under the punctuality and preciseness of truth ; nor do the observations of astronomy come within its sphere ; nor have the dimensions of geometry, or the rhetorical arguments of logic, any thing to do with it ¡ nor has it any concern with preaching, mixing the human with the divine, a kind of mixture which no Christian judgment should meddle with. All it has to do is to copy nature ; imitation is the business, and the more perfect that is, so much the better what is written will be. Since this writing of yours aims at no more than to destroy the authority and acceptance the books of chivalry have had in the world, and among the vulgar, you have no business to go begging sentences of philosophers, passages of holy writ, poetical fables, rhetorical orations, or miracles of saints ; but only to endeavour, by plainness, and significant, decent, and well-ordered words, to give your periods a pleasing and harmonious turn, expressing the design in all you advance, and, as much as possible, making your conceptions clearly understood. Endeavour also, that, by reading your history, the melancholy maj' be provoked to laugh, the gay humoured be heightened, and the simple not tired; that the judicious may admire the invention, the grave not undervalue it, nor the wise forbear commending it. In conclusion, carry your aim steadily to overthrow that ill-compiled machine of books of chivalry, abhorred by many, but applauded by more ; and, if you carry this point, you gain one of considerable importance. I listened with great silence to what my friend said to me, and his words made so strong an impression upon me, that I approved them without dis- puting, and out of them chose to compose this preface ; wherein, sweet reader, you will discern the judgment of my friend, and my own good hap in finding such a counsellor at such a pinch, and your own ease in receiving, in so sincere and unostentatious a manner, the history of the famous Don Quixote de la Mancha; of whom it is clearly the opinion of all the inhabitants of the district of the field of Montiel that he was the chastest lover, and the most valiant knight, that has been seen in those parts for many years. I will not enhance the service T do you in bringing you acquainted with so notable and so 8 author's prepack. worthy a knight ; but I beg the favour of some small acknowledgment for the acquaintance of the famous Sancho Panca, his squire, in whom, I think, I have decyphered all the squire-like graces that are scattered up and down in the whole mob of books of chivalry. And so God give you health, not forgetting me. Farewell. DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. PART I. BOOK I. CHAPTER I. WHICH TREATS OF THE QUALITY AND MANNER OF LIFE OF THE RENOWNED DON QUIXOTE DE LA KANCHA. omiciled in a village of La Mancha, the name of which 1 purposely omit, there lived, not long ago, oncof those gentlemen who usually keep a lance upon a rack, an old target, a lean horse, and a greyhound for coursing. A dish of boiled meat, consist- ing of somewhat more mutton than beef, the fragments served up cold on most nights, 1 sheep's chitterlingson Satnrdays,lentils on Fridays, and a small pigeon, by way of addition, on Sundays, consumed three-fourths of his income. The rest was laid out 1 In the original duelos y quebrantos, literally gripes and groans. Translators, un- acquainted with the custom which gave this name to a dish, have successively rendered VOL. I. It 10 DON QUIXOTE. in a surtout of fine black cloth, a pair of velvet breeches for boli • days, with slippers of tbe same ; and on week-days he prided himself in the very best of his own home-spun cloth. His family consisted of an elderly housekeeper, a niece not quite twenty, and a lad for the field and the market, who both saddled the horse and handled the pruning-hook. The age of our Hidalgo* bordered upon fifty them by words very far from their true signification. Here is an explanation of them. It was customary, in the country towns of La Mancha, for the shepherds to come every week and give their masters an account of the state of their flocks ; on which occasions they brought with them the sheep which had died since their last report, that the flesh of them might be separated from the bones for salting. The oflal of these carcases was always eaten on Saturdays, and it was the only meal allowed to be eaten on those days, by a dispensation in the kingdom of Castile since the battle of Las Navas, in 1212. It may be readily imagined why, from its origin and form, this dish was properly called duelos y quebrantos. * Hidalgo has much the same application in Spain, as Squire has in England ; it literally signifies the son of something, in contradistinction to those who are the sons of nothing. BOOK I. CHAPTER I. 11 years. He was of a robust constitution, spare-bodied, of a meagre visage ; a very early riser, and a keen sportsman. It is said bis surname was Quixada, or Quesada (for tbere is some difference among the authors who have written upon this subject), though, by probable conjectures, it may be gathered that he was called Quixana. But this is of little importance to our story ; let it suffice, that, in relating, we do not swerve a jot from the truth. You must know then, that this gentleman aforesaid, at times when he was idle, which was most part of the year, gave himself up to the reading of tales of chivalry, with such relish, that he nearly forgot all the sports of the field, and even the management of his domestic affairs ; and his curiosity and extravagant fondness for them reached that pitch, that he sold many acres of arable laud to purchase books of knight-errantry, and carried home all he could lay hands on of that kind. But, among them all, none pleased him so much as those composed by the famous Feliciano de Silva; 2 for the glaringncss of his prose, and the intricacy of his style, seemed to him so many pearls ; and especially when he came to peruse those love speeches and challenges, where, in several places, he found written : " The reason of the unreasonable treatment of my reason enfeebles my reason in such wise, that with reason I complain of 3 The literal title of the hooks alluded to is as follows :— " The Chronicle of the very valiant Knights Don Florizel de Niquea, and the vigorous Anaxartes corrected and modernized from the style in which it was originally written, by Zirphea, Queen of Arignes, by the noble knight Feliciano de Silva." Saragossa, 1581. 12 DON QUIXOTE. your beauty •" and also when he read, " The high heaven of your divinity, which divinely fortifies you with the stars, making you meri- torious of the merit merited by your greatness." With this kind of language the poor gentleman lost his wits, and distracted himself to comprehend and unravel their meaning ; which was more than Aristotle himself could do, were he to rise again from the dead for that purpose alone. He had some doubts as to the dreadful wounds which Don Belianis gave and received ; for he imagined, that, notwithstanding the most expert surgeons had cured him, his face and whole body must be full of seams and scars. Nevertheless, he commended in his author the concluding his book with a promise of finishing that interminable adventure ; and he often had it in his thoughts to take pen in hand, and conclude it himself, precisely as it is there promised, 3 which he had certainly performed, and successfully too, if other greater and continual cogitations had not diverted him 3 " Were I to finish by fiction so estimable a history, it would be offensive. I will therefore leave off here, authorizing any one, into whose hands the conclusion may fall, to join it to this, for I have a great desire to see it." (Beliauis, book VI. chap. 75.) I500K I. — CHAPTER I. 13 He had frequent disputes with the priest of his village (who was a learned person, and had taken his degrees in Siguenza, 4 ) which of the two was the better knight, Palmerin of England,* or Amadis de Gaul. But master Nicholas, barber-surgeon of the same town affirmed, that none ever came up to the knight of the sun ; and that if any one could be compared to him, it was Don Galaor, brother of Amadis de Gaul; for he was of a disposition fit for every thing, no finical gentleman, nor such a whimperer as his brother ; and, as to courage, he was by no means inferior to him. In short, he so bewildered himself in this kind of study, that he passed the nights in reading from sun-set to sun-rise, and the days from sun-rise to sun-set ; and thus, through little sleep and much reading, his brain was dried up in such a manner that he came at last to lose his wits. His imagination was full of all that he read, enchantments, battles, single combats, challenges, wounds, courtships, amours, tempests, and impossible absurdities. And so firmly was he persuaded that * Graduate at Siguenza is a piece of irony. In Cervantes' time, the small universities and their pupils were much ridiculed. Christoval Suarcz de Figuerona, in his hook called el Pasayero, makes a schoolmaster say : — " As to the degrees, you will easily rind some little country university, where they say unanimously : Accipiamus pecuniam, el mtttamux axinum in patriam imam. (Let us take the money and send the ass hack to his country.)" * England seems to have been often made the scene of chivalry ; for, besides this Palmerin, we find Don Florando of England, and some others, not to mention Amadis's mistress, the Princess Oriana of England. 14 DON QUIXOTE. the whole system of chimeras he had studied was true, that he thought uo history in the world was more to be depended upon. The Cid Ruydiaz, he was wont to say, was a very good knight, but not comparable to the knight of the burning sword, who with a single back-stroke cleft asunder two fierce and monstrous giants. He was better pleased with Bernardo del Carpió, for putting the enchanted Orlando to death in Roncevalles, by means of the same stratagem which Hercules used, when he suffocated Anteus, son of the earth, by squeezing him between his arms. He spoke mighty well of the giant Morgante ; for, though he was of that monstrous brood who are always proud and insolent, he alone was affable and well bred. But, above all, he was charmed with Reynaldo de Montalban, especially when he saw him sallying out of his castle and plundering all he met ; and when abroad he seized that image of Mahomet, which was all massy gold, as his history records. 5 He would have given his housekeeper, and niece to boot, for a fair opportunity of handsomely kicking the traitor Galalon. 6 In fine, having quite lost his wits, he fell into one of the strangest conceits that ever entered into the head of any madman ; which was, that he thought it expedient and necessary, as well for the advancement of his own reputation, as for the public good, that he should commence knight* errant, and wander through the world, with his horse and arms, in quest of adventures ; and to put in practice whatever he had read to have been practised by knights- errant ; redressing all kinds of grievances, and exposing himself to danger on all occasions; that, by accomplishing such enterprizes, he might acquire eternal fame and renown. The poor gentleman already imagined himself at least crowned emperor of Trebizond by the valour of his arm : and wrapt up in these agreeable delusions, and hurried on by the strange pleasure he took in them, he pre- pared to execute what he so much desired. 5 " O bastard!" replied Renaud to Roland, who had been upbraiding him for his thefts: "oh, son of a bad woman ! you lied in all you said, for to steal from the pagans of Spain is no theft ; and I alone, in spite of upwards of forty thousand Moors, took from them a little golden Mahomet, which I wanted to pay my soldiers with." (Mirror of Chivalry, part. I. chap. 46.) 6 One of Charlemagne's twelve peers. He was surnamed the Traitor, for betraying the Christian army into the hands of the Saracens, in the pass of Roncevalles. BOOK I. — CHAPTER I. 15 And the first thing he did, was, to scour up a suit of armour, which had been his great-great-grandfather's, and,being mouldy and rust-caten, had lain by, many long years, forgotten in a corner. This he cleaned, and furbished up : but he perceived one grand defect, which was, that instead of a helmet there was only a simple morion or steel-cap ! but he dexterously supplied this want by contriving a sort of vizor of pasteboard, which, being fixed to the head-piece, gave it the appearance of a complete helmet. It is true, indeed, that, to try its strength, and whether it was proof against a cut, he drew his sword, and, giving it two strokes, undid in an instant what he had i v been a week in doing. But, not altogether approving of his having broken it to pieces with so much case, and to secure himself from the like danger for the future, he made it over again, fencing it with 1G DON QUIXOTE. small bars of iron within, in such a manner, that he rested satisfied of its strength ; and, without caring to make a fresh experiment on it, he approved it, and looked upon it as a most excellent helmet. The next thing he did, was, to visit his steed; and though his bones stuck out like the corners of a rial,* and he had more faults than Gonela's horse, which " tantum pellis et ossa fuit," 7 he fancied that neither Alexander's Bucephalus, nor Cid's Babieca, was equal to him. Four days was he considering what name to give him : for, (as he said within himself), it was not fit that a horse so good, and appertaining to a knight so famous, should be without some name of eminence ; and therefore he studied to accommodate him with one, which should express what he had been before he belonged to a knight-errant, and what he actually now was : for it seemed highly reasonable, if his master changed his state, he likewise should change his name, and acquire one famous and high sounding, as became the new order, and the new way of life, he now professed. After sundry names devised and rejected, liked and disliked again, he concluded at last to call him Rocinante ; 8 a name, in his opinion, * A ludicrous image drawn from the irregular figure of the Spanish coin of that name, to express the jutting bones of a lean beast. 7 Picho Gonela was the buffoon of the Duke Borso of Ferrara, who flourished in the fifteenth century. Luigi Domenichi made a collection of his pasquinades. On one occasion, having laid a wager that his horse, which was old and lean, should jump higher than his master's, he made him leap from a balcony, thus winning the stakes. The Latin quotation is from Plautus. (Andalusia, act III. scene 6 ) 8 This name is a compound or augmentation of rocin. which means a small jaded horse or pony. Cervantes intended it, moreover, for a pun : the horse which was formerly a jade, (rocin-antes), is become the first of jades, (ante-rocin.) BOOK I. CHAPTER I. ¡7 lofty and sonorous, and at the same time expressive of what he had been when he was but a common steed, and before he had acquired his present superiority over all the steeds in the world. Having given his horse a name so much to his satisfaction, he resolved to give himself one. This consideration took him up eight days more, and at length he determined to call himself Don Quixote : 9 from whence, as is said, the authors of this most true history conclude, that his name was certainly Quixada, and not Quesada, as others would have it. But recollecting that the valorous Amadis, not content with the simple appellation of Amadis, added thereto the name of his kingdom and native country, in order to render it famous, and styled himself Amadis de Gaul ; so he, like a good knight, did in like manner call himself Don Quixote de la Mancha ; whereby, in his opinion, he set forth, in a very lively manner, his lineage and country, and did it due honour by taking his surname from thence. And now his armour being scoured, the morion converted into moans jaw ; and Quenada a cheese-cake. Cervantes called liis hero by the name of this piece of armour, because the syllable ote, in the Spanish language, generally terminates words which have a ridiculous meaning. VOL. I. C 18 DON QUIXOTE. a perfect helmet, and both his steed and himself new named, he persuaded himself that he wanted nothing but to make choice of some lady to be in love with ; for a knight-errant without a mistress, was a tree without leaves or fruit, and a body without a soul. " If," said he, " for the punishment of my sins, or through my good- fortune, I should chance to meet some giant, as is usual with knights-errant, and should overthrow him in fight, or cleave him asunder, or vanquish and force him to yield, will it not be proper to have some lady to send him to as a present ? that, when he comes BOOK I. CHAPTER I. 19 before her, he may kneel to her sweet ladyship, and, in a humble and submissive tone, accost her thus : " Madam, I am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island Malindrania, whom the never- enough-to-be-praised Don Quixote de la Mancha has overcome in single combat, and I have been commanded to present myself before your ladyship, that your grandeur may dispose of me as you think proper." Oh ! how did our good gentleman exult when he had made this harangue, and especially when he had found out a person on whom to confer the title of his mistress : which, it is beheved, happened thus. Near the place where he lived, there dwelt a very comely country lass, with whom he had formerly been in love ; though, as it is supposed, she never knew it, nor troubled herself about it. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo ; and her he pitched upon to be the lady of his thoughts ; then casting about for a name which should have some affinity with her own, and yet incline towards that of a great lady or princess, he resolved to call her Dulcinea del Toboso (for she was born at that place :) a name, to his thinking, harmonious, uncommon and significant, like the rest he had devised for himself, and for all that belonged to him. 20 DON QUIXOTE. CHAPTER II. OF THE FIRST SALLY THE INGENIOUS DON QUIXOTE MADE FROM HIS VILLAGE. s soon as these dispositions were made he would no longer defer putting his design in execution; being the more strongly excited thereto by the mischief he thought his delay occasioned in the world ; such and so many were the grievances he pro- posed to redress, the wrongs he intended to rectify, the exorbitances to correct, the abuses to reform, and the debts to dis- charge. And therefore, without making any one privy to his design, or being seen by any body, one morning before day (which was one of the hottest in the month of July,) he armed himself cap-a-pie, mounted Roscinante, adjusted his ill-composed beaver, braced on his target,* grasped his lance, and issued forth into the fields at a private door of his back-yard, with the greatest satisfaction and joy, to find with how much ease he had given a beginning to his honour- able enterprise. But scarce was he got into the plain, when a terrible thought assaulted him, and such as had well-nigh made him abandon his new undertaking ; for it came into his remembrance, that he was not dubbed a knight, and that, according to the laws of chivalry, he neither could nor ought to enter the lists against any knight ; and though he had been dubbed, still he must wear white armour, as a new knight, without any device on his shield, until he * The target, or buckler, was slung about the neck with a buckle and thong. BOOK I. CHAPTER II. 21 had acquired one by his prowess. These reflections staggered his resolution ; but his frenzy prevailing above any reason whatever* he purposed to get himself knighted by the first person he should meet, in imitation of many others who had done the like, as he had read in the books which had occasioned his madness. As to the white armour, he proposed to scour his own, the first opportunity, in such sort that it should be whiter than ermine ; and herewith quieting his mind, he went on his way, following no other road than what his horse pleased to take ; believing that therein consisted the life and spirit of adventures. 22 DON QUIXOTE. Thus our flaming adventurer jogged on, talking to himself, and saying, " Who doubts, but that, in future times, when the faithful history of my famous exploits shall come to light, the sage who writes them, while he gives a relation of this my first sally, so early in the morning, will do it in words like these : ' Scarce had ruddy Phoebus spread the golden tresses of his beauteous hair over the face of the wide and spacious earth ; and scarce had the painted birds, with the sweet and mellifluous harmony of their forked tongues, saluted the approach of rosy Aurora, when, quitting the soft couch of her jealous husband she disclosed herself to mortals through the gates and balconies of the Manchegan horizon ; when the renowned Don Quixote de la Mancha, abandoning the lazy down, mounted his famous courser Rocinante, and began to travel through the ancient and noted field of Montiel,*' " (and true it is, that was the very field ;) and passing along it, he continued saying, " Happy times, and happy age, in which my famous exploits shall come to light, worthy to be engraved in brass, carved in marble, and drawn in picture, for a monument to all posterity ! O thou sage enchanter ! whoever thou art, to whose lot it shall fall to be the chronicler of this wonderful history, I beseech thee not to forget my good Rocinante, the inseparable companion of all my travels and excursions." Then on a sudden, as one really enamoured, he went on saying, " O Princess Dulcinea ! mistress of this captive heart, great injury hast thou done me in discarding and disgracing me by thy rigorous decree, forbidding me to appear in the presence of thy beauty. Vouchsafe, lady, to remember this thine enthralled heart, that endures so many aflhctions for love of thee." 10 Thus he went on, stringing one extravagance upon another, in the style his books had taught him, and imitating, as nearly as he could, their very phrase. He travelled on so leisurely, and the sun advanced so fast, and with such intense heat, that it was sufficient to have melted his brains, if he had had any. He journeyed almost * 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. 10 In allusion to a passage in Amadis, in which Oriane commands the hero never to present himself before her again. (Book II. chap. 44.) BOOK I. — CIIAFTER II. 23 the whole day without meeting with any thing worth relating, winch disheartened him much ; for he wanted immediately to have encountered somebody, to make trial of the force of his valiant arm. Some authors say his first adventure was that of the Pass of Lapice ; others pretend it was that of the windmills. But what I have been able to discover of this matter, and what I have found written in the annals of La Mancha, is, that he travelled all that day, and, toward the fall of night, his horse and he found themselves tired, and almost dead with hunger ; and, looking round to see if he could discover some castle or shepherd's cottage, to which he might retire, and relieve his extreme necessity, he perceived not far from the road an inn ; 11 which was as if he had seen a star directing him to the porticos of his redemption. He made all the haste he could, and came up to it just as the day shut in. There chanced to stand at the door two young women of indifferent fame, who were going to Seville with certain carriers, and who happened to take up their lodging at the inn that night. As whatever our adventurer thought, saw, or imagined, seemed to him to be done and transacted in the manner he had read of, immediately, at sight of the inn, he fancied it to be a castle with four turrets and battlements of refulgent silver ; together with its draw-bridge, deep moat, and all the appurtenances with which such castles are usually described. As he was making up to the inn, which he took for a castle, at some little distance from it, he 11 We preserve, for want of a better, the sacred name of inn ; but it is a very poor translation of the word venía. That is the name given to those miserable isolated puhlic- bouses, which are used as resting-places between distant country-towns ; where the only lodging to be obtained is a stable, and the only provisions, barley for the mules. 24 DON QUIXOTE. checked Rocinante by the bridle, expecting some dwarf to appear on the battlements, and give notice, by sonnd of trumpet, of the arrival of a knight at the castle. But finding this delayed, and that Rocinante pressed to get to the stable, he drew near to the inn- door, and saw there the two strolling wenches, who seemed to him to be two beautiful damsels, or graceful ladies, who were taking their pleasure at the castle-gate. It happened that a swine-herd, getting together his hogs (for, without begging pardon, so they are called) from the stubble field, was winding his horn, at which signal they are wont to assemble; and at that instant Don Quixote's imagination represented to him what he wished, namely, that some dwarf gave the signal of his arrival ; and therefore, with wondrous content, he came up to the inn, and to the ladies ; who, perceiving a man armed in that manner, with lance and buckler, were frightened, and began to run into the house. But Don Quixote, guessing at their fear by their flight, BOOK I. — CHAPTER II. 25 lifted up his pasteboard visor, and, discovering his withered and dusky visage, with courteous demeanour and grave voice thus accosted them : " Fly not, ladies, nor fear any discourtesy ; for the order of knighthood which I profess, permits me not to offer injury to any one, much less to virgins of such high rank as your presence denotes/' The wenches stared at him with all the eyes they had, and were looking to find his face, which the scurvy heaver almost vol i n 26 DON QUIXOTE. covered. But. when they heard themselves styled virgins, recollect- ing their profession, they could not contain their laughter, but burst out in so violent a manner, that Don Quixote began to grow angry, and said to them : " Modesty well becomes the fair, and nothing is so foolish as excessive laughter proceeding from a slight occasion ; but I do not say this to disoblige you, or to cause you to discover any ill disposition towards me ; for mine is no other than to do you service." This language, which they did not understand, and the uncouth mien of our knight, increased their laughter, and his wrath ; and things would have gone much farther, had not the inn- keeper come out at that instant, (a man, who, by being very bulky, was inclined to be very peaceable,) who, beholding such an odd figure all in armour, the pieces of which were so ill-sorted, as were the bridle, lance, buckler, and corselet, could scarcely forbear keeping the damsels company in the demonstrations of their mirth. But, being in some fear of a pageant equipped in so warlike a manner, he resolved to speak him fair, and therefore accosted him thus : " If your worship, Signor Cavalier, is in quest of a lodging, bating a bed (for in this inn there is none to be had), every thing else will be found here in great abundance." Don Quixote, perceiv- ing the humility of the governor of the fortress (for such to him appeared the inn-keeper and the inn) answered: " Any thing will serve me, Signor Castellano,* for arms are my ornaments, and fighting my repose.'' The host thought he called him Castellano because he took him for an honest Castilian ; whereas he was an Andalusian, and of the coast of Saint Lucar, as arrant a thief as Cacus, and as sharp and unlucky as a collegian or a court-page ; and therefore he replied : " If it be so, your worship's beds are hard rocks, and your sleep the being always awake ; and since it is so, you may venture to alight, being sure of finding in this poor hut sufficient cause for not sleeping a whole twelvemonth, much more one single night." And so saying, he went and held Don Quixote's stirrup, who alighted with much difficulty and pains ; for he had not broken his fast all that day. He presently requested of the * Castellano, in Spanish, signifies both a governor of a castle, and a native of Castile. p. 2fi. BOOK I. — CHAPTER II. 27 host to take especial care of his steed, for he was the best piece of horse-flesh that ever ate bread in the world. The inn-keeper viewed him, but did not think him so good as Don Quixote represented him to be ; no, not by half ; and having set him up in the stable, he returned to see what his guest would be pleased to order, whom the damsels were unarming ; (for they were already reconciled to him;) and though they had taken off the back and breast pieces; 28 DON QUIXOTE. they could not find out how to unlace his gorget, or take off the counterfeit beaver, which he had fastened in such a manner with green ribbons, that, there being no possibility of untying them, they must of necessity be cut; which he would by no means consent to, and so he remained all the night with his helmet on, the strangest and most ridiculous figure imaginable. Whilst the girls were taking off his armour, imagining them to be persons of the first quality, and ladies of that castle, he said to them with great gaiety, as the old Romance has it, " Never sure was knight so nobly served by ladies as was Don Quixote, since his departure from his village, damsels waited on his person, and prin- cesses on his steed. O Rocinante ! for that, dear ladies, is my horse's name, and Don Quixote de la Mancha is my own ? for though I was not wilhng to discover myself, until the exploits done for your service and benefit should discover me, the necessity of accommo- dating the old romance of Sir Lancelot to our present purpose has been the occasion of your knowing my name before the proper season : but the time will come, when your ladyships may command, and I obey ; and the valour of my arm shall manifest the desire I have to serve you." The lasses, who were not accustomed to such rhetorical flourishes, answered not a word, but only asked whether he would be pleased to eat any thing. With all my heart, answered Don Quixote : any thing eatable would, I apprehend, come very seasonably. That day happened to be Friday, and there was nothing to be had in the inn, excepting a parcel of dried fish, which in Castile they cab 1 abadexo, in Andalusia baccalao, in some parts curadillo, and in others truchuely.* They asked him, whether he would be pleased to eat some truchuelas, for they had no other to offer him. So there be many troutlings, answered Don Quixote, they may serve me instead of one trout : for I would as willingly be paid eight single rials, as one piece of eight : and the rather, because perhaps these troutlings are like veal, which is preferable to beef, or like kid, which is better than the goat. But, be that as it will, let it come quickly; for the toil and weight of arms cannot be supported without supplying the stomach well. They laid the cloth at the * The same which we call Poor John, or little Trout. « HOOK r. — CHAPTER II. 29 door of the inn, for the sake of the fresh breeze ; and the landlord brought him some of the ill-watered and worse-boiled bacalao, and a loaf of bread as black and mouldy as his armour : but it was mat- ter of great laughter to see him eat j for, having his helmet on, and his beaver up, he could not put any thing into his mouth with his own hands, but somebody must do it for him ; and so one of the aforesaid ladies performed this office. But to give him drink was utterly impossible, if the host had not bored a reed, and, putting one end into his mouth, poured in the wine leisurely at the other ; and all this he suffered patiently, rather than cut the lacings of his helmet. In the mean time there came to the inn a sow doctor, who, as soon as he arrived, sounded his whistle of reeds four or five times ; which entirely confirmed Don Quixote in the thought that he was 30 DON QUIXOTE. in some famous castle, that they served him with music, and that the poor jack was trout, the coarse loaf the finest white bread, the wenches ladies, and the host governor of the castle ; and so he con- cluded his resolution to be well taken, and his sally attended with success. But what gave him the most disturbance was, that he was not yet dubbed a knight ; thinking he could not lawfully undertake any adventure, until he had first received the order of knighthood. BOOK I. — CHAPTER 111. 3J CHAPTER III. IN WHICH IS RELATED THE PLEASANT METHOD DON QUIXOTE TOOK TO BE DUBBED A KNIGHT. nd now, being disturbed witb tins thought, he made an abrupt end of his short supper ; which done, he called the landlord, and, shutting himself up with him, in the stable, he fell upon his knees before him, and said, I will never rise from this place, valorous knight, until your courtesy vouchsafes me a boon I mean to beg ; which will redound to your honour, and to the benefit of human kind. The host, seeing his guest at his feet, and hearing such expressions, stood confounded, gazing at him, and not knowing what to do or say ; he strove to raise him from the ground, but in vain, until he had promised to grant him the boon he requested. I expected no less, sir, from your great magnificence, answered Don Quixote ; and therefore know, the boon I would request, and which has been vouchsafed me by your liberality, is, that you shall to- morrow morning dub me a knight ; this night in the chapel of your castle I will watch my armour : and to-morrow, as I have said, what I so earnestly desire shall be accomplished ; that I may be duly qualified to wander through the four quarters of the world, in quest of adventures, for the relief of the distressed, as is the duty of chivalry, and of knights-errant, whose hearts, like mine, are strongly bent on such achievements. 32 DON QUIXOTE. The host, who (as we have said) was an arch fellow, and already entertained some suspicions of the madness of his guest, was now at hearing such expressions, thoroughly convinced of it : and, that he might have something to make sport with that night, resolved to keep up the humour. He replied, that he was certainly very much in the right in what he requested; and that grand achievements were peculiar and natural to cavaliers of such prime quality as he seemed to be of, and as his gallant deportment did demonstrate : that he himself, in the days of his youth, had betaken himself to that honourable employ, wandering through divers parts of the world in search of adventures, not omitting to visit the suburbs of Malaga, the isles of Riaran, the compass of Seville, the aqueduct-market of Segovia, the olive-yard of Valentia, the rondilla of Granada, the coast of St. Lucar,* the fountain of Cordova, f the hedge-taverns of Toledo, and sundry other parts, where he had exercised the agility of his feet and dexterity of his hands ; doing sundry wrongs, soliciting sundry widows, undoing some damsels^ and bubbling several young heirs in fine, making himself known to most of the tribunals and courts of judicature in Spain: and that at last he had retired to this castle, where he lived upon his own means and other people's, entertaining all knights-errant, of what- ever quality or condition they were, merely for the great love he bore them, and that they might share their gettings with him in requital for his good-will. He further told him, there was no * Names of certain infamous places in Spain, f Near which was the whipping post. t These expressions seeming a little too strong and open in the original, the translator was inclined to have qualified them in the version ; but, upon reading Don Belianis of Greece, (part ii. chap. 3,) he found Don Brianel, who was travelling to Antioch on the princess Aurora's errand, and lodged in a house of good repute ; the landlord of which, Palinee, had been trained up to chivalry. The host offers his service to wait upon Don Brianel, and wanting a cloak, frightens a page, who flies and leaves his cloak behind him. Don Brianel approves the thing, and tells him, he performed it so cleverly, he believed it was not his first exploit of the kind ; and he frankly owns, he had often put in practice such pieces of dexterity. In allusion to this approved feature of knight-errantry, Don Quixote's host brags of divers wonders he performed that way ; and this was a strong precedent, nor could our knight object to any example fetched from his favourite Don Belianis's approved history. Thus, this passage in Cervantes, which has been thought very faulty, appears to be not only excusable, but very judicious, and directly to his purpose of exposing those authors and their numerous absurdities. BOOK I. — CHAPTER III. 33 chapel in his castle, in which to watch his armour, (for it had been pulled down in order to be rebuilt :) however in cases of necessity, he knew it might be watched wherever he pleased, and that he might do it that night in a court of the castle : and the next day, if Heaven permitted, the requisite ceremonies should be performed, in such a manner that he might be dubbed a knight, and so effectually knighted, that no one in the world could be more so. He asked him, also, whether he had any money about him ? Don Quixote replied, he had not a farthing ; having never read, in the histories of knights-errant, that they carried any. To this the host replied, he was under a mistake ; for, supposing it was not mentioned in the story, the authors thinking it superfluous to specify a thing so plain, and so indispensably necessary to be carried, as money and clean shirts, it was not, therefore, to be inferred that they had none : and, therefore, he might be assured' that all the knights-errant, (of whose actions there are such authentic histories,) did carry their purses well lined for whatever migbt befal them ; and that they carried also, shirts, and a little box of ointment wherewith to heal the wounds they might receive, because there was not always one at hand to cure them, in the fields and deserts where they fought. Unless, pursued the host, they bad some sage enchanter for their friend, to assist them immediately, bringing some damsel or dwarf in a cloud tlirough the air, with a phial of water of such virtue, that, in tasting a drop of it, they should instantly become as sound and whole of their bruises and wounds as if they had never been hurt : but that, so long as they wanted this advantage, the knights-errant of time past never failed to have their squires provided with money, and other necessary things, such as lint and salves, to cure them- selves with ; and, when it happened that the said knights had no squires, (which fell out very rarely,) they carried all these tilings behind them upon their horses, in a very small wallet, hardly visible, as if it were something of greater importance ; for, were it not upon such an account, this carrying of wallets was not currently admitted among knights-errant. Therefore he advised him, though he might command him as his godson, (which he was to be very soon,) that from thenceforward he should not travel without money, VOL. I. E 34 DON QUIXOTE. or without the aforesaid precautions, and he would find how useful they would be to him, when he least expected it. Don Quixote promised to follow his advice with all punctuality. Order was presently given for performing the watch of the armour, in a large yard adjoining the inn ; and Don Quixote, gathering all the pieces of it together, laid them upon a cistern that stood close to a well ; and, bracing on his buckler, and grasping his lance, with a solemn pace, began to walk backward and forward before the cistern, beginning his parade just as the day shut in. The host acquainted all that were in the inn with the frenzy of his guest, the watching of his armour, and the knighting he expected. They wondered at so odd a kind of madness, went out to observe him at a distance, and they perceived, that, with a com- posed air, he sometimes continued his walk ; at other times, leaning upon his lance, he looked wistfully at his armour, without taking off his eyes for a long time together. It was now quite night ; but the moon shone with such a lustre as might almost vie with His who lent it ; so that whatever our new knight did was distinctly seen by all the spectators. While he was thus employed, one of the carriers, who put up there, had a mind to water his mules, and it was necessary first to remove Don Quixote's armour from off the cistern : who, seeing him approach, called to him, with a loud voice, " Ho ! there, who- ever though art, rash knight, that approachest to touch the arms of the most valorous adventurer that ever girded sword ; take heed what thou doest, and touch them not, unless thou wouldst leave thy life a forfeit to thy temerity." The carrier troubled not his head with these speeches, (but it had been better for him if he had, for he might have saved his carcase,) but, instead of that, taking hold of the straps, he tossed the armour a good distance from him: which Don Quixote perceiving, lifted up his eyes to heaven, and fixing his thoughts, (as it seemed,) on his mistress Dulcinea, he said, " Assist me, dear lady, in this, the first affront offered to this breast enthralled to thee ; let not thy favour and protection fail me in this first moment of danger." Uttering these and the like ejaculations, he let slip his target, and lifting up his lance with both hands, gave BOOK Ii CHAPTER III. 35 the carrier a blow on the head, that laid him flat on the ground, in such piteous plight, that had he repeated it, there would have been no need of a surgeon. This done, he gathered up his armour, and walked backward and forward witli the same gravity as at first. Soon after, another carrier, not knowing what had happened, (for still the first lay stunned,) came out with the same intention of watering his mules ; and as he was going to clear the cistern, by removing the armour, Don Quixote, without speaking a word, or imploring any body's protection, again let slip his target, and, lifting up his lance, broke the second carrier's head in three or four places. All the people of the inn ran out together at the noise, and the inn-keeper among the rest ; which Don Quixote perceiving, he braced on his target, and, laying his hand on his sword, exclaimed, " O queen of beauty, the strength and vigour of my enfeebled heart, now is the time to turn the eyes of thy greatness towards this thy captivated knight, whom so prodigious an adventure at this instant awaits." Hereby, in his opinion, he recovered so much courage, that if all the carriers in the world had attacked him, lie 36 DON QUIXOTE. would not have retreated an inch. The comrades of those that were wounded, (for they perceived them in that condition,) began to let fly a shower of stones at Don Quixote ; who sheltered him- self the best he could under his shield, and durst not stir from the cistern, lest he should seem to abandon his armour. The host cried out to them to let him alone, for he had already told them he was mad, and that he would be acquitted, as a madman, though he should kill them all. Don Quixote also cried out louder, calling them cowards and traitors, and the lord of the castle a poltroon and base-born knight, for suffering knights-errant to be treated in that manner ; adding, if he had received the order of knighthood, he would make him smart for his treachery : " But for you, rascally and base scoundrels," said he, "I do not value you a straw : draw near — come on — and do your worst; you shall quickly see the reward you are like to receive for your folly and insolence." This he uttered with so much vehemence and resolution, that he struck a terrible dread into the hearts of the assailants; and for this reason, together with the landlord's persuasions, they forebore throwing any more stones ; and he permitted the wounded to be carried off, and returned to the watch of his armour with the same tranquillity and sedateness as before. The host did not relish these pranks of his guest, and therefore determined to put an end to them by giving him his unlucky order of knighthood out of hand, before any farther mischief should ensue, and so, coming up to him he begged pardon for the rudeness of which those vulgar people had been guilty, without his knowing any thing of the matter ; however, he said, they had been sufficiently chastised for their rashness. He repeated to him, that there was no chapel in that castle, neither was it necessary for what remained to be done ; for the whole stress of being dubbed a knight lay in the blows on the neck and shoulders, as he had learned from the ceremonial of the order ; that it might be effectually performed in the middle of a field ; that he had already discharged all that belonged to the watching of the armour, which was sufficiently performed in two hours; and much more, since he had been above four about it. All this Don Quixote believed, aud said he was there ready to obey him; and desired him to finish the business with the utmost dispatch, BOOK I. — CHAPTER III. 37 because if he should be assaulted again, and found himself dubbed a knight, he was resolved not to leave a soul alive in the castle, except those he should command him to spare for his sake. The constable, thus warned, and apprehensive of what might be the event of this resolution, presently brought the book in which he entered the accounts of the straw and barley he furnished to the carriers ; then, with the two damsels, (a boy carrying an end of candle before them,) he came where Don Quixote was, whom he commanded to kneel ; and reading in his manual, (as if he had been saying some devout prayer,) in the midst of the reading he lifted up his hand and gave him a good blow on the nape of the neck; and after that, with his own sword, a handsome thwack on the shoulder, still muttering within his teeth as if he were praying. This done, 38 DON QUIXOTE. he ordered one of the ladies to gird on his sword, which she did with the most obliging freedom and discretion ; of which latter not a little was needful to keep them from bursting with laughter at every period of the ceremonies. But indeed the exploits they had already seen our new knight perform, kept their mirth within bounds. At girding on the sword, the good lady said, " God make you a fortunate knight, and give you success in battle." Don Quixote asked her name, that he might know from thenceforward to whom he was indebted for the favour received ; for he intended her a share of the honour he should acquire by the valour of his arm. She replied with much humility that she was called La Tolosa, and was a cobbler's daughter of Toledo, who lived at the little shops of Sancho-bienaya; and that wherever she was, she would serve and honour him as her lord. Don Quixote then desired her, for his sake, thenceforward to add to her name the Don, and to call herself Donna Tolosa; which she promised to do. With the other, who buckled on his spurs, he held the same kind of dialogue as he had done with her companion : he asked her name also, and she replied that she was called La Molinera, and was daughter of an honest miller of Antequera. Don Quixote entreated her also to add the Don, and call herself Donna Molinera, making her fresh thanks and offers of service. The never-till-then-seen ceremonies, being thus hastily dispatched, Don Quixote, who was impatient to see himself on horseback and sallying out in quest of adventures, immediately saddled Rocinante, and, embracing his host, mounted; and, at parting, said such strange things to him, acknowledging the favour of dubbing him a knight, that it is impossible to express them. The host, to get him the sooner out of the inn, returned his compliments with no less flou- rishes, though in fewer words ; and, without demanding any thing for his lodging, wished him a good journey. BOOK I. — CHAPTER IV. 39 CHAPTER IV. Or WHAT BEFEL OUR KNIGHT AFTER HE HAD SALLIED OUT FROM THE INN. ioiiT was about to break on a new day, when Don Quixote issued forth from the inn, so satisfied, so gay, so blithe, to see himself knighted, that the joy thereof almost burst his horse's girths. But recollecting the advice of his host coucerning the necessary provisions for his under- taking, especially the articles of money and clean shirts, he resolved to return home, and furnish himself accordingly, and also provide himself with a squire : purposing to take into his service a certain couutry-fellow of the neighbourhood, who was poor, and had children, yet was very fit for the squirely office of chivalry. With this thought he turned Rocinante towards his village ; who, as it were knowing what his master would be at, began to put on with so much alacrity, that he hardly seemed to set his feet to the ground. He had not gone far, when, on his right-hand, from a thicket hard by, he fancied he heard a weak voice as of a person complaining. Scarcely had he heard it, when he said, " I thank heaven for the favour it does me, in laying before me so early an opportunity of complying with the duty of my profes- sion, and of reaping the fruit of my honourable desires : these are, doubtless, the cries of some distressed person, who stands in 40 DON QUIXOTE. need of any protection and assistance ; and, turning the reins, he put Rocinante forward towards the place from whence he thought the voice proceeded. He had entered but a few paces into the wood, when he saw a mare tied to an oak, and a lad to another, naked from the waist upwards, about fifteen years of age, who was the person that cried out ; and not without cause, for a lusty country fellow was laying on him very severely with a belt, aud accompanying every lash with a reprimand and a word of advice ; for, said he, " The tongue slow and the eyes quick." The boy answered, " I will do so no more, dear sir ; by the passion of God I will never do so again ; and I promise, for the future, to take more care of the flock." HOOK I. — CHAPTER IV. 11 Now Don Quixote, seeing what passed, said, in an angry tone, " Discourteous knight, it ill becomes thee to meddle with one who is not able to defend himself ; get upon thy horse, and take thy lance, 12 (for he had also a lance leaning against the oak to which the mare was fastened,) for I'll make thee to know that it is cowardly to do what thou art doing." The countryman, seeing such a figure coming towards him, armed from head to foot, and brandishing his lance at his face, gave himself up for a dead man, and with good words, answered, " Signor Cavalier, this lad, whom I am chastising, is a servant of mine ; I employ him to tend a flock of sheep which I have hereabouts, and he is so careless, that I lose one every day ; and because I correct 1dm for his negligence, or roguery, he says I do it out of covctousness, and for an excuse not to pay him his wages ; but before heaven, and on my conscience, he lies." " Lies, in my presence ! pitiful rascal," said Don Quixote ; " by the sun that shines upon us, I have a good mind to run thee through aud through with this lance : pay him immediately without further reply ; if not, by that Power that rules us, I will dispatch and annihilate thee in a moment ! Untie him presently." The country- man hung down his head, and, without saying a word, loosened the boy. Don Quixote asked the lad how much his master owed him ; who answered, "Nine months wages, at seven reals* per month." Don Quixote computed it, and found that it amounted to sixty-three reals; and he bade the countryman instantly disburse them, other- wise he must expect to die for it. The fellow in a fright, answered, " That on the word of a dying man, and upon the oath he had taken, (though by-the-way, lie had taken no oath,) it was not so much ; for he must deduct the price of three pair of shoes he had given him upon account, and a real for two blood-lettings when he was not well." " All this is very right," said Don Quixote ; * but set the shoes and the blood-lettings against the stripes you have 12 It appears, at the present day, rather strange for a peasant to be carrying a lance : but it was then customary, among all claasses of Spaniards, to go armed with either a sword, or a lance and shield, as now they carry their carabines. Jn his Dialogue between the Dogs Scipio and Jlerganza, Cervantes mentions of a country gentleman, who went to see his sheep in the (ields, mounted on a well-groomed mare, armed with lance and buckler, looking more like a cavalier of t be guarda-costa iban an owncro' flocks of sheep. * A real is about sixpence linglish. 42 DON QUIXOTE. given him undeservedly ; for, if he tore the leather of the shoes you paid for, you have torn his skin ; and, if the barber- surgeon drew blood from him when he was sick, you have drawn blood from him when he is well ; so that, upon these accounts, he owes you nothing." " The mischief is, Signor Cavalier," quoth the countryman, " that I have no money about me ; but let Andrew go home with me, and I will pay him all, real by real." " I go with him !" said the lad ; " the devil a bit. No, sir, I design no such thing ; for, when he has me alone, he will flay me alive like another Saint Bartholomew." " He will not do so," replied Don Quixote : " It is sufficient to keep him in awe, that I lay my commands upon him ; and upon condition he swears to me, by the order of knighthood which he has received, I will let him go free, and will be bound for the payment." " Take heed, good sir, what you say," quoth the boy : " for my master is no knight, nor ever received any order of knighthood : he is John Haldudo, the rich, of the neighbourhood of Quintanar." " That is little to the purpose," answered Don Quixote: "there may be knights of the family of the Haldudos, and especially as every man is the son of his own works." " That's true," quoth Andrew ; " but what works is my master the son of, who refuses me the wages of my sweat and labour ?" " I do not refuse thee, friend Andrew," replied the countryman ; " and be so kind as to go with me ; for I swear, by all the orders of knighthood that are in the world, to pay thee, as I have said, every penny down, with the interest into the bargain." " As to the interest, I thank you for that," said Don Quixote ; " give it him in reals, and I shall be satisfied : and see that you perform what you have sworn ; else I swear to you by the same oath, to return and chastise you ; for I shall find you out, though you should hide yourself closer than a lizard. And if you would know who it is that commands you this, that you may be the more strictly obliged to perform your promise, know that I am the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha, the redresser of wrongs and abuses. And so farewell, and do not forget what you have promised and sworn, on pain of the penalties aforesaid." So saying, he clapped spurs to Rocinante, and was soon got a good way off. The countryman followed him with all the eyes he had; and, BOOK I. — CHAPTER TV. 43 when he found lie was quite past the wood, and out of sight, he turned to his man Andrew, and said : " Come hither, child, 1 am resolved to pay thee what I owe thee, as that redresser of wrongs commanded me." " And I swear so you shall," quoth Andrew : " and you will do well to perform what that honest gentleman has commanded, whom heaven grant to live a thousand years ; and who is so hrave a man, and so just a judge, that, adad, if you do not pay me, he will come back and execute what he has threatened." " And I swear so too," quoth the countryman ; " but to show thec how much I love thee, I am resolved to augment the debt to increase the payment." And, taking him by the arm, he tied him again to the tree, where he gave him so many stripes that he left him for dead. " Now, master Andrew, call upon that redresser of wrongs ; thou wilt find he will hardly redress this, though I believe I have not quite done with thee yet ; for I have a good mind to flay thee alive, as thou fearcdst but now." But, at length, he untied him, and gave him leave to go in quest of his judge, to execute the sentence he had pronounced. Andrew withdrew in dudgeon, swearing he would find out the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha, and tell him all that had passed, and that he should pay for it seven- fold. Notwithstanding all this, away he went weeping, and his master staid behind laughing. Thus the valorous Don Quixote redressed this wrong; and overjoyed at his success, as thinking he had given a most fortunate and glorious beginning to his knight-errantry, he went on towards his village, entirely satisfied with himself, and saying, in a low voice, "Well mayest thou deem thyself happy above all women living on the earth, O Dulcinea del Toboso, beauteous above the most beautiful, since it has been thy lot to have subject and obedient to thy whole will and pleasure so valiant and renowned a knight, as is ever and shall be, Don Quixote de la Mancha ; who, (as all the world knows,) received but yesterday the order of knighthood, and to-day has redressed the greatest injury and grievance that injustice could invent, or cruelty commit : — to-day hath he wrested the scourge out of the hand of that pitiless enemy, who so undcservcdlj lashed a tender stripling." 44 DON QUIXOTE. Just as he had done speaking, he approached the centre of four roads ; and presently, it came into his imagination that the knights- errant, when they came to these cross-ways, set themselves to consider which of the roads they should take : and, to imitate them, he stood still awhile ; and at last, after mature consideration, let go the reins, submitting his own will to be guided by that of his horse, who, following his first motion, took the direct road towards his stable. Having gone about two miles, Don Quixote discovered a company of people, who, as it afterwards appeared, were merchants of Toledo, going to buy silks in Murcia. There were six of them ; and they came with their umbrellas, and four servants on horseback, and three muleteers on foot. Scarcely had Don Quixote espied them, when he imagined some new adventure ; and to imitate, as nearly as possible, the passages he had read in his books, he fancied this to be cut out on purpose for him to achieve. With a graceful deportment and vast intrepidity he settled himself firm in his stirrups, grasped his lance, covered his breast with his target, and posting himself in the midst of the highway, stood waiting the coming up of those knights-errant, for such he already judged them to be : and when they had come so near as to be seen and heard, Don Quixote raised his voice, and, with an arrogant air, cried out, '' Let the whole world stand, if the whole world does not confess that there is not, in the whole world, a damsel more beautiful than BOOK L— CHAPTER IV. 4:> the Empress of La Mancha, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso." The merchants stopped at the sound of these words, and to behold the strange figure of him who pronounced them ; and, by the one and the other, they soon perceived the madness of the speaker : but they had a mind to stay and see what that confession meant, which he required of them : and one of them, who was somewhat of a wag, but, withal, very discreet, said to him, " Signor Cavalier, we do not know who this good lady you mention may be ; let us but see her, and if she is of so great beauty as you intimate, we will, with all our hearts, and without any constraint, confess that truth you demand from us." " Should I show her to you," replied Don Quixote, " where would be the merit in confessing a fact so notorious ?" the business is, that, without seeing her, you believe, confess, affirm, swear, and maintain it ; and if not, I challenge you all to battle, proud and monstrous as you are : and, whether you come on one by one, (as the laws of chivalry require,) or all together, as is the custom and wicked practice of those of your stamp, here I wait for you, confiding in the justice of my cause." " Signor Cavalier," replied the merchant, " I beseech your worship, in the name of the princes here present, that we may not lay a burden upon our con- sciences, by confessing a thing we never saw nor heard, and especially what is so much to the prejudice of the empresses and queens of Castile and Estrcmadura, that your worship would be pleased to show us some picture of this lady, though no larger than a barley- corn ; for we shall guess at the clue by the thread : and herewith we shall rest satisfied and safe, and your worship remain contented and pleased : nay, I verily believe, we are already so far inclined to your side, that, though her picture should represent her squinting with one eye, and distilling vermilion and brimstone from the other, notwithstanding all this, we will say whatever you please in her favour." " There distils not, base scoundrels," answered Don Quixote, burning with rage, — " there distils not from her what you say, but rather ambergris and rich perfume ; neither is she crooked, nor hump-backed, but as straight as a spindle of Guadar- rama : but you shall pay for the horrid blasphemy you have uttered against so transcendent a beauty as my mistress." 4G DON QUIXOTE. And so saying, with his lance couched, he ran at him who had spoken, with so much fury and rage, that, if good fortune had not ordered it that Rocinante stumbled and fell, in the midst of his career, it had gone hard with the daring merchant. Rocinante fell, and his master lay rolling about the field a good while, and endeavouring to rise, but in vain, so encumbered was he with his lance, target, spurs, and helmet, and with the weight of his antique armour. While he was thus struggling, he continued calling out, " Fly not, ye dastardly rabble ; stay, ye race of slaves ; for it is BOOK I. — CHAPTER IV. 47 through my horse's fault, and not my own, that I lie here extended." A muleteer of the company, not over good-natured, hearing the poor fallen gentleman vent such boasts, could not bear it without returning him an answer on his ribs ; so, coming to him, he took the lance, and, after he had broken it to pieces, with one of the splinters he so belaboured Don Quixote, that, in spite of his armour, he thrashed him to chaff. His masters cried out not to beat him so much ; and to leave him, but the muleteer was provoked, and would not quit the game until he had quite spent the remainder of his choler : and running for the other pieces of the lance, he finished the breaking them upon the poor fallen knight, who, not- withstanding the tempest of blows that rained upon him, never shut his mouth, threatening heaven and earth, and those assassins, for such they seemed to him. At length the fellow was tired, and the merchants went on their way, sufficiently furnished with matter of discourse concerning the poor belaboured knight. Don Quixote when he found himself alone, tried again to rise ; but if he could not do it when whole and well, how should he when bruised and almost battered to pieces? Yet still he thought himself a happy man, looking upon this as a misfortune peculiar to knights-errant, and imputing the whole to his horse's fault ; but it was impossible for him to raise himself up, his whole body was so horribly bruised. 48 DON QUIXOTE. CHAPTER V. WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE NARRATION OF OUR KNIGHt's MISFORTUNE. anquished he would not own himself ; but, finding that he was unable to stir, he bethought himself of having recourse to \ his usual remedy, which was to recol- ísés?* 0^^¡r^^WM9 m ^^W''' :S ^^ lect some passage of his books ; and his frenzy instantly presented to his remembrance that of Baudouin and the Marquis of Mantua, when Carloto left him wounded on the mountain : a story, known to children, not unknown to youth, commended and credited by old men, and, for all that, no truer than the miracles of Mahomet. Now this example seemed to him as if it had been cast in a mould to fit his present distress : and so, with signs of great bodily pain, he began to roll himself on the ground, and said, with a faint tone, what was said by the wounded knight of the wood : — " Where art thou, mistress of my heart ? Unconscious of thy lover's smart : Ah me ! thou know'st not my distress, — Or thou art false and pitiless." And in this manner he went on with the romance, until he came to where it said : " O noble Marquis of Mantua, my uncle and lord by blood." It so fortuned that, just as he came to that verse, there passed by a countryman of his own village, and his near neighbour, BOOK I. — CHAPTER V. 49 who had been carrying a load of wheat to the mill ; who, seeing a man lying stretched on the earth, came up and asked him who he was, and what ailed him, that he made such a doleful lamentation? Don Quixote believed he must certainly be the Marquis of Mantua, his uncle, and so returned him no answer, but went on with his romance, 13 giving an account of his misfortune, and of the amours of the emperor's son with his spouse, just in the same manner as it is there recounted. The peasant stood confounded at hearing such extravagancies ; and taking off his visor, which was beaten all to pieces, he wiped his face, then covered with dust ; and the moment he had done wiping it, he knew him, and said, " Ah, Signor (Juixada, (for so he was called before he had lost his senses, and was 13 This romance, in three parts, of which the author is unknown, is to be found in the Cancionero, printed at Antwerp in 1555. It is there related that Carloto, the son of Charlemagne, enticed Baudouin, (Valdovinos,) into the unfortunate grove, (la floresta sin ventura,) with the design of taking his life and marrying his widow. He wounded him mortally in twenty-six different places, and left his corpse in the thicket. The Marquis of Mantua, his uncle, who was hunting near the spot, heard the wounded man's cries, came to the place, and recognized his nephew. He sent an express to Paris, asking justice at the Emperor's hands, and Charlemagne caused his son to be executed. voi, I. Ü 50 DON QUIXOTE. transformed from a sober gentleman to a knight-errant,) how came your worship in this condition ?" but he answered out of his romance to whatever question was asked him. The good man seeing this, made a shift to take off his back and breast pieces, to see if he had received any wound : but he saw no blood, nor sign of any hurt. Then he endeavoured to raise him from the ground, and with much ado set him upon his ass, as being the beast of easier carriage. He gathered together all the arms, not excepting the broken pieces of the lance, and tied them upon Rocinante ; and so, taking him by the bridle, and his ass by the halter, he went on, towards his village, full of reflection at hearing the extravagancies which Don Quixote uttered; and no less thoughtful was the knight, who, through the mere force of bruises and bangs, could scarcely keep himself upon the ass, and, ever and anon, sent forth such groans as seemed to pierce the skies, insomuch that the peasant was again forced to ask him what ailed him. None but the devil himself could furnish his memory with stories so suited to what had befallen him ; for, at that instant, forgetting BOOK I. — CHAPTER V. 5) Valdovinos, he bethought himself of the Moor Aben Darraez, at the time when the governor of Antequera, Rodrigo of Narvaez, had taken him prisoner, and conveyed him to his castle, so that when the peasant asked him again how he did, he answered him in the very same words and expressions, in which the prisoner Aben Darraez answered Rodrigo of Narvaez, as he had read the story in the Diana of George of Montemayor, applying it so patly to his own case, that the peasant went on cursing liimself to the devil for listening to such monstrous nonsense. He thence collected that his neighbour was gone mad, and therefore made what haste he could to reach the village, to free himself from the vexation of Don Quixote's tiresome and impertinent speeches; who, in conclusion, said, " Be it known to your worship, Signor Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, that this beauteous Xarifa, whom I mentioned, is now the fair Dulcinea del Toboso, for whom I have done, do, and will do, the most famous exploits of chivalry, that have been, are, or shall be seen in the world." To this the peasant answered, " Look you, Sir, as I am a sinner, I am not Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, nor the Marquis of Mantua, but Pedro Alonzo, your neighbour : neither is your worship Valdovinos, nor Aben Darraez, but the worthy gentle- man Signor Quixada." " I know who I am," answered Don Quixote ; " and I know too that I am not only capable of being those I have mentioned, but all the twelve peers of France; yea, and the nine worthies; since my exploits will far exceed all that they have jointly or separately achieved. With these and the like discourses, they reached the village about sun-set : but the peasant staid until the night was a little advanced, that the people might not see the poor battered gentleman so scurvily mounted. When the hour he thought convenient was come, he entered the village, and arrived at Don Quixote's house, which he found all in an uproar. The priest and the barber of the place, who were Don Quixote's great friends, happened to be there ; and the housekeeper was saying to them, aloud, "What is your opinion, Signor Licentiate Pero Perez, (for that was the priest's name,) of my master's misfortune ? for neither he, nor his horse, nor the target, nor the lance, nor the armour, have been seen these six days past. Woe is me ! I am verily persuaded, and it is as 52 DON QUIXOTE. certainly true as I was born to die, that these cursed books of knight-errantry, which he keeps, and is so often reading, have turned his brain ; and, now I think of it, I have often heard him say, talking to himself, that he would turn knight-errant, and go about the world in quest of adventures. The devil and Barabbas take all such books, that have thus spoiled the finest understanding in all La Mancha." The niece joined with her, and said, moreover, " Know, master Nicholas, (for that was the barber's name,) that it has often happened, that my honoured uncle has continued poring over these confounded books of mischief two whole days and nights ; and then, throwing the book out of his hand, he would draw his sword, and fence, back-stroke and fore-stroke, with the walls ; and when he was heartily tired, would say, he had killed four giants, as tall as so many steeples, and that the sweat, which ran from him, when weary, was the blood of the wounds he had received in the fight : and then he would presently drink off a large jug of cold water, and be as quiet and well as ever, telling us that water was a most precious liquor, brought him by the sage Esquife, 14 a great enchanter, and his friend. But I take the blame of all this to myself, that I did not advertise you, gentlemen, of my dear uncle's extravagancies, before they were come to the height they now are, that you might have prevented them, by burning all those cursed books, of which he has so great store, and which as justly deserve to be committed to the flames, as if they were heretical." " I say the same," quoth the priest ; " and, in faith, to-morrow shall not pass without holding a public inquisition against them, and con- demning them to the fire, that they may no more minister occasion to those who read them to do what I fear my good friend has done." All this the peasant and Don Quixote overheard, and it confirmed the countryman in the belief of his neighbour's infirmity; and so he began to cry aloud, " Open the doors, gentlemen, to the Marquis of Mantua and Signor Valdovinos, who comes dangerously wounded, and to Signor Aben Darraez, the Moor, whom the valorous Rodrigo de Narvaez, governor of Antequera, brings as his prisoner." At hearing this, they all came out ; and as some 14 Alquife, who wrote the Chronicle of Amadis of Greece. Don Quixote's niece maims his name. BOOK I. — CHAPTER V. 53 knew their friend, and others their master and uncle, they all ran to embrace him, who was not yet alighted from the ass ; for, indeed, he could not. " Forbear all of you," he cried, " for I am sorely wounded through my horse's fault: carry me to my bed ; and, if it be possible, send for the sage Urganda, to search and heal my wounds." " Look ye, in the devil's name," said the housekeeper immediately, " if my heart did not tell me right, on which leg my master halted. Get up stairs, in God's name; for, without the help of that same Urganda, we shall find a way to cure you our- selves. Cursed, say I again, and a hundred times cursed, be those books of knight-errantry, that have brought your worship to this pass. They carried him presently to his chamber, and searching for his wounds, they found none at all : and he told them he was only bruised by a great fall he got with his horse Rocinante, as he was fighting with ten of the most prodigious and audacious giants that were to be found on the earth. " Ho, ho," says the priest, " what ! there are giants too in the dance : by my faith I shall set fire to them all before to-morrow night." They asked Don Quixote a thousand questions, and he would answer nothing, but only desired something to eat, and that they would let him sleep, which was what he stood most in need of. They did so, and the priest inquired par- ticularly of the countryman in what condition he had found Don Quixote ; who gave him an account of the whole, with the extra- vagancies he had uttered, both at the time of finding him, and all the way home; which increased the licentiate's desire to do what he did the next day; which was to call on his friend, master Nicholas, the barber, with whom he came to Don Quixote's house. 54 DON QUIXOTE. CHAPTER VI. OF THE PLEASANT AND GRAND SCRUTINY, MADE BY THE PRIEST AND THE BARBER, IN OUR INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN'S LIBRARY. etting Don Quixote sleep on, the priest asked the niece for the keys of the chamber where the books were, — those authors of the mischief; and she de- livered them with a very good will. They all went in, and the housekeeper with them. They found above a hun- dred volumes in folio, very well bound, besides a great many small ones. No sooner did the housekeeper see them, than she ran out of the room in great haste, and immediately returned with a pot of holy water and a bunch of hyssop, and said, " Signor Licentiate, take this, and sprinkle the room, lest some enchanter, of the many these books abound with, should enchant us, in revenge for what we intend to do, in banishing them out of the world." The priest smiled at the housekeeper's simplicity, and ordered the barber to reach him the books, one by one, that they might see what they treated of ; for, perhaps they might find some that did not deserve to be chastised by fire. "No," said the niece, "there is no reason why any of them should be spared, for they have all been mischief-makers : it will be best to fling them out of the window into the court-yard, and make a pile of them, and set fire to it, or else carry them into BOOK I. CHAPTER VI. 55 the back-yard, and there make a bonfire of them, and the smoke will offend nobody." The housekeeper said the same, so eagerly did they both thirst for the death of those innocents. But the priest would not agree to that, without first reading the titles, at least. The first that master Nicholas put into his hands, was " Amadis de Gaul," in four parts; and the priest said, "There seems to be some mystery in this ; for, as I have heard say, this was the first 56 DON QUIXOTE. book of chivalry printed in Spain, and all the rest have had their foundation and rise from it ; and, therefore, I think, as head of so pernicious a sect, we ought to condemn him to the fire without mercy." " Not so, Sir," said the barber, " for I have heard, also, that it is the best of all the books of this kind ; and, therefore, as being singular in his art, he ought to be spared." 15 " It is true," said the priest, " and for that reason his life is granted him for the present. Let us see that other that stands next him." " It is," said the barber, " ' The Adventures of Esplandian, the legitimate son of Amadis de Gaul.' " 16 " Verily," said the priest, " the goodness of the father shall avail the son nothing ; take him, mis- tress housekeeper; open your casement, and throw him into the yard, and let him give a beginning to the pile for the intended bonfire." The housekeeper did so with much satisfaction, and honest Esplandian was sent flying into the yard, there to wait, with patience, for the fire with which he was threatened. " Proceed," said the priest. "The next," said the barber, "is 'Amadis, of Greece :' yea, and all these on this side are of the lineage of Amadis." 17 " Then, into the yard with them all," quoth the priest; 15 Of Amadis de Gaule it is not known who was the original author, nor even in what country it first appeared ; though it is certainly known that Spain had not that honour. Some conjecture Flanders, others France, and others Portugal. This last opinion appears to be the best founded. We may conclude, until proof to the contrary appears, that the original author of Amadis was the Portuguese Vasco de Lobeira, who flourished, according to Nicholas Antonio, in the reign of King Denis, (Dinois,) at the close of the thirteenth century, or, according to Clemencin, in the reign of John I., at the end of the fourteenth. Spanish versions of it were first circulated in fragments ; of these written fragments were formed the partial editions of the fifteenth century, and the collector Garcia Ordonez de Montalvo made, by compiling them, his complete edition of 1525. D'Herberay gave, in 1540, a French translation of Amadis, at that time much admired, but forgotten since the first appearance of the free imitation, by Count Tressan, which is well known. 10 The book is intituled: The branch springing from the four books of Amadis de Gaule, called the exploits of the very valiant Knight Esplandian, son to the excellent King Amadis de Gaule. — Aírala, 1588. The author of it is Garcia Ordonez de Montalvo, the editor of Amadis. He asserts, in the beginning, that these exploits were written in Greek, by Master Helisabad, the surgeon of Amadis, who had also translated them. That is the reason that he calls his book by the strange title of Las Sergas, which is a poor imitation of the Greek title tpya. 17 The history of Amadis of Greece is thus entitled : Chronicle of the very valiant Prince and Knight of the Burning -Sword, Amadis of Greece, 8fc. — Lisbon, 1596. The author says, also, that it was written in Greek by the sage Alquife, then trans- lated into Latin, then into a romance (in metre). Nicholas Anthonio, in his Spanish Library, (tome XI. p. 394,) reckons twenty books of chivalry, containing the adventures of Araadis's descendants. BOOK I. — CHAPTER VI. 57 for, rather than not burn Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the shepherd Darinel, with his eclogues, and the devilish intricate discourses of its author, I would burn the father who begot me, did I meet him in the garb of a knight-errant." " Of the same opinion am I," said the barber. "And I too,'' added the niece. " Since it is so," said the housekeeper, " away with them all into the yaid." They handed them to her ; and, there being great numbers of them, to save herself the trouble of the stairs, she threw them all — the shortest way — out of the window. "What tun of an author is that?" said the priest. "This is," answered the barber, " ' Don Olivante de Laura.' " " The author of that book," said the priest, " was the same who composed ' The Garden of Flowers ;' and, in good truth, I know not which of the two books is the truest, or rather, the least lying : I can only say that this goes to the yard for its arrogance and absurdity." 18 " This, that follows, is ' Florismarte of Hircania,' " 19 said the barber. "What! is Signor Florismarte there?" replied the priest : "now, in good faith, he shall soon make his appearance in the yard, not- withstanding his strange birth 20 and chimerical adventures : for the harshness and dryness of his style will admit of no excuse. To the yard with him, and this other, mistress housekeeper." " With all my heart, dear Sir," answered she ; and, with much joy, executed what she was commanded. "This is 'The Knight Platir,'" 21 said the barber. " That," said the priest, " is an ancient book, and I find nothing in him deserving pardon ; Let him keep the rest company, without more words ;" which was accordingly done. They opened another book, and found it entitled " The Knight of the Cross." " So religious a title," quoth the priest, " might, one would think, atone for the ignorance of the author ; but, it Í3 a '* The author of these two works was Antonio de Torquémada. 19 Or, Felix Mars of Hircania, published by Melchor de Ortega, Knight of Ubéda. Valladolid, 1556. 30 His mother Marcelina, wife of Prince Florisan of Misia, brought him into the world in a wood, and confided him to the care of a wild woman, called Balsagina, who, from the united names of his parents, named him Florismars, and afterwards Felix Mars. 21 Chronicle of the very valiant knight P/atir, son of the Emperor Primaleon. — Valladolid, 1533. The author of this work is unknown, as, indeed, are nearly all the authors of books of chivalry. vol. i. H 58 DON QUIXOTE. common saying, ' the devil lurks behind the cross :' 22 so to the fire with him." The barber, taking down another book, said, " this is ' The Mirror of Chivaky.' " 23 " Oh ! I know his worship very well," cried the priest. " Here comes ' Signor Reynaldos de Montalvan,' with his friends and companions, greater thieves than Cacus ; and ' The Twelve Peers,' with the faithful historiographer Turpin. However, I am only for condemning them to perpetual banishment, because they contain some things of the famous Mateo Boyardo's invention ; from whom, also, the christian poet Ludovico Ariosto 24 spun his web : but if I find even him here, and speaking any other language than his own, I will show him no respect ; but, if he speaks in his own tongue, I will put him upon my head." " I have him in Italian," said the barber, "but I do not understand him." "Neither is it any great matter whether you understand him or not," answered the priest ; " and we would willingly have excused the good captain 25 from bringing him into Spain, and making him a Castilian, for he has deprived him of a great deal of his native value : and this is the misfortune of all those who under- take to translate books of verse into other languages ; for, with all their care and skill, they can never raise them to the pitch they were at, in their first production. I pronounce, in short, that this, and all other books, that shall be found treating of French matters, be thrown aside, and deposited in some dry vault, until we can determine, with more deliberation, what is to be done with them ; 22 Book of the invincible knight Lepolemo, and of his exploits as knight of the Cross. — Toledo, 1562 and 1563. This book is in two parts, of which one, at the author's dictation, was written in Arabic, by the Sultan Zulema's orders, by a Moor named Xarton, and translated by a captive of Tunis ; the other is in Greek, by King Artidorus. 23 This work is in four parts : the first, the composition of Diego Ordonez de Calahorra, was printed in 1562, and dedicated to Martin Cortez, son of Ferdinand Cortez ; the second, written by Pedro de la Sierra, was printed at Saragossa, in 1580 ; the two last by the licentiate Marcos Martinez, appeared also at Saragossa, in 1 603. 24 It is well known that Boyardo was the author of Roland amoureux, and Ariosto of Roland furieux. 25 The captain here alluded to, is Don Gerónimo Ximenez de Urrea. Don Diego de Mendoza said of him : " And has not Don Gerónimo de Urrea earned the repu- tation of a noble writer, and, what is of more consequence, plenty of money, by translating Roland Furieux, that is to say by having written, where the author says cavaglieri, cavalleros — arme, armas — amori, amores ? In that way , I could write more books than Methuselah lived years." BOOK I. CHAPTER VI. 59 excepting ' Bernardo del Carpió, 26 and another called ' Ronces- valles ; 27 which, if they fall into my hands, shall pass into the housekeeper's, and thence into the fire, without any remission." The barber confirmed the sentence, and held it for good, and a matter well determined, knowing that the priest was so true a christian, and so much a friend to both, that he would not utter a falsehood for all the world, And so, opening another book, he saw it was " Palmerin de Oliva," and next to it another, called " Palmerin of England ;" which the licentiate espying, said, " Let this ' Oliva ' be torn to pieces and burnt, that not so much as the ashes may remain ; but let ' Palmerin of England ' be preserved, and kept as a singular piece ; and let such another case be made for it, as that which Alexander found among the spoils of Darius, and appropriated to preserve the works of the poet Homer. This book, gossip, is con- siderable upon two accounts; the one, that it is very good in itself; and the other, because there is a tradition that it was written by an ingenious king of Portugal. All the adventures of the castle of Miraguarda are most excellent and artificial; the dialogue courtly and clear; and the decorum preserved, in all the characters, with great judgment and propriety. 28 Therefore, master Nicholas, saving your better judgment, let this, and ' Amadis de Gaul,' be exempted from the fire, and let all the rest perish without any farther incpiiry." " Not so, gossip," replied the barber, " for this, that I have here, is the renowned 'Don Belianis,' " The priest replied; "This, with the second, third, and fourth parts, wants a little rhubarb to can v 26 This poem is in octaves, and is written by Augustin Alonzo, of Salamanca. Toledo, 1585. It must not be confounded with that by bishop Balbucna, which did not appear until after Cervantes' death. 27 By Francisco Garrido de Villena. — Toledo, 1585. 28 The first part of the Palmcrins is intituled : Book of the famous knight Palmerin d' Oliva, who performed sereral noble /eats of arms, without knowiiH/ whos" son he was. — Medina del Campo, 15(i;{. The supposed author was a Portuguese woman, whose name is not known. The other l'almcrin (Chronica de famoso i- muito esforzado caraleiro Palmeirim de Iityalaterra, etc.) is in six parts. The two first are attributed by some to King John II., by others to the infant Don Luis, son to the prior of Ocrato, who disputed the crown of Portugal with Philip II. ; Other* imagine the author of them to have been Francisco de Moraes. The third and fourth parts were were written by Diego Fernandez. The fifth and sixth by Balta- zar Gonzalez Lobato ¡ all Portuguese. GO DON QUIXOTE. off its excessive choler : besides, we must remove all that relates to the castle of fame, and other grosser impertinencies ; 29 wherefore, let them have the benefit of transportation ; 30 and, as they shew signs of amendment, they shall be treated with mercy or justice : in the mean time, neighbour, give them room in your house, but let nobody read them." " With all my heart," quoth the barber ; and, without tiring himself any farther in turning over books of chivalry, he bid the housekeeper take all the great ones, 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. And, therefore, laying hold of seven or eight at once, she tossed them out at the window. By her taking so many together, there fell one at the barber s feet ; who had a mind te see what it was, and found it to be " The history of the renowned knight, Tirant the White." " Heaven save me !" quoth the priest, with a loud voice, " is ' Tirant the White ' there ? Give me him here, neighbour ; for, I make account, I have found in him a treasure of delight, and a mine of entertainment. Here we have Don Kyrie-Eleison of Montalvan, a valorous knight, and his brother Thomas of Montalvan, and the knight Fonseca, and the combat which the valiant Detriante fought with Alano, and the smart conceits of the damsel Plazerdemivida, with the amours and artifices of the widow Reposada ; 31 and madam, the Empress, in love with her squire Hypolito. Verily, gossip, in its way, it is the best book in the world : here the knights eat, and sleep, and die in their beds, and make their wills before their deaths; with several things which are wanting in all other books of this kind. Notwithstanding all this, I tell you the author deserved, for writing so many foolish things, seriously ; to be sent to the galleys for all 29 This romance is entitled : Book of the valiant and invincible prince Don Belianis of Greece, son of the emperor Don Belanio and the empress Clorinda ; translated from the Greek, in which language it was written by the sage Friston, by a son of the virtuous Torribio Fernandez. — Burgos, 1579. This son of the virtuous Torribio was the licentiate Gerónimo Fernandez, attorney at Madrid. 30 That is to say, the delay necessary for summoning to justice those who reside in the colonies ; six months at least. 31 One was the follower, and the other the duenna of the princess Carmesina, the supposed Tirant the White, BOOK I. — CHAPTER VI. 61 the days of his life : 32 carry it home, and read it, and you will find all I say of him to be true." " I will do so," answered the barber ; " but what shall we do with these little books that remain ?" " These," said the priest, " are, probably, not books of chivalry, but of poetry." And, opening one, he found it was " The Diana of George Montemayor," 33 and said, (believing all the rest to be of the same kind,) " these do not deserve to be burnt like the rest ; for they cannot do the mischief that those of chivalry have done : they are works of genius and fancy, and do nobody any hurt." "O Sir," said the niece, "pray order these to be burnt with the rest ; for, should my uncle be cured of this distemper of chivalry, he may, possibly, by reading these books, take it into his head to turn shepherd, and wander through the woods and fields, singing and playing on a pipe ; and, what would be still worse, to turn poet, which, they say, is an incurable and contagious disease." " The damsel says true," quoth the priest, " and it will not be amiss to remove this stumbling-block and occasion, out of our friend's way. And, since we begin with " The Diana of Montemayor," I recom- mend not to burn it, but to take away all that treats of the sage Felicia, and of the enchanted fountain, and almost all the longer poems ; and leave him the prose, in God's name, and the honour of being the first in that kind of writing." " This, that follows," said the barber, " is ' The Diana called the second, by Salmantino ;' 34 and another of the same name, whose author is Gil Polo." " ' The 32 This unknown author, who, according to the curate, deserved the galleys, intitlcd his work: Tirant the While of lloche-Salée, knight of the Garter, who, by his high feats of chivalry, became a Prince, and the Cttsar of the Grecian empire. The hero is called Tirant, because his father was lord of the marsh of Tiranía, and the White, because his mother's name was Blanche ; and of Roehe-Sak'e, because he was lord of a strong custle built on a mountain of salt. This book, one of the oldest of the kind, was probably written in Portuguese by a Valencian named Juannot Martorell. A translation of it, in the Limosian language, commenced by him, and terminated, after his death, by Juan de Galba, was printed at Valencia, in 1490. Copies of the Spanish translation, published at Valladolid, in 1511, are become extremely scarce. This book is wanting in the collection of original romances of chivalry in the liibliothiqve Royale de Paris. It lias been vainly sought after, over all Spain, for the liib/iothei/ue de Madrid, and the commentators are obliged to quote from it either in Italian or French. 33 A Portuguese : he was poet, musician, and soldier. He was murdered in Piedmont, in 1561. 34 Salmantino implies of Salamanca. He was a doctor of that town, by name Alonzo Perez. 62 DON QUIXOTE. Salmantinian,' " answered the priest, " may accompany and increase the number of the condemned: to the yard with him; but let that of Gil Polo 35 be preserved, as if it were written by Apollo himself. Proceed, gossip, and let us dispatch ; for it grows late." " This," said the barber, opening another, " is ' The ten books of the Fortune of Love,' composed by Antonio de Lofraso, aSardi- nian poet." 36 " By the holy orders I have received," said the priest, " since Apollo was Apollo, the muses muses, and the poets poets, so humorous and so whimsical a book as that, was never written ; it is the best and most singular of the kind that ever appeared in the world ; and he who has not read it, may reckon that he never read any thing of taste : give it me here, gossip ; for I value the finding it more than if I had been presented with a cassock of Florence satin." He laid it aside with exceeding pleasure, and the barber proceeded, saying, " These, that follow, are, ' The shepherd of Iberia,' 37 ' The nymphs of Enares,' 38 and ' The cures of Jealousy.'" 39 "There is no more to be done," said the priest, but to deliver them up to the secular arm of the housekeeper ; and ask me not why, for then we should never have done." " This, that comes next, is ' The shepherd of Filida.' " 40 " He is no shepherd," said the priest, " but an ingenious courtier ; let him be preserved, and laid up as a precious jewel." " This bulky volume here," said the barber, " is intitled ' The Treasure of divers Poems.' " 41 " Had they been fewer," replied the priest, " they would have been more esteemed: it is necessary this book should be weeded, and cleared of all the low things interspersed amongst its sublimities : let it be preserved, both as the author is my friend, and out of 35 A Valencian poet, who continued Monternayor's work, under the title of Diana enamorada. 36 The title of this work is thus rendered : The ten books of the fortune of love; in which are to be found the virtuous and peaceable amours of the shepherd Frexan'o and the fair shepherdess Fortune. — Barcelona, 1575. 37 By Don Bernardo de la Vega, canon of Tucuman. — Seville, 1591. 38 By Bernardo Gonzales Bobadilla. — Alcalá, 1587. 39 By Bartholme Lopez de Enciso. — Madrid, 1586. 40 By Luis Galvez de Montalvo. — Madrid, 1582. 41 By Don Pedro Padilla.— Madrid, 1575. BOOK I. CHAPTER VI. Gi3 regard to other more heroic and exalted pieces of his writing." " This," pursued the harhcr, " is a book of songs, by Lopez Mal- donado." 42 " The author of this book, also," replied the priest, " is a great friend of mine : his verses, sung by himself, raise admiration in the hearers ; and such is the sweetness of his voice in singing them, that they perfectly enchant. He is a little too prolix in his eclogues ; but there can never be too much of what is really good ; let it be kept with the select." " But what book is that next to it ?" " ' The Galatea of Miguel de Cervantes,' " said the barber. " That Cervantes has been a great friend of mine these many years, and I know that he is better acquainted with misfortune than with poetry. His book has some- what of good invention in it ; he proposes something, but concludes nothing : we must wait for the second part, which he promises : 43 perhaps, on his amendment, he may obtain that entire pardon which is now denied him ; in the meantime, gossip, give him a recluse in your chamber." " With all my heart," answered the barber ; " and here come three together ! ' The Araucana of Don Alonzo de Ercilla,' ' The Austriada of John Rufo, a magistrate of Cordova,' and ' The Monserrato of Christoval de Nirves, a poet of Valencia.' " " These three books," said the priest, " are the best that are written in heroic verse in the Castilian tongue, and may stand in competition with the most famous of Italy ; let them be preserved, as the best performances in poetry, Spain can boast." 44 The priest grew tired of looking over so many volumes, and so, inside and contents unknown, he would have all the rest burnt. Hut the barber had already opened one called " The tears of Angelica." 45 "I should have shed tears myself," said the priest, «* Printed at Madrid, in 1586. 43 Cervantes, in his dedication of Persiles y Sigismundo, which was published a short time before his death, renewed his promise of giving to the world a second part of the Galatea. But it was not found among his writings. M The Araucana, a grand epic poem, is a relation of the conquest of Arauco, a province of Chili, by the Spaniards. Alonzo dc Ercilla was one of the expedition. The Austriada is the heroic history of Don .luan of Austria, from the revolt of the Moors of (irenada till the battle of Lcpanto : and the Monserrate describes the repentance of St. Garin and the foundation of the monarchy of Monserrat, in Catalonia, in the ninth century. * A poem, in twelve cantos, by Luis Brahona de Soto. 1586. 64 DON QUIXOTE. hearing the name, " had I ordered that book to be burnt ; for its author was one of the most famous poets, not of Spain only, but of the whole world, and translated some fables of Ovid with great success." HOOK í. — CHAPTER V I Í. 65 CHAPTER VII. OF THE SECOND SALLY OF OUR GOOD KNIGHT DON QUIXOTF. DE LA MANCHA. the books that remained ; and, therefore, it is believed, that to the fire, without being seen or heard, went the " Carolea," 46 and " Leon of Spain," 47 with "The Acts of the Emperor," composed by Don There were, in Cervantes' time, two poems of this name, on the victories of Charles V.; one of them was hy Gerónimo Sainpcre, Valencia, 15G0; the other hy Juan Ochoa tie la Salde, Lisbon, 1585. * El Leon de España, u poem in octaves, by Pedro de la Vecilla Castellanos, on the heroes and martyrs of the ancient kingdom of Leon. — Salamanca, 1586. vol.. i. I nly then it was, that Don Quixote began to call out loudly, saying — " Here, here, valorous knights, here ye must exert the force of your valiant arms, for the courtiers begin to get the better of the tournament." This noise and outcry, to which they all ran, put a stop to any farther scrutiny of 66 DON QUIXOTE. Luis de Avila, 48 which, without doubt, must have been among those that were left ; and, perhaps, had the priest seen them, they had not undergone so rigorous a sentence. When they came to Don Quixote, he was already got out of bed, and continued his outcries and ravings, with his drawn sword laying furiously about him, back-stroke and fore-stroke, being as broad awake as if he had never been asleep. They closed in with him, and laid him upon his bed by main force ; and, after he was a little composed, turning himself to talk to the priest, he said, " Certainly, my lord archbishop Turpin, it is a great disgrace to us, who call ourselves the twelve peers, to let the knights-courtiers carry off the victory without more opposition, after we, the adventurers, had gained the 48 Los hechos del emperador. This is another poem (Carlo famoso) in honour of Charles V. ; not by Luis de Avila, but by Don Luis Zapata. There is an error, either of the author's or of the printer's, in the text. BOOK I. — CHAPTER VII. 67 prize in the three preceding days." 49 " Say no more, good gossip," said the priest ; " it may be the will of fate to change our fortune, and what is lost to-day may be won to-morrow ; mind your health for the present ; for, I think you must needs be extremely fatigued, if not sorely wounded." " Wounded! no," said Don Quixote, " but bruised and battered I am for certain ; for that bastard, Don Roldan, has pounded me to mash with the trunk of an oak, and all out of mere envy, because he sees that I am the sole rival of liis prowess. But let me never more be called Rinaldo of Montauban, if, as soon as I am able to rise from this bed, I do not make him pay dear for it, in spite of all his enchantments : but, at present, bring me some breakfast, for I know nothing will do me so much good ; and let me alone to revenge myself." They did so ; they gave him some victuals, and he fell fast asleep again, and left them in fresh admiration of his madness. That night the housekeeper set lire to and burnt all the books that were in the yard, and in the house too ; and some must have perished that deserved to be treasured up in perpetual archives; but their fate, and the laziness of the scrutineer, would not permit it, and in them was fulfilled the saying, " that the just some- times suiTer for the unjust." One of the remedies, which the priest and barber prescribed at that time, for their friend's malady, was to alter his apartment, and wall up the room where the books had been, that when he got up, he might not find them ; in hopes, that the cause being removed, the effect might cease ; and they were to pretend, that an enchanter liad carried them away, room and all ; which was presently done accordingly. Within two days after, Don Quixote got up, and the first thing he did was to visit his books ; and, not finding the room where he left it, he went up and down looking for it. He came to the place where the door used to be, and he felt with his hands and stared about every way without speaking a word ; but after some time, he asked the housekeeper whereabouts the room stood, where his books were. She, who was already well tutored what to answer, said to him, " What room, or 49 In allusion to the tournament at Perscpolis, in the romance of Bclianis of Greece. ■A 68 DON QUIXOTE. what nothing, does your worship look for ? there is neither room nor hooks in this house ; for the devil himself has carried all away." " It was not the devil," said the niece, " but an en- chanter, who came one night upon a cloud, after your departure hence, and, alighting from a serpent, on which he rode, entered into the room ; and I know not what he did there, hut, after some little time, out he came flying through the roof, and left the house full of smoke, and when we went to see what he had been doing, we saw neither books nor room ; only we very well remember, both I and mistress housekeeper here, that when the old thief went away, he said with a loud voice, that for a secret enmity he bore to the owner of those books and of the room, he had done a mischief in this house, which should soon be manifest : he told us also, that he was called the sage Mugnaton." " Freston, he meant to say," 50 50 Cervantes, no doubt, wrote Friston, who was an enchanter, the supposed author of Belianis, who lived in the forest of Death. BOOK I. CHAPTER VII. 69 quoth Don Quixote. " I know not," answered the housekeeper, whether lús name be Freston or Friton ; all that I know is that it ended in ton." " It doth so," replied Don Quixote ; " he is a wise enchanter, a great enemy of mine, and bears me a grudge, because, by his skill and learning, he knows that in process of time, I shall engage in single combat with a knight whom he favours, and shall vanquish him without his being able to prevent it: and, for this cause, he endeavours to do me all the injury he can ; but, let him know from mo, it will be difficult for him to withstand or avoid what is decreed by heaven." " Who doubts of that ?" said the niece ; " but, dear uncle, who puts you upon these squabbles ? Would it not be better to stay quietly at home, than to ramble about the world seeking for better bread than wheaten, without considering that many go for wool and return shorn themselves." " O, dear niece," answered Don Quixote, " how little do you know of the matter ! before they shall shear me, I will pluck and tear off the beards of all those, who dare think of touching the tip of a single hair of mine." Neither of them would make any farther reply, for they saw his choler begin to take fire. He staid, after this, fifteen days at home, very quiet, without discovering any symptom of an inclination to repeat his late frolics ; in which time there passed very pleasant discourses between him and his two gossips, the priest and the barber, he affirming, that the world stood in need of nothing so much as knights-errant, and the revival of chivalry. The priest sometimes contradicted him, and at other times acquiesced; for, had he not made use of this artifice, there would have been no means left to bring him to reason. About tins time, Don Quixote tampered with a labourer, a neighbour of his, and an honest man, (if such an epithet may be given to one that is poor,) but very shallow-brained, in short, he said so much, used so many arguments, and promised him such great matters, that the poor fellow resolved to sally out 4 with him and serve him as his squire. Among other things, Don Quixote told him he should dispose himself to go with him willingly, for some time or other, such an adventure might offer, that an island might be won in the turn of a hand, and he be left governor thereof. Intoxi- cated with these and the like promises, Sancho Panza, (for that was 70 DON QUIXOTE. the labourer's name,) left his wife and children, and hired himself as squire to his neighbour. Don Quixote presently cast about how to raise money; and, by selling one thing, and pawning another, and losing by all, he scraped together a tolerable sum. He fitted himself likewise with a buckler, which he borrowed of a friend, and, patch- ing up his broken helmet in the best manner he could, he acquainted his squire Sancho of the day and hour he intended to set out, that he might provide himself with what he should find to be most needful. Above all, he charged him not to forget a wallet ; and Sancho said, he would be sure to carry one, and that he intended also to take with him an ass he had, being a very good one, because he was not used to travel much on foot. As to the ass, Don Quixote paused a little, endeavouring to recollect whether any knight-errant had ever carried a squire mounted ass-wise ; but no instance of the kind occurred to his memory. However, he con- sented that he should take his ass with him, purposing to accommo- date him more honourably, the first opportunity, by dismounting the first discourteous knight he should meet. He provided himself also, with shirts, and what other things he could, conformable to the advice given him by the inn-keeper. All which being done and accomplished, Don Quixote and BOOK I. CHAPTER VII. 73 Sancho Panza, without taking leave, the one of his wife and children, and the other of his housekeeper and niece, one night sallied out of the village, unperceived hy any one ; and they travelled so hard, that hy break of day they believed themselves secure of not being found, though search were made after them. Sancho Panza went riding on his ass like any patriarch, with his wallet and leathern bottle, and with a vehement desire to find him- self governor of the island which his master had promised him. Don Quixote happened to take the same route he had done in his first expedition, through the plain of Montiel, which he passed over with less uneasiness than the time before; for it was early in the morning, and the rays of the sun darting on them aslant, gave them no disturbance. Now, Sancho Panza said to his master, — " I beseech your worship, good sir knight-errant, that you forget not your promise concerning that same island, for 1 shall know how to govern it be it ever so big." To which Don Quixote answered, — " You must know, friend Sancho Panza, that it was a custom much in use among the knights-errant of old, to make their squires governors of the islands or kingdoms they conquered ; and 1 am determined that so laudable a custom shall not be lost for me ; on the contrary, I resolve to outdo them in it; for they sometimes, and perhaps most times, staid till their squires were grown old ; and when they were worn out in their service, and had undergone many bad days and worse nights, they gave them some title, as that of count or marquis of some valley or province, be it greater or less; but if you live and 1 live, before six days are ended, 1 may probably win such a kingdom as may have others depending on it, as fit as if they were cast in a mould for thee to be crowned king of one of them : and do not think this any extraordinary matter, for things fall out to such knights, by such unforeseen and unexpected ways, that I may easily give thee more than 1 promise." " So then," answered Sancho Panza, " if I were a king, by some of those miracles you are pleased to mention, Mary Gutierrez, my crooked rib, would at least come to be queen, and my children infantas." " "Who doubts it ?" answered Don Quixote. "I doubt it," replied Sancho Panza; "for I am verily persuaded, that if God were to vol. i. K 74 DON QUIXOTE. rain down kingdoms upon the earth, none of them would fit well upon the head of Mary Gutierrez ; for you must know, sir, she is not wortli two farthings for a queen. The title of countess would set better upon her, and that too with the help of God and good friends." " Recommend her to God, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, " and he will do what is best for her ; but do thou have a care not to debase thy mind so low, as to content thyself with being less than a lord-lieutenant." " Sir, I will not," answered Sancho, " especially having so great a man for my master as your worship, who will know how to give me whatever is most fitting for me, and what you find me best able to bear." BOOK I. — CHAPTER VIII. 75 CHAPTER VIII. OF THE GOOD SUCCESS WHICH THE VALOROUS DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE DREADFUL AND NEVER-BEFORE-IMAGINED ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS, WITH OTHER EVENTS WORTHY TO BE RECORDED. ntertaining tlicmselves thus, they per- ceived some thirty or forty windmills that are in that plain ; and as soon as Don Quixote espied them, he said to his squire, — "Fortune disposes our affairs better than we ourselves could have desired : look yonder, friend Sancho Panza, where you may discover somewhat more than thirty monstrous giants, with whom I intend to fight and take away all their lives, and with whose spoils we will begin to enrich ourselves ; for it is lawful war and doing God good service, to take away so wicked a generation from oiT the face of the earth." "What giants?" said Sancho Panza. "Those you see yonder," answered his master, " with those long arms, for some of them are wont to have them almost of the length of two leagues." " Consider, sir," answered Sancho, " that those which appear yonder, are not giants, but, windmills, and what seem to be arms, arc the sails, which whirled about by the wind make the mill-stone go." " One may easily see," answered Don Quixote, " that you are not versed in the business of adventures : they are giants, and if you are afraid, get aside and pray, whilst I engage with them in a fierce and unequal combat." So saying, he clapped spurs to Rocinante, 76 DON QUIXOTE. without minding the cries his squire sent after him, assuring him that those he went to assault were without all doubt windmills, and not giants. But he was so fully possessed that they were giants, that he neither heard the outcries of his squire Sancho, nor yet discerned what they were, though he was very near them ; but went on, crying out aloud,—" Fly not, ye cowards and vile caitifs, for it is a single knight who assaults you." Now the wind rose a little and the great sails began to move ; which Don Quixote per- ceiving, he said, — " Well, though you should move more arms than the giant Briareus, you shall pay for it." So saying, and recommending himself devoutly to his lady Dulcinea, beseeching her to succour him in the present danger, being well covered with his buckler, and setting his lance in the rest, he rushed on as fast as Rocinante could gallop, and attacked the first mill before him ; and running his lance into the sail, the wind whirled it about with so much violence, that it broke the lance to shivers, dragging horse and rider after it, and tumbling them over and over on the plain in very evil plight. Sancho Panza hastened to his assistance as fast as his ass could carry him : BOOK I. — CHAPTER VIII. 77 and when he came up to him, he found him not able to stir ; so violent was the blow he and Rocinante had received in falling. " God save me," quoth Sancho, " did I not warn you to have a care of what you did, for that they were nothing but windmills ? and nobody could mistake them, but one that had the like in his head." " Peace, friend Sancho," answered Don Quixote; "for matters of war are of all others, most subject to continual mutations. Now I verily believe, and it is most certainly so, that the sage Freston, who stole away my chamber and books, has metamorphosed these giants into windmills, on purpose to deprive me of the glory of vanquishing them, so great is the enmity he bears me ; but when he has done his worst, his wicked arts will avail but little against the goodness of my sword." " God grant it as he can," answered Sancho Panza ; and helping him to rise, he mounted him again upon Rocinante, who was half shouklcr-slipped. And discoursing of the late adventure, they followed the road that led to the pass of Lapice ; for there Don Quixote said, they could not fail to meet with many and various adventures, it being a great thoroughfare ; and yet he went on very melancholy for want of his lance, and speaking of it to his squire, he said : " I remember to have read that a certain Spanish knight, called Diego Perez de Vargas, having broken his sword in fight, tore off a huge branch or limb from an oak, and performed such wonders with it that day, and dashed out the brains of so many Moors, that he was surnamed Machuca ; 51 and, from that day forward, he and his descendants bore the names of Vargas and Machuca. I tell you this, because from the first oak or crab-tree we meet, I mean to tear such another limb, at least as good as that ; and I purpose and resolve to do such feats with it, that you shall deem yourself most fortunate in meriting to behold them, and to be an eye-witness of things which can scarcely be believed." " God's will be done," quoth Sancho ; " 1 believe all just as you say, sir! but pray set yourself upright in your saddle ; for you seem to me to ride sideling, occasioned doubtless by your M This adventure, of Diego Pere: de Varga», surnamed Madmen, happened at the taking of Xcres, under Saint Ferdinand. It lias formed an incident in many romances. 78 DON QUIXOTE. being so sorely bruised by the fall." " It is certainly so," answered Don Quixote, " and if I do not complain of pain, it is because knights-errant are not allowed to complain of any wound whatever, though their entrails came out at it." 52 " If it be so I have nothing to reply," answered Sancho ; " but God knows I should be glad to hear your worship complain, when any thing ails you. As for myself, I must complain of the least pain I feel, unless this business of not complaining be understood to extend to the squires of knights- errant." Don Quixote could not forbear smiling at the simplicity of his squire, and told him he might complain whenever and as much as he pleased, with or without cause, having never yet read any tiling to the contrary in the laws of chivalry. Sancho put him in mind that it was time to dine. His master answered that at present he had no need ; but that he might eat whenever he thought fit. With this license, Sancho adjusted him- self the best he could upon his beast; and taking out what he carried in his wallet, he jogged on eating behind his master very leisurely, and now and then lifted the bottle to his mouth with so much relish that the best fed victualler of Malaga might have envied him. And whilst he went on in this manner, repeating his draughts, he thought no more of the promises his master had made him, nor did he think it any toil, but rather a recreation, to go in quest of adventures, though never so perilous. In fine, they passed that night among some trees, and from one of them Don Quixote tore a withered branch, that might serve him in some sort for a lance, and fixed it to the iron head or spear of that which was broken. All that night Don Quixote slept not a wink, ruminating on his lady Dulcinea, in conformity to what he had read in his books, where the knights are wont to pass many nights together without closing their eyes, in forests and deserts, entertaining them- selves with the remembrance of their mistresses. Not so did Sancho pass the night ; whose stomach being full, (and not of dandelion- water,) he made but one sleep of it ; and if his master had not roused him, neither the beams of the sun that darted full 52 Rule IX. — " That no knight shall complain of any wound that he may have received." (Marouez, Tesoro militar de cavalleria.) BOOK I. CHAPTER VIII. 79 in his face, nor the melody of the birds, which in great numbers most cheerfully saluted the approach of the new day, could have awakened him. At his uprising he took a swig at his bottle, and found it much lighter than the evening before, which grieved his very heart, for he did not think they were in the way to remedy that defect very soon. Don Quixote would not break his fast ; for, as it is said, he resolved to subsist upon savory remembrances. They returned to the way they had entered upon the day before, towards the pass of Lapice, which they discovered about three in the afternoon. " Here" said Don Quixote espying it, " brother Sancho Panza, we may thrust our hands up to the elbows in what they call adventures. But take this caution with you, that though you should see me in the greatest peril in the world, you must not lay your hand to your sword to defend me, unless you see that they who assault me are vile mob and mean scoundrels ; in that case you may assist me : but if they should be knights, it is in no wise lawful, nor allowed by the laws of chivalry, that you should intermeddle until you are dubbed a knight." " I assure you, sir," answered Sancho, " your worship shall be obeyed most punctually herein, and the rather, because I am naturally very peaceable, and an enemy to thrusting myself into brangles and squabbles ; but for all that, as to what regards the defence of my own person, I shall make no great account of those same laws, since both divine and human allow every one to defend himself against whoever would annoy him." " I say no less," answered Don Quixote ; "but in the business of assisting me against knights, you must restrain and keep in your natural impetuosity." " I say I will do so," answered Sancho ; " and I will observe this precept as religiously as the Lord's day." As they were thus discoursing, there appeared in the road two monks of the order of St. Benedict, mounted upon two dromedaries ; for the mules whereon they rode were not much less. They wore travelling-masks, and carried umbrellas. Behind them came a coach and four or five men on horseback, who accompanied it, with two muleteers on foot. There was in the coach, as it was afterwards known, a certain Biscayan lady going to Seville to her husband, who was there ready to embark for the Indies in a very honourable so DON QUIXOTE. post. The monks came not in her company, though they were travelling the same road. But scarcely had Don Quixote espied them, when he said to his squire, " Either I am deceived, or this is like to prove the most famous adventure that ever was seen ; for those black bulks that appear yonder must be, and without doubt are enchanters, who are carrying away some princess whom they have stolen, in that coach, and I am obliged to redress this wrong to the utmost of my power." " This may prove a worse job than the windmills," said Sancho : " pray sir, take notice, that those are Benedictine monks, and the coach must belong to some travellers. Pray hearken to my advice, and have a care what you do, and let not the devil deceive you." " I have already told you, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, " that you know little of the business of adventures ; what I say is true, and you will see it presently." So saying, he advanced and planted himself in the midst of the high- way, by wlrich the monks were to pass ; and when they were so near that he supposed they could hear what he said, cried out with a loud voice, " Diabolical and monstrous race ! either instantly release the high-born princesses whom you are carrying away in that coach against their wills, or prepare for instant death, as the just chastisement of your wicked deeds." — The monks stopped their mules, and stood admiring, as well the figure of Don Quixote, as his expressions ; to which they answered, " Signor Cavalier, we are BOOK I. — CHAPTER VIII. 81 neither diabolical nor monstrous, but a couple of religious of the Benedictine order, who are travelling on our own business, and are entirely ignorant whether any princesses are carried away by force in that coach or not." — " Soft words do nothing with me, for I know you, treacherous scoundrels," said Don Quixote ; and without staying for any other reply, he clapped spurs to Rocinante, and with his lance couched, ran at the foremost monk with such fury and resolution, that if he had not slid down from his mule, he would have brought him to the ground, in spite of his teeth, wounded to boot, if not killed outright. The second religious, seeing his comrade treated in this manner, clapped spurs to his mule's sides, and began to scour along the plain lighter than the wind itself. Sancho Panza, seeing the monk on the ground, leaped nimbly from his ass, and running to him, began to take off his habit. In the mean while, the monk's two lacqueys coming up, asked him why he was stripping their master of his clothes? Sancho answered, that they were his lawful perquisites as being the spoils of the battle which his lord Don Quixote had just won. The lacqueys, who did not understand raillery, nor what was meant by spoils or battles, seeing Don Quixote at a distance, talking with those in the coach, fell upon Sancho, threw him down, and leaving him not a hair in his beard, gave him a heart \ kicking, and left him stretched on the ground, breathless and sense- less. Then, without losing a minute, the monk got upon his mule again, trembling and terribly frighted, and as pale as death; and no sooner was he mounted, than he spurred after his companion, who stood waiting at a good distance to see what would be the issue of that strange encounter. But being unwilling to wait the evenl they went on their way, crossing themselves oftener than if the devil had been close at their heels. Don Quixote, as was said, stood talking to the lady in the coach, saying, — "Your beauty, dear lady, may dispose of your person as pleaseth you best ; for your haughty ravishcrs lie prostrate on the ground, overthrown by my invincible arm : and that you may not be at any pains to learn the name of your deliverer, know that I am called Don Quixote de la Mancha, knight-errant and adventurer, and captive to the peerless VOL. i. L 82 DON QUIXOTE. and beauteous Dulcinea del Toboso ; and in requital of the benefit you have received at my hands, all I desire is, that you would return to Toboso, and in my name, present yourselves before that lady, and tell her what I have don^ to obtain your liberty." All that Don Quixote said was overheard by a certain squire, who accompanied the coach, a Biscayan ; who, finding he would not let the coach go forward, but insisted upon its immediately returning to Toboso, flew at Don Quixote, and taking hold of his lance, addressed him in bad Castilian and worse Biscayan, after this manner: " Begone, cavalier, and the devil go with thee. I swear by that power that made me, if thou dost not quit the coach, thou forfeitest thy life, as I am a Biscayan." Don Quixote understood him very well, and with great calmness, answered, " Wert thou a gentleman, as thou art not, I would before now have chastised thy folly and presumption, thou pitiful slave." To which the Biscayan replied, " I no gentleman ! I swear by the Heaven above us thou liest, as I am a Christian. If thou wilt throw away thy lance, and draw thy sword, thou shalt see I will make no more of thee than a cat does of a mouse. Biscayan by land, gentleman by sea, gentle- man for the devil, and thou liest : look then, if thou hast any thing else to say." " Thou shalt see that presently, as said Agrages," answered Don Quixote ; and, throwing down his lance, he drew his sword and grasping his buckler, set upon the Biscayan with a resolution to kill him. The Biscayan seeing him come on in that manner, though he would fain have alighted from his mule, which, being of the worst kind of hackneys, was not to be depended upon, had yet only time to draw his sword : but it happened well for him that he was close to the coach side, out of which he snatched a cushion, which served him for a shield ; and immediately to it they went, as if they had been mortal enemies. The rest of the company would have made peace between them, but they could not : for the Biscayan swore in his gibberish, that if they would not let him finish the combat, he would kill his mistress and every body that offered to hinder him. The lady of the coach, amazed and affrighted at what she saw, bid the coachman put a little out of the way, and so sat at a distance, beholding the fierce conflict ; in the progress of BOOK I. CHAPTER VIII. 83 which, the Biscayan gave Don Quixote such a huge stroke on one of his shoulders and above his buckler, that had it not been for his coat of mail, he had cleft him down to the girdle. Don Quixote feeling the weight of that unmeasurable blow, cried out aloud, saying, — " O lady of my soul ! Dulcinea ! flower of all beauty, succour this thy knight, who to satisfy thy great goodness, exposes himself to this rigorous extremity." The saying this, the drawing his sword, the covering himself well with his buckler, and falling furiously on the Biscayan, was done in one moment, he resolving to venture all on the fortune of a single blow. The Biscayan who saw him coming thus upon him, and perceived his bravery by his resolution, resolved to do the same thing that Don Quixote had done ; and so he waited for him, covering himself well with his cushion, but was not able to turn his mule about to the right or the left, she being already so jaded, and so little used to such sport, that she would not stir a step. Now Don Quixote, as has been said, advanced against the wary Biscayan, with his lifted sword, fully determined to cleave him asunder: and the Biscayan expected him, with his sword also lifted up and guarded by his cushion. All the by-standers were trembling and in suspense as to what would be the event of those prodigious blows with which they threatened each other; and the lady of the 84 DON QUIXOTE. coach and her waiting-women, were making a thousand vows and promises of offerings to all the images and places of devotion in Spain, if God would deliver them and their squire from the great peril they were in. But the misfortune is, that the author of this history in this very crisis, leaves the comhat unfinished ; excusing himself that he could find no more written of these exploits of Don Quixote, than what he has already related. It is true, indeed, that the second undertaker of this work could not believe that so curious a history could be lost in oblivion, or that the wits of La Mancha should have so little curiosity, as not to preserve in their archives, or their cabinets some papers that treated of this famous knight ; and upon that presumption he did not despair to find the conclusion of this delectable history ; which, heaven favouring him, he has at last done, in the manner to be recounted in the second part. PART I. BOOK II. CHAPTER I. WHEREIN IS CONCLUDED, AND AN END PUT TO, THE STUPENDOUS BATTLE BETWEEN THE VIGOROUS BISCAYAN AND THE VALIANT MANCHEGAN. ever be it forgotten that in the first part of this history, we left the valiant Biscayan and the renowned Don Quixote, with their swords lifted up and naked, ready to discharge two such furious and cleaving strokes, as must, if they had lighted full, at least have divided the comba- tants from head to heel, and split them asunder like a pomegranate ; but in that critical instant tliis relishing history stopped short, and 53 Cervantes divided the first part of Don Quixote into four very unequal books, for the third is longer than the two first, and the fourth is longer than the three others. He did not employ the division into books in the second part, dividing that into chapters only. 86 DON QUIXOTE. was left imperfect, without the author's giving us any notice where what remained of it might he found. That grieved me extremely and the pleasure of having read so little was turned into disgust, to think what small probability there was of finding the much that , in my opinion, was wanting of so savoury a story. It seemed to me impossible, and quite beside all laudable custom, that so accomplished a knight should want a sage to undertake the penning his unparelleled exploits; a circumstance that never before failed any of those knights-errant who travelled in quest of adventures ; every one of whom had one or two sages, made as it were on purpose, who not only recorded their actions, but described likewise their most minute and trifling thoughts, though never so secret. 54 Surely, then, so worthy a knight could not be so unfortunate as to want what Platb- and others like him, abounded with. For this reason I could not be induced to believe, that so gallant a history could be left maimed and imperfect ; and I laid the blame upon the malignity of time, the devourer and consumer of all things, which either kept it con- cealed, or had destroyed it. — On the other side, I considered, that since among his books there was found some so modern as the " Cure of jealousy," and the " Nymphs and shepherds of Henares," his history also must be modern ; and if it were not as yet written, might at least still remain in the memories of the people of his village and of the neighbouring places. This thought held me in suspense, and made me desirous to learn, really and truly, the whole life and wonderful actions of our renowned Spaniard, Don Quixote de la Mancha, the light and mirror of Manchegan chivalry, and the first who in our age, and in these calamitous times, took upon him the toil and exercise of arms-errant, to redress wrongs, succour widows and relieve that sort of damsels, who with whip and palfrey, and with all their virginity about them, rambled up and down from mountain to mountain and from valley to valley : for unless some miscreant, or some lewd clown, with hatchet and steel cap, or prodigious giant outraged them, damsels there were in days of yore, who at the expiration of fourscore years, and never sleeping in all 54 Thus it was the sage Alquife who wrote the chronicle of Amadis of Greece ; the sage Friston, the history of Don Belianis ; the sages Artémidore and Lirgandéo, that of the knight of Phoebus ; the sage Galtenor, that of Platir, &c. BOOK II. CHAPTER I. 87 that time under a roof, went as spotless virgins to the grave as the mothers that bore them. 55 Now I say, upon these, and many other accounts, our gallant Don Quixote is worthy of immortal memory and praise ; nor ought some share to be denied even to me, for the labour and pains I have taken to discover the end of this delectable history ; though I am very sensible, that if heaven and fortune had not befriended me, the world would have still been without that pastime and pleasure, which an attentive reader of it may enjoy for near two hours. The manner of finding it was this. 55 Either this pleasantry, so happily employed by Cervantes in the text, was well known even out of Spain in his own time, or Shakspeare and he simultaneously hit upon the same idea. Wc find, in the Merry Wives of Windsor (act II. scene II : FALSTAFF. " Good-morrow, good wife. MRS. O.UICKLY. Not so, an't please your worship. FALSTAFF. Good maid, then. MRS. QUICKLY. I'll be sworn ¡ as my mother was, the first hour I was born." 88 DON QUIXOTE. As I was walking one day on the exchange of Toledo, a boy came to sell some bundles of old papers to a mercer ; and as I am fond of reading, though it be torn papers thrown about the streets, carried by this my natural inclination, I took a parcel of those the boy was selling, and perceived therein characters which I knew to be Arabic. And whereas, though I knew the letters, I could not read them, I looked about for some Moorish rabbi, to read them for me, and it was not very difficult to find such an interpreter ; for had I sought one for some better and more ancient language, 56 I should have found him there. In fine, my good fortune presented one to me ; and acquainting him with my desire, and putting the book into his hands, he opened it towards the middle, and, reading a little in it, began to laugh. I asked him what he smiled at ; and he answered me, at something which he found written in the margin, by way of annotation. I desired him to tell me what it was ; and he laughing on, said, — " There is written on the margin as follows : ' This Dulcinea del Toboso, so often mentioned in this history, had they say, the best hand at salting pork of any woman in all La Mancha.' " When I heard the name of Dulcinea del Toboso, I stood amazed and confounded; for I presently fancied to myself, that those bundles of paper contained the history of Don Quixote. With this thought I pressed him to read the beginning ; which he did, and rendering extempore the Arabic into Castilian, said that it began thus : " The history of Don Quixote de la Mancha, written by Cid Hamet Ben Engeli, Arabian historiographer." Much discretion was necessary to dissemble the joy I felt at hearing the title of the book ; and snatching it out of the mercer's hands, I bought the whole bundle of papers from the boy for half a real ! who, if he had been cunning, and had perceived how eager I was to have them, might very well have promised himself, and have really had more than six for the bargain. I went off immediately with the Morisco, through the cloister of the great church, and desired him 56 Cervantes alludes to the Hebrew tongue ; for there were plenty of Jews in Toledo. The moors here mentioned (Moriscoes), were the decendants of the Arabs and Moors who remained in Spain after the conquest of Grenada, and were forced embrace Christianity. See, on this subject, ' Essai sur V histoire des Arabes et Mores d'Espagne,' by Louis Viardot, Appendice, tome II. BOOK II. — CHAPTER I. 89 to translate for me those papers (all those that treated of Don Quixote) into the Castilian tongue, without taking away or adding any thing to them, offering to pay him whatever he should demand. He was satisfied with fifty pounds of raisins, and two bushels of wheat ; and promised to translate them faithfully and expeditiously. But I, to make the business more sure, and not to let so valuable a prize slip through my fingers, took him home to my own house, where in little more than six weeks time, he translated the whole, in the manner you have it here related. In the first sheet was drawn, in a most lively manner, Don Quixote's combat with the Biscayan, in the same attitude in which the history sets it forth ; the swords lifted up, the one covered with his buckler, the other with his cushion ; and the Biscayan's mule so to the life, that you might discover it to be a hackney-jade a bow-shot off. The Biscayan had a label at his feet on which was written Don Sancho de Azpetia, which without doubt must have been his name : and at the feet of Rocinante was another, on which was written Don Quixote. Rocinante was wonderfully well delineated; so long and lank, so lean and feeble, with so sharp a back-bone, and so like one in a galloping consumption, that you might see plainly with what exactness and propriety the name of Rocinante had been given him. Close by him stood Sancho Panza, holding his ass by the halter, at whose feet was another scroll, whereon was written Sancho Zancas; and not without reason, if he was, as the painting expressed, paunch-bellied, short of stature, and spindle- shanked, which doubtless, gave him the names of Panza and Zancas for the history sometimes calls him by the one, and sometimes by the other of these sirnames. 57 There were some other minuter particulars observable, but they are all of little importance, .and con- tribute nothing to the faithful narration of the history, though none are to be despised, if true. But if any objection lies against the truth of this history, it can only be, that the author was an Arab, the people of that nation being not a little addicted to lying; though they being so much our enemies, one should rather think ' ,; On the contrary this is the only time that Sancho is called Zancos. It is almost superfluous to say that Punza means belly, and Zancas, long and bowed legs, VOL I. M 90 DON QUIXOTE. he fell short of, than exceeded the hounds of truth. And so in truth he seems to have done ; for when he might and ought to have launched out in celebrating the praises of so excellent a knight, it looks as if he industriously passed them over in silence : a thing ill done and worse designed, for historians ought to be precise, faith- ful, and unprejudiced ; and neither interest nor fear, hatred nor s CJ\RMS7R0tíC KSON.St p 91. BOOK II. — CHAPTER I. 91 affection, should make them swerve from the way of truth, whose mother is history the rival of time, the depository of great actions, the witness of what is past, the example and instruction to the present, and monitor to the future. In this work you will certainly find whatever you can desire in the most agreeable ; and if any perfection is wanting to it, it must without all question be the fault of the infidel its author, and not owing to any defect in the subject. 58 In short its second part, according to the translation, began in this manner: — The trenchant blades of the two valorous and enraged combatants being brandished aloft, seemed to stand threatening heaven and earth, and the deep abyss, such was the courage and gallantry of their deportment. The first who discharged his blow was the choleric Biscayan, which fell with such force and fury, that if the edge of the sword had not turned aslant by the way, that single blow had been enough to have put an end to this cruel conflict, and to all the adventures of our knight. But good fortune, that pre- served him for greater things, so twisted his adversary's sw ord, that though it alighted on the left shoulder, it did him no other hurt than to disarm that side, carrying off by the way a great part of his helmet, with half an ear; all which, with hideous ruin, fell to the ground, leaving him in a piteous plight. But who ! who is he that can worthily recount the rage that entered into the breast of our Manchegan, at seeing himself so roughly handled ? Let it suffice that it was so great, that he raised himself afresh in his stirrups, and grasping his sword faster in both hands, dis- charged it with such fury upon the Biscayan, taking him full upon the cushion, and upon the head (which he could not defend,) that as if a mountain had fallen upon him, the blood began to gush out at his nostrils, his mouth, and his ears; and he seemed as if he was just falling down from his mule, which doubtless he must have done if he had not laid fast hold of her neck. But notwithstanding that, he lost his stirrups and let go his hold ; and the mule, frightened by the terrible stroke, began to run about the field, and at two or three ^ Cervantes, doubtless, here alludes to the name of ting, by which name the Christians and Moors reciprocally called themselves. The word in the original Spanish is, perro moro. 92 DON QUIXOTE. plunges laid her master flat upon the ground. Don Quixote stood looking on with great calmness, and when he saw him fall, leaped from his horse, and with much agility ran up to him, and, clapping the point of his sword to his eyes, bid him yield, or he would cut off his head. The Biscayan was so stunned that he could not answer a word ; and it had gone hard with him, (so blinded with rage was Don Quixote), if the ladies of the coach, who hitherto in great dismay beheld the conflict, had not approached him, and earnestly besought him that he would do them the great kindness and favour to spare the life of their squire. Don Quixote answered with much solemnity and gravity, " Assuredly fair ladies, I am very willing to grant your request, but it is upon a certain condition and compact ; which is, that this knight shall promise me to repair to the town of Toboso, and present himself as from me, before the peerless Dulcinea, that she may dispose of him as she shall think fit." The terrified and disconsolate lady, without considering what Don Quixote required, and without inquiring who Dulcinea was, promised him her squire should perform whatever he enjoined him. " In reliance upon this promise," said Don Quixote, " I will do him no farther hurt, though he has well deserved it at my hands." HOOK II. CHAl'TEIl II. CRA PTER J I. OF THE DISCOURSE DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH Ills GOOD SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA. immediately Sancho Panza had got upon his legs, somewhat roughly handled hy the monks' lacqueys, he gazed very attentively on the combat of his master Don Quixote, and implored Heaven to give him the victory and that he might thereby win some island, of which to make his squire governor, as he had promised. Now, seeing the conflict at an end, and that his master was ready to re-mount Roc inante, he came and held his stirrup ; and before he got up, he fell upon Ins knees before him, and taking hold of his hand, kissed it, and said to him, — " Be pleased, my lord Don Quixote, to bestow upon me the government of that island, which you have won in this rigorous combat; for be it never so big, I find in myself ability sufficient to govern it, as well as the best he that ever governed island in the world." To which Don Quixote answered, — " Consider, brother Sancho that this adventure, and others of this nature, are not adven- 94 DON QUIXOTE. tures of islands, but of cross- ways, in which nothing is to be gotten but a broken head or the loss of an ear. Have patience ; for adventures will offer, whereby I may not only make thee a governor, but something better." Sancho returned him abundance of thanks, and kissing his hand again, and the skirt of his coat of mail, he helped him to get upon Rocinante, and himself mounting his ass, began to follow his master, who going off at a round rate, without taking his leave or speaking to those of the coach, entered into a wood that was hard by. Sancho followed him as fast as his beast could trot ; but Rocinante made such way, that seeing himself likely to be left far behind, he was forced to call aloud to his master to stay for him. Don Quixote did so, checking Rocinante by the bridle, until Ids weary squire overtook him, who as soon as he came near, said to him, — " Methinks, sir, it would not be amiss to retire to some church ; for considering in what condition you have left your adversaries, it is not improbable they may give notice of the fact to the holy brotherhood, 59 who will apprehend us : and in faith if they do, before we get out of their clutches we may chance to sweat for it." " Peace," quoth Don Quixote ; " for where have you seen or read of a knight-errant being brought before a court of justice, let him have committed ever so many homicides ?" " I know nothing of your omecils," answered Sancho, " nor in my life have I ever concerned myself about them : only this I know, that the holy brotherhood have something to say to those who fight in the fields ; and as to this other matter, I inter- meddle not in it." " Set your heart at rest friend," answered Don Quixote ; " for I should deliver you out of the hands of the Chaldeans, how much more then out of those of the holy brotherhood ? But tell me on your life, have you ever seen a more valorous knight than I upon the whole face of the known earth ? have you read in story of any other, who has or ever had more bravery in assailing, 69 The Santa Hermandad or Holy Fraternity, was a jurisdiction, the tribunals and martialship of which were specially charged with the pursuit and punishment of malefactors. It was first instituted about the beginning of the thirteenth century by voluntary associations; it afterwards penetrated into Castile and Arragon, and was completely organized under the catholic kings. BOOK II. CHAPTER II. more breath in holding out, more dexterity in wounding, or more address in giving a fall ?" " The truth is," answered Sancho, " that I never read any history at all, for I can neither read nor write ; but what I dare affirm is, that I never served a bolder master than your worship, in all the days of my life ; and pray Jove we be not called to account for these darings where I just now said. What I beg of your worship is, that you would let your wound be dressed for there comes a great deal of blood from that ear ; and I have some lint and a little white ointment in my wallet." " All this would have been needless," answered Don Quixote, "if I had bethought myself of making a phial of the balsam of Fierabrás 5 s0 for with one single drop of that we might have saved both time and medicines." " What phial and what balsam is that ?" said Sancho Panza. " It is a balsam," answered Don Quixote, "of which 1 have the receipt by heart, and he that has it need not fear death, nor so much as think of dying by any wound. Of course when I shall have made it and given it you, all you will have to do is, when you see me in some battle cleft asunder, (as it frequently happens), to take up fair and softly that part of my body which shall fall to the ground, and with the greatest nicety, before the blood is congealed, place it upon the other half that shall remain in the saddle, taking especial care to make them tally exactly. Then must you imme- diately give me to drink only two draughts of the balsam aforesaid, and you will see me become sounder than any apple." " If this be so," said Sancho, "I renounce from henceforward the goverment of the promised island, and desire no other thing in payment of my many and good services, but that your worship will give me the receipt of this extraordinary liquor ; for I dare say it will any where fetch more than two reals an ounce; and I want no more to pass this life w Or Fier a iirus. "lie was, according to the history of Charlemagne, an infidel or Saracen giant, son to Admiral Balan, the conqueror of Rome and Jerusalem and King of Alexandria. He was the implacable enemy of Olivier, who wounded him mortally ; but he soon recovered by drinking some balsam tint he had in two little barrels which came into his possession at the conquest of Jerusalem. This balsam was, it is believed, a part of that with which Joseph of Arimatllea embalmed our Saviour. But Olivier, having succeeded in sinking the two barrels in a deep river, vanquished Fier a Bras, who was subsequently baptized and died a convert, as it is related by Nicolas de Piamonte. {Historia de Carlo magno, cap. VII. and XII) 9C> DON QUIXOTE. creditably and comfortably. But I should be glad to know whether it will cost much the making." "For less than three reals one may make nine pints," answered Don Quixote. " Sinner that I am," replied Sancho, "why then does your worship delay to make it, and to teach me ?" " Peace, friend," answered Don Quixote ; " for I intend to teach thee greater secrets, and to do thee greater kind- nesses ; but for the present let us set about the cure, for my ear pains me more than I could wish." Sancho took some lint and ointment out of his wallet. But when Don Quixote perceived that his helmet was broken, he was nearly stark mad ; and laying his hand on his sword, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, he said, " I swear by the Creator of all things, and by all that is contained in the four holy evangelists, to lead the life that the great marquis of Mantua led, when he vowed to revenge the BOOK II. — CHAPTER II. 97 death of his nephew Valdovinos, (which was, not to eat bread on a table cloth, nor solace himself with his wife, and other things, which though I do not now remember, I allow here for expressed,) until I am fully revenged on him who hath done me this outrage. Sancho hearing this, said to him, — " Pray consider, Signor Don Quixote, that if the knight has performed what was enjoined him, namely, to go and present himself before my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he will then have done his duty, and deserves no new punish- ment, unless he commit a new crime." " You have remarked very justly," answered Don Quixote, " and I annul the oath, so far as concerns the taking a fresh revenge ; but I make it, and confirm it anew, as to leading the life I have mentioned, until I shall take by force such another helmet, or one as good, from some other knight. And think not, Sancho, I undertake this lightly, or make a smoke of straw ; I know what example I follow therein, for the same thing happened exactly with regard to Mambrino's helmet which cost Sacripante so dear." 61 "Good sir," replied Sancho, "give such oaths to the devil ; for they are very detrimental to health, and prejudicial to the conscience. Besides, pray tell me, if perchance in many days we should not light upon a man armed with a helmet, what must we do then ? must the oath be kept in spite of so many difficulties and inconveniences, such as sleeping in your clothes, and not sleeping in any inhabited place, and a thousand other penances, contained in the oath of that mad old fellow the marquis of Mantua, which you, sir, would now revive ? 62 Consider well, that none of these roads are frequented by armed men, and that there are only carriers and carters, who are so far from wearing helmets, that perhaps, they never heard them so much as named in all the days of their lives." " You are mistaken in this," said Don Quixote ; " for we shall not be two hours in these cross-ways before we shall see more armed men than came to the siege of Albraca, to carry off 61 Orlando Furioso, cant. 18, 161, &c. 62 The oath taken by the Marquis of Mantua, as it is related in the ancient romanea composed on his adventure, runs as follows : " I swear never to comb my white hair nor to shave my beard, never to change my clothes not to put on new shoes and stockings, never to enter an inhabited place or to remove my arms — excepting for an hour while I wash my body, — never to eat off a table-cloth, or seat myself at table, until I shall have killed Chariot, or have been slain in combat " vol. [. N 98 DON QUIXOTE. Angelica the Fair." 63 " Well, be it so," quoth Sancho ; " and Heaven grant us good success, and that we may speedily win this island, which costs me so dear ; and then no matter how soon I die. I have already told you, Sancho, to be in no pain upon that account, for, if an island cannot be had, there is the kingdom of Dinamarque or that of Sobradisa, 64 which will fit you like a ring to your finger, and moreover, being upon terra firma, you should rejoice the more. But let us leave this to its own time, and see if you have any thing for us to eat in your wallet ; and we will go presently in quest of some castle, where we may lodge this knight, and make the balsam that I told you of ; for I vow to God, my ear pains me very much." " I have here an onion, and a piece of cheese, and I know not how many crusts of bread," said Sancho ; " but they are not eatables fit for so valiant a knight as your worship." " How ill you understand this matter !" answered Don Quixote : " you must know, Sancho, that it is an honour to knights-errant not to eat in a month ; and if they do eat, it must be of what comes next to hand ; and if you had read as many histories as I have, you would have known this ; for though I have perused a great many, I never yet found any account given in them that ever knights-errant did eat, unless it were by chance, and at certain sumptuous banquets made on purpose for them ; and the rest of their days they lived, as it were upon their smelling. Though it is to be presumed, they could not subsist without eating, and without satisfying all other natural wants, it must likewise be supposed, that as they passed most of their lives in wandering through forests and deserts, and without a cook, their usual diet consisted of rustic viands, such as those you now offer me. Therefore friend Sancho, let not that trouble you, which gives me pleasure, nor endeavour to make a new world, or to throw knight- errantry off its hinges." " Pardon me, sir," said Sancho; "for as I can neither read nor write, as I told you before, I am entirely unacquainted with the rules of the knightly profession ; and from 63 In Boyardo's poem, Agrican, King of Tartary beseiges Albraque with an army of two millions of soldiers, extending over the space of four leagues. In Ariosto's poem king Marsilio lays seige to the same fortress with his thirty two tributary kings and all their forces. M Imaginary kingdoms mentioned in Amadix de Gaul. BOOK II. CHAPTER II. 99 henceforward I will furnish my wallet with all sorts of dried fruits for your worship, who are a knight ; and for myself who am none, I will supply it with poultry, and other tilings of more suhstance." " I do not say, Sancho" replied Don Quixote, " that knights-errant are obliged to eat nothing but dried fruit as you say ; but that their most usual sustenance was of that kind, and of certain herbs they found up and down in the fields, which they very well knew, and as do I." " It is a happiness to know these same herbs," answered Sancho : " for I am inclined to think, we shall one day have occasion to make use of that knowledge." So saying, he took out what he had provided, and they eat together in a very peaceable and friendly manner. But, being desirous to seek out a place to lodge in that night, they soon finished their poor and dry commons. They presently mounted, and made what haste they could to get to some inhabited village before night ; but both the sun and their hopes failed them near the huts of certain goatherds; so they determined to take up their lodging there. If Sancho was grieved, that they could not reach some habitation, his master was as much rejoiced to lie in the open air, 100 DON QUIXOTE. making account that, every time this befel him, he was doing an act possessive, or such an act as gave a fresh evidence of his title to chivalry. BOOK II. CHAPTER III. 101 CHAPTER III. OF WHAT BEFEL DON QUIXOTE WITH CERTAIN GOATHERDS. o one could be more kindly re- ceived than he was by the goat- herds ; and Sancho, having accom- modated Rocinante and his ass the best he could, followed the scent of certain pieces of goat's flesh, that were boiling in a kettle on the fire ; and though he would willingly at that instant have tried whether they were fit to be trans- lated from the kettle to the sto- mach, he forbore doing it ; for the goatherds themselves took them off the fire, and, spreading some sheep-skins on the ground, very speedily served up their rural mess, and invited both, with shew of much good-will, to take share of what they had. Six of them, thai 102 DON QUIXOTE. belonged to the fold, sat down round about the skins, having first, with rustic compliments, desired Don Quixote to seat himself upon a trough with the bottom upwards, placed on purpose for him. Don Quixote sat down, and Sancho remained standing to serve the cup, which was made of horn. His master, seeing him standing, said to him : " That you may see, Sancho, the intrinsic worth of knight-errantry, and how fair a prospect its meanest retainers have of speedily gaining the respect and esteem of the world, I will that you sit here by my side, in company with these good folks, and that you be one and the same thing with me, who am your master and natural lord ; that you eat from off my plate, and drink of the same cup in which I drink : for the same may be said of knight- errantry, which is said of love, that it makes all things equal." " I give you a great many thanks, sir," said Sancho, " but let me tell your worship, that provided I have victuals enough, I can eat as well or better standing, and by myself, than if I were seated close by an emperor. And farther, to tell you the truth, what I eat in my corner, without compliments or ceremonies, though it were no- thing but bread and an onion, relishes better than turkeys at other folks' tables, where I am forced to chew leisurely, drink little, wipe my mouth often, neither sneeze nor cough when I have a mind, nor do other things which follow the being alone and at liberty. So that, good sir, as to these honours your worship is pleased to confer upon me, as a menial servant, and hanger-on of knight-errantry (being squire to your worship), be pleased to convert them into something of more use and profit to me ; for, though I place them to account, as received in full, I renounce them from this time for- ward to the end of the world." " Notwithstanding all this," said Don Quixote, " you shall sit down, for whosoever humbleth himself God doth exalt ;" and pulling him by the arm, he forced him to sit down next him. The goatherds did not understand this jargon of squires and knights-errant, and did nothing but eat, and listen, and stare at their guests, who with much cheerfulness and appetite, swallowed down pieces as big as one's fist. The service of flesh being finished, they spread upon the skins a great quantity of acorns, together with half a cheese, harder than if it had been made BOOK II. — CHAPTER III. 103 of plaster of Paris. The horn stood not idle all this while ; for it went round so often, now full, now empty, like the bucket of a well, that they presently emptied one of the two wine-bags that hung in view. After Don Quixote had satisfied his hunger, he took up a handful of acorns, and, looking on them attentively, gave utterance to expressions like these : " Happy times, and happy ages ! those to whic h the ancients gave the name of golden, not because gold (which in this our iron age is so much esteemed) was to be had in that fortunate period without toil and labour; but because they who then lived, were ignorant of these two words, meum and tuum. In that age ot 104 DON QUIXOTE. innocence all things were in common : no one needed to take any other pains for his ordinary sustenance than to lift up his hand and take it from the sturdy oaks, which stood inviting him liberally to taste of their sweet and relishing fruit. The limpid fountains and running streams offered them, in magnificent abundance, their delicious and transparent waters. In the clefts of rocks and in the hollow of trees, did the industrious and provident bees form their commonwealths, offering to every hand, without usury, the fertile produce of their most delicious toil. The stout cork-trees, without any other inducement than that of their own courtesy, divested themselves of their light and expanded bark, with which men began to cover their houses, supported by rough poles, only for a defence against the inclemency of the seasons. All then was peace, all amity, all concord. As yet the heavy coulter of the crooked plough had not dared to force open, and search into, the tender bowels of our first mother, who, unconstrained, offered, from every part of her fertile and spacious bosom, whatever might feed, sustain, and delight those her children who then had her in possession. 65 Then did the simple and beauteous young shepherdesses trip it from dale to dale, and from hill to hill, their tresses sometimes plaited, sometimes loosely flowing, with no more clothing than was necessary modestly to cover what modesty has always required to be concealed ; nor were their ornaments like those now-a-days in fashion, to which the Tyrian purple and the so-many-ways martyred silk gave a value, but composed of green dock-leaves and ivy interwoven ; with which perhaps, they went as splendidly and elegantly decked as our court ladies do now, with all those rare and foreign inventions, which idle curiosity hath taught them. Then were the amorous conceptions of the soul clothed in simple and sincere expressions, in the same way and manner they were conceived, without seeking artificial phrases to set them off. Nor as yet were fraud, deceit and malice, intermixed with truth and plain-dealing. Justice kept within her proper bounds ; favour and interest, which now so much depreciate, 05 It is curious to compare this description of the golden age with that by Virgil, in the first book of the Georgics; with Ovid's, in the first book of the Metamorphoses ; and with that by Tasso, in the chorus of the shepherds, which terminates the first act of the Aminta. BOOK II. CHAPTElt III. 105 confound and persecute her, not daring then to disturb or offend her. As yet the judge did not make his own will the measure of justice, for then there were neither cause nor person to be judged. Maidens and modesty, as I said before, went about, alone and mis- tress of tbemselves, without fear of any danger from the unbridled freedom and base designs of others ; and if they were undone, it was entirely owing to their own natural inclination and will. But now, in these detestable ages of our's, no damsel is secure, though she were hidden and locked up in another labyrinth like that of Crete; for even there, through some cranny, or through the air, by the zeal of cursed importunity, the amorous pestilence finds en- trance, and they miscarry in spite of their closest retreat. For the security of these, as times grew worse and wickedness increased, the order of knight-errantry was instituted to defend maidens, to VOL. I. O 106 DON QUIXOTE. protect widows, and to relieve orphans and persons distressed. 66 Of this order am I, brother goatherds, from whom I take kindly the good cheer and civil reception you have given me and my squire ; for though, by the law of nature, every one living is obliged to favour knights-errant, yet knowing that without your being ac- quainted with this obligation you have entertained and regaled me, it is but reasonable that, with all possible good-will towards you, I should acknowledge your's to me." Our knight made this tedious discourse (which might very well have been spared) because the acorns they had given him put him in mind of the golden age, and inspired him with an eager desire to make that impertinent harangue to the goatherds, who were quite in amaze, gaping and listening, without answering him a word. Sancho himself was silent, stuffing himself with acorns, and often visiting the second wine-bag, which, that the wine might be cool, was hung upon a cork-tree. Don Quixote spent more time in talking than in eating: and supper being over, one of the goatherds said : " That your worship, Signor knight-errant, may the more truly say that we entertain you with a ready good-will, we will give you some diversion and amuse- ment, by making one of our comrades who will soon be here, sing a song : he is a very intelligent lad, and deeply enamoured ; and above all, can read and write, and play upon the rebeck 67 to hearts content." The goatherd had scarcely said this when the sound of the rebeck reached their ears, and presently after came he that was playing on it, who was a youth of about two and twenty, and of a very good mien. His comrades asked him if he had supped ; and he answer- ing yes: "Then Antonio," said he who had made the offer, "you may afford us the pleasure of hearing you sing a little, that this gentleman, our guest, may see we have here among the mountains and woods, some that understand music. We have told him your good qualities, and would have you shew them, and make good 66 Nearly all the orders of chivalry adopted the same device. In the order of Malta, the candidate was asked: "Do you vow to protect and favour widows, minors, orphans, and all afflicted or unfortunate persons ? " The novice had to reply ; "I promise to do so, with God's help." 67 Rabel, a sort of violin with three strings. It was known in Spain in the early part of the fourteenth century, for it is mentioned by the arch-priest of Hita in his poetry. BOOK II. CHAPTER III. 107 what we have said; and therefore I entreat you to sit down, and sing the ditty of your loves, which your uncle the prebendary com- posed for you, and which was so well liked in our village." " With all my heart," replied the youth ; and, without farther entreaty, he sat down upon the trunk of an old oak, and tuning his rebeck, after a while, with a very good grace, he began to sing as follows: " Yes, lovely nymph, thou art my prize ; I boast the conquest of thy heart, Though nor thy tongue, nor speaking eyes, Have yet reveal' d the latent smart. Thy wit and sense assure my fate, In them my love's success I see ; Nor can he be unfortunate, Who dares avow his flame for thee. Yet sometimes hast thou frown'd, alas ! And given my hopes a cruel shock ; Then did thy soul seem form'd of brass, Thy snowy bosom of the rock. But in the midst of thy disdain, Thy sharp reproaches, cold delays, Hope from behind, to ease my pain, The border of her robe displays. Ah ! lovely maid ! in equal scale, Weigh well thy shepherd's trutli and love, Which ne'er, but with his breath, can fad, Which neither frowns nor smiles can move. If love, as shepherds wont to say, Be gentleness and courtesy, So courteous is Olalia, My passion will rewarded be. And if obsequious duty paid, The grateful heart can ever move, Mine sure, my fair, may well persuade A due return, and claim thy love. For, to seem pleasing in thy sight, I dress myself with studious care, And, in my best apparel dight, My Sunday clothes on Monday wear. And shepherds say I'm not to blame ; For cleanly dress and spruce attire Preserve alive love's wanton flame, And gently fan the dying fire. 108 DON QUIXOTE. To please my fair, in mazy ring I join the dance, and sportive play, And oft beneath thy window sing, When first the cock proclaims the day. With rapture on each°charm I dwell, And daily spread thy beauty's fame ; And still my tongue thy praise shall tell, Though envy swell, or malice blame. Teresa of the Berrocal, When once I prais'd you, said in spite, " Your mistress you an angel call, But a mere ape is your delight. Thanks to the bugle's artful glare, And all the graces counterfeit ; Thanks to the false and curled hair, Which wary Love himself might cheat." I swore 'twas false ; and said she ly'd : At that her anger fiercely rose : I box'd the clown that took her side, And how I box'd my fairest knows. I court thee not, Olalia, To gratify a loose desire ; My love is chaste, without allay Of wanton wish, or lustful fire. The church hath silken cords, that tie Consenting hearts in mutual bands : If thou, my fair, its yoke will try, Thy swain its ready captive stands. If not, by all the saints I swear, On these bleak mountains still to dwell, Nor ever quit my toilsome care, But for the cloister and the cell." Here ended the goatherd's song, and though Don Quixote desi- red him to sing something else, Sancho Panza was of another mind, being more disposed to sleep than to hear ballads ; and therefore he said to his master: "Sir, you had better consider where you are to rest to-night ; for the pains these honest men take all day will not suffer them to pass the night in singing." " I understand you, Sancho," answered Don Quixote; "for I see plainly that the visits to the wine- bag require to be paid rather with sleep than music." " It relished well with us all, thank our good stars," answered Sancho. " I do not deny it," replied Don Quixote; "but lay yourself down where BOOK II. — CHAPTER III. 109 you will, for it better becomes those of my profession to watch than to sleep. However it would not be amiss, Sancho, if you would dress this ear again ; for it pains me more than it should." Sancho did what he was commanded ; and one of the goatherds, seeing the hurt, bid him not be uneasy, for he would apply such a remedy as should quickly heal it. Then taking some rosemary-leaves, of which there was plenty thereabouts, he chewed them, and mixed them with a little salt, and, laying them to the ear, bound them on very fast, assuring him he would want no other salve, as it proved in effect. 110 DON QUIXOTE. CHAPTER IV. WHAT A CERTAIN GOATHERD RELATED TO THOSE THAT WERE WITH DON QUIXOTE. oon after this, there came another of those young lads, who brought them their provi- sions from the village, and said : " Comrades, do you know what has happened in the village ?" " How should we know ?" answered one of them. " Know then," continued the youth, " that this morning died that famous shepherd and scholar, Chrysostom ; and it is whispered, that he died for love of that devilish untoward lass Marcella, daughter of William the Rich ; she who rambles about these woods and fields in the dress of a shepherdess." " For Marcella say you?" quoth one. "For the same, I say," answered the goatherd, "and the best of it is, he has ordered by his will that they should bury him in the fields as if he had been a Moor, and that it should be at the foot of the rock by the cork-tree fountain ; for, accor- ding to report, and what they say he himself declared, that was the very place where he first saw her. He ordered also other things BOOK II. — CHAPTER IV. I i I so extravagant, that the clergy say they must not be performed ; nor is it fit they should, for they seem to be heathenish. To which that great friend of his, Ambrosio the student, who accompanied him likewise in the dress of a shepherd, answers that the whole must be fulfilled, without omitting any thing, as Chrysostom enjoi- ned ; and upon this the village is all in an uproar ; but by what I can learn, they will at least do what Ambrosio, and all the shep- herds require; and to-morrow they come to inter him, with great solemnity, in the place I have already told you of. I am of opinion that it will be very well worth seeing ; at least I will not fail to go, though I knew I should not return to-morrow to the village." "We will do so too," answered the goatherds, and " let us cast lots who shall stay behind to look after our goats." "You say well, Pedro," quoth another ; "but it will be needless to make use of this expe- dient, for I will stay for you all ; and do not attribute tins to virtue or want of curiosity in me, but to the thorn which stuck into my foot the other day, and hinders me from walking." "We are obliged to you, however," answered Pecho. Don Quixote desired Pedro to tell him who the deceased was, and who that shepherdess. To which Pedro answered that all he knew was, that the deceased was a wealthy gentleman, of a neigh- bouring village among the hills thereabout, who had studied many years in Salamanca; at the end of which time he returned home, with the character of a very learned and well-read person; particu- larly, it was said, he understood the science of the stars, and what the sun and moon are doing in the sky ; for he told us punctually the 'elipse of the sun and moon. "Friend," quoth Don Quixote, "the obscuration of those two great luminaries is called an eclipse, and not a 'elipse." Put Pedro, not regarding niceties, went on with his story saying, " He also foretold when the year would be plentiful or estril." " Sterile, you would say, friend," quoth Don Quixote. "Sterile or estril," answered Pedro, "comes all to the same thing; and as I was saying, his father and friends, who gave credit to his words, became very rich thereby; for they followed his advice in every thing. 'This year' he would say 'sow barley and not wheat; in this you may sow vetches, and not barley; the next year there will be plenty of oil; the three following there will not be a drop.'" " This 112 CON QUIXOTE. science they call astrology," said Don Quixote. " I know not how it is called," replied Pedro; "but I know that he knew all this, and more too. In short, not many months after he came from Salaman- ca, on a certain day he appeared dressed like a shepherd, with his crook and sheep-skin jacket, having thrown aside his scholar's gown ; and with him another, a great friend of his, called Ambrosio, who had been his fellow student, and now put himself into the same dress of a shepherd. I forgot to tell you, that the deceased Chry- sostom was a great man at making verses ; insomuch that he made the carols for Christmas eve, and the religious plays for Corpus Christi, which the boys of our village represented ; and every body said they were most excellent. When the people of the village saw the two scholars so suddenly habited like shepherds, they were amazed, and could not guess at the cause that induced them to make that strange alteration in their dress. About this time the father of Chrysostom died, and he inherited a large estate in lands and goods, flocks, herds and money of all which the youth re- mained absolute master ; and indeed he deserved it all, for he was a very good companion, a charitable man, and a friend to those that were good, and had a face like any blessing. Afterwards it came to be known that he changed his habit for no other purpose, but that he might wander about these desert places after that shepherd- ess Marcella, whom our lad told you of before, and with whom the poor deceased Chrysostom was in love. And I will now tell you (for it is fit you should know,) who this young slut is ; for perhaps, and even without a perhaps, you may never have heard the like in all the days of your life, though you were ' as old as the itch.' " " Say, as old as Sarah," replied Don Quixote, not being able to endure the goatherd's mistaking words. " The itch is old enough," answered Pedro; " and sir, if you must at every turn be correcting my words we shall not have done this twelvemonth." " Pardon me, friend," said Don Quixote, " I told you of it, because there is a wide difference between the itch and Sarah ; 68 and so on with your story, for I will interrupt you no more. 68 la the original Spanish, the goatherd, instead of saying as old as Sarah, (Abra- ham's wife,) says as old as sarna, (the itch.) It is imposible to preserve such quibbles as this in the translation. BOOK II. CHAPTER IV. 112 " I say then, dear sir of my soul," quoth the goatherd, " that, in our village, there was a farmer richer than the father of Chrysostom, called William; on whom God bestowed, beside much and great wealth, a daughter, of whom her mother died in childbed, and she was the most respected woman of all our country. I cannot help thinking I see her now, with that presence, looking as if she had the sun on one side of her, and the moon on the other;* and above all, she was a notable housewife, and a friend to the poor ; for which I believe her soul is at this very moment enjoying bliss in the other * This seems to be a burlesque on the extravagant metaphors, used by the Spanish poets in praise of the beauty of their mistresses. VOL. 1. P 113 DON QUIXOTE. world. Her husband William died through grief for the death of so good a woman, leaving his daughter Marcella young and rich, under the care of an uncle, a priest, and beneficed in our village. The girl grew up with so much beauty, that it put us in mind of her mother, who had a great share ; and for all that, it was judged that the charms of the daughter would surpass her's. And so it fell out; for when she came to be fourteen or fifteen years of age, nobody beheld her without blessing Heaven for making her so handsome, and most men were in love with and undone for her. Her uncle kept her very carefully and very close ; notwithstanding which, the fame of her extraordinary beauty spread itself in such a manner that, partly for her person, partly for her great riches, her uncle was applied to, solicited, and importuned, not only by those of our own village, but by many others, and those the better sort too, for several leagues round, to dispose of her in marriage. But he, (who to do him justice, is a good christian,) though he was desirous to dispose of her as soon as she was marriageable, yet would not do it without her consent, having no eye to the benefit and advantage he might have made of the girl's estate by deferring her nuptials. In good truth, this has been told in praise of the good priest, in more companies than one in our village. For I would have you to know, sir-errant, that in these little places every thing is talked of, and every thing censured ; and my life for your's, that clergyman must be over and above good who obliges his parish- ioners to speak well of him, especially in country towns." "It is true," said Don Quixote, "but proceed; for the story is ex- cellent, and honest Pedro, you tell it with a good grace." "Farther" quoth Pedro," though the uncle proposed to his niece, and acquaint- ed her with the qualities of every one in particular of the many who sought her in marriage, advising her to marry, and choose to her liking, she never returned any other answer, but that she was not disposed to marry at present, and that being so young, she did not find herself able to bear the burden of matrimony. Her uncle, satisfied with these seemingly-just excuses, ceased to importune her, and waited till she was grown a little older, and knew how to choose a companion to her taste. For, said he, and he said very well, BOOK II. CHAPTER IV. 114 parents ought not to settle their children against their will. But, behold! when we least imagined it, on a certain day the coy Marcella appears a shepherdess, and, without the consent of her uncle, and against the pursuasions of all the neighbours, would needs go into the fields, with the other country lasses, and tend her own flock. And now that she appeared in public, and her beauty was exposed to all beholders, it is impossible to tell you how many wealthy youths, gentlemen and farmers, have taken Chrysostom's dress, and go up and down these plains, making their suit to her ; one of whom, as is said already, was the deceased, of whom it is added that he rather adored than loved her. But think not, that because Marcella has given herself up to this free and unconfined way of life, and that with so little, or rather no reserve, she has given the least colour of suspicion to the prejudice of her modesty and discretion ; 115 DON QUIXOTE. no, rather so great and strict is the watch she keeps over her honour, that of all those who serve and solicit her, no one has boasted, or can boast with truth, that she has given him the least hope of obtaining her. For though she does not fly nor shun the company and conversation of the shepherds, but treats them with courtesy, and in a friendly manner, yet upon any one's beginning to discover his intention, though it be as just and holy as that of marriage, she casts him from her as out of a stone-bow. By this sort of behaviour she does more mischief in this country, than if she carried the plague about with her; for her affability and beauty attract the hearts of those who converse with her, to serve and love her ; but her disdain and frank dealing drive them to terms of despair ; and so they know not what to say to her, and can only exclaim against her, calling her cruel and ungrateful, with such other titles as plainly denote her character. Were you to abide here, sir, awhile, you would hear these mountains and vallies resound with the complaints of those undeceived wretches that yet follow her. There is a place not far from hence, where there are about two dozen of tall beeches, and not one of them but has the name of Marcella written and engraved on the smooth bark ; and over some of them is a crown carved in the same tree, as if the lover would more clearly express that Marcella bears away the crown, and deserves it above all human beauty. Here sighs one shepherd, there complains another; here are heard amorous sonnets, there despairing ditties. You shall have one pass all the hours of the night seated at the foot of some oak or rock ; and there, without closing his weeping eyes, wrapped up and transported in his thoughts, the sun finds him in the morning. You shall have another, without cessation or truce to his sighs, in the midst of the most irksome noon-day heat of the summer, exten- ded on the burning sand, and sending up his complaints to all-pity- ing heaven. In the mean time, the beautiful Marcella, free and unconcerned, triumphs over them all. We, who know her, wait with impatience to see what her haughtiness will come to, and who is to be the happy man that shall subdue so intractable a disposition, and enjoy so incomparable a beauty. All that I have recounted being so assured a truth, I the more easily believe what our BOOK II. — CHAPTER IV. 1 Hi companion told us concerning the cause of Chrysostom's death. Therefore I advise you, sir, that you do not fail to-morrow to be at his funeral, which will be very well worth seeing ; for Chrysostom has a great many friends, and it is not half a league from this place to that where he ordered himself to be buried." " I will certainly be there," said Don Quixote, " and I thank you for the pleasure you have given me by the recital of so entertaining a story," "O," replied the goatherd, "I do not yet know half the ad- ventures that have happened to Marcella's lovers; but to-morrow perhaps, we shall meet by the way with some shepherd who may tell us more : at present it will not be amiss that you get you to sleep under some roof ; for the cold dew of the night may do your wound harm, though the salve I have put to it is such that you need not fear any cross accident." Sancho Panza, who for his part, gave this long-winded tale of the goatherd's to the devil, pressed his mas- ter to lay himself down in Pedro's hut. He did so, and passed the rest of the night in remembrances of his lady Dulcinea, in imitation of Marcella's lovers. Sancho Panza took up his lodging between Rocinante and his ass, and slept it out, not like a discarded lover, but like a person who had been well rib-roasted. 117 DON QUIXOTE. CHAPTER V. THE CONCLUSION OF THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS MAR- CELLA, WITH OTHER EVENTS. orning had scarcely begun to discover it- self through the bal- conies of the east, when five of the six goatherds got up, and went to awake Don Quixote, and asked : = t „„ • - - him whether he con- tinued in his resolution in going to see the famous funeral of Chrysos- tom, for they would bear him company. Don Quixote, who desired nothing more, got up, and bid Sancho saddle and pannel immediately ; which he did with great expedition : and with the same dispatch they all presently set out on their way. They had not gone a quarter of a league, when, crossing the path- way, they saw six shepherds making towards them, clad in black sheep-skin jerkins, and their heads crowned with garlands of cypress BOOK If. — CHAPTER V. 118 and bitter rosemary. Each of them had a thick holly club in his hand. There came also with them two cavaliers on horseback, in very handsome riding-habits, attended by three lacqueys on foot. When they had joined company, they saluted each other courte- ously ; and asking one another whither they were going, they found they were all going to the place of burial; and so they began to travel in company. One of those on horseback, speaking to his companion, said: "I fancy, Signor Vivaldo, we shall not think the time mis-spent in staying to see this famous funeral : for it cannot fail to be extraor- dinary, considering the strange things these shepherds have recounted, as well of the deceased shepherd as of the murdering shepherdess." " I think so too," answered Vivaldo ; " and I do not only think little of spending one day, but I would even stay four to see it." Don Quixote asked them, what it was they had heard of Marcella and Chrysostom ? The traveller said, they had met those shepherds early that morning, and that, seeing them in that mournful dress, they had asked the occasion of their going clad in that manner ; and that one of them had related the story, telling them of the beauty, and unacountable humour of a certain shepherdess called Marcella, and the loves of many that wooed her ; with the death of Chrysostom, to whose burial they were going. In fine, he related all that Pedro had told to Don Quixote. This discourse ceased, and another began ; he who was called Vivaldo asking Don Quixote what might be the reason that induced him to go armed in that manner through a country so peaceable? To which Don Quixote answered: " The profession I follow will not allow or suffer me to go in any other manner. The dance, the banquet, and the bed of down, were invented for soft and effem- inate courtiers; but toil, disquietude, and arms, were designed for those whom the world calls knights-errant of which number I, though unworthy, am one." Scarcely had they heard this, when they all concluded he was a madman. And for the more cer- tainty, and to try what kind of madness his was, Vivaldo asked him, what he meant by knights-errant ? " Have you not read, sir," answered Don Quixote, "the annals and histories of England, wherein 119 DON QUIXOTE. are recorded the famous exploits of King Arthur, whom in our Castilian tongue we always call King Artus ; of whom there goes an old tradition, and a common one all over that kingdom of Great Britain, that this king did not die, but that, by magic art he was turned into a raven ; and that, in process of time, he shall reign again, and recover his kingdom and sceptre ; for which reason it cannot be proved, that, from that time to this, any Englishman has killed a raven. 69 Now, in this good king's time, was instituted that famous order of the knights of the Round Table ; 70 and the amours therein related, of Sir Lancelot of the Lake with the queen Ginebra, passed exactly as they are recorded ; that honourable duenna Quintaniona being their go-between and confidante ; which gave birth to that well-known ballad, so cried up here in Spain, of, Never was knight by ladies so well served, as was Sir Lancelot when he came from Britain ; 71 with the rest of that sweet and charming recital of his amours and exploits. From that time, the order of chivalry has 69 It is stated, in the ninetieth chapter of the romance of Esplandian, that the en- chantress Morgiana, King Arthur's sister, holds that king enchanted ; but that he will infallibly return one day and resume the throne of Great Britain. On his tomb, according to Don Diego de Vera, (Epitome de los imperios J is inscribed the following verse, as epitaph i " Hie jacet Arturus, rex quondam, rex que niturus". Here lies Arthur, who was a king, and who will be a king. Julian del Castillo, has preserved in an important work (Historia de los reyes godos,) a popular story which was current in his time in which it is related that Philip II. when he married queen Mary, heiress to the throne of England, swore that if King Arthur returned in his time, he would restore to him the throne. The Reverend John Bowie, in his annotations to Don Quixote, relates that a law passed by Hoel the Good, king of Wales, in 998, forbids the killing of ravens. This prohibition, added to the popular belief that Arthur was changed into a raven, has given rise to the other helief that the English abstain from killing these birds, for fear of hurting their ancient king. 70 The order of the Round Table, instituted by Arthur, was composed of twenty- four knights and the presiding king. Foreigners were admitted ; Roland was a mem- ber of it, and other peers of France also. The romance-writer Don Diego de Vera, who has preserved in his Epitome de los imperios all the popular fables of his day, re- lates that at the marriage of Philip II. with queen Mary, the round table constructed by Merlin, was still shown ; that the face of it was divided into twenty-five compart- ments coloured green and white alternately, which emanated from a point in the cen- tre, and increased in size till they reached the circumference ; a name of one of the knights and that of the king, being written in each division. One of the compart- ments, called Judas' s place, or the perilous seat, always remained vacant. 71 The whole romance is to be found in the Cancionero, page 242 of the Antwerp edition. Lancelot of the Lake was originally written by Arnault Daniel, a Provencal poet. BOOK II. — CHAPTER V. 121 been extending and spreading itself through many and divers parts of the world ; and in this profession many have been distinguished and renowned for their heroic deeds, as the valiant Amadis de Gaul, with all his sons and nephews, to the fifth generation; the valorous FeHxmarte of Hir cania ; and the never-enough-to-be-praised Tirant the White; and we in our days have in a manner seen, heard, and conversed with, the invincible and valorous knight, Don Belianis, of Greece. This, gentlemen, it is to be a knight-errant, and what I have told you of is the order of chivalry; of which, as I said before, I, though a sinner, have made profession ; and the very same thing that the aforesaid knights professed, I profess; and so I travel through these solitudes and deserts, seeking adventures, with a determined resolution to oppose my arm and my person to the most perilous that fortune shall present, in aid of the weak and the needy." By these discourses the travellers were fully convinced that Don Quixote was out of his wits, and what kind of madness it was that influenced him; which struck them with the same admiration that it did all others at the first hearing. Vivaldo, who was a very discerning person, and withal of a mirthful disposition, that they might pass without irksomeness the little of the way that remained, before they came to the funeral mountain, resolved to give him an opportunity of going on in his extravagancies. Therefore he said to him: "Methinks, sir knight-errant, you have taken upon you one of the strictest professions upon earth ; and I verily believe that of the Carthusian monks themselves is not so rigid." " It may be as strict, for aught I know," answered our Don Quixote ; "but that it is so necessary to the world, I am within two fingers' breadth of doubting ; for, to speak the truth, the soldier, who executes his captain's orders, does no less than the captain himself who gives the orders. I would say that the religious, with all peace and quietness, implore heaven for the good of the world ; but we soldiers and knights really execute what they pray for, defending it with the strength of our arms, and the edge of our swords ; and that not under covert, but in open field, exposed to the insufferable beams of summer's sun, and winter's horrid ice. We are God's ministers upon earth, and the arms by which he executes his justice. Considering that matters of war, and VOL. I. Q 122 DON QUIXOTE. those relating thereto, cannot be put in execution without sweat, toil, and labour, it follows that they who undertake them do un- questionably take more pains than they who in peace and repose are employed in praying to heaven to assist those who can do but little for themselves.* I mean not to say, nor do I so much as imagine, that the state of a knight-errant is as good as that of a religious * A sly satire on the uselessness of recluse religious societies. BOOK II. CHAPTER V. 123 recluse; I would only infer, from what I suffer, that it is doubtless more laborious, more bastinadoed, more hungry and thirsty, more wretched, more ragged, and more lousy. For there is no doubt, that the knights-errant of old underwent many misfortunes in the course of their lives; and if some of them rose to be emperors 72 by the valour of their arm, in good truth they paid dearly for it in blood and sweat; and if those who arrived to such honour had wanted enchanters and sages to assist them, they would have been mightily deceived in their hopes, and much disappointed in their expectations." 7¿ Renaud cíe Montauban became emperor of Trebizond ; Bernard del Carpió, King of Ireland ; Palmerin d'Oliva, emperor of Constantinople ; Tirant the White, the Caesar of the Grecian empire ; &c. 124 DON QUIXOTE. "I am of the same opinion," replied the traveller, "but there is one thing in particular, among many others, which I dislike in knights-errant, and it is this : when they are prepared to engage in some great and perilous adventure, in which they are in manifest danger of losing their lives, in the very instant of the encounter they never once remember to commend themselves to God, as every christian is bound to do in the like perils ; but rather commend themselves to their mistresses, and that with as much fervour and devotion, as if they were their God ; 73 a thing which to me savours strongly of paganism." " Signer," answered Don Quixote, "this can by no means be otherwise ; and the knight-errant who should act in any other manner would digress much from his duty; for it is a received maxim and custom in chivalry, that the knight who, being about to attempt some great feat of arms, has his lady before him, must turn his eyes fondly and amorously towards her, as if by them he implored her favour and protection in the doubtful moment of distress he is just entering upon. Though nobody hears him, he is obliged to mutter some words between his teeth, by which he commends himself to her with his whole heart ; and of this we have innumerable examples in the histories. You must not suppose by this, that they are to neglect commending themselves to God ; for there is time and leisure enough to do it in the progress of the work." 74 " But, for all that," replied the traveller, " I have one scruple still remaining, which is, that I have often read that words arising between two knights-errant, and choler beginning to kindle in them both, they turn their horses round, and fetching a large compass about the field, immediately without more ado, encounter at full speed, and in the midst of their career they commend themselves to their mistresses ; and what commonly happens in the encounter is, that one of them tumbles back over his horse's crupper, pierced through and through by his adversary's lance; and if 73 « Tiran t the White did not invoke any saint, but only the name of Carmesina; and when he was asked why he also did not invoke some saint, he answered : ' He who serves many serves no one.' " (Book III, chap. 28.) 74 Thus when Tristan de Leonais precipitated himself from a tower into the sea he commended himself fo his mistress Iseult, and to his gentle Saviour. BOOK II. — CHAPTER V. 125 the other had not laid hold of his horse's mane, he could not have avoided coining to the ground. Now I cannot imagine what leisure the deceased had to commend himself to Heaven, in the course of this hasty work. Better it had been, if the words he spent in commending himself to his lady, in the midst of the career, had been employed about that to which, as a christian, he was obliged. Besides, it is certain all knights-errant have not ladies to commend themselves to, because they are not all in love." " That cannot be," answered Don Quixote ; " I say, there cannot be a knight-errant without a mistress ; for it is as proper and as natural to them to be in love, as to the sky to be full of stars. And I affirm that you cannot shew me a history, in which a knight-errantis to be found without an amour ; and for the very reason of his being without one, he would not be reckoned a legitimate knight, but a bastard, and one that got into the fortress of chivalry, not by the door, but over the pales, like a thief and a robber." ? 5 "Yet, for all that," said the traveller, " I think (if I am not much mistaken) I have read, that Don Galaor, brother to the valorous Amadis de Gaul, never had a particular mistress, to whom he might commend himself; notwithstanding which he was not the less esteemed, and was a very valiant and famous knight." To which our Don Quixote answered : " Signor, one swallow makes no summer. Besides, I very well know that this knight was in secret very deeply enamoured ; he was a general lover, and could not resist his natural inclination towards all ladies whom he thought handsome. But, in short, it is very well attested that he had one whom he had made mistress of his will, and to whom he often commended himself, but very secretly; for it was upon this quality of secrecy that he especially valued himself." 76 The 31st Article in the statutes of the order of the Scnrf (La Randa) was con- ceived in the following terras: "That no knight of the Scarf can belong any longer to that order without serving some lady, not to disgrace her, but to pay his court to her, and to espouse her. And when she goes out, he must accompany her cither on foot or on horseback, holding his cap in his hand, and with bended knee." — " 6 Don Quixote doubtless alludes to the princess Briolange, chosen by Amadis for his brother Galaor, " lie was so enamoured with her, and she appeared to such advantage to him, that, though he saw and entertained many other women, as is related in this history, his heart never felt a real passion for any one but that beau- tiful queen." (Amadis, Book IV. chap. 121.) — 126 DON QUIXOTE. " If it be essential that every knight-errant must be a lover," said the traveller, " it is to be presumed that your worship is one, as you are of the profession ; — and if you do not pique yourself upon the same secrecy as Don Galaor, I earnestly entreat you, in the name of all this good company, and in my own, to tell us the name, country, quality, and beauty, of your mistress, who cannot but ac- count herself happy, if all the world knew that she is loved and served by so worthy a knight as your worship appears to be." Here Don Quixote fetched a deep sigh, and said : " I cannot positively affirm whether this sweet enemy of mine is pleased or not that the world should know I am her servant. I can only say, in answer to what you so very courteously inquire of me, that her name is Dulcinea ; her country Toboso, a town of La Mancha; her quality, at least that of a princess, since she is my queen and sovereign lady; her beauty, more than human, since in her all the impossible and chimerical attributes of beauty, which the poets ascribe to their mis- tresses, are realized : for her hair is of gold, her forehead the Elysian fields, her eyebrows rainbows, her eyes suns, her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her neck alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her whiteness snow, and in fine she is in every- thing all that the most exalted imagination can only conceive, but not find a comparison for." " "We would know," replied Vivaldo, "her lineage, race, and family." To which Don Quixote answered: "She is not of the ancient Roman Curtii, Caii, and Scipios; nor of the modern Colonas and Ursinis; nor of the Moneadas and Re- quesenes of Catalonia ; neither is she of the Rebellas and Villano- vas, of Valentía ; the Palafoxes, Nuzas, Rocabertis, Corellas, Lunas, Alagones, Urreas, Fozes, and Gurreas, of Arragon; the Cerdas, Manriques, Mendozas, and Guzmans, of Castile; the Alencastros, Palhas, and Meneses, of Portugal ; but she is of those of Toboso de la Mancha, a lineage, though modern, yet such as may give a noble beginning to the most illustrious families of the age to come : and in this let no one contradict me, unless it be on the conditions that Zerbino fixed under Orlando's arms, where it was said, £ Let no one remove these, who cannot stand a trial with Orlando.' " 77 ? 7 " Nessun la muova Que star non possa con Orlando a prova." (Ariosto, canto XXIV, oct. 57. BOOK II. CHAPTER V. 127 "Although mine be of the Cachopins of Laredo," 78 replied the traveller " I dare not compare it with that of Toboso de la Mancha ; though, to say the truth, no such appellation hath ever reached my ears until now." " Is it possible you should never have heard of it ?" replied Don Quixote. All the rest went on listening with great attention to the dialogue between these two ; and even the goatherds and shepherds perceived the notorious distraction of Don Quixote. Sancho Panza alone believed all that his master said to be true, knowing who he was, and having been acquainted with him from his birth. But what he somewhat doubted of was, what concerned the fair Dulcinea del Toboso ; for no such name or princess had ever come to his hearing though he lived so near Toboso. In these discourses they went on, when they discovered, through an opening made by two high mountains, about twenty shepherds coming down, all in jerkins of black wool, and crowned with garlands which (as appeared afterwards) were some of yew, and some of cypress. Six of them carried a bier, covered with great variety of flowers and boughs ; which one of the goatherds espying, he said, They who come yonder are those who bring the corpse of Chrysos- tom; and the foot of yonder mountain is the place where he orde- red them to bury him. They made haste, therefore, to arrive, which they did just as the bier was set down on the ground ; and four of them, with sharp pickaxes, were making the grave by the side of a hard rock. They saluted one another courteously ; and presently Don Quixote and his company went to take a view of the bier, upon which they saw a dead body, strewed with flowers, * in the dress of a shepherd, seemingly about thirty years of age ; 79 and though dead, you might perceive that he had been, when alive, of a beautiful countenance and hale constitution. Several books, and 78 At that time the name of cachopín or gachupín was that by which the Spa- niards were generally designated, who, through poverty or vagrancy, emigrated to Mexico. * It is the custom in Spain and Italy to strew flowers on the dead bodies when laid upon their biers. 7 ' J Chrysostom having died in despair, as the Spaniards say, or in other words having committed suicide, his interment was to take place unattended with any re- ligious ceremony. Accordingly, he is still dressed as a shepherd, and not enveloped with the mortaja, a religious garment universally used as a winding sheet for the dead. 128 DON QUIXOTE. a great number of papers, some open and others folded up, lay round about him on the bier. All that were present, as well those who looked on as those who where opening the grave, kept a mar- vellous silence ; until one of those who brought the deceased said to another: " Observe carefully, Ambrosio whether this be the place, which Chrysostom mentioned, since you are so punctual in perfor- ming what he commanded in his will." " This is it," answered Ambrosio; "for in this very place he often recounted to me the story of his misfortune. Here it was, he told me, that he ñrst saw that mortal enemy of human race ; here it was that he declared to her his no less honourable than ardent passion ; here it was that Marcella finally undeceived and treated him with such disdain that she put an end to the tragedy of his miserable Ufe ; and here, in memory of so many misfortunes, he desired to be deposited in the bowels of eternal oblivion." Then, turning to Don Quixote and the travellers, he went on, say- ing : "This body, sirs, which you are beholding with compassionate eyes, was the receptacle of a soul in which heaven had placed BOOK II. CHAPTER V. 129 a great part of its treasure : this is the body of Chrysostom, who was singular for wit, matchless in courtesy, perfect in politeness, a phcenix in friendship, magnificent without ostentation, grave without arrogance, cheerful without meanness ; in fine, the first in every thing that was good, and second to none in every thing that was unfortunate. He loved, he was abhorred : he adored, he was scorned : he courted a savage ; he solicited marble ; he pursued the wind ; he called aloud to solitude ; he served ingratitude ; and the recompense he obtained was, to become a prey to death, in the midst of the career of his life, to which an end was put by a certain shepherdess, whom he endeavoured to render immortal in the memories of men, as these papers you are looking at would sufficiently demonstrate, had he not ordered me to commit them to the flames, at the same time that his body was deposited in the earth." "You would then be more rigorous and cruel to them," said Vivaldo, " than their master himself; for it is neither just nor right to fulfil the will of him who commands something utterly unreasonable. Augustus Caesar would not consent to the execution of what the divine Mantuan had commanded in his will. So that, Signor Ambrosio, though you commit your friend's body to the earth, do not therefore commit his writings to oblivion ; and if he ordered it as a person injured, do not you fulfil it as one indiscreet : rather act so, that by giving life to these papers, the cruelty of Marcella may never be forgotten, but may serve for an example to those who shall live in times to come, that they may avoid falling down the like precipices. I and all here present, already know the story of this your enamoured and despairing friend: we know also your friendship and the occasion of his death, and what he ordered on his death-bed: from which lamentable history may be gathered, how great has been the cruelty of Marcella, the love of Chrysostom, and the sincerity of your friendship ; as also the end of those who run headlong in the path that inconsiderate and ungoverned love sets before them. Last night we heard of Chrysostom's death, and that he was to be interred in this place : and so, from curiosity and compassion, we turned out of our way, and agreed to come and behold with our eyes what had moved us so much in the recital: VOL. I. B 130 DON QUIXOTE. and in return for our pity, and our desire to remedy this misfortune if it were in our power, we beseech you, O discreet Ambrosio, at least I request it on my own behalf, that you will not burn the papers, but let me carry away some of them." Without staying for the shepherd's reply, he stretched out his hand and took some of those that were nearest, which Ambrosio perceiving, he said: "Out of civility, Signor, I will consent to your keeping those you have taken ; but to imagine that I shall forbear burning those that remain is a vain thought." Vivaldo, who desired to see what the papers contained, presently opened one of them which had for its title, ' The Song of Despair.' Ambrosio hearing, said : "That is the last paper this unhappy man wrote; and that you may see, Signor, to what state he was reduced by his misfortunes, read it so as to be heard ; for you will have leisure enough while they are digging the grave." " That I will with all my heart," said Vivaldo: and as all the by-standers had the same desire, they drew round about him, and he read in an audible voice as follows : HOOK II. CHAPTER VI. 131 CHAPTER VÍ. WHEREIN ARE REHEARSED THE DESPAIRING VERSES OF THE DECEASED SHEPHERD, WITH OTHER UNEXPECTED MATTERS. CHRYSOSTOM'S SONG. 80 I. " Since, cruel maid, you force me to proclaim From clime to clime the triumphs of your scorn, Let hell itself inspire my tortur'd hreast With mournful numbers, and untune my voice : Whilst the sad pieces of my hroken heart Mix with the doleful accents of my tongue, At once to tell my griefs and thy exploits. Hear, then, and listen with attentive ear, Not to harmonious sounds, hut echoing groans, Fetch 'd from the bottom of my lab'ring hreast, To ease, in spite of thee, my raging smart. 80 The stanzas of this song (canción) are each composed of sixteen lines of eleven syllables, in which the rhymes are placed in a singular manner, unknown till used by Cervantes, and which lias not been attempted since. In this arrangement the penultimate line is not in consonance with either of the others, but rhymes with the first hemiestich of the last line. Mas gran simpleza es avisarte desto, Pues se que esta tu glorio cono cida En que mi vida llegue al fin tan presto. These singularities, and even the principal beauties of the piece, (though they are not very numerous), are lost in the translation. DON QUIXOTE. II. The lion's roar, the howl of midnight wolves, The scaly serpent's hiss, the raven's croak, The burst of fighting winds that vex the main, The widow'd owl and turtle's plaintive moan, With all the din of hell's infernal crew, From my griev'd soul foith issue in one sound, Leaving my senses all confus'd and lost. For ah ! no common language can express The cruel pains that torture my sad heart. III. Yet let not echo bear the mournful sounds To where old Tagus rolls his yellow sands, Or Betis, crown'd with olives, pours his flood. But here, 'midst rocks and precipices deep, Or to obscure and silent vales remov'd, On shores by human footsteps never trod, Where the gay sun ne'er lifts his radiant orb, Or with th'envenom'd race of savage beasts That range the howling wilderness for food, Will I proclaim the story of my woes ; Poor privilege of grief ! whilst echoes hoarse Catch the sad tale, and spread it round the world. IV. Disdain gives death ; suspicions, true or false, O'erturn th'impatient mind ; with surer stroke Fell jealousy destroys ; the pangs of absence No lover can support ; nor firmest hope Can dissipate the dread of cold neglect : Yet I, strange fate ! though jealous, though disdain'd, Absent, and sure of cold neglect, still live. And 'midst the various torments I endure, No ray of hope e'er darted on my soul : Nor would I hope ; rather in deep despair Will I sit down, and brooding o'er my griefs, Vow everlasting absence from her sight. V. Can hope and fear at once the soul possess, Or hope subsist with surer cause of fear ? Shall I, to shut out frightful jealousy, Close my sad eyes, when evVypang I feel, BOOK II. — CHAPTER VI. Presents the hideous phantom to my view ? What wretch so credulous, but must embrace Distrust with open arms, when he beholds Disdain avow'd, suspicions realiz'd, And truth itself converted to a lie ? 0 cruel tyrant of the realm of love, Fierce jealousy, arm with a sword this hand, Or thou, disdain, a twisted cord bestow. VI. Let me not blame my fate, but dying think The man most blest who loves, the soul most free That love has most enthrall'd : still to my thoughts Let fancy paint the tyrant of my heart Beauteous in mind as face, and in myself Still let me find the source of her disdain ; Content to suffer, since imperial love By lovers' woes maintains his sovereign state. With this persuasion, and the fatal noose, 1 hasten to the doom her scorn demands, And dying, offer up my breathless corse, Uncrown'd with garlands, to the whistling winds. VII. O thou, whose unrelenting rigour's force First drove me to despair, and now to death, When the sad tale of my untimely fall Shall reach thy ear, though it deserve a sigh, Veil not the heav'n of those bright eyes in grief, Nor drop one pitying tear, to tell the world, At length my death has triumph'd o'er thy scorn ; But dress thy face in smiles, and celebrate. With laughter and each circumstance of joy, The festival of my disastrous end. Ah ! need I bid thee smile ? too well I know My death's thy utmost glory and thy pride. VIII. Come, all ye phantoms of the dark abyss ; Bring Tantalus, thy unextinguish'd thirst ; And Sisyphus, thy still returning stone ; Prometheus, with the vulture at thy heart ; And thou, Ixion, bring thy giddy wheel ; Nor let the toiling sisters stay behind. 134 DON QUIXOTE. Pour your united griefs into this breast, And in low murmurs sing sad obsequies (If a despairing wretch such rites may claim) O'er my cold limbs, deny'd a winding-sheet. And let the triple porter of the shades, The sister furies, and chimeras dire, With notes of woe, the mournful chorus join. Such funeral pomp alone befits the wretch, By beauty sent untimely to the grave. IX. And thou, my song, sad child of my despair, Complain no more ; but since my wretched fate Improves her happier lot, who gave thee birth, Be all thy sorrows buried in my tomb !" Chrysostom's song was very much approved by those who heard it; but he who read it, said it did not seem to agree with the account he had heard of the reserve and goodness of Marcella ; for Chry- sostom complains in it of jealousies, suspicions, and absence, all to the prejudice of the credit and good name of Marcella. To which Ambrosio answered, as one well acquainted with the most hidden thoughts of his friend : " To satisfy you, Signor, as to this doubt, you must know, that when this unhappy person wrote this song he was absent from Marcella, from whom he had voluntarily banished himself to try whether absence would have its ordinary effect upon him. And as an absent lover is disturbed by every thing, and seized by every fear, so was Chrysostom tormented with imaginary jealousies and suspicious apprehensions, as much as if they had been real. Thus the truth, which fame proclaims of Marcella's goodness, remains unimpeached; and excepting that she is cruel, somewhat arrogant, and very, disdainful, envy itself neither ought nor can lay any defect to her charge." " It is true," answered Vivaldo; and as he was about to commence reading another paper of those he had saved from the fire, he was interrupted by a wonderful vision, (for such it seemed to be,) which on a sudden presented itself to their sight: on the top of the rock, under which they were digging the grave, appeared the shepherdess Marcella, so beautiful, that her beauty surpassed the very fame of it. Those who had never seen BOOK II. CHAPTER VI. 135 her until that time, beheld her with silence and admiration; and those who had been used to the sight of her, were no less surprised than those who had never seen her before. But Ambrosio had 136 DON QUIXOTE. scarcely espied her, when with signs of indignation, he said to her : " Comest thou, O fierce basilisk of these mountains,* to see whether the wounds of this wretch, whom thy cruelty has deprived of life, will bleed afresh at thy appearance ? or comest thou to triumph in the cruel exploits of thy inhuman disposition ? or to behold from that eminence, like another pitiless Nero, the flames of burning Rome ? or insolently to trample on this unhappy corse, as did the impious daughter on that of her father Tarquin ? 81 Tell us quickly what you come for, or what it is you would have ? for since I know that Chrysostom while living never disobeyed you, so much as in thought, I will take care that all those who called themselves his friends, shall obey you, though he be dead." "I come not, O Ambrosio, for any of the purposes you have mentioned," answered Marcella, " but to vindicate myself, and to let the world know how unreasonable those are who blame me for their own sufferings, or for the death of Chrysostom ; and therefore I beg of all here present, that they will hear me with attention, for I need not spend much time, nor use many words, to convince persons of sense of the truth. Heaven, as you say, made me handsome, and to such a degree, that my beauty influences you to love me whether you will or not; and in return for the love you bear me, you pretend and insist that I am bound to love you. I know, by the natural sense God has given me, that whatever is beautiful is amiable ; but I do not comprehend, that merely for being loved, the person that is loved for being handsome is obliged to return love for love. Besides, it may chance that the lover of the beautiful person may be ugly ; and what is ugly deserving to be loathed, it would sound oddly to say, ' I love you for being handsome — you must love me, though I am ugly.' But supposing the beauty on both sides to be equal, it does not therefore follow that the inclina- tions should be so too ; for all beauty does not inspire love ; and there is a kind of it which only pleases the sight, but does not * The little Fortunia's beauty was so surpassing, that she was called, 'The basilisk of human kind. ' Amad, de Gaul, b 13. ch 43. 81 Ambrosio's erudition is here at fault. Tarquin was the husband of Tullia, and it was upon the corpse of his father Servius Tullius that she trampled. It is not improbable that Cervantes wrote this chapter in prison, debarred from the assistance of his books ; inde error. BOOK II. CHAPTER VI. 137 captivate the affections. If all beauties were to enamour and cap- tivate, the wills of men would be eternally confounded and perplexed, without knowing where to fix ; for the beautiful objects being infinite, the desires must be infinite too : and true love as I have heard say, cannot be divided ; it must be voluntary and unforced. This being so, as I believe it is, why would you have me subject my will by force, being no otherwise obliged thereto, than only because you say you love me ? For pray tell me, as Heaven has made me handsome, if it had made me ugly, would it have been just that I should have complained of you because you did not love me ? Besides, you must consider that my beauty is not my own choice ; but such as it is, Heaven bestowed it on me freely, without my asking or desiring it. And as the viper does not deserve blame for her sting, though she kills with it, seeing that it Í3 given her by nature, equally as little do I deserve reprehension for being handsome. Beauty in a modest woman is like fire at a distance, or like a sharp sword; neither does the one burn, nor the other wound those that come not too near them. Honour and virtue are ornaments of the soul, without which the body, though it be really beautiful, ought not to be thought so. Now if modesty be one of the virtues which most adorns and beautifies both body and mind, why should she who is loved for being beautiful, part with it to gratify the desires of him who, merely for his own pleasure, uses his utmost endeavours to destroy it ? I was born free ; and that I might live free, I chose the solitude of these fields: the trees on these mountains are my companions : the transparent waters of these brooks my looking- glass: to the trees and the waters I communicate my thoughts and my beauty. I am fire at a distance, and a sword afar off. Those whom the sight of me has enamoured, my words have undeceived. If desires are kept alive by hopes, as I gave none to Chrysostom nor to any one else, all hope being at an end, sure it may well be said that his own obstinacy, rather than my cruelty, killed him. If it be objected to me that his intentions were honourable, and that therefore I ought to have complied with them, I answer, that when in this very place where they are now digging his grave, he dis- covei'ed to me the goodness of his intention, I told him that mine vol i. S 138 DON QUIXOTE. was to live in perpetual solitude, and that the earth alone should enjoy the fruit of my reservedness, and the spoils of my beauty : and if he, notwithstanding all this plain-dealing, would obstinately persevere against hope and sail against the wind, what wonder if he drowned himself in the midst of the gulf of his own indiscretion? If I had left him in suspense, I had been false ; if I had complied with his wish, I had acted contrary to my better intention and resolution. He persisted, though undeceived ; he despaired, without being hated. Consider now whether it be reasonable to lay the blame of his sufferings upon me. Let him who is deceived, complain ; let him to whom I have broken my promise, despair ; let him whom I shall encourage, presume; and let him pride himself whom I shall admit: but let not him call me cruel, or murderess, whom I neither promise, deceive, encourage nor admit. Heaven has not yet ordained that I should love by destiny ; and from loving by choice I desire to be excused. Let every one of those who solicit me, make his own particular use of this declaration ; and be it understood from hence- forward, that if any one dies for me, he does not die through jealousy or disdain ; for she who loves nobody, can make nobody jealous ; and plain-dealing cannot pass for disdain, Let him who calls me a savage and a basilisk, shun me as a mischievous and evil thing ; let him who calls me ungrateful, not serve me ; him who thinks me reserved, not know me ; who cruel, not follow me : for this savage, this basilisk, this ungrateful, this cruel, this reserved thing, will in no wise either seek, serve, know, or follow them. If Chrysostom's impatience and preci- pitate desires killed him, why should he blame my modest procedure and reserve ? If I preserve my purity unspotted among these trees, why should he desire me to lose it among men ? You all know that I have riches enough of my own, and do not covet other people's. My condition is free, and I have no mind to subject myself. I neither love nor hate any body ; I neither deceive this man, nor lay snares for that ; I neither toy with one, nor divert myself with another. The modest conversation of the shepherdesses of these villages, and the care of my goats, are my entertainment. My desires are bounded within these mountains, and, if they venture out hence, it is to contemplate the beauty of heaven, those steps by BOOK II. CHAPTER VI. 139 which the soul advances to its original dwelling." Saying this, without staying for an answer, she turned her back, and entered the most inaccessible part of the neighbouring mountain, leaving all those present in admiration, as well of her sense as her beauty. Some of those who had been wounded by the powerful darts of her bright eyes, manifested an inclination to follow her, without profiting by so express a declaration as they had heard her make ; which Don Quixote perceiving, and thinking this a proper occasion to employ his chivalry in the relief of distressed damsels, he laid his hand on the hilt of his sword, and with a loud and intelligible voice said: "Let no person, of what state or condition soever he be, presume to follow the beautiful Marcella, on pain of incurring my furious Wit t, ■ y ^ m ■ indignation. She has demonstrated, by clear and sufficient reasons, the little or no fault she ought to be charged with on account of Chrysostom's death, and how far she is from countenancing the desires of any of her lovers; for which reason, instead of being followed 140 DON QUIXOTE. and persecuted, she ought to be honoured and esteemed by all good men in the world, for being the only woman in it whose intentions are so virtuous." Now, whether it was through Don Quixote's menaces, or because Ambrosio desired them to finish that last office to his friend, none of the shepherds stirred from thence, until the grave being made, and Chrysostom's papers burnt, they laid his body in it, not without many tears of the by-standers. They closed the sepulchre with a large fragment of a rock until a tomb-stone could be finished, which Ambrosio said he intended to have made, with an epitaph after this manner : — "Here lies a gentle shepherd swain, Through cold neglect untimely slain. By rigour's cruel hand he died, 82 A victim to the scorn and pride Of a coy, beautiful ingrate, Whose eyes enlarge love's tyrant state." 82 "Que fué pastor de ganado Perdido por desamor " There is in this strophe an insipid jeu de mots between the two contiguous words ganado and perdido ; the one means lost; the other, which signifies flock, imports also gained or won. BOOK II. CHAPTER VI. 141 Then they strewed abundance of flowers and boughs on the grave, and condoling with his friend Ambrosio, took leave and departed. Vivaldo and his companion did the same ; and Don Quixote bid adieu to his hosts and the travellers, who entreated him to accom- pany them to Seville, that being a place the most likely to furnish him with adventures, since in every street, and at every turning, more were to be met with there, than in any other place whatever. Don Quixote thanked them for the notice they gave him, and the disposition they shewed to do him a courtesy, and said, that for the present he could not and ought not to go to Seville, until he had cleared all those mountains of robbers and assassins, of which it was reported, they were full. The travellers, seeing his good intention, would not importune him farther; but taking leave again, left him, and pursued their journey, in which they wanted not a subject for discourse, as well of the story of Marcella and Chrysostom, as of the madness of Don Quixote, who resolved to go in quest of the shepherdess Marcella, and offer her all that was in his power for her service. But it fell not out as he intended, as is related in the progress of this true history, the second part ending here. PART I. BOOK III. CHAPTER I. WHEREIN IS RELATED THE UNFORTUNATE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFEL DON QUIXOTE, IN MEETING WITH CERTAIN BLOODY- MINDED YANGUESES. 83 ¿ P=^¡f^- eave taken, as the sage Cid Harriet Benengeli :t relates, by Don Quixote of his hosts, and of all those who were present at Chrysostom's funeral, he and his squire entered the same 7 wood, into which they had seen the shep- herdess Marcella enter before. Having ranged through it for above two hours, look- ing for her every where, without being able to find her, they stopped in a meadow full of fresh grass, near which ran a pleasant and refreshing brook; insomuch that it invited and s3 Inhabitants of the district of Yanguas in the Rioja. BOOK III. CHAPTER [, 143 compelled them to pass there the sultry hours of the noon-day heat, which already began to come on with great violence. Don Quixote and Sancho alighted, and leaving the ass and Rocinante at large, to feed upon the abundance of grass that sprung in the place, they ransacked the wallet ; and without any ceremony, very friendly and socially, master and man eat what they found in it. Sancho had taken no care to fetter Rocinante, being well assured he was so tame and so little gamesome, that all the mares of the pastures of Cordova would not provoke him to any unlucky pranks. But fortune or the devil, who is not always asleep, so ordered it that there were grazing in that valley a parcel of Galician mares, belonging to certain Yanguesian carriers, whose custom it is to pass the mid-day with their drove, in places where there is grass and water : and that where Don Quixote chanced to be, was very fit for the purpose of the Yangueses. It happened that Rocinante had a mind to solace himself with their fillies, and having them in the wind, broke out of his natural and accustomed pace, and without asking his master's leave, 144 DON QUIXOTE. started off at a smart trot to communicate his need to them. But they, as it seemed, having more inclination to feed than any thing else, received him with their heels and their teeth, in such a manner, that in a little time his girths broke, and he lost his saddle. But what must have more sensibly affected him, was, that the carriers, seeing the violence offered to their mares, ran to him with their pack-staves, and so belaboured him, that they laid him along on the ground in wretched^plight. By this time Don Quixote and Sancho, who had seen the drubbing BOOK III.— CHAPTER I. 145 of Rocinante, came up out of breath ; and Don Quixote said to Sancho: "From what I see, friend Sancho, these are no knights, but rascally people, of a scoundrel race. I tell you this, because you may very well help me to take ample revenge for the outrage they have done to Rocinante before our eyes, " " What the devil in the way of revenge can we take," answered Sancho, " they being ahove twenty, and we no more than two, and perhaps but one and a half?" " I am as good as a hundred," replied Don Quixote: and without saying more, he laid his hand on his sword and flew at the Yangueses ; and Sancho did the same, incited and moved thereto by the example of his master. At the first blow, Don Quixote gave one of them a terrible wound on the shoulder, through a leathern doublet which he wore. The Yangueses, seeing themselves assaulted in this manner by two men only, they being so many, betook them- selves to their clubs, and hemming them in, began to belabour them with great vehemence and animosity. It is true that at the second attack they brought Sancho to the ground ; and the same befel VOL. I. 1' 146 DON QUIXOTE. Don Quixote, neither his dexterity nor courage standing him in any stead: and as fate would have it, he fell just at Rocinante's feet, who had not yet got up : whence we may learn how unmercifully pack-staves will bruise, when put into rustic and wrathful hands. The Yangueses, perceiving the mischief they had done, loaded their beasts with all speed, and pursued their journey, leaving the two adventurers in evil plight. The first who came to himself was Sancho Panza, who finding himself close to his master, with a feeble and plaintive voice cried : "Signor Don Quixote! ah, Signor Don Quixote ! " "What would you have, brother Sancho ? " answered Don Quixote, in the same feeble, and lamentable tone. " I could wish, if it were possible," answered Sancho Panza, "your worship would give me two draughts of that drink of Fiery Bias, if you have it here at hand ; perhaps it may BOOK III. — CHAPTER I. 147 do as well for broken bones as it does for wounds." " Unhappy I, that we have it not ! " answered Don Quixote. " But I swear to you, Sancho Panza, on the faith of a knight-errant, that before two days pass, (if fortune does not order it otherwise,) I will have it in my power, or my hand shall be very much out." " But in how many days, do you think, sir, we shall recover the use of our feet," replied Sancho Panza ? " For my part," said the battered knight Don Quixote, " I cannot limit the number : but it is all my own fault ; for I ought not to have laid hand on my sword against men who were not dubbed knights like myself. I believe, the god of battles has permitted this chastisement to fall upon me, as a punish- ment for having so transgressed the laws of chivalry. Wherefore, brother Sancho, it is requisite you be forewarned of what I shall now tell you, for it highly concerns the good of us both : and it is this, when you see we are insulted by such rascally rabble, do not stay till I lay hand on my sword against them, for I will in no wise do it ; but do you draw your sword and chastise them to your own heart's content : but if any knights shall come up to their assistance, I shall then know how to defend you, and offend them with all my might : for you have already seen, by a thousand tokens and experi- ments, how far the valour of this strong arm of mine extends." Thus arrogant had the poor gentleman become, by his victory over the valiant Biscayan. But Sancho Panza did not so thoroughly like his master's instruc- tions, as to forbear answering : " Sir, I am a peaceable, tame, quiet man, and can dissemble any injury whatsoever; for I have a wife and children to maintain and bring up : so that give me leave, sir, to tell you by way of hint, since it is not my part to command, that I will upon no account draw my sword, neither against peasant nor against knight ; and that, from this time forward, in the presence of God, I forgive all injuries any one has done, or shall do me, or that any person is now doing, or may hereafter do me, whether he be high or low, rich or poor, gentle or simple, without excepting any state or condition whatever." When his master heard that, he answered : " I wish I had breath to talk a little at my ease, and that the pain I feel in this rib would cease, ever so short a while, that I 148 DON QUIXOTE. might convince you Panza, of the error you are in. Harkye, sinner, should the gale of fortune, hitherto so contrary, come about in our favour, filling the sails of our desires, so that we may, safely and without any hinderance, make the port of some one of those islands I have promised you, what would become of you, if when I had gained it, and made you lord thereof, you should render all ineffec- tual by not being a knight, nor desiring to be one, and by having neither valour nor intention to revenge the injuries done you, or to defend your dominions ? For you must know, that in kingdoms and provinces newly conquered, the minds of the natives are never so quiet nor so much in the interest of their new master, but there is still ground to fear that they will endeavour to bring about a change of things, and once more, as they call it, try their fortune : and there- fore the new possessor ought to have understanding to know how to conduct himself, and courage to act offensively and defensively, whatever shall happen." " In this that hath now befallen us," answered Sancho, " I wish I had been furnished with that under- standing and valour your worship speaks of; but I swear, on the faith of a poor man, I am at this time fitter for plasters than dis- courses. Try, sir, whether you are able to rise, and we will help up Rocinante, though he does not deserve it, for he was the principal cause of all this mauling. I never believed the like of Rocinante, whom I took to be discreet, and as peaceable as myself. But it is a true saying, that ' much time is necessary to come to a thorough knowledge of persons;' and that 'we are sure of nothing in this life.'" Who could have thought, that after such swinging slashes as you gave that unfortunate adventurer, there should come post, as it were, in pursuit of you, this vast tempest of pack -staves which has discharged itself upon our shoulders ?" " Thine, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, " should, one would think, be used to such storms ; but mine, that were brought up between muslins and cambrics, must needs be more sensible of the grief of this mishap. Were it not that I imagine, do I say imagine ? did I not know for certain, that all these inconveniences are inseparably annexed to the profession of arms, I would suffer myself to die here out of pure vexation." To this the squire replied : " Sir, since these mishaps are the genuine BOOK 111. — CHAPTER I. \49 fruits and harvests of chivalry, pray tell me whether they fall out often, or whether they have their set times in which they happen ; for to my thinking two more such harvests will disable us from ever reaping a third, if God of his infinite mercy does not succour us." "Learn, friend Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "that the life of knights-errant is subject to a thousand perils and mishaps : but then they are every whit as near becoming kings and emperora ; and this experience hath shewn us in many and divers knights, with whose histories I am perfectly acquainted. I could tell you now, if the pain would give me leave, of some who, by the strength of their arm alone, have mounted to the high degrees I have mentioned ; and these very men were, before and after, involved in sundry calamities and misfortunes. The valorous Amadis de Gaul saw himself in the power of his mortal enemy, Archalaus the enchanter, of whom it is positively affirmed, that when he had him prisoner, he gave him above two hundred lashes with his horse's bridle, after he had tied him to a pillar in his court-yard. 84 Moreover there is a private author, of no small credit, who tells us that the 1 knight of the sun being caught by a trap-door which sunk under his feet in a certain castle, found himself at the bottom in a deep dungeon under ground, bound hand and foot, where they administered to him in the most unseemly way, a preparation of snow-water and sand, that almost did his business ; and if he had not been succoured in that great distress by a certain sage, his special friend, it had gone very hard with the poor knight.' 1 may very well suffer among so many worthy persons who underwent much greater affronts than those we now undergo : for I would have you know, Sancho, that wounds, which are given with instruments that are accidentally in one's hand, are no affront. And thus it is expressly written in the law of combat, that if a shoe-nniker strike a person with the last he has in his hand, though it be really of wood, it will not therefore be said that the w Amadis was twice in Arclialaiis's power. The first time, Archalaiis held him enchanted; on the second occasion, he was thrown into a kind of cavern by means of a trap-door. The romance does not affirm that he w as flowed, but that he was made to suffer hunger and thirst. Amadis was succoured in this extremity by Archalaüs's niece, the dumb damsel, who lowered to him in a basket a pork pie and tw o barrels of w ine and water, (chap. XIX and XL1X.) 150 DON QUIXOTE. person thus beaten with it was cudgelled. I say this that you may not think, though we are mauled in this scuffle, we are disgraced ; for the arms those men carried, wherewith they pounded us, were no other than their pack-staves; and none of them, as I remember, had either tuck, sword, or dagger." " They gave me no leisure," answered Sancho, " to observe so narrowly ; for scarcely had I laid hand on my Tizona, 85 when they crossed my shoulders with their saplins, in such a manner that they deprived my eyes of sight and my feet of strength, laying me where I now lie, and where I am not so much concerned to think whether the business of the threshing be an affront or not, as I am troubled at the pain of the blows, which will leave as deep an impression in my memory as on my shoulders." "Notwithstanding all this, I tell you, brother Panza," replied Don Quixote, " there is no remembrance which time does not obliterate, nor pain which death does not put an end to." " What greater misfor- tune can there be," replied Panza, " than that which remains till time effaces it, and till death puts an end to it ? If this mischance of our's were of that sort which people cure with a couple of plasters, it would not be altogether so bad : but, for aught I see, all the plasters of an hospital will not be sufficient to set us to rights again." " Have done with this, and gather strength out of weakness, Sancho," answered Don Quixote ; " for so I purpose to do : and let us see how Rocinante does ; for it appears to me, that not the least part of this misfortune has fallen to the poor beast's share." " That is not at all strange," answered Sancho, " since he also appertains to a knight-errant. But what I wonder at is, that my ass should come off scot-free, where we have paid so dear." " Fortune always leaves some door open in disasters, whereby to come at a remedy," said Don Quixote : " I say this, because this poor beast may now supply the want of Rocinante, by carrying me hence to some castle where I may be cured of my wounds. Nor do I take the being mounted in this fashion to be dishonourable ; for I remember to have read, that the good old Silenus, governor and tutor of the merry god of laughter, when he made his entry into the city of the hun- Tizona, the name of one of the swords of the Cid. The other was called Colada. BOOK III. — CHAPTER [. 151 dred gates, went riding, much to his satisfaction, on a most beautiful ass." " It may be very true that he rode as your worship says," answered Sancho : " but there is a main difference between riding and lying athwart, like a sack of rubbish." To which Don Quixote answered : " The wounds received in battle rather give honour than take it away ; so, friend Panza, answer me no more, but as I have already directed, raise me up as well as you can, and place me in whatever manner you please upon your ass, that we may get hence before night comes on, and overtake us in this uninhabited place." " Yet I have heard your worship say," quoth Panza, " that it is usual for knights-errant to sleep on heaths and deserts the greater part of the year, and that they look upon it to be very fortunate." " That is," said Don Quixote, " when they cannot help it, or are in love : and this is so true, that there have been knights, who, unknown to their mistresses, have exposed themselves for two years together, upon rocks, to the sun and the shade, and to the inclemencies of heaven. One of these was Amadis, who, when calling himself Beltenebros, 86 took up his lodging on the naked rock, whether for eight years or eight months I know not, for I am not perfect in his history. It is sufficient, that there he was, doing penance for I know not what distaste shewn him by the lady Oriana. But let us have done with this, Sancho, and dispatch, before such another misfor- tune happens to the ass as hath befallen Rocinante." " That would be the devil indeed," quoth Sancho ; and sending forth thirty alas's, and sixty sighs, and a hundred and twenty curses on whosoever had brought him thither, he raised himself up, but staid bent by the way like a Turkish bow, entirely unable to stand upright: and with all this fatigue he made a shift to saddle his ass, who had also taken advantage of that day's excessive liberty, to go a little astray. He then heaved up Rocinante, who, had he posses- sed a tongue to complain with, most certainly would not have been outdone either by Sancho or his master. In fine Sancho settled Don Quixote upon the ass, and tying Rocinante by the head to his tail, led them both by the halter, proceeding now faster, now slower towards the place where he thought the road might lie. He had sr ' Beltenebros, the lovely obscure. 152 DON QUIXOTE. scarce gone a short league, when fortune (which was conducting his affairs from good to better) discovered to him the road, in which he espied an inn, which to his sorrow and Don Quixote's joy, must needs be a castle. Sancho positively maintained it was an inn, and his master that it was a castle; and the obstinate dispute lasted so long, that they had time to arrive there before it ended ; and without more ado, Sancho entered into it with his string of cattle. hook nr. — CHAPTER II 153 CHAPTER II. OF WHAT HAPPENED TO THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN INN WHICH HE IMAGINED TO BE A CASTLE. IN TIIF. ,C aid across his squire's ass, Don - Quixote was borne into the yard ; the innkeeper seeing him, enquired of Sancho, what ailed him ? Sancho answered, that it was nothing but a fall from a rock, whereby his ribs were somewhat bruised. The inn- keeper had a wife of a different disposition from those of the like occupation ; for she was naturally charitable, and touched with the misfortune of her neighbours : so that she presently set herself to cure Don Quixote, and made her daughter, a very comely young maiden, assist her in the cure of her guest. * There was also a servant in the inn, an Asturian wench, broad-faced, flat-headed, and saddle-nosed, with one eye squinting, and the other not much better, f It is true, the activity of her * So, in Amadis de Gaul, (b 13. ch 13.) the constable of the castle's daughter knows so much of surgery, and applies such ointments and balsams to the wounds of Don Rogel of Greece, and Briangcs of Boeotia, that she heals the former in twelve days, and the latter in thirty. f The very description of the damsel who conducts prince Lindcmart to the cavern where the savages had conveyed the princess Rosalva. — Amadis de Gaul, vol. 19, ch. 28. voi. i. U 154 DON QUTXOTE. body made amends for her other defects. She was not seven hands high from her feet to her head ; and her shoulders, which burthened her a little too much, made her look down to the ground more than she cared to do. This agreeable lass helped the damsel ; and they two made Don Quixote a very sorry bed in a garret, which gave evident tokens of having formerly served many years as a horse-loft. In this room lodged also a carrier, whose bed lay a little beyond that of Don Quixote. And though it was composed of pannels, and other trappings of his mules, it had much the advantage of our Don Quixote's, whish consisted of four not very smooth boards, upon two not very equal tressels, and a flock-bed no thicker than a quilt, BOOK III. CHAPTER II. 155 and full of knobs, which, if one had not seen through the breaches that they were wool, by their hardness might have been taken for pebble-stones ; with two sheets like the leather of an old target, and a rug, the threads of which, if you had a mind, you might number without losing a single one of the account. In this wretched bed was Don Quixote laid ; and immediately the hostess and her daughter plastered him from head to foot, Maritornes (for so the Asturian was called) holding the light. And as the hostess laid on the plasters, perceiving Don Quixote to be so full of bruises in all parts, she said that they seemed to be rather marks of blows than of a fall. u They were not blows," said Sancho; " but the rock had many sharp points and knobs, and every one has left its mark:" he said also: "Pray, forsooth, order it so, that some tow may be left ; somebody else may have occasion for it, for my sides also ache a little." " So then," said the hostess, " you have had a fall too." " No fall," said Sancho Panza ; " but the 156 DON QUIXOTE. fright I took at seeing my master fall has made my body so sore, that methinks I have received a thousand drubs." " That may very well be," said the girl, " for I have often dreamed that I was falling down from some high tower, and could never come to the ground ; and when I have awaked, I have found myself as bruised and battered, as if I had really fallen." " But here is the point, mistress," answered Sancho Panza, " that I, without dreaming at all, and more awake than I am now, find myself with almost as many bruises as my master Don Quixote." " How is this cavalier called," quoth the Asturian Maritornes? "Don Quixote de la Mancha," answered Sancho Panza : he is a knight-errant, and one of the best and most valiant that has been seen this long time in the world." " What is a knight-errant," replied the wench ? " Are you such a novice, that you do not know," answered Sancho Panza? "Then learn, sister of mine, that a knight-errant is a thing that, in two words, is cudgelled and an emperor ; to-day is the most unfortunate creature in the world, and the most necessitous ; and to-morrow will have two or three crowns of kingdoms to give to his squire." " How comes it then to pass, that you, being squire to this so worthy a gentleman," said the hostess, "have not yet, as it seems, got so much as an earl- dom ?" "It is early days yet," answered Sancho ; " for it is but a month since we set out in quest of adventures, and hitherto we have met with none that deserve the name. Moreover sometimes one looks for one thing and finds another. True it is, if my master Don Quixote recovers of this wound or fall, and I am not disabled thereby, I would not truck my hopes for the best title in Spain." All this discourse Don Quixote listened to very attentively ; and, setting himself up in his bed as well as he could, and taking the hostess by the hand, he said to her: " Believe me, beauteous lady, you may reckon yourself happy in having lodged my person in this your castle, and such a person, that, if I do not praise myself, it is because, as is commonly said, self-praise depreciates; but my squire will inform you who I am. I only say that I shall retain the service you have done me, eternally engraved on my memory, and be grateful to you whilst my life shall last. And had it pleased the high heavens, that love had not held me so enthralled, and subjected to his laws, BOOK III. CHAPTER II. 157 and to the eyes of that beautiful ingrate, whose name I mutter between my teeth, the eyes of this lovely virgin had been mistresses of my liberty." i The hostess, her daughter, and the good Maritornes, stood con- founded at hearing our knight-errant's discourse, which thej understood just as much as if he had spoken Greek: (hough the) guessed that it all tended to compliments and offers of service. And, not being accustomed to such kind of language, they stared at him with admiration, and thought him another sort of man than those now in fashion; and so, thanking him with inn-like phrase for his oifers, they left him. The Asturian Maritornes doctored Sancho, who stood in no less need of it than his master. The carrier and she had agreed to solace themselves together that night; and she had given him her word, that, when the guests were a-bed, and her master and mistress asleep, she would repair to him. It is said of this honest wench, that she never made the like promise, but 158 DON QUIXOTE. she performed it, though she had made it on a mountain, without any witness : for she stood much upon her gentility, and yet thought it no disgrace to be employed in the calling of servant in an inn; often saying that misfortunes and unhappy accidents had brought her to that state. Don Quixote's hard, scanty, beggarly, feeble bed, stood first in the middle of that illustrious cock-loft; and close by it stood Sancho's, which consisted only of a flag-mat, and a rug that seemed to be rather of beaten hemp than of wool. Next these two stood the carrier's, made up, as has been said, of pannels, and the whole furniture of two of the best mules he had ; which were twelve in number, fat and stately : for he was one of the richest carriers of Arevalo, as the author of this history relates, who makes particular mention of the carrier, whom he knew very well ; nay, some go so far as to say, he was somewhat of kin to him. 87 Besides, Cid Hamet Ben Engeli was a very curious and very punctual historian in all things, as appears plainly from the circumstances already related ; which, however seemingly minute and trivial, he would not pass over in silence ; and this may serve as an example to the grave his- torians, who relate facts so very briefly, that we have scarcely a taste of them, as they leave at the bottom of their inkstands through neglect, malice, or ignorance, the most substantial matter. The blessing of heaven a thousand times on the author of Tablante of Ricamonte, and on him who wrote the exploits of the Count Tornillas .' with what punctuality do they describe every thing ! I say then, that after the carrier had visited his mules, and given them their second course, he laid himself down upon his pannels, in expectation of his most punctual Maritornes. Sancho was already plastered, and laid down ; but though he endeavoured to sleep, the pain of his ribs would not consent ; and Don Quixote, through anguish, kept his eyes as wide open as a hare. The whole inn was in profound silence, and no other light in it than what proceeded from a lamp, which hung burning in the middle of the entry. This marvellous stillness, and the thoughts which our knight always had 87 Previous to their expulsion from Spain, the Moriscoes practised agriculture, the mechanical arts, and particularly the management of beasts of burthen. The unsettled lives of the muleteers prevented their attending the churches, and placed them beyond the vigilance of the inquisition. BOOK III. — CHAPTER II. 159 in his mind, from the accidents recounted in every page of the hooks, the authors of his misfortune, brought to his imagination one of the strangest whimsies that can well be conceived : which was, that he fancied he was arrived at a certain famous castle, for all the inns where he lodged, were in his opinion castles, and that the inn-keeper's girl was daughter to the lord of the castle ; who, captivated by his fine appearance, was fallen in love with him, and had promised him, unknown to her parents, to steal privately to him that night, and pass a good part of it with him. Taking his chimera (which he had formed to himself) for reality, he began to be uneasy, and reflect on the dangerous crisis to which his fidelity was going to be exposed ; and he resolved in his heart not to commit disloyalty against his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, though queen Ginebra herself, with the lady Quintagiona, should present them- selves before him. Whilst his thoughts were taken up with these extravagancies, the time and the hour (which to him proved unlucky) of the Asturian's coming, drew near ; who, undressed and barefooted, her hair tucked up under a fustian coif, came with silent and cautious steps into the room, where the three were lodged, to find her carrier. But scarce was she come to the door, when Don Quixote perceived her, and sitting up in his bed in spite of his plasters and the pain of his ribs, stretched out his arms to receive his beauteous damsel the Asturian, who, crouching, and holding her breath, went with hands extended, feeling for her lover. Thus she encountered Don Quixote's arms, who caught fast hold of her by the wrist, and pulling her towards him, she not daring to speak a word, made her sit down on the bed by him. Presently he touched her only garment, which though it was of canvas, seemed to him to be of the finest and softest lawn. She had on her wrist a string of glass beads; but to his fancy they were precious oriental pearls. Her hair, not unlike that of a horse's mane, he took for threads of the brightest gold of Arabia, whose splendour obscures that of the sun itself. Though her breath, doubtless, smelt of stale salt fish, he fancied it a delicious and aromatic odour. In short, he painted her in his imagination in the very form and manner he had read described in his books, of some princess, who comes, adorned in the manner here mentioned, to visit the dangerously wounded knight, with whom 160 DON QUIXOTE. she is in love. So great was the poor gentleman's infatuation, that neither the touch, nor the breath, nor other things the good wench had about her, could undeceive him, though enough to make any one but a carrier sick. He imagined that he held the goddess of beauty between his arms ; and clasping her fast, with an amorous and low voice, he began to say to her : " O ! that I were in a condition, beautiful and high lady, to be able to return so vast a favour, as this you have done me by the presence of your great beauty ; but fortune, who is never weary of persecuting the good, is pleased to lay me on this bed, where I lie so bruised and disabled, that, though I were ever so much inclined to pay my addresses, it would be impossible. And to this is added another still greater impos- sibility, which is the plighted faith I have given to the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the sole mistress of my most hidden thoughts. Had it not been for these obstacles, I should not have been so dull a knight as to let slip the happy opportunity your great goodness has put into my hands." Maritornes was in the utmost pain, and in a violent sweat, to find herself held so fast by Don Quixote ; and not hearing or minding what he said to her, she struggled without speaking a word, to get away from him. The honest carrier, whose loose desires kept him awake, heard his sweetheart from the first moment she entered the door, and listened attentively to all that Don Quixote said ; and, jealous that the Asturian had broken her word with him for another, he drew nearer and nearer to Don Quixote's bed, and stood still to see what would come of those speeches which he did not understand. BOOK 111. CHAPTER II. nil But, seeing that the wench strove to get from him, and that Don Quixote laboured to hold her, not liking the jest, he lifted up his arm, and discharged so terrible a blow on the lanthorn jaws of the enamoured knight, that he bathed his mouth in blood ; and not content with this, lie mounted upon his ribs, and paced them over, somewhat above a trot, from end to end. The bed, which was a little crazy, and its foundation none of the strongest, being unable to bear the additional weight of the carrier, came down with them to the ground ; at which great noise the host awaked, and presently imagined it must be some prank of Maritornes, for having called to her aloud, she made no answer. With this suspicion he got up : and having lighted a candle, went towards the place where he had heard the bustle. The wench, perceiving her master coming, and knowing him to be terribly passionate, all trembling and confounded, betook herself to Sancho Panza's bed, who was now asleep ; and creeping in, she lay close to him, and as round as an egg. The inn- keeper entering, said : " Where are you, jade ? these are most cer- tainly some of your doings." Now Sancho awakened, and perceiving that bulk laying as it were on him, fancied he had got the night-mare, and began to lay about him on every side ; and not a few of his fisty-cufl's reached Maritornes, who, provoked by the smart, and laying all modesty aside, made Sancho such a return in kind, that she quite roused him from sleep, in spite of his drowsiness; finding himself handled in that manner, without knowing by whom, he raised himself up as well as he could, and grappled with Maritornes; and there began between these two the toughest and pleasantest skirmish in the world. The carrier perceiving, by the light of the host's candle, how it fared with his mistress, quitted Don Quixote, and ran to give her the necessary assistance. The landlord did the same, but with a different intention ; for his was to chastise the wench, concluding without doubt, that she was the sole occasion of all this harmony. Thus as the proverb goes, the cat to the rat, the rat to the rope, and the rope to the stick ; the carrier belaboured Sancho, Sancho the wench, the wench him, the inn-keeper the wench ; and all laid about them so thick, that they gave themselves not a minute's rest; and the best of it was, that the landlord's candle went out; and they, being left in the dark, threshed one another so unmerci- fully, that, let the hand light where it would, it left nothing sound, vor. i. X ¡6;2 DON QUIXOTE. There lodged by chance that night in the inn an officer of those they call the holy brotherhood of Toledo ; 88 who likewise hearing the strange noise of the scuffle, caught up his wand, and the tin box which held his commission, and entered the room in the dark, crying out: "Forbear, in the name of justice ! forbear, in the name of the holy brotherhood ! " The first he lighted on was the battered Don Quixote, who lay on his demolished bed, stretched upon his back, and quite senseless ; and laying hold of his beard as he was groping about, he cried out incessantly : " I charge you to aid and assist me," but finding that the person he had laid hold of neither stirred nor moved, he concluded that he must be dead, and that the people within the room were his murderers ; — and with this suspicion he raised his voice still louder, crying: "Shut the inn-door, see that nobody gets out, for they have killed a man here." This voice astonished them all, and each of them left the conflict the very moment the voice reached them. The landlord withdrew to his chamber, the carrier to his pannels, and the wench to her straw ; only the unfortunate Don Quixote and Sancho could not stir from the place they were in. Now the officer let go Don Quixote's beard, and went out to get a light, to search after and apprehend the delinquents ; but he found none ; for the innkeeper had purposely extinguished the lamp when he retired to his chamber ; and the officer was forced to have recourse to the chimney, where, after much pains and time, he lighted another lamp. Vide note 59, Book II. chap 2. ante, page 94. BOOK III. — CHAPTER III. 163 CHAPTER III. WHEREIN ARE CONTINUED THE NUMBERLESS HARDSHIPS WHK II THE BRAVE DON QUIXOTE AND HIS GOOD SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA UNDERWENT IN THE INN, WHICH HE UNHAPPILY TOOK FOR A CASTLE. on Quixote by this time came to himself; and with the very same tone of voice, witli which the day before he had called to his squire, when he lay stretched along in the valley of packstaves, he began to call him, saying: "Sancho, friend, sleepest thou ? sleepest thou, friend Sancho?" — " How diould I sleep ? woe is me " answered Sancho, full of trouble and vexation : " I cannot but think that all the devils in hell have been in my company to-night." — "You may very well believe so," answered Don Quixote; "and either I know little, or this castle is enchanted. For you must understand — but what I am now going to tell you, you must swear to keep secret until after my death." — " Yes, I swear," answered Sancho. " I say it," replied Don Quixote, "because I am an enemy to the taking away any body's reputation." — " I do swear," said Sancho again, " I will keep it secret until after your decease, and 164 DON QUIXOTE. God grant I may discover it to-morrow." — " Have I done you so many ill turns, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, " that you would willingly see me dead so very soon ?" " It is not for that," answered Sancho ; " but I am an enemy to keeping things long, and I would not have them rot with keeping." — " Be it for what it will," said Don Quixote, " I trust for greater matters than that to your love and kindness: know therefore that this night there has befallen me one of the strangest adventures imaginable ; and to tell it you in few words, know, that a little while ago there came to me the daughter of the lord of this castle, who is the most accomplished and beautiful damsel that is to be found in a great part of the habitable earth. What could I not tell you of the gracefulness of her person ? what of the sprightliness of her wit ? what of other hidden charms, which, to preserve the fidelity I owe to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, I will pass over untouched and in silence ? Only I must tell you that Heaven, envying so great happiness as fortune had put into my hands, or perhaps (which is more probable) this castle, as I said before, being enchanted, at the time that she and I were engaged in the sweetest and most amorous conversation, without my seeing it, or knowing whence it came, comes a hand, fastened to the arm of some monstrous giant, and gave me such a blow on the jaws that they were all bathed in blood ? and it afterwards pounded me in such sort, that I am in a worse case than yesterday, when the carriers, for Rocinante's frolic, did us the mischief you know. — Hence I conjecture, that the treasure of this damsel's beauty is guarded by some enchanted Moor, and is not reserved for me." — " Nor for me neither," answered Sancho ; "for more than four hundred Moors have cudgelled me in such a manner, that the basting of the packstaves was tarts and cheesecakes to it. But tell me, pray, sir, call you this an excellent and rare adventure, which has left us in such a pickle ? though it was not quite so bad with your worship, who had between your arms that incomparable beauty aforesaid. But I ! what had I, besides the heaviest blows that, I hope, I shall ever feel as long as I live ? Woe is me, and the mother that bore me ! for I am no knight-errant, nor ever mean to be one : and yet of all the misadventures, the greater part still falls BOOK III. CHAPTER III. 165 to my share." — " What ! have you been pounded too ?" answered Don Quixote. " Have I not told you, yes ? Evil befal my lineage !" quoth Sancho. " Be in no pain, friend," said Don Quixote ; " for I will now make the precious balsam, with which we will cure our- selves in the twinkling of an eye." By this time the officer had lighted his lamp, and entered to see the person he thought was killed : and Sancho, seeing him come in, and perceiving him to be in his shirt, with a night-cap on his head, a lamp in his hand, and a very ill-favoured countenance, he demanded of his master : " Pray, sir, is this the enchanted Moor, coming to finish the correction he has bestowed upon us ?" — " It cannot be the Moor," answered Don Quixote ; " for the enchanted suffer not themselves to be seen by any body." — " If they will not be seen, they will be felt," said Sancho ; " witness my shoulders." " Mine might speak too," answered Don Quixote ; "but this is not sufficient evidence to con- vince us that what we see is the enchanted Moor." The officer entered, and finding them communing in so calm a manner, stood in suspense. It is true, indeed, Don Quixote still lay flat on his back, without being able to stir, through mere pounding and plastering. The officer approached him and said : " How fares it, honest friend ?" " I would speak more respectfully," answered Don Quixote, " were I in your place. Is it the fashion of this country to talk in this manner to knights-errant, blockhead ?" The officer, seeing himself so ill-treated by one of so scurvy an ap- pearance, could not bear it; and, lifting up the brass lamp, with all its oil, gave it Don Quixote over the pate in such sort, that he broke his head : and all k bcing in the dark, he ran instantly out of the room. " Doubtless, sir," quoth Sancho Panza, " this is the enchanted Moor ; and he reserves the treasure for others, and for us only blows and lamp-knocks." * " It is even so," answered Don Quixote ; " and it is to no purpose to regard this business of en- chantments, or be out of humour or angry with them ; for, as they are invisible and fantastical only, we shall find nothing to be revenged on, though we endeavour it ever so much. Get you up, Sancho, if * Candilazos. A new coined word in the original. 166 DON QUIXOTE. you can, and call the governor of this fortress ; and take care to get me some oil, wine, salt, and rosemary, to make the healing balsam. In truth, I believe I want it very much at this time ; for the wound this phantom has given me, bleeds very fast." Sancho got up, with pain enough in his bones, and went in the dark towards the landlord's chamber ; and meeting with the officer, who was listening to discover what his enemy would be at, said to him : " Sir, whoever you are, do us the favour and kindness to help us to a little rosemary, oil, salt, and wine ; for they are wanted to cure one of the best knights-errant in the world, who lies in yon bed, sorely wounded by the hands of the enchanted Moor that is in this inn." The officer hearing him talk at this rate, took him for one out of his senses ; and the day beginning to dawn, he opened BOOK III.— CHAPTER III. 1G7 the inn-door, and calling the host, told him what the honest man wanted. The inn-keeper furnished him with the ingredients, and Sancho carried them to Don Quixote, who lay with his hands on his head, complaining of the pain of the lamp-knock, which had done him no other hurt than the raising a couple of humps pretty much swelled ; and what he took for blood was nothing hut sweat, occa- sioned by the anguish of the past storm. In tine, he took his simples, and made a compound of them, mixing them together, and boiling them a good while, until he thought they were enough. Then he asked for a phial to put it in ; and there being no such thing in the inn, he resolved to put it in a cruise, or oil-flask of tin, which the host made him a present of. Next he said over the cruise about four score pater-nosters, with as many ave-marias and salves, and every word was accompanied with a cross by way of benediction, at all which were present, Sancho, the inn-keeper, and the officer : as for the carrier, he was gone soberly about the business of tending his mules. This done, he resolved immediately to make trial of the virtue of that precious balsam, as he imagined it to be; and so he drank about a pint and a half of what the cruise could not contain, and which remained in the pot it was infused and boiled in ; and scarcely had he done drinking, when he began to vomit so violently, that nothing was left in his stomach; and, through the convulsive retch- ings and agitation of the vomit, he fell into a most copious sweat ; wherefore he ordered them to cover him up warm, and to leave him alone. They did so, and he continued fast asleep above three hours; when he awoke, and found himself greatly relieved in his body, and so much recovered from his bruising, that he thought himself as good as cured; — and was thoroughly persuaded that he had hit on the true balsam of Fier-a-bras, and that, with this remedy, lie might thenceforward encounter without fear, any dangers, battles, and conflicts however perilous. Sancho Panza, who likewise took his master's amendment for a miracle, desired he would give him what remained in the pipkin, which was no small quantity. Don Quixote granting his request, he took it in both hands, and with a good faith and better will, 168 DON QUIXOTE. tossed it down into his stomach, swilling very little less than his master had done. Now the case was, that poor Sancho's stomach was not so nice and squeamish as his master's ; and therefore, before he could throw it up, it gave him such pangs and loathings with such cold sweats and faintings, that he verily thought his last hour was come ; and finding himself so afflicted and tormented, he, cursed the balsam, and the thief that had given it him. Don Quixote, seeing him in that condition, said to him : " I believe, Sancho, that all this mischief has befallen you becanse you are not dubbed a knight ; for I am of opinion this liquor can do no good to those who are not." " If your worship knew that," replied Sancho, " evil betide me and all my generation ! why did you suffer me to drink it ?" By this time the drench operated effectually, and the poor squire began to find relief in all ways? with so much precipitation, that the flag mat upon which he lay, and the blanket in which he wrapped himself, were perfectly saturated. He sweated and sweated again, with such faintings and fits, that not only himself, but every BOOK III. — CHAPTER III. 169 body else, thought he was expiring. This hurricane and exudation lasted two hours ; at the end of which he did not remain as his master did, but so shattered and broken that he was unable to stand. Don Quixote, who found himself at ease and whole, would needs depart immediately in quest of adventures, believing that all the time he loitered away there, was depriving the world, and the dis- tressed in it, of his aid and protection ; and the rather, through the security and confidence he placed in the balsam. Thus hurried away by this strong desire, he saddled Rocinante with his own hands, and pannelled his squire's beast, whom he also helped to dress, and to mount him upon the ass. He presently got on horseback, and coming to a corner of the inn, he laid hold of a pike that stood there, to serve him for a lance. All the folks in the inn stood gazing at him, being somewhat above twenty persons; among the rest the host's daughter stared at him, and he on his part removed not his eyes from her, and now and then sent forth a sigh, which he seemed to tear up from the bottom of his bowels ; all imagining it to proceed from the pain he felt in his ribs, at least those who the night before had seen how he was plastered. They being now both mounted, and standing at the door of the inn, he called to the host, and with a very solemn and grave voice said to him : " Many and great are the favours, Signor governor, which in this your castle 1 have received, and I remain under infinite obligations to acknowledge them all the days of my life. If I could make you a return by revenging you on any insolent foe, who has done you outrage, know that the duty of my profession is no other than to strengthen the weak, to revenge the injured, and to chastise the perfidious. Run over your memory, and if you find any thing of this nature to recommend to me, you need only declare it ; for I promise you, by the order of knighthood 1 have received, to procure you satisfaction and amends to your heart's desire." The host answered with the same gravity: "Sir knight, I have no need of your worship's avenging any wrong for me ; I know how to take the proper revenge, when I sustain any injury: I only desire your worship to pay me for what you have had in the inn, as well for the straw and barley lor your two beasts, as for your supper and lodging.'' vol. r. V 170 DON QUIXOTE. " What then, is this an inn ?" replied Don Quixote. " And a very creditable one," answered the host. " Hitherto then I have been in an error," answered Don Quixote, " for in truth I took it for a castle, and no bad one neither : but since it is so, that it is no castle, but an inn, all that can now be done is, that you excuse the payment ; for I cannot act contrary to the law of knights-errant, of whom I certainly know, having hitherto read nothing to the contrary, that they never paid for lodging, or any thing else, in any inn where they have lain; and that because of right and good reason, all possible accommodation is due to them, in recompense for the insufferable hardships they endure in quest of adventures, by night and by day, in winter and in summer, on foot and on horseback, with thirst and with hunger, with heat and with cold, subject to all the inclemencies of heaven, and to all the inconveniences upon earth." " I see little to my purpose in all this," answered the host; " pay me what is my due, and let us have none of your stories and knight-errantries ; for I make no account of any thing, but how to come by my own." " Thou art a blockhead, and a pitiful inn- keeper," answered Don Quixote ; so clapping spurs to Rocinante, and brandishing his lance, he sallied out of the inn, without any body's opposing him ; and, without looking to see whether his squire followed him or not, got a good way off. The host, seeing him go off without paying him, ran to seize on Sancho Panza who said that since his master would not pay, he would not pay either ; for being squire to a knight-errant as he was, the same rule and reason held as good for him as for his master, not to pay any thing in public-houses and inns. The inn-keeper grew very testy on hearing this, and threatened him, if he did not pay him, he would indemnify himself in a way he should be sorry for. Sancho swore by the order of chivalry, which his master had received, that he would not pay a single farthing, though it should cost him his life ; for the laudable and ancient usage of knights-errant should not be lost for him, nor should the squires of future knights have reason to complain of, or reproach him for the breach of so just a right. Poor Sancho's ill luck so ordered it, that among those who were p. 170. BOOK III. — CHAPTER III. 171 in the inn, there were four cloth-workers of Segovia, three needle- makers of the horse-fountain of Cordova, and two butchers of Seville, all arch, merry, unlucky, and frolicksome fellows. These nine jolly dogs, instigated as it were and moved by the self-same spirit, came up to Sancho, and dismounting him from the ass, one of them went in for the blanket from the landlord's bed ; and putting him therein, they looked up, and saw that the ceiling was somewhat too low for their work, and determined to go out into the yard, which had no other ceiling than the sky. There, Sancho being placed in the midst of the blanket, they began to toss him aloft, and to divert themselves with him, as with a dog during carnival. 89 The cries 89 The punishment to which Sancho was suhjected was then of very ancient standing. Suetonius relates that when the emperor Otho, during his nightly rounds though the streets of Rome, fell in with any drunken persons, he had them tossed in blankets " disiento sagulo in sublime jactare." And Martial, addressing his book, tells it not to put too much trust in praise, " for, from behind," he adds : '* Ibis ab cxcusso missus in astra sago." The students in the Spanish universites amused themselves, during the time of carnival, by serving the dogs they met with in the streets in the same manner that the emperor Otho served the drunkards. 172 DON QUIXOTE. which the poor blanket-tossed squire sent forth, were so many, and so loud, that they reached his master's ears : who, stopping to listen attentively, believed that some new adventure was at hand, until he found plainly that he who cried was his squire ; and turning the reins, with a constrained gallop, he came up to the inn ; when finding it shut, he rode round it to discover, if he could, an entrance. But he was scarce got to the wall of the yard, which was not very high, when he perceived the wicked sport they were making with his squire. He saw him ascend and descend through the air with so much grace and agility, that if his choler would have suffered him, I am of opinion he would have laughed. He tried to get from his horse upon the fence ; but he was so bruised and battered, that he could not alight ; and so from on horseback be began to utter so many reproaches and revilings against those who were tossing Sancho, that it is impossible to put them down in writing ; but they did not therefore desist from their laughter, nor their labour; nor did the flying Sancho forbear his complaints, mixed sometimes with menaces, sometimes with entreaties ; yet all availed little, nor would have availed, but at last they left off from sheer weariness. They then brought him his ass ; and wrapping him in his loose coat, mounted him thereon. The compassionate Maritornes, seeing him so harassed, thought good to help him to a jug of water, which she fetched from the well, that it might be the cooler. Sancho took it, and as he was lifting it to his mouth, stopped at his master's calling to him aloud, saying : " Son Sancho, drink not water, child, do not drink it; it will kill thee. Look here, I hold the most holy balsam," shewing him the cruise of the potion, "by drinking but two drops of which, you will doubtless be whole and sound again". At these words, Sancho turned his eyes as it were askew, and said with a louder voice: "Perhaps, you have forgot, sir, that I am no knight; or you would have me bring up what remains of my bowels, after last night's work. Keep your liquor, in the devil's name, and let me alone." His ceasing to speak, and beginning to drink, was all in a moment, but at the first sip finding it was water, he would proceed no fur- ther, and prayed Maritornes to bring him some wine ; which she did with a very good will, and paid for it with her own money; for BOOK III. CHAPTER III. 173 they say of her, that though she was in that station, she had some shadows and faint outlines of a christian. As soon as Sancho had done drinking, he began kicking his beast ; and the inn-gate being thrown wide open, out he went, mightily satisfied that lie had paid nothing, and had carried his point, though at the expense of his accustomed surety — his carcase. The landlord indeed, was in pos- session of his wallets for payment of what was due to him ; but Sancho never missed them, so confused was he at going off". The inn-keeper would have fastened the door well after him, as soon as he saw him out; but the blanketeers would not consent, being persons of that sort, that though Don Quixote had really been one of the knights of the Round Table, they would not have cared two farthings for him. 174 DON QUIXOTE. CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH IS REHEARSED THE DISCOURSE WHICH SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS MASTER DON QUIXOTE; WITH OTHER ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING. ancho came up to his master, pale and dispirited to that degree, that he was not able to spur on his ass. Don Quixote perceiving his condition, said: "Now am I convinced, honest Sancho, that that castle, or inn, is doubtless en- chanted ; for they who so cruelly sported themselves with you, what could they be but hobgoblins, and people of the other world ? and I am confirmed in this by having found, that when I stood at the paling of the yard, beholding the acts of your sad tragedy, I could not possibly get over them, nor so much as alight from Rocinante ; so that they must certainly have held me enchanted. I swear to you, by the faith of what I am, that if I could have got over, or alighted, I would have BOOK III. CHAPTER IV. 175 avenged you in such a manner as would have made those poltroons and assassins remember the jest as long as they lived, though I know I had transgressed the laws of chivalry thereby, for as I have often told you, they do not allow a knight to lay hand on his sword against any one who is not so, unless it be in defence of his own life and person, and in case of urgent and extreme neccessity." " And I too," quoth Sancho, " would have revenged myself if able, dubbed or not dubbed ; but I could not : though I am of opinion, that they who diverted themselves at my expence, were no hobgoblins, but men of flesh and bones as we are ; and each of them, as I heard while they were tossing me, had his proper name : one was called Pedro Martinez, another Tenorio Hernandez ; and the landlord's name is John Paloméque the left-handed : so that, sir, as to your not being able to leap over the fence nor to alight from your horse, the fault lay in something else, and not in enchantment. What I gather clearly from all this is, that these adventures we are in quest of, will at the long run bring us into so many scrapes, that we shall not know which is our right foot. In my poor opinion, the better and surer way would be, to return to our village, now that it is reaping-time and look after our business, and not run rambling from Ceca to Mecca,* leaping out of the frying-pan ino the fire." " How little do you know, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, " what belongs to chivalry ! peace, and have patience ; the day will come, when you will see with your eyes how honourable a thing it is to follow this profession. What greater satisfaction can there be in the world, or what pleasure can be compared with that of win- ning a battle, and triumphing over one's enemy ? None, without doubt." " It may be so," answered Sancho, " though I do not know it. I only know, that since we have been knights-errant, or since you have been one sir, for there is no reason I should reckon myself in that honourable number, we have never won any battle except that of the Biscayan ; and even there you came off with the * Ceca was a place of devotion among the Moors in the city of Cordova, to which they used to go in 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. i'O DON QUIXOTE. loss of half an ear, and half a helmet ; and from that day to this, we have had nothing hut drubbings upon drubbings, cuffs upon cuffs, beside my blanket-tossing into the bargain, and that by persons enchanted, on whom I cannot revenge myself, to know how far the joy reaches of overcoming an enemy, as your worship is pleased to say," — " That is what troubles me, and ought to trouble you, Sancho," answered Don Quixote; "but henceforward I will endeavour to have ready at hand a sword made by such art, that no kind of enchantment can touch him that wears it. Perhaps fortune may procure me that of Amadis, when he called himself 'Knight of' the burning sword,' 90 which was one of the best weapons that ever knight had in the world ; for, beside the virtue aforesaid, it cut like a razor, and no armour though ever so strong, or ever so much enchanted, could stand against it." — " I am so unfortunate," quoth Sancho, " that though this were so, and you should find such a sword, it would be of service and use only to those who are dubbed knights, like the balsam ; as for the poor squires, they may sing sorrow." — "Fear not that, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "heaven will deal more kindly by thee." Don Quixote and his squire went on thus conferring together, when the former perceived on the road they were in, a great and thick cloud of dust coming towards them ; and seeing it, he turned to Sancho, and said : " This is the day, O Sancho, wherein will be seen the good that fortune has in store for me. This is the day, I say, wherein will appear, as much as in any, the strength of my arm ; and in which I shall perform such exploits, as shall remain written in the book of fame, to all succeeding ages. Seest thou yon cloud of dust, Sancho ? It is raised by a prodigious army of divers and innumerable nations, who are on the march this way. — " " By 90 It was Amadis of Greece who was styled the Knight of the Flaming Sword, because he had one marked on his body, from his birth, from the left knee upwards to abreast his heart, as red as fire. (Part I. chap 4G.) As Don Quixote only says Amadis, by which Amadis of Gaul is always understood, and as he speaks of a real sword, he doubtless means, the knight of the Green Sword. Amadis received this name, under which he was known in Germany, because, at the trial of two faithful lovers, and before the face of his mistress Oriane, he drew the marvellous sword from its scabbard which was made from the back-bone of a fish, of a green colour, and so transparent that the blade was visible when sheathed in it. (Chap. LVI, LXX and LXXIII.) BOOK III. — CHAPTER IV. 177 this account there must be two armies," said Sancho, " for on this opposite side there arises such another cloud of dust." Don Quixote turned to view it, and, seeing it was so, he rejoiced exceedingly, taking it for granted there were two armies coming to engage in the midst of that spacious plain: for at all hours and momenta his imagination was full of the battles, enchantments, adventures extravagancies, amours and challenges, which he found in the books of chivalry ; and whatever he said, thought or did, had a tendency that way. Now the clouds of dust he saw were raised by two great flocks of sheep, going the same road from different parts, and the dust hindered them from being seen, until they came near. But Don Quixote affirmed with so much positiveness that they were armies, that Sancho began to believe it, and said: "Sir, what then must we do ?" — " What," replied Don Quixote, " but favour and assist the weaker side? Now you must know, Sancho, that the army which VOL I. Z 178 DON QUIXOTE. inarches towards us in front, is led and commanded by the great emperor Alifanfaron, lord of the great island of Taprobana ; 91 this other which marches behind us, is that of his enemy, the king of the Garamantes, 92 Pentapolin of the naked arm ; for he always enters into the battle with his right arm bare." — " But why do these two princes hate one another," demanded Sancho ? " They hate one another," answered Don Quixote, " because this Alifanfaron is a furious pagan, and is in love with the daughter of Pentapolin, who is a most beautiful and superlatively graceful lady, and a christian ; and her father will not give her in marriage to the pagan king, unless he will first renounce the religion of his false prophet Mahomet, and turn christian," — " By my beard," said Sancho, " Pentapolin is in the right ; and I am resolved to assist him to the utmost of my power." — " In so doing, you will do your duty, Sancho," said Don Quixote ; "for, in order to engage in such fights, it is not necessary to be dubbed a knight." — " I easily comprehend that," answered Sancho; "but where shall we dispose of this ass, that we may be sure to find him when the fray is over ? for I believe it was never yet the fashion to go to battle upon such a kind of beast." — "You are in the right," said Don Quixote; "and what you may do with him is, to let him take his chance, whether he be lost or not ; for we shall have such a choice of horses after the victory, that Rocinante himself will run a risk of being trucked for another. But listen with attention, whilst I give you an account of the principal knights of both the armies. That you may see and observe them the better, let us retire to yon rising ground, from whence all may be distinctly seen." They did so, and got upon a hillock whence the flocks, which Don Quixote took for two armies, might easily have been discerned, had not the clouds of dust they raised, obstructed and blinded the sight ; but, for all that, seeing in his imagination what he neither did nor could see, he began with a loud voice to say : — " The knight you see yonder with the gilded armour, who bears in his shield a Hon crowned couchant at a damsel's feet, is the valorous Laurcalco, lord of the Silver Bridge ; the other, with the armour 91 The ancient name of the island of Ceylon. 92 Inhabitants of the interior of Africa. BOOK III. — CHAPTER IV. 181 flowered with gold, who bears three crowns argent, in afield azure, is the formidable Micocolembo, grand duke of Quirocia ; the third with gigantic limbs, who marches on his right, is the undaunted Brandabarbaran of Boliche, lord of the three Arabias ; he is armed with a serpent's skin, andjbears instead of a shield, a gate, which fame says, is one of those belonging to the temple which Sampson pulled down, when with his death he avenged himself upon his enemies. 93 But'turn your eyes to this other side, and you will see in the front of this second army, the ever-victorious and never-van- quished Timonel de Carcaxona, prince of the New Biscay, who comes with armour quartered azure, vert, argent and or, bearing in his shield a cat or, in a field gules, with a scroll inscribed Miou, being the beginning of his mistress's name, who it is reported, is the peerless Mioulina, daughter to Alfenniquen duke of Algarve. That other, who burdens and oppresses the back of yon sprightly steed, whose armour is as white as snow, and his shield white without any device, is a new knight, by birth a Frenchman, called Peter Papin, lord of the baronies of Utrique. The other, whom you see with his armed heels, pricking the flanks of that pied fleet courser, and whose armour is of pure azure, is the powerful duke of Nerbia, Espartafilardo of the Wood, whose device is an asparagus- bed, with this motto in Castilian, ' Rastrea mi suerte.' " 94 In this manner he continued to name sundry knights of each squadron, as his fancy dictated, and giving to each their arms, colours, devices and mottoes, extempore, carried on by the strength of his imagination, and by his unaccountable madness ; and so without hesitation he proceeded : — "That body fronting us, is formed and composed of people of different nations ; here stand those who drink the sweet waters of the famous Xanthus; the mountaineers, who tread the Massilian fields; those who sift the pure and fine gold-dust of Arabia Felix ; those who dwell along the famous and refreshing banks of the clear Thcrmodon; those who drain by sundry and 93 The Don here makes a notable mistake. It was not the gates of the temple under which he was buried that Sampson carried off, but those of the town of Gaza. {Judges, chap. 16.) 04 Literally trace my fate by my footsteps, or track my fate. 182 DON QUIXOTE. divers ways, the golden veins of Pactolus ; the Numidians, unfaith- ful in their promises ; the Persians, famous for bows and arrows ; the Parthians and Medes, who fight flying ; the Arabians, perpetually shifting their habitations ; the Scythians as cruel as fair ; the broad- lipped Ethiopians ; and an infinity of other nations, whose counte- nances I see and know, though I cannot recollect their names. In that other squadron come those who drink the crystal streams of olive-bearing Betis ; those who brighten and polish their faces with the liquor of the ever-rich and golden Tagus ; those who enjoy the fertilizing waters of the divine Genii; 95 those who tread the Tartesian fields, 96 abounding in pasture ; those who recreate them- selves in the Elysian meads of Xereza ; the rich Manchegans, crowned with yellow ears of corn ; those clad in iron, the antique remains of the Gothic race ; 97 those who bathe themselves in Pisuerga, famous for the gentleness of its current ; those who feed their flocks on the spacious pastures of the winding Guadiana, celebrated for its hidden source ; those who shiver on the cold brow of the shady Pyreneus and the snowy tops of lofty Apeninus ; in a word, all that Europe contains and includes." How many provinces did he name ! how many nations did he enumerate ! giving to each, with wonderful readiness, its peculiar attributes, wholly absorbed and wrapped up in what he had read in his fabulous histories. Sancho Panza stood confounded at his discourse, without speaking a word ; and now and then he turned his head about, to see whether he could discover the knights and giants his master named. But seeing none, he said: " Sir, the devil a man, or giant, or knight, of all you have named, appears any where; at least I do not see them ; perhaps all may be enchanted, like last night's goblins." " How say you, Sancho ?" answered Don Quixote. "Do you not hear the neighing of the steeds, the sound of the trumpets, and rattling of the drums ?" " I hear nothing," answered Sancho, " but the bleating of sheep and lambs ;" and so it was, for 95 It is believed that this name, given by the Arabs to the river of Grenada, signifies like the Nile. '■' 6 Of Tarifa. W The Biscayans. BOOK III. CHAPTER IV. 183 now the two flocks were come very near them. " The fear you are in Sancho," said Don Quixote, " makes you so that you can neither see nor hear aright ; for one effect of fear is to disturb the senses, and make things not to appear what they are ; and if you are so much afraid, get you aside, and leave me alone, for I am able, with my single arm, to give the victory to that side I shall favour witli my assistance." Then he clapped spurs to Rocinante, and, setting his lance in its rest, darted down the hillock like lightning. Sancho cried out to him : " Hold, Signor Don Quixote, come back ; as God shall save me, they are lambs and sheep you are going to encounter; pray come back, woe to the father that begot me ! what madness 184 DON QUIXOTE. is this ? Look, there is neither giant, nor knight, nor cats, nor arms, nor shields quartered nor entire, nor true azures nor bedevilled ; sinner that I am! what is it you do?" For all this, Don Quixote turned not again, but still went on, crying aloud : " Ho ! knights, you that follow and fight under the banner of the valiant emperor Pentapolin of the naked arm, follow me all, and you shall see with how much ease I revenge him On his enemy Alifanfaron of Taprobana. " Saying this, he rushed into the midst of the squadron of sheep, and began to attack them with his lance, as courageously, and intrepidly, as if in good earnest he was engaging his mortal enemies. The shepherds and herdsmen who came with the flocks, called out to him to desist ; but seeing it was to no purpose, they unbuckled their slings, and began to let drive about his ears with stones as big as one's fist. Don Quixote did not mind the stones, but, running about on all sides, cried out: " Where art thou, proud Alifanfaron ; present thyself before me ; I am a single knight, desirous to prove thy valour hand to hand, and to punish thee with the loss of life, for the wrong thou doest to the valiant Garamanta Pentapolin." At that instant came a large pebble-stone, and struck him such a blow on the side, that it buried a couple of his ribs in his body. Finding himself thus ill-treated, he believed for certain he was slain, or sorely wounded ; and remembering his liquor, he pulled out his cruise, set it to his mouth, and began to let some go down ; but before he could swallow what he thought sufficient, comes another of those almonds, and hit him so full on the hand and on the cruise, that it dashed it to pieces, carrying oif three or four of his teeth by the way, and grievously bruising two of his fingers. Such was the first blow, and such the second, that the poor knight tumbled from his horse to the ground. The shepherds ran to him, and verily believed that they had killed him ; whereupon in all haste they got their flock together, took up their dead, which were about seven, and marched off without farther enquiry. All this while Sancho stood upon the hillock, beholding his master's extravagancies, tearing his beard, and cursing the unfor- tunate hour and moment that ever he knew him. But, seeing him fallen on the ground, and the shepherds already gone off, he descended HOOK III. CHAPTER IY. 185 from the hillock, and running to him, found him in a very ill plight, though lie had not quite lost the use of his senses. " Did I not desire you," he said " Signor Don Quixote, to come hack, for those you went to attack were a flock of sheep, and not an army of men?" " How easily," replied Don Quixote, " can that thief of an enchanter, my enemy, make things appear or disappear ! You must know, Sancho, that it is a very easy matter for such to make us seem what they please: and this malignant who persecutes me, envious of the glory he saw I was likely to acquire in this hattle, has trans- formed the hostile squadrons into flocks of sheep. However, do one thing, Sancho, for my sake, to undeceive yourself and see the truth of what I tell you ; get upon your ass, and follow them fairly and softly, and you will find that when they are got a little farther off they will return to their first form, and, ceasing to he sheep, will become men, proper and tall, as I described them at first. But do not go now, for I want your help and assistance ; come hither to me, and see how many teeth I want, for it seems to me that I have not one left in my head." Sancho came so close to him, that he almost thrust his eyes into his mouth : and it being precisely at the time the balsam began to work in Don Quixote's stomach, at the instant Sancho was looking into his mouth, he discharged the contents with as much violence as if it had been shot out of a demi-culverin, directly in the face and beard of the compassionate squire. "Blessed Virgin !" quoth Sancho, "what is this has befallen me ? without doubt this poor sinner is mortally wounded, since he vomits blood at the mouth." But reflecting a little, he found by the colour, savour and smell, that it was not blood, but the balsam of the cruise he saw him drink ; and so great was the loathing he felt thereat, that his stomach turned, and he made an effort similar to that of the knight, so that both remained in the same pickle. Sancho ran to his ass to take something out of his wallets, to cleanse him- self and cure his master; but, not finding them, he was very near running distracted. He cursed himself afresh, and purposed in his mind to leave his master and return home, though he should lose his wages for the time past, and his hopes of the government of the promised island. voi. r. A a 18G DON QUIXOTE. Hereupon Don Quixote got up, and laying his left hand on his mouth, to prevent the remainder of his teeth from falling out, with the other he laid hold on Rocinante's hridle, who had not stirred from his master's side (so trusty was he and good-conditioned,) and went where his squire stood leaning his breast on his ass, and his cheek on his hand, in the posture of a man overwhelmed with thought. Don Quixote, seeing him in that guise, with the appearance of so much sadness, said : " Know, Sancho, that one man is no more than another, unless he does more than another. All these storms that fall upon us are signs that the weather will clear up, and things will go smoothly : for it is impossible that either evil or good should be durable ; and hence it follows, that the evil having lasted long, the good cannot be far off. You ought not to afflict yourself for the mischances that befal me, since you have no share in them." " How ! no share in them!" answered Sancho, " peradventure then, he they tossed in a blanket yesterday was not my father's son; and the wallets I miss to-day, with all my moveables, belong to somebody else?" "What! are the wallets missing, Sancho?" quoth Don Quixote. "Yes, they are," answered Sancho. "Then we have nothing to eat to-day," replied Don Quixote. " It would be so," answered Sancho, "if these fields did not produce those herbs, with which you say such unlucky knights-errant as your worship are wont to supply the like necessities." "For all that," answered Don Quixote, "at this time I would rather have a slice of bread and a couple of heads of salt pilchards, than all the herbs described by Dioscorides, though commented upon by Dr. Laguna himself. 98 But, good Sancho, get upon your ass and follow me ; for He, who is the provider of all things, will not fail us, and the rather seeing we are so employed in his service as we are, since he does not fail the gnats of the air, the wormlings of the earth, nor the fishes of the water; and so merciful is he, that he makes his sun to shine upon the good and the bad, and causes rain to fall upon the just and unjust." "Your worship," said Sancho, "would make abetter preacher than a knight-errant." "Sancho," said Don Quixote, 93 Andres de Laguna, born at Segovia, was physician to Charles V. and pope Julius III, and the translator and commentator of Dioscorides. BOOK 1 1 1 . — -CHAPTER IV. 1ST "the knights-errant ever did and must know something of everj tiling; and there have been knights-errant in times past, who would make sermons or harangues on the king's highway, with as good a grace as if they had taken their degrees in the university of Paris ! whence we may infer, that the lance never blunted the pen, nor the pen the lance." " Well ! let it be as your worship says," answered Sancho, "but let us begone hence, and endeavour to get a lodging to-night; and pray God it be where there arc neither blankets nor 188 DON QUIXOTE. blanket-heavers, nor hobgoblins, nor enchanted Moors : for if there be, the devil take both the flock and the fold." " Child," said Don Quixote, " do thou pray : and conduct me whither thou wilt ; for this time I leave it to your choice where to lodge us : but reach hither your hand, and feel with your finger how many grinders I want on the right side of my upper jaw, for there I feel the pain." Sancho put in his fingers, and feeling about, said: How many did your worship use to have on this side ?" "Four," answered Don Quixote, "beside the eye-tooth, all whole and very sound." "Take care what you say, sir," answered Sancho. "I say four, if not five," replied Don Quixote, "for in my whole life I never drew tooth nor grinder, nor have I lost one by rheum or decay." "Well then," said Sancho, "on this lower side your worship has but two grinders and a half, and in the upper, neither half nor whole: all is as smooth and even as the palm of my hand." " Unfortunate that I am!" said Don Quixote, hearing the sad news his squire told him : " I had rather they had torn off an arm, provi- ded it were not the sword-arm : for, Sancho, you must know, that a mouth without grinders is like a mill without a stone ; and a diamond is not so precious as a tooth. But to all this we are subject, who profess the strict order of chivalry. Mount, friend Sancho, and lead on ; for I will follow thee what pace thou wilt." Sancho did so, and went toward the place where he thought to find a lodging, without going out of the high road, which was thereabouts very much frequented. As they thus went on, fair and softly, (for the pain of Don Quixote's jaws gave him no ease, nor inclination to make haste,) Sancho had a mind to amuse and divert him by talking to him, and said, among other things, what will be found in the following chapter. BOOK III. — CHAPTER V. 189 CHAPTER V. OF THE SAGE DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO AND HIS MASTER, AND THE SUCCEEDING ADVENTURE OF THE DEAD BODY ; W ITH OTHER FAMOUS OCCURRENCES, T is my opinion, master of mine, that all the mischances which have befallen us of late, are doubtless in punishment of the sin committed by your worship against your own order of knighthood, in not per- forming the oath you took, not to eat bread on a table-cloth, nor solace yourself with the queen, with all the rest that you swore to accomplish, until your taking away the helmet of Malandrino, or how do you call the Moor? for I do not well remember." "Sancho, you are in the right," said Don Quixote; "but, to tell you the truth, it quite slipped out of my memory ; and, you may depend upon it, the affair of the blanket happened to you for your fault in not putting me in mind of it in time : but I will make amends ; for in the order of chivalry there are ways of compounding for every thing". "Why, did I swear any thing?" answered Sancho. "It matters 190 DON QUIXOTE. not that you have not sworn," said Don Quixote : " it is enough that I know you are not free from the guilt of an accessary ; and, at all events, it will not be amiss to provide ourselves a remedy." " If it be so," said Sancho, " see, sir, you do not forget this too, as you did the oath: perhaps the goblins may again take a fancy to divert themselves with me, and even with your worship, if they find you so obstinate." While they were thus discoursing, night overtook them in the middle of the highway, without their lighting on, or discovering, any place of reception ; and the worst of it was, they were perishing with hunger, for, with the loss of their wallets they had lost their whole larder of provisions. As an additional misfortune, there befel them an adventure, which, without any forced construction, had really the face of one. It happened thus. The night came on pretty dark; notwithstanding which they proceeded, Sancho believing, that since it was the king's highway, they might very probably find an inn within a league or two. Thus travelling, the night dark, the squire hungry, and the master with a good appetite, they saw, advancing towards them, on the same road, a great number of fights, resembling so many moving stars. Sancho stood aghast at the sight of them, and Don Quixote could not well tell what to make of them. The one checked his ass by the halter, and the other his horse by the bridle, and stood still, viewing attentively what it might be. They perceived the lights drawing towards them, and the nearer they came the larger they appeared. Sancho trembled at the sight, as if he had been quick- silver ; and Don Quixote's hair bristled upon his head : but, recovering a little courage, he cried out : " Sancho, this must be a prodigious and most perilous adventure wherein it will be necessary for me to exert my whole might and valour." "Woe is me !" answered Sancho ? "should this prove to be an adventure of goblins, as to me it seems to be, where shall I find ribs to endure ?" "Let them be never such goblins," said Don Quixote, " I will not suffer them to touch a thread of your garment : for, if they sported with you last time, it was because I could not get over the pales: but we are now upon even ground, where I can brandish my sword at BOOK III. — CHAPTER V. 191 pleasure." " But, if they should enchant and benumb you, as they did the other time," quoth Sancho, "what matters it whether we are in the open field or not ?" "For all that," replied Don Quixote, "I beseech you Sancho, be of good courage; for experience will shew you how much of it I am master of." " I will, an't please God," answered Sancho ; and, leaving the highway a little on one side, they looked again attentively to discover what those walking lights might be : and soon after they perceived a great many persons in 192 DON QUIXOTE. white. * This dreadful apparition entirely sunk Sancho Panza's courage, and his teeth began to chatter, as if he had been in a tertian ague ; his trembling and chattering increased, when he saw distinctly what it was : for now they discovered about twenty persons in white robes, all on horseback, with lighted torches in their hands, behind whom came a litter covered with black, which was followed by six persons in deep mourning ; the mules they rode on were covered likewise with black down to their heels ; and it was easily seen they were not horses by the slowness of their pace. Those in white came along muttering to themselves in a low and plaintive tone. The strange vision, at such an hour, and in so desert a place, might very well strike terror into Sancho's heart, and even into that of his master; and so it would have done, had he been any other than Don Quixote. As for Sancho, his whole stock of courage was already exhausted; it was quite otherwise with his master, whose lively imagination at that instant represented to him, that this must be one of the adventures of his books. He figured to himself that the litter was a bier, whereon was carried some knight sorely wounded or slain, whose revenge was reserved for him : and without more ado, he couched his spear, settled himself firm in his saddle, and with a sprightly vigour and mien, posted himself in the middle of the road, by which the men in white must of necessity pass; and when he saw them come near, he raised his voice, and said : " Hold, knights, whoever you are, give me an account, to whom you belong, from whence you come, whither you are going, and what it is you carry upon that bier ? for, in all appearance, either you have done some injury to others, or others to you; and it is expedient and necessary that I be informed of it, either to chastise you for the evil you have done, or to revenge you of the wrong done you." " We are going in haste," answered one of those in white ; "the inn is a great way off; and we cannot stay to give so long an account as you require." So saying he spurred his mule and passed forward. Don Quixote, highly resenting this answer, laid hold of * The original is encamisados, which signifies persons who have put on a shirt over their clothes. It was usual for soldiers, when they attacked an enemy by night to wear shirts over their armour or clothes, to distinguish their own party ; whence such nightly attacks were called Encamisados. BOOK III. CHAPTER V. 193 his bridle, and said: "Stand, and be more civil. Give me an account of what I have asked you ; otherwise I challenge you all to battle." The mule was skittish, and started at his laying his hand on the bridle ; so that, rising upright on her hind-legs, she fell back- ward to the ground, with her rider under her. A lacquey that came on foot, seeing him in white fall, began to abuse Don Quixote; whose choler being already stirred, he couched his spear, assaulted one of the mourners, and laid him on the ground grievously wounded; then turning about to the rest, it was wonderful to see with what agility he attacked and defeated them, insomuch that you would have thought Rocinante had wings grown on him in that instant, so nimbly and proudly did he bestir himself. All those in white were timorous and unarmed people, and of course presently quitted the skirmish, and ran away over the field, with VOL I. b B 194 DON QUIXOTE. the lighted torches in their hands, looking like so many masqueraders on a carnival or a festival night. The mourners, likewise, were so wrapped up and muffled in their long robes, that they could not stir: so that Don Quixote, with entire safety to himself, drove them all before him, and obliged them to quit the field sorely against their will : for they thought him no man, but the devil from hell broke loose upon them, to carry away the dead body they bore in the litter. All this Sancho beheld, with admiration at the knight's intrepi- dity, and said to himself: "Without doubt this master of mine is as valiant and magnanimous as he pretends to be." There lay a burning torch on the ground, just by the first whom the mule had overthrown ; by the light of which Don Quixote espied him, and coming to him, set the point of his spear to his throat, commanding him to surrender, or he would kill him. To which the fallen man answered: "I am more than enough sur- rendered already ; for I cannot stir, having one of my legs broken. I beseech you, sir, if you are a christian gentleman, do not kill me : you would commit a great sacrilege, for I am a licentiate, and have taken the lesser orders." " What the devil, then," said Don Quixote, "brought you hither, being an ecclesiastic?" "What, sir?" replied he that was overthrown, " my misfortune." " A greater yet threatens you," said Don Quixote, " if you do not satisfy me in all I first asked of you." "Your worship shall soon be satisfied," answered the licentiate ; "and, therefore, you must know, sir, that though I told you before I was a licentiate, I am indeed only a bachelor of arts, and my name is Alonzo Lopez. I am a native of Alcovendas : I came from the city of Baeza, with eleven more priests, the same who fled with the torches ; we are accompanying a corpse in that litter to the city of Segovia: it is that of a gentleman, who died in Baeza, where he was deposited ; and now, as I say, we are carrying his bones to his burying-place in Segovia, where he was born." "And who killed him?" demanded Don Quixote. "God," replied the bachelor, "by means of a pestilential fever." "Then," said Don Quixote, "our Lord has saved me the labour of revenging his death, in case any body else had slain him : but, since he fell by the BOOK III. CHAPTER V. 195 hand of Heaven, there is no more to be done, but to be silent, and shrug up our shoulders; for just the same must I have done, had it been pleased to have slain me. And I would have your reverence know, that I am a knight of La Mancha, Don Quixote by name, and that it is my office and exercise to go through the world, redressing wrongs, and repairing grievances." " I do not understand your way of redressing wrongs," said the bachelor: "for from right you have set me wrong; having broken my leg, which will never be right again whilst I live ; and the grievance you have repaired in me is, to leave me so aggrieved that I shall never be otherwise ; and it was a very unlucky adventure to me to meet you who are seeking adventures." " All things," answered Don Quixote, " do not fall out the same way : the mischief, master bachelor Alonzo Lopez, was occasioned by your coming, as you did, by night, arrayed in those surplices, with lighted torches, chanting, and clad in doleful weeds, so that you really resembled something wicked and of the other world : which laid me under a necessity of complying with my duty, and of attacking you ; and I would have attacked you, though I had cer- tainly known you to be so many devils of hell; for until now I took you to be no less." " Since my fate would have it so," said the bachelor, " I beseech you, Signor knight-errant, who have done me such arrant mischief, help me to get from under this mule ; for my leg is held fast between the stirrup and the saddle." "I might have talked on until to-morrow morning," said Don Quixote : "why did you delay acquainting me with your uneasiness?" Then he called out to Sancho Panza to come to him : but he did not care to stir, being employed in ransacking a sumpter-mule, which those good men had brought with them, well stored with eatables. Sancho made a bag of his cloak, and cramming into it as much as it would hold, he loaded his beast; then, running to his master's call, he helped to disengage the bachelor from the oppression of liis mule, and setting him thereon, gave him the torch. Don Quixote bid him follow the track of his comrades, and beg their pardon in his name for the injury which he could not avoid doing them. Sancho likewise said: " If perchance those gentlemen would know, who the champion is that routed them, tell them it is the famous Don 196 DON QUIXOTE. Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise called ' the Knight of the sorrowful Figure.'' " The bachelor being gone, Don Quixote asked Sancho, what induced him to call him the Knight of the sorrowful Figure, at that time more than at any other. " I will tell you," answered Sancho ; " it is because I have been viewing you by the light of the torch, which that unfortunate man carried, and in truth your worship makes at present very near the most woful figure I have ever seen; which must be occasioned either by the fatigue of this combat, or by the want of your teeth." " It is owing to neither," replied Don Quixote ; " but the sage, who has the charge of writing the history of my achievements, has thought fit I should assume a surname, as all the knights of old were wont to do: one called himself the Knight of the burning Sword; another, of the Unicorn; this, of the Damsels; that, of the Phoznix ; another, the Knight of the Griffin; and another, of Death; and they were known by these names and ensigns all over the world. Therefore, I say, the aforesaid sage has now put- it into your head, and into your mouth, to call me the Knight of the sorrowful Figure, 99 as I purpose to call myself from this day forward: and that this name may fit me the better, I determine, when there is an opportunity, to have a most sorrowful figure painted on my shield." "You need not spend time and money in getting this figure made," said Sancho; "your worship need only shew your own, and present yourself to be looked at ; and, without other image or shield, they will immediately call you the Knight of the sorrowful Figure. And be assured I tell you the truth ; for I promise you, sir, (and let this not be said in jest,) that hunger and the loss of your grinders, make you look so ruefully, that, as I have said, the sorrowful picture might very well be spared." Don Quixote smiled at Sancho's conceit, yet resolved to call himself by that name, and to paint his shield or buckler as he had imagined; "I conceive, Sancho," he said, "that I am hable to excommunication for having laid violent hands on holy things, Juxta 99 Don Belianis of Greece was styled the Knight of the Noble Figure. (Book L, Chap. XIII.) BOOK III. CHAPTER V. 197 Mud, si quis suficiente diabolo, &c. 100 though I know I did not lay my hands, but my spear upon them : besides, I did not think I had to do with priests, or things belonging to the church, (which I respect and reverence like a good catholic and faithful christian as I am,) but with ghosts and goblins of the other world. And though it were so, I perfectly remember what befel the Cid Ruy-Diaz, when he broke the chair of that king's ambassador in the presence of his holiness the pope, for which he was excommunicated ; yet honest Rodrigo de Vivar passed, that day, for an honourable and courageous knight." 101 The bachelor being gone off, as has been said, without replying a word, Don Quixote had a mind to sec whether the corpse in the hearse were only bones, or not; but Sancho would not consent, saying : " Sir, your worship has finished this perilous adventure at the least expense of any I have seen; and, though these folks are conquered and defeated, they may chance to reflect, that they were beaten by one man, and, being confounded and ashamed thereat, may recover themselves and return in quest of us, and then we may have enough todo. The ass is properly furnished; the mountain is near; hunger presses; and we have no more to do but decently to march off; and, as the saying is, 'To the grave with the dead, and the living to the bread ;'" and driving on his ass before him, he desired his master to follow; who, thinking Sancho in the right, followed without replying. They had not gone far between two little hills, when they found themselves in a spacious and retired valley, where they alighted. Sancho disburdened the ass ; and lying along on the green grass, with hunger for sauce, they dispatched their breakfast, dinner, afternoon's luncheon and supper, all at once, regaling their palates with more than one cold mess which the ecclesiastics that attended the deceased, (such gentlemen seldom failing to take care of themselves), had brought with them on the sumpter-mule. But another mishap befel them, which Sancho took for the worst of all ; which was, that they had no wine, nor so much ""' Council of Trent (chiip. . r ,C). 101 This pretended achievement of the Cid is related with charniinp; simplicity in the twenty first ballad of his Romancero. 198 DON QUIXOTE. as water, to drink ; and they being very thirsty, Sancho, who per- ceived the meadow they were in covered with green and fine grass, said what will be related in the following chapter. EOOK III. CHAPTER VI. 199 CHAPTER VÍ. OF THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURE ACHIEVED BY THE RENOWNED DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA, WITH LESS HAZARD THAN EVER ANY WAS ACHIEVED BY THE MOST FAMOUS KNIGHT IN THE WORLD. T is impossible, sir, but there must be- sóme fountain or brook hereabouts, to water these herbs; and therefore we should go a little farther on : for we shall meet with something to quench this terrible thirst that aillicts us, and is doubtless more painful than hunger itself." Don Quixote approved the advice ; and he taking Rocinante by the bridle, and Sancho his ass by the halter, after he had placed upon him the relics of the supper, they began to march forward through the meadow, feeling their way ; for the night was so dark they could see nothing. 15ut they had not gone two hundred paces, when a great noise of water reached their ears, like that of some mighty cascade pouring down from a vast and steep rock. The sound rejoiced them exceedingly, and Stopping to listen whence it came, they heard on a sudden another 200 DON QUIXOTE. dreadful noise, which abated the pleasure occasioned by that of the water, especially in Sancho, who was naturally pusillanimous. They heard a dreadful din of irons and chains rattling across one another, and giving mighty strokes in time and measure: which, together with the furious noise of the water, would have struck terror into any heart but that of Don Quixote. The night, as is said, was dark; and they chanced to enter among certain tall trees, whose leaves, agitated by a gentle breeze, caused a kind of fearful and still noise : so that the solitude, the situation, the darkness and the noise of the water, with the whispering of the leaves, all occasioned horror and astonishment; especially when they found, that neither the blows ceased, nor the wind slept, nor the morning approached ; and as in addition to all this they were in total ignorance as to where they were. But Don Quixote, accompanied by his intrepid heart, leaped upon Rocinante ; and bracing on his buckler, brandished his spear, and said: "Friend Sancho, you must know, that, by the will of Heaven, I was born in this age of iron, to revive in it ' the golden age,' I am he for whom are reserved dangers, great exploits and valorous achievements. I am he, I say again, who am destined to revive the order of the Round Table, that of the twelve peers of France, and the nine Worthies ; and to obliterate the memory of the Platirs, the Tablantes, Olivantes, and Tirantes, the "Knights of the Sun," and the Belianises, with the whole tribe of the famous knights-errant of times past, performing in this age in which I live, such stupendous deeds and feats of arms, as are sufficient to obscure the brightest they ever achieved. Trusty and loyal squire, you observe the darkness of this night, its strange silence, the dull and confused sound of these trees, the fearful noise of that water we come to seek, which, one would think, precipitated itself headlong from the high mountains of the Moon ; 102 that incessant striking and clashing that wounds our ears : all which together, and each by itself, are sufficient to infuse terror, fear and 102 This is doubtless an illusion to the Nile, the ancients placing the source of that river in the heights of the mountains of the Moon, in Ethiopia, from the summit of which it was said to precipitate itself in two immense cataracts, {Ptolomy, Geog., lib. IV.) BOOK III. — CHAPTER VI. 201 amazement, into the breast of Mars himself; how much more into that, wliich is not accustomed to the like adventures and accidents. Now all I have described to you serves to rouse and awaken my courage, and my heart already beats in my breast with an eager desire to encounter this adventure, however difficult it may appear. Wherefore tighten Rocinantes girths a little, and God be with you ; and stay for me here three days, and no more : if I do not return in that time, you may go back to our town ; and thence, to do me a favour and good service, you shall go to Toboso, where you shall say to my incomparable lady Dulcinea, that her enthralled knight died attempting things that might have made him worthy to be styled her's." When Sancho heard these words of his master, he began to weep with the greatest tenderness in the world, and said: " Sir, 1 do not understand why your worship should encounter so fearful an adventure. It is now night, and nobody sees us ; we may easily turn aside, and get out of harm's way, though we should not drink these three days ; and, as nobody sees us, much less will there be any body to tax us with cowardice. Besides, I have heard the priest of our village, whom your worship knows very well, preach, ' that he who seeketh danger, perishcth therein ;' so that it is not good to tempt God, by undertaking so extravagant an exploit, whence there is no escaping but by a miracle. Let it suffice that. Heaven has delivered you from being tossed in a blanket, as I was, and brought you off victorious, safe and sound, from among so many enemies as accompanied the dead man. Though all this be not sufficient to move you, nor soften your stony heart, let the thought and belief prevail, that scarcely shall your worship be departed hence, when I, for very fear, shall give up my soul to whosoever shall be pleased to take it. I left my country and forsook my wife and children, to follow and serve your worship, believing I should be the better, and not the worse for it ; but as covetousness bursts the bag, so hath it rent from me my hopes: when they were most lively, and 1 just expecting to obtain that cursed and unlucky island which you have so often promised me, 1 find myself in exchange, ready to be abandoned by your worship VOL I. C C 202 DON QUIXOTE. in a place remote from all human society. For God's sake, dear sir, do me not such unkindness; and, since your worship will not wholly desist from this enterprise, at least adjourn it until day-break, to which, according to the little skill I gained when a shepherd, it cannot be above three hours; for the muzzle of the little bear is at the top of the head, and makes midnight in the line of the left arm." 103 " How can you, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "see where this line is made or where this muzzle, or top of the head, you talk of, is, since the night is so dark, that not a star appears in the whole sky ?" " True," said Sancho; "but fear has many eyes, and sees things beneath the earth, how much more above in the sky ; besides, it is reasonable to think it does not want much of day-break." " Want what it will," answered Don Quixote, "it shall never be said of me, neither now nor at any other time, that tears or entreaties could dissuade me from doing 103 The Spanish shepherds call the constellation of the lesser Bear, the hunter's horn (la bocina). This constellation is formed by the polar star, which is stationary, and seven other stars revolving round it, composing a rude image of a hunter's horn. To ascertain the time, the shepherds imagine the figure of a cross, or a man extended, having a head, feet, and the right and left arms. In the centre of this cross is the polar star, whose passage forms the mouth piece of the horn (la boca de la bocina) as it crosses there four principal points, which determine the hours of the night. In the month of August, the period of this adventure, the line of midnight is in fact, at the left arm of the cross, so that at the moment the boca de la bocina reaches the top of the head, it only wants two or three hours of being day. Sancho's calculation is nearly correct. BOOK III. — "CHAPTBB VI. 203 the duty of a knight : therefore pray thee, Sancho, hold thy tongue; God, who has put it in my heart to attempt this unparallelled and fearful adventure, will take care to watch over my safety, and to comfort thee in thy sadness. What you have to do is to girth Rocinante well, and to stay here ; for I will quickly return alive or dead." Sancho, then, seeing his master's final resolution, and how little his tears, prayers and counsels prevailed with him, determined to have recourse to a stratagem, and ohlige him to wait until day, if he could ; and so, while he was straightening the horse's girths, softly, and without heing perceived, he tied Rocinantes two hinder feet together with his ass's halter ; so that when Don Quixote would have departed, he was not ahle, for the horse could not move hut by jumps. Sancho, seeing the good success of his contrivance, said : " Ah, sir ! behold how Heaven, moved by my tears and prayers, has ordained that Rocinante cannot go : and if you will obstinately persist to spur him, you will but provoke fortune, and, as they say, ' kick against the pricks.' " This made Don Quixote quite desperate, and the more he spurred his horse, the less he could move him : without suspecting the ligature, he thought it best to be quiet, and either stay until day appeared, or until Rocinante could stir, believing certainly that it proceeded from some other cause, and not from Sancho's cunning; to whom he thus spoke : " Since it is so, Sancho, that Rocinante cannot stir, I am contented to stay until the dawn smiles, though I weep all the time she delays her coming." "You need not weep," answered Sancho, "for I will entertain you until day with telling you stories, if you had not rather alight and compose yourself to sleep a little upon the green grass, as knights-errant are wont to do, and so be the less weary when the day and hour comes for attempting that unparallelled adventure you wait for." " What call you alighting, or sleeping ?" said Don Quixote ; " am I one of those knights who take repose in time of danger ? Sleep thou, who wert born to sleep, or do what thou wilt ; 1 will do what I sec best befits my profession." " Pray, good sir, be not angry," answered Sancho ; " 1 do not say it with that design ;" — and, coming close to him, he put one hand on the pummel of the saddle before, and (he 204 DON QUIXOTE. other on the pique behind, and there he stood embracing his master's left thigh, without daring to stir from him a finger's breath, so much was he afraid of the blows which still sounded alternately in his ears. Don Quixote bade him tell some story to entertain him, as he had promised ; to which Sancho replied he would, if the dread of what he heard would permit him: "Notwithstanding," said he, " I will force myself to tell a story, which, if I can hit upon it, and it slips not through my fingers, is the best of all stories; and pray be attentive, for now I begin. " What hath been, hath been ; the good that shall befall be for us all, and evil to him that evil seeks. 104 And pray, sir, take notice, that the beginning which the ancients gave to their tales was not just what they pleased, but rather some sentence of Cato Zonzo- rinus, * the Roman, who says : "And evil to him that evil seeks," which is as apt to the present purpose as a ring to your finger ; signifying that your worship should be quiet, and not go about searching after evil, but rather that we turn aside into some other road; for we are under no obligation to continue in this, wherein so many fears overwhelm us." " Go on with your story, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and leave me to take care of the road we are to follow." " I say, then," continued Sancho, " that in a place of Estremadura there was a shepherd, I mean a goatherd ; which shep- herd or goatherd, as my story says, was called Lope Ruiz ; and this Lope Ruiz was in love with a shepherdess called Torralva; which shepherdess called Torralva was daughter to a rich herdsman ; and this rich herdsman " " If you tell your story after this fashion, Sancho," said Don Quixote, " repeating every thing you say twice, you will not have done these two days ; — tell it concisely, and like a man of sense, or else say no more." "In the very same manner that I tell it," answered Sancho, " they tell all stories in my country; and I can tell it no otherwise, nor is it fit your worship should require me to make new customs." " Tell it as you will then," answered 104 Sometimes the good woman's stories began thus — " Good betide all the world, and evil befall the curate's mistress." * 'Cato the Censor.' BOOK IIF. CHAPTER VI. Don Quixote, "since fate will have it that I must hear thee; goon." "And so, honoured sir," continued Sancho, "as I said before, this shepherd was in love with the shepherdess Torralva, who was a jolly strapping wench, a little scornful, and somewhat masculine; for she had certain small whiskers, and methinks I see her just now." " What, did you know her ?" said Don Quixote " I did not know her," answered Saneho; "but he who told me this story, said it was so certain and true, that I might, when I told it to another, affirm and swear I had seen it all. And so, in proeess of time, the devil, who sleeps not, and troubles all things, brought it about that the love which the shepherd bore to the shepherdess was converted into mortal hatred; and the cause, according to evil tongues, was a certain quantity of little jealousies she gave him beyond measure; and so mueh did he hate her thenceforward, that to avoid the sight of her, he chose to absent himself from that country, and go where his eyes should never behold her more. Torralva, who found herself disdained by Lope, presently began to love him better than ever she had loved him before." " It is a natural quality of women," said Don Quixote, " to slight those who love them, and love those who slight them. Go on, Sancho," " It fell out," proceeded Sancho, " that the shepherd put his design in execution; and, collecting together his goats, went on towards the plains of Estremadura, in order to pass over into the kingdom of Portugal. Torralva knowing it, went after him, following him on foot and bare-legged, at a distance, with a pilgrim's stall' in her hand, and a wallet about her neck, in which she carried, as is reported, a piece of a looking-glass, a piece of a comb, and a sort of a small DON QUIXOTE. gallipot of pomatum for the face. But whatever she carried, for I shall not now set myself to vouch for what it was, I only tell you that, as they say, the shepherd came with his flock to pass the river Guadiana, which at that time was swollen, and had almost overflown its banks; and on the side he came to, there was neither boat, nor BOOK ill. CHAPTER VI. 207 any body to ferry him or his flock over to the other side, which grieved him mightily ; for he saw that Torralva was at his heels, and would give him much disturbance by her entreaties and tears. He therefore looked about until he espied a fisherman with a boat near him, but so small, that it could only hold one person and one goat; however he spoke to him, and agreed with him to carry over him and his three hundred goats. The fisherman got into the boat, and carried over a goat; he returned, and carried over another ; he came back again, and again carried over another. Pray, sir, keep an account of the goats that the fisherman is carrying over, for if one slips out of your memory, the story will be at an end, and it will be impossible to tell a word more of it. I go on then, and say, that the landing-place on the opposite side was covered with mud, and slippery, and the fisherman was a great while in coining and going. However, he returned for another goat, and for others, and for another." 208 DON QUIXOTE. " Make account he carried them all over," said Don Quixote ; " and do not be going and coming in this manner ; for at this rate you will not have done carrying them over in a twelvemonth." " How many are passed already V said Sancho. " How the devil should I know ?" answered Don Quixote ; " See there now ! did I not tell you to keep an exact account ? Before Heaven there is an end of the story — I can go no farther." " How can this be ?" answered Don Quixote. " Is it so essential to the story to know the exact number of goats that passed over, that if one be mistaken, the story can proceed no farther ?" " By no means, sir," answered Sancho, " for when I desired your worship to tell me how many goats had passed, and you answered you did not know, in that very instant all that I had left to say, fled out of my memory, and in faith it was very edifying and satisfactory." " So then," said Don Quixote, " the story is at an end." " As sure as my mother is," quoth Sancho. " Verily," answered Don Quixote, " you have told one of the rarest tales, fables, or histories, imaginable ; 105 and your way of telling and concluding it, is such as never was, nor will be seen in one's whole life, though I expected nothing less from your good sense ; but I do not wonder at it ; for, perhaps ,this inces- sant din may have disturbed your understanding." " All that may be," answered Sancho, " but as to my story, I know there's no more to be said ; for it ends just where the error in the account of carrying over the goats begins." " Let it end where it will, in the name of fate," said Don Quixote, " and let us see whether Roci- nante can stir himself." Again he clapt spurs to him, and again he jumped, and then stood stock still, so effectually was he fettered. Weary of his present situation, Sancho could fain have withdrawn for a while to attend to other matters, but so great was the fear that had possessed his heart, that he durst not stir the breadth of a finger from his master. The dialogue to which this led, more ludicrous 105 The history of La Torralva and the passage of the goats was not new. The substance of it at least, is to be found in the XXXIst of the Cento Novelle antiche by Francesco Sausovino, printed in 1575. But the Italian author, himself, had borrowed it from an old Provencal tale in verse, of the thirteenth century, (/.e Fableor, Barba- zan's collection, 1756), which itself was only a metrical translation of a latin tale by l'edro Alfonzo, a converted jew, and physician to Alplionso the brave, king of Arra- gon (about 1100). BOOK III. — CHAPTER VI. 209 than elegant, may perhaps as well he dispensed with. Suffice it to say, that Sancho perceiving at length the morning was coming on, with much caution, untied Rocinante, who finding himself at liberty, though naturally he was not over mettlesome, seemed to feel himself alive, and began to paw the ground ; but as for curvetting, begging his pardon, he knew not what it was. Don Quixote, perceiving that Rocinante began to bestir himself, took it for a good omen, and believed it signified he should forthwith attempt that fearful adventure. By this time the dawn appeared, and every thing being distinctly seen, Don Quixote found he was got among some tall chesnut trees, which afforded a gloomy shade; he perceived also that the striking did not cease, but he could not discover what caused it. So, without farther delay, he made Rocinante feel the spur, and turning again to take leave of Sancho, commanded him to wait there for him three days at the farthest, as he had said before, and that, if he did not return by that time, he might conclude for certain it was God's will he should end his days in that perilous adventure. He again repeated the embassy and message he was to carry to his lady Dulcinea; and as to what concerned the reward of his service, he need be in no pain, for he had made his will before he left his village, wherein he would find himself gratified as to his wages, in proportion to the time he had served ; but, if God should bring him off safe and sound from that danger, he might reckon himself infallibly secure of the promised island. Sancho wept afresh at hearing again the moving expressions of his good master, and resolved not to leave him to the last moment and end of this business. The author of this history gathers from the tears, and this so honourable a resolution of Sancho Panza's, that he must have been well-born, and at least an old Christian, 106 whose tender concern softened his master, but not so much as to make him discover any weakness; on the contrary, dissembling the best he could, he began to put on toward the place from whence the noise of the water and of the strokes seemed to proceed. m In Spain, they are termed old Christians, who do not reckon among their ances- tors either converted Jews or Moors. VOL. I. D D 210 DON QUIXOTE. Sancho followed him on foot, leading as usual his ass, that con- stant companion of his prosperous and adverse fortunes, by the halter. Having gone a good way among those shady chesnut trees, they came to a little green spot, at the foot of some steep rocks, from which a mighty gush of water precipitated itself. At the foot of the rocks were certain miserable huts, which seemed rather the ruins of buildings than houses, from amidst which proceeded, as they perceived, the sound and din of the strokes, which did not yet cease. Rocinante started, and was in disorder at the noise of the water and of the strokes; and Don Quixote, quieting him, went on fairly and softly toward the huts, recommending himself devoutly to his lady, and beseeching her to favour him in that fearful expe- dition and enterprise, and besought Heaven also not to forget him. Sancho stirred not from his side, stretching out his neck, and looking BOOK III. — CHAPTER VI. 2\ I between Rocinante's legs, to see if he could perceive what held him in such dread and suspense. They had gone about a hundred yards farther, when, at doubling a point, the very cause, for it could be no other, of that horrible and dreadful noise, which had held them all night in such suspense and fear, appeared plain and exposed to view. It was, kind reader take it not in dudgeon, six fulling-hammers, whose alternate strokes formed that hideous sound. Don Quixote, seeing what it was, was struck dumb, and in the utmost confusion. Sancho looked at him, and saw he hung down his head upon hifl breast, with manifest indications of being quite abashed. Don Quixote looked also at Sancho, and saw his cheeks swollen, and his mouth full of laughter, and evident signs of being ready to burst with it: and notwithstanding his vexation, he could not forbear laughing himself at sight of Sancho ; who, seeing his master had led the way, burst out in so violent a manner, that he was forced to hold his sides with his hands, to save himself from splitting. Four times he ceased, and four times he returned to his laughter, with the same impetuosity as at first. Whereat Don Quixote gave DON QUIXOTE. himself to the devil, especially when he heard him say hy way of irony: "You must know, friend Sancho, that I was born by the will of Heaven, in this our age of iron, to revive in it the golden, or that of gold. I am he for whom are reserved dangers, great exploits, and valorous achievements!" And so he went on repeating most or all of the expressions which Don Quixote had used at the first hearing those dreadful strokes. Don Quixote perceiving that Sancho played upon him, grew ashamed, and enraged to that degree, that he lifted up his lance and discharged two such blows, that, had he received them on his head, as he did on his shoulders, the knight had acquitted himself ! of the payment of his wages, unless it were to his heirs. Sancho, finding he paid so dearly for his jokes, and fearing lest his master should proceed further, cried out with much humility: "Pray, Sir, be pacified; by the living jingo I did but jest." " Though you jest, I do not," answered Don Quixote. " Come hither, merry sir, what think you ? suppose these mill-ham- mers had been some perilous adventure, have I not shewed you the courage requisite to undertake and achieve it? Am T, think you, BOOK III. — CHAPTER VI. 213 obliged, being a knight as I am, to distinguish sounds, and know which are or are not those of a fulling-mill ? Besides, it may be, as it really is, that I never saw any fulling-mills in my life, as thou hast, like a pitiful rustic as thou art, having been born and bred amongst them. But let these six fulling-hammers be transformed into six giants, and let them beard me one by one, or altogether, and if I do not set them all on their heads, then make what jest you will of me." "It is enough, good sir," replied Sancho, "I confess I have been a little too jocose; but pray tell me, now that it is peace between us, as God shall bring you out of all the adventures that shall happen to you, safe and sound, as he has brought you out of this, was it not a thing to be laughed at, and worth telling, what great fear we were in, at least what I was in ; for, as to your worship, I know you are unacquainted with it, nor do you know what fear or terror is." "I do not deny," answered Don Quixote, "but that what has befallen us is fit to be laughed at, but not fit to be told, for all persons are not discreet enough'to know how to take things by the right handle." "But," answered Sancho, "your worship knew how to handle your lance aright, when you pointed it at my head, and hit me on the shoulders; thanks be to fortune and to my own agility in slipping aside. But let that pass, it will out in the bucking, for 1 have heard say: 'he loves thee well who makes thee weep.' Besides, your people of condition, when they have given a servant a hard word, presently give him some old hose and breeches ; though what is usually given after a beating, I cannot tell, unless it be that your knights-errant, after bastinadoes, bestow islands, or kingdoms on the continent." "The die may run so," quoth Don Quixote, " that all you have said may come to pass ; forgive what is past, since you are considerate ; and know, that the first motions arc not in a man's power : and henceforward be ap- prised of one thing, that you may abstain and forbear talking too much with me, that, in all the books of chivalry I ever read, infinite as they are, I never found that any squire conversed so much with his master as you do with your's. Really I account it a great fault both in you and in me: in you, because you respect me so little; in me, that I do not make myself respected more. Was not Gandalin, 214 DON QUIXOTE. squire to Amadis de Gaul, earl of the firm island ? and we read of him, that he always spoke to his master cap in hand, Iris head inclined, and his body bent after the Turkish fashion. What shall we say of Gasabal, squire to Don Galaor, who was so silent, that, to illustrate the excellency of his marvellous taciturnity, his name is mentioned but once in all that great and faithful history ? From what I have said, you may infer, Sancho, that there ought to be a difference between master and man, between lord and lacquey, and between knight and squire. So that from this day forward I must be treated with more respect, for which way soever I am angry with you, it will go ill with the pitcher. 107 The favours and benefits I promised you, will come in due time ; and, if they do not come, the wages, at least, as I have told you, will not be lost." " Your worship says very well," quoth Sancho ; " but I would fain know, if perchance the time of the favours should not come, and it should be expedient to have recourse to the article of the wages, how much might the squire of a knight-errant get in those times 1 r _ and whether they agreed by the month, or by the day, like labourers ?" " I do not believe," answered Don Quixote, " that those squires were at stated wages, but relied on courtesy. And if I have appointed you any, in the will I left sealed at home, it was for fear of what might happen; for I cannot yet tell you how chivalry may succeed in these calamitous times of our's, and I would not have my soul suffer in the other world for a trifle : for I would have you to know, Sancho, that there is no state more perilous than that of adventures." " It is so in truth," said Sancho, "since the noise of the hammers" of a fulling-mill were sufficient to disturb and discompose the heart of so valorous a knight as your worship. But you may depend upon it, that from henceforward I shall not open my lips to make merry with your worship's matters, but shall honour you as my master and natural lord." " By so doing," replied Don Quixote, "your days 107 An allusion to the Spanish proverb : '" If the stone goes against the pitcher, so much the worse for the pitcher ; if the pitcher goes against the stone, so much the worse for the pitcher." 215 iíook III. — CHAPTER VI. shall be long in the land, for next to our parents we are bound to respect our masters, as if they were our fathers." 216 DON QUIXOTE. CHAPTER VIT. WHICH TREATS OF THE HIGH ADVENTURE AND RICH PRIZE OF MAMBRINO'S HELMET *, WITH OTHER THINGS WHICH BEFELL OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT. nduring rain not being to his taste, as at this time it began to descend a little, Sancho had a mind they should betake themselves to the fulling-mills. But Don Quixote had conceived such an abhorrence of them for the late jest, that he would by no means go in : and so turning to the right hand, they struck into another road like that they had lighted upon the day before. Soon after, Don Quixote discovered a man on horseback, who had on his head something which glittered, as if it had been of gold ; and scarce had he seen it, but turning to Sancho, he said : " I am of opinion, Sancho, there is no proverb but what is true, because they are all sentences drawn from experience itself, the mother of all the sciences ; especially that which says, ' Where one door is shut, another is opened.' I say this, because if fortune last night shut the door against what we looked for, deceiving us with the fulling- mills, it now sets another wide open for a better and more certain * The enchanted helmet, belonging to the Moorish king Mambrino, which ren- dered its wearer invulnerable. (Boyardo and Ariosio.) BOOK III. CHAPTER VII. 217 adventure, which if I fail to enter right into, the fault will be mine, without imputing it to my little knowledge of fulling-mills, or to the darkness of the night. This I say, because, if I mistake not, there comes one toward us, who carries on his head Mambrino's helmet,* about which I swore the oath, you know." "Take care, Sir, what you say, and more what you do," said Sancho, "for I would not wish for other fulling-mills to finish the milling and mashing our senses." " The devil take you !" replied Don Quixote : " what has a helmet to do with fulling-mills ? " "I know not," answered Sancho, " but in faith, if I dared talk as much as I used to do, perhaps I might give such reasons that your worship would see you are mis- taken in what you say." " How can I be mistaken in what I say, scrupulous traitor ? " said Don Quixote. " Tell me, scest thou not yon knight coming toward us on a dapple grey steed, with a helmet of gold on his head ?" " What I see and perceive," answered Sancho, "is only a man on a grey ass, like mine, with something on his head that glitters." "Why, that is Mambrino's helmet," said Don Quixote: "get aside, and leave me alone to deal with him; you shall see me conclude this adventure, to save time, without speaking a word : and the helmet I have so much longed for shall be my own." " I * Almonte and Mambrino, two Saracens of great valour, had each a golden helmet. Orlando Furioso took away Almonte's, and his friend Rinaldo that of Mambrino. Ariosto, Canto I. VOL. I. 218 DON QUIXOTE. will take care to get out of the way," replied Sancho : " but, I pray Heaven, I say again, it may not prove another fulling-mill adventure." " I have already told you, brother, not to mention those fulling- mills, nor so much as to think of them any more," said Don Quixote ; "if you do, I say no more, but I vow to mill your soul for you." Sancho held his peace, fearing lest his master should perform his vow, which had struck him all of a heap. Now the truth of the matter concerning the helmet, the steed and the knight which Don Quixote saw, was this : there were two villages in that neighbourhood, one of them so small that it had neither shop nor barber, but the other adjoining to it had both, and the barber of the bigger served also the lesser, in which a person indisposed wanted to be let blood, and another to be trimmed ; and for this purpose was the barber on the road, carrying with him his brass basin. Fortune so ordered it, that as he was upon the road, it began to rain, and that his hat might not be spoiled, for it was a new one, he clapped the basin on his head, which being well scoured, glittered half a league off. He rode on a grey ass, as Sancho said, and this was the reason why Don Quixote took BOOK III. — CHAPTER VII. 219 the barber for a knight, his ass for a dapple-grey steed, and his basin for a golden helmet: for he very readily adapted whatever he saw to his knightly extravagancies and wild conceits. When he saw the poor cavalier approach, without staying to reason the case with him, he advanced at Rocinante's best speed, and couched his lance low, designing to run him through and through. But when he came up to him, without checking the fury of his career, he cried out: "Defend yourself, caitill", ox surrender willingly what is so justly my due." The barber, not suspecting or apprehending any such thing, seeing this phantom coming upon him, had no other way to avoid the thrust of the lance, but to let himself fall down from the ass : and no sooner had he touched the ground, than leaping up nimbler than a roe-buck, he began to scour over the plain with such speed, that the wind could not overtake lum. He left the basin on the ground, with which Don Quixote was satisfied, and said, the miscreant had acted discreetly in imitating the beaver, who, Boding itself closely 220 DON QUIXOTE. pursued by the hunters, tears off with its teeth that for which it knows by natural instinct it is hunted. He ordered Sancho to take up the helmet, who, holding it in his hand, said : "By jove the basin is a special one, and is as well worth a piece of eight as a farthing." Then he gave it to his master, who immediately clapped it on his head, twirling it about to find the visor, and not finding it, he said : " Doubtless the pagan, for whom this famous helmet was first forged, must have had a prodigiously large head; the worst of it is, that one half is wanting." When Sancho heard the basin called a helmet, he could not forbear laughing ; but recollecting his master's late choler, he checked himself. "What dost thou laugh at, Sancho ?" said Don Quixote. He answered, " I laugh to think what a huge head the pagan had, who owned this helmet, which is, for all the world, just like a barber's basin." " Knowest thou, Sancho, what I take to be the case ? Tins famous piece, this enchanted helmet, by a strange accident, must have fallen into the hands of some one, who being ignorant of its true value, and not considering what he did, seeing it to be of the purest gold, has melted down the one half for lucre's sake, and of the other half BOOK III. — CHAPTER VII. 221 made this, which, as you say, does look like a barber's basin. But, be it what it will, to me who know it its transformation signifies nothing : I will get it put to rights in the first town where there is a smith, and in such sort, that even that which the god of smiths made and forged for the god of battles, shall not surpass nor equal it. Meanwhile I will wear it as I can, for something is better than nothing, and the rather, since it will be more than sufficient to defend me from stones." " It will so," said Sancho, " if they do not throw them with slings, as they did in the battle of the two armies, when they crossed your worship's chops, and broke the cruise in which was contained that most blessed drench, which made me bring up my liver and lights." " I am in no great pain for having lost it ; for you know, Sancho," said Don Quixote ; " I have the recipe by heart." " So have I too," answered Sancho ; " but if I ever make or try it again while I live, may I never stir from this place. Besides, I do not intend to expose myself to the hazard of standing in need of it ; for I mean to keep myself, with all my five senses, from being wounded, or from wounding any body. As to being tossed again in a blanket, I say nothing; for it is difficult to prevent such mishaps : and if they do come, then is nothing to be done, but to shrug up one's shoulders, hold one's breath, shut one's eyes, and let one's self go whither fortune and the blanket pleases to toss one." " You are no good Christian, Sancho," said Don Quixote, at hearing this ; " for you never forget an injury once done you : but know, it is inherent in generous and noble breasts to lay no stress upon trifles. What leg have you lamed, what rib, or what head have you broken, that you cannot yet forget that jest, for to tako the thing right it was mere jest and pastime ; and had I not understood it so, I had long ago returned thither, and done more mischief in revenging your quarrel, than the Greeks did for the carrying oil' of Helen, who, if she had lived in these times, or my Dulcinea in those, would never, you may be sure, have been so famous for beauty as she is." Here he uttered a sigh, and sent it to the clouds. " Let it then pass for a jest," said Sancho, " since it is not likely to be revenged in earnest ; but I know of what kinds the jests and the earnest were, and I know also they 222 DON QUIXOTE. will no more slip out of my memory than off my shoulders. But setting this aside, tell me, Sir, what we shall do with this dapple- grey steed, which looks so like a grey ass, and which that caitiff whom your worship overthrew has left behind here. To judge by Iris scouring off so hastily, and flying for it, he does not think of ever returning for him ; and by my beard, dapple is a special one." " It is not my custom," said Don Quixote, " to plunder those I overcome, nor is it the usage of chivalry to take from them their horses and leave them on foot, unless the victor hath lost his own in the conflict ; for in such a case, it is lawful to take that of the vanquished, as fairly won in battle. Therefore, Sancho, leave this horse, or ass, or what you will have it to be ; for when his owner sees us gone a pretty way off, he will come again for him." " God knows whether it were better for me to take him," replied Sancho ; " or at least to truck mine for him, which methinks is not so good : verily the laws of chivalry are strict, since they do not extend to the swapping one ass for another ; and I would fain know whether I might exchange furniture if I had a mind." " I am not very clear as to that point," answered Don Quixote ; " and in case of doubt, until better information can be had, I say you may truck, if you are in extreme want of them." " So extreme," replied Sancho, " that I could not want them more, if they were for my own proper person." So saying, he proceeded with that license, to a mutatio capparum, as the students say, and made his own beast three parts in four the better * for his new furniture. This done, they breakfasted on the remains of the plunder of the sumpter-mule, and drank of the water of the fulling- mills, without turning their faces to look at them, such was their abhorrence of them for the fright they had caused them. Their choler and hunger being allayed, they mounted, and without resolving to follow any particular road, as is the custom of knights- errant, they put on whithersoever Rocinantes will led him, the ass following, in love and good fellowship, wherever the horse led the * Literally, " leaving him better by a tierce and a quint." A figurative expression borrowed from the game of piquet, in which a tierce or a quint may be gained by putting out bad cards, and taking in better. hook III. — CHAPTER vil. 223 way. Notwithstanding this, they soon turned again into the higli road, which they followed at a venture, without any other design. As they thus sauntered on, Sancho said to his master : " Sir, will your worship be pleased to indulge me the liberty of a word or two ; for since you imposed on me that harsh command of silence, sundry things have rotted in my breast, and I have one just now at my tongue's end, that I would not for any thing should miscarry." "Out with it," said Don Quixote, "and be brief in thy discourse, for none that is long can be pleasing." " I say then, Sir," answered Sancho, "that for some days past, I have been considering how little is gained by wandering up and down in quest of those adventures your worship is seeking through these deserts and crossways, where, though you overcome and achieve the most perilous, there is nobody to see or know any thing of them ; so that they must remain in perpetual oblivion, to the prejudice of your worship's intention, and their deserts. Therefore 1 think it would be more advisable, with submission to your better judgment, that we went to serve some emperor, or other great prince, who is engaged in war ; in whose service your worship may display the strength of your arm, your great courage, and greater understanding. This being perceived by the lord we serve, he must of necessity reward each of us according to his merits. There you will also meet with somebody to put your worship's exploits in writing, for a perpetual remembrance of them. Í say nothing of my own, because they must not exceed the squirely limits; though 1 dare say, if it be the custom in chivalry to pi n the deeds of squires, mine will not be forgotten." "You are not much out, Sancho*," answered Don Quixote; " but before it comes to that, it is necessary for a knight-errant to wander about the world, seeking adventures, by way of probation ; that by achieving some, he may acquire such fame and renown, that when he comes to the court of a great monarch, he shall be known by his works beforehand; and no sooner shall the boys see * In this speech of Don Quixote we have a perfect system of chivalry, which was designed by the author as a ridicule upon romances in general ; notwithstanding which the beaux- es/irils of France, who have written romances since, have copied this very plan. 224 DON QUIXOTE. him enter the gates of the city, than they shall all follow and surround him, crying aloud : " This is the ' Knight of the Sun,' 108 or of ' the Serpent,' 109 or of any other device under which he may have achieved great exploits. ' This is he,' will they say, ' who overthrew the huge giant Brocabruno of the mighty force, in single combat ; he who disenchanted the great Mameluke of Persia from the long enchantment which held him confined almost nine hundred years.' Thus from hand to hand, they shall go on blazoning his deeds ; and presently, at the bustle of the boys and the rest of the Palmerin d' Oliva, chap. 43. Esplandian, chap. 147 and 148. BOOK III. CHAPTER VII. 225 people, the king of that country shall appear at the windows of his royal palace ; and as soon as he espies the knight, knowing him by his armour, or by the device on his shield, he must necessarily say : " Ho there, go forth my knights, all that are at court, to receive the flower of chivalry who is coming yonder." At which command they all shall go forth, and the king himself, decending half way down the stairs, shall receive him with a close embrace, saluting and kissing him; 110 and then, taking him by the hand, shall conduct him to the apartment of the queen, where the knight shall find her accompanied by her daughter the infanta, who is so beautiful and accomplished a damsel, that her equal cannot easily be found in any part of the known world. After this it must 110 Amarfix de Gmtle, rhup. 117. vol i. F r 226 DON QUIXOTE. immediately fall out, that she fixes her eyes on the knight, and he his eyes upon her, and each shall appear to the other something rather divine than human ; and without knowing how, or which way, they shall be taken and entangled in the inextricable net of love, and be in great perplexity of mind through not knowing how to converse, and discover their amorous anguish to each other. Hence, without doubt, they will conduct him to some quarter of the palace richly furnished, where having taken off his armour, they will bring him a rich scarlet mantle to put on ; and if he looked well in armour, he must needs make a much more graceful figure in ermines. Night being come, he shall sup with the king, BOOK III. CHAPTER VII. 221 queen and infanta, where he shall never take his eyes off the princess, viewing her by stealth, and she doing the same by him with the same wariness ; for, as I have said, she is a very discreet damsel. The tables being removed, there shall enter unexpectedly at the hall door a little ill-favoured dwarf, followed by a beautiful matron between two giants, with the offer of a certain adventure, so contrived by a most ancient sage, that he who shall accomplish it, shall be esteemed the best knight in the world. 111 The king shall immediately command all who are present to try it, and none shall be able to accomplish it but the stranger knight, to the great advantage of his fame ; at which the infanta will be highly delighted, and reckon herself overpaid for having placed her thoughts on so exalted an object. And the best of it is, that this king, or prince, or whatever he be, is carrying on a bloody war with another monarch as powerful as himself; and the stranger knight, after having been a few days at his court, asks leave to serve his majesty in the aforesaid war. The king shall readily grant his request, and the knight will most courteously kiss his 111 Amadis de Gauh, chap. fi7, part. 2, etc. 228 DON QUIXOTE. royal hands for the favour he does him. And that night he shall take his leave of his lady the infanta at the iron rails of a garden, adjoining to her apartment, through which he had already conversed with her several times, by the mediation of a certain female confidante, in whom the infanta greatly trusts. 112 He sighs, she swoons ; the damsel runs for cold water ; he is very uneasy at the approach of the morning light, and would by no means they should be discovered, for the sake of his lady's honour. The infanta at length comes to herself, and gives her snowy hands to the knight to kiss through the rails, who kisses them a thousand and a thousand times over, and bedews them with his tears. They agree how to let one another know their good or ill fortune : and the princess desires him to be absent as short a time as possible, which he promises with many oaths ; he kisses her hands again, and takes leave with so much concern that it almost puts an end to his life. Thence he repairs to his chamber, throws himself on his bed and cannot sleep for grief at the parting : he rises early in the morning, and goes to bid adieu to the king, the queen and the infanta ; having taken Ids leave of the two former, he is told that the princess is indisposed, and cannot admit of a visit. The knight thinks it is for grief at his departure ; his heart is pierced, and is very near giving manifest indications of his passion. The damsel confidante is all this while present, and observes what passes ; she goes and tells it her lady, who receives the account with tears, and tells her that her chief concern is that she does not know who her knight is, and whether he be of royal descent or not. The damsel assures her he is, since so much courtesy, politeness and valour, as her knight is endowed with, cannot exist but in a royal and grave subject. The afflicted princess is comforted hereby ; she Amadhde Gaule, chap. 14. — The knight of the Crois, chap. 144, etc. BOOK III. CHAPTER VII. 229 endeavours to compose herself, that she may not give her parents cause to suspect any thing amiss ; and two days after she appears in public. The knight is now gone to the war ; he fights, and overcomes the king's enemy ; takes many towns ; wins several battles. He returns to court, sees his lady at the usual place of interview ; it is agreed he shall demand her in marriage of her father, in recompense for his services ; the king does not consent to give her to him, not knowing who he is, notwithstanding which, either by carrying her off, or by some other means, the infanta becomes his spouse,* and her father comes to take it for a piece of the greatest good fortune, being assured that the knight is son to a valorous king of I know not what kingdom, for I believe it is not in the map. The father dies ; the infanta inherits ; and in two words, the knight becomes a king. 113 Here presently comes in the rewarding his squire, and all those who assisted him in mounting to so exalted a state. He marries his squire to one of the infanta's maids of honour, who is doubtless the very confidante of this amour, and daughter to one of the chief dukes." " This is what I would be at, and a clear stage," cried Sancho. " This I stick to ; for every tittle of this must happen precisely to your worship, being called ' the Knight of the sorrowful Figure.'" "Doubt it not, Sancho," replied Don Quixote : " for by those very means, and those very steps I have recounted, the knights-errant do rise, and have risen, to be kings and emperors. 11 * All that remains, to be done is, to look out, and find what king of the christians, or of the pagans, is at war, and has a beautiful daughter, f But there is time enough to think of this ; for as I have told you, we must procure renown elsewhere, before we repair to court. Besides, * In the former circumstances of this extract most romances agree, and the author exhausts the whole subject ¡ which in this he cannot do, because in those stories there are several ways of obtaining the lady ; and therefore he leaves that point at large. 113 Bernard del Carpió, canto 38. — Primaleon, chap. 157. m Tiraut the White, part I., chap. 10, etc. — The Knit/ lit of the Cross, book I. , chap. G5 and following, etc. t The ridicule is admirably heightened by the incapacity both knight and squire are under, of putting this scheme in practice ; the former by his loyalty to Dulcinea, and Sancho by having a wife and children already : nevertheless, the idea is so plea- sing, that it quite carries them away, and they resolve upon it. 230 DON QUIXOTE. there is still another thing wanting : supposing a king were found who is at war and has a handsome daughter, and that I have gotten incredible fame throughout the whole universe ; I do not see how it can be made appear that I am of the lineage of kings, or even second cousin to an emperor. For after all, the king will not give me his daughter to wife, until he is very well assured that I am such, though my renowned actions should deserve it ever so well : so that, through this defect, I am afraid I shall lose that which my arm has richly deserved. It is true indeed, I am a good gentleman of an ancient family, possessed of a good estate, and that I exact a recompense of five hundred pence. 115 Perhaps even the sage who writes my history may so brighten up my kindred and genealogy, that I may be found the fifth or sixth in descent from a king. For you must know, Sancho, that there are two kinds of lineages in the world. Some there are who derive their pedigree from princes and monarchs, whom time has reduced, by little and little, until they have ended in a point, like a pyramid reversed ; others have had poor and low beginnings, and have risen by degrees, until at last they have become great lords. So that the difference lies in this, that some have been what now they are not, and others are now what they were not before ; and who knows but I may be one of the former, and that, upon examination, my origin may be found to have been great and glorious ; with which the king my father- in-law, that is to be, ought to be satisfied ; and though he should not be satisfied, the infanta is to be so in love with me, that in spite of her father, she is to receive me for her lord and husband, though she certainly knew I was the son of a water-carrier. In case she should not, it would be necessary to take her away by force, and convey her whither I please, until time or death shall put a period to the displeasure of her parents." "Here," said Sancho, "comes in properly what some naughty people say, ' Never stand begging for that which you may take by force,' though this other is nearer to the purpose, ' A leap from a 115 According to the ancient laws of the Fuero-Juzyo and the Fueros of Castile, the noble who received an injury in his person or his goods could claim a recompense of 500 sueldo». The vassal could only claim 300. (Garibay, lib. 12, cap. 20.) BOOK III — CHAPTER VII. 231 hedge is better than the prayer of a good man.* ' I say this, because, if my lord the king, your worship's father-in-law, should not vouchsafe to yield unto you my lady the infanta, there is no more to be done, as your worship says, but to steal and carry her off. But the mischief is, that while peace is making, and before you can enjoy the kingdom quietly, the poor squire may go whistle for his reward ; unless the damsel go-between, who is to be his wife, goes off with the infanta, and he shares his misfortune with her, until it shall please Heaven to ordain otherwise ; for I believe his master may immediately give her to him for his lawful spouse." — " That you may depend upon," said Don Quixote. " Since it is so," answered Sancho, "there is no more to be done but to commend ourselves to God, and let things take their course." — " God grant it," answered Don Quixote, " as I desire, and as you need, and let him be wretched who thinks himself so." — " Let him, in God's name," said Sancho, " for I am an old Christian, and that is enough to qualify me to be an earl." — " Ay, and more than enough ; " said Don Quixote ; " but it matters not whether you are, or not. I being a king, can easily bestow nobility on you, without your buying it or doing me the least service ; for in creating you an earl, I make you a gentleman of course ; and say what they will, in good faith they must style you ' your lordship,' though it grieve them ever so much." — " Do you think," quoth Sancho, " I should know how to give authority to the indignity?" — " Dignity, you should say, and not indignity," said his master. — " So let it be," answered Sancho Panza ; " I say I should do well enough with it, for I assure you I was once beadle of a company, and the beadle's gown became me so well, that every body said I had a presence fit to be warden of the said company. Then what will it be when I am arrayed in a duke's robe, all shining with gold and pearls like a foreign count ? I am of opinion folks will come a hundred leagues to see me." " You will make a goodly appearance, indeed," said Don Quixote ; " but it will be necessary to trim your beard a little oftener, for it is so rough, tangled and dirty, that if you do not shave with a razor every other * That is, it is better to rol) than to ask charity. 232 DON QUIXOTE. day at least, they will discover what you are a musket-shot off." " Why," said Sancho, " it is but taking a barber into the house, and giving him wages ; and if there be occasion I will make him follow me like a gentleman of the horse to a grandee." " How came you to know," demanded Don Quixote, " that grandees have their gentlemen of the horse to follow them ? " "I will tell you," said Sancho ; " some years ago I was about the court for a month, and there I saw a very little gentleman riding backward and forward, who, they said was a very great lord ; 116 a man followed him on horseback, turning about as he turned, that one would have thought he had been his tail. I asked why that man did not ride by the other's side, but kept always behind him ? They answered me, that it was his gentleman of the horse, and that noblemen commonly have such to follow them ; 117 and from that day to this I have never forgotten it." " You are in the right," said Don Quixote ; " and in the same manner you may carry about your barber. All customs do not arise together, nor were they invented at once ; and you may be the first earl who carried about his barber after him. Besides indeed it is a greater trust to shave the beard than to saddle a horse." " Leave the business of the barber to my care," said Sancho ; " and let it be your worship's to procure yourself to be a king, and to make me an earl." " So it shall be," answered Don Quixote ; and, lifting up his eyes, he saw what will be told in the following chapter. 116 It is thought that Cervantes here alludes to Don Pedro Giron, Duke d' Osuna, viceroy of Naples and Sicily. In his History of the government of the Viceroys of Naples Domenicho Antonio Parrino says that he was one of the great men of the age, and that he was small in stature only : di picciolo non avea altru que la statura. H7 « When the lord quits the house to take a walk or pay a visit, it is the squire's duty to follow him on horseback." (Miguel Yelgo, Estilo deservir a principes, 1G1 4.) EOOK HI. CHAPTER VIII. 233 ClIAPTKIi VIII. HOW DON QUIXOTE SET AT LIBERTY SEVERAL UNFORTUNATE PERSONS, WHO WERE BEING CARRIED, MUCH AGAINST THEIR WILLS, TO A PLACE THEY DID NOT LIKE. id Hamet Benengeli, the Arabian and Manchegan author, relates, in this most grave, lofty, accurate, delightful and inge- nious history, that presently after those discourses which passed between the famous Don Quixote de la Mancha and Sandio Panza, his squire, as they are related at the end of the foregoing chapter, Don Quixote lifted up his eyes, and saw coming on, in the same road, about a dozen men on foot, strung like beads in a row by the necks, in a great iron chain, and all handcuffed. There came also with them two men on horseback, and two on foot; those on horseback armed with firelocks, and those on foot with pikes and swords. Sancho Panza espying them, said: "This is a chain of galley-slaves, persons forced by the king to the galleys." "How! persons forced!" quoth Don Quixote; " is it possible the king should force any body ? " "I say not so," answered Sancho: "but that they are persons condem- ned by the law for their crimes to serve the king in the galleys per- force." "In short," replied Don Quixote, "however it be, still vol i. G t; 234 DON QUIXOTE, they are going by force, and not with their own liking." " It is so," said Sancho. "Then," said his master, "here the execution of my office takes place, to defeat violence, and to succour and relieve the miserable." " Consider, Sir," quoth Sancho, " that justice, that is the king himself, does no violence nor injury to such persons, but only punishes them for their crimes." By this the chain of galley-slaves was come up ; and Don Quixote, in most courteous terms, desired of the guard, that they would be pleased to inform and tell him the cause or cause's why they conduc- ted those persons in that manner. One of the guards on horseback answered, thay they were slaves belonging to his majesty, and going to the galleys, which was all he could say, or the other need know of the matter. " For all that " replied Don Quioxte, " I should be glad to know from each of them in particular the cause of his misfortune." To these he added such other courteous expressions to induce them to tell him what he desired, that the other horseman said : " Though we have here the record and certificate of the sentence of each of these wretches, this is no time to produce and read them ; draw near, Sir, and ask it of themselves ; they may inform you, if they please ; and inform you they will, for they are BOOK III. CHAPTER VIII. 235 such as Lake a pleasure both in acting and relating rogueries." With this leave, whic h Don Quixote would have taken if they had not given it, he drew near to the chain, and demanded of the first for what offence he marched in such evil plight. He answered, that he went in that manner for being in love. "For that alone " replied Don Quixote ; " if they send folks to the galleys for being in love, I might long since have been rowing in them." "It was not such love as your worship imagines, " said the galley-slave ; "mine was the being so deeply enamoured of a clothes-basket of fine Unen, and embracing it so close, that if justice had not taken it from me by force, I should not have parted with it by my good will to this very day. I was taken in the fact, so there was no occasion for the torture : the process was short, they tickled my shoulders with a hundred lashes, and have sent me, by way of supplement, for three years to the Gurapas,* and there is an end of it." — " What are the Gurapas?" quoth Don Quixote. " The Gurapas are the galleys, answered the slave, who was a young man about twenty-four years of age, and said he was born at Piedraita. Don Quixote put the same question to the second, who returned no answer, he was so melancholy and dejected. But the first answered for him, and said : " This gentleman goes for being a canary bird, I mean, for being a musician and a singer." " How so ? " replied Don Quixote ; " are men sent to the galleys for being musicians and singers ? " " Yes, sir," replied the slave, " for there is nothing worse than to sing in an agony." " Nay," said Don Quixote, " I have heard say, ' Who sings in grief, procures relief.' " " This is the very reverse," said the slave ; " for here, he who sings once, weeps all his life after." " I do not understand that," said Don Quixote. One of the guards said to him: " Signor cavalier, to sing in an agony, means in the cant of these rogues, to confess upon the rack. This offender was put to the torture, and confessed his crime, which was that of being a Quatrero, that is, a stealer of cattle ; and because he confessed, he was sentenced for six years to the galleys, besides two hundred lashes he has already received on the shoulders. He is * A cant word. 236 DON QUIXOTE. always pensive and sad, because the rest of the rogues, both those behind and those before, abuse, vilify, flout and despise him for confessing, and not having the courage to say no ; for say they, no contains the same number of letters as ay, and that it is lucky for a delinquent when his life or death depends upon his own tongue, and not upon proofs and witnesses: for my part, I think they are right." "And I think so too," answered Don Quixote; who passing on to the third, interrogated him as he had done the others. He answered very readily, and with very little concern: "I am going to Mesdames the Gurapas for five years for wanting ten ducats." "I will give twenty with all my heart," said Don Quixote, "to redeem you from this misery." "That," said the slave, "is like having money at sea, and dying for hunger, where there is nothing to be bought with it. I say this, because, if I had been possessed in time of those twenty ducats you now offer me, I would have so BOOK III. — CHAPTER VIII. 237 greased the clerk's pen, and sharpened ray advocate's wit, that I should have heen this day upon the market-place of Zocodover, in Toledo, and not on this road, coupled and dragged like a hound. But God is great: patience. I say no more." Don Quixote passed on to the fourth, who was a man of a vene- rable aspect, with a white beard reaching below his breast ; who, hearing himself asked the cause of his coming hither, began to weep, and answered not a word; but the fifth lent him a tongue, and said : " This honest gentleman goes for four years to the galleys, after having gone in the public streets pompously apparelled and mounted. * " " That is, I suppose," said Sancho, " put to the public shame." "Right," replied the slave; "and the offence for which he underwent this punishment was, his having been a broker of the ear, yea, and of the whole body: in effect, I would say that this cavalier goes for pimping, and exercising the trade of a conjuror." " Had it been merely for pimping," said Don Quixote, " he had not deserved to row in, but to command, and be general of the galleys. The office of a pimp is not a slight business, but an employment fit only for discreet persons, and a most necessary one in a well-regulated commonwealth and none but persons well bom ought to exercise it. In truth there should be inspectors and controllers of it, as there are of other offices, with a certain number of them deputed, like exchange- brokers. By this means many mischiefs would be prevented which now happen, because this office and profession is in the hands of foolish and ignorant persons; such as silly waiting-women, pages, and buffoons, of a few years standing, and of small experience, who, in the greatest exigency, and when there is occasion for the most dexterous management and address, suffer the morsel to freeze between the fingers and the mouth, and scarce know which is their right hand. I could go on, and assign the reasons why it would be expedient to make choice of proper persons to exercise an office so necessary in the commonwealth: but this is no proper place or time for it. I may one day or other lay this matter before those * Such malefactors as in England were set in the pillory, in Spain were carried about in a «articular habit, mounted on an ass, with their face to the tail ; the crier going before, and proclaiming their crime. 238 DON QUIXOTE. who can provide a remedy. At present I only say, that the concern I felt at seeing those grey hairs, and that venerable countenance, m so much distress for pimping, is entirely removed by the addi- tional character of his being a wizard ; though I very well know there are no sorceries in the world which can effect and force the will, as some foolish people imagine. Our will is free, and no herb nor charm can compel it. What some silly women and crafty knaves are wont to do is, with certain mixtures and poisons, to turn people's brains, under pretence that they have power to make one fall in love; it being as I say a thing impossible to force the will. " 118 "It is so," said the honest old fellow ; "and truly, Sir, as to being a wizard, I am not guilty; but as for being a pimp, I cannot deny; — but I never thought there was any harm in it. The whole of my intention was, that all the world should divert themselves, and live in peace and quiet, without quarrels or troubles. But this good design could not save me from going whence I shall have no hope of re- turning, considering I am so laden with years, and troubled besides with sickness, which leaves me not a moment's repose." And here he began to weep, as at first ; and Sancho was so moved with com- passion, that he drew out from his bosom a real, and gave it him as an alms. Don Quixote went on, and demanded of another what his offence was ; who answered, not with less, but much more alacrity than the former : " I am going for making a little too free with two she-cousin- germans of mine, and with two other cousin-germans not mine. In short, I carried the jest so far with them all, that the result of it was the increasing of kindred so intricately, that no casuist can make it out. The whole was brought home to me : I had neither friends nor money; my windpipe was in the utmost danger. I was sentenced to the galleys for six years — I submit ; it is the punish- ment of my fault. I am young; fife may last, and time brings 118 We find in the old code of the thirteenth century, designated Fuero-Juzgo, the penalties inflicted on those who cause hail to fall on the vines and on the harvest, on those who hold intercourse with devils, and who change the minds of men and women . (Lib. VI, tit. 2, ley. 4). The Partidas punish in like maimer those who make images, or practise craft, and give herbs to provoke the love of men and women. (Part VII, tit. 23, ley. 2 y 3.) BOOK III. — CHAPTER VIII. 239 every thing about. If your worship, Signor cavalier, has any thing about you to relieve us poor wretches, God will repay you in Heaven ; and we will make it the business of our prayers to beseech him that your worship's life and health may be as long and prosperous as your goodly presence deserves." This slave was in the habit of a student; and one of the guards said he was a great talker, and a very pretty Latinist. Behind all these came a man some thirty years of age, of a goodly aspect, only he seemed to thrust one eye into the other. He was I bound somewhat differently from the rest, for he had a chain to his leg, so long that it was fastened round his middle, and two collars about his neck, one of which was fastened to the chain, and the 240 DON QUIXOTE. other, called a keep-friend, or friend's foot, had two straight irons, which came down from it to his waist, at the end of which were fixed two manacles,* wherein his hands were secured with a huge padlock ; insomuch that he could neither lift his hands to his mouth, nor bend his head to his hands. Don Quixote asked why this man went fettered and shackled so much more than the rest. The guard answered, because he alone had committed more villanies than all the rest put together ; and that he was so bold and so desperate a villain, that though they carried him in that manner, they were not secure of him, but were still afraid he would make his escape. "What kind of villanies has he committed," said Don Quixote, " that they have deserved no greater punishment than being sent" to the galleys ? " " He goes for ten years," said the guard, " which is a kind of civil death. You need only be told, that this honest gen- tleman is the famous Ginés de Passamonte, abas Ginésillo de Parapilla." " Fairly and softly, Signor commissary," said the slave ; " let us not be now lengthening out names and sirnames. Ginés is my name, and not Ginésillo ; and Passamonte is the name of my family, and not Parapilla, as you say, let every one turn himself round, and look at home, and he will find enough to do." " Speak with more respect, sir thief-above-measure," replied the commissary, "unless you will oblige me to silence you to your sorrow." " You may see," answered the slave, " that man goeth as God pleaseth ; but somebody may learn one day, whether my name is Ginésillo de Parapilla or no." " Are you not called so, lying rascal?" said the guard. "They do call me so," answered Ginés ; " but I will oblige them not to call me so, or I will flay them where I care not at present to say. Signor cavalier," continued he, " if you have any thing to give us, give it us now, and God be with you ; for you tire us with enquiring so much after other men's lives. If you would know mine, know that I am Ginés de Passamonte, whose life is written by these very fingers." "He says true," said the commissary; "for he himself has written his own history, as well as heart could wish, and has left the book in prison, in pawn for two hundred reals." " Ay and I * The original is esjwsas, (spouses) ; so called because they joined the hands together like man and wife. BOOK III. — CHAPTER VII!. 241 intend to redeem it," said Ginés, " if it lay for two hundred ducats." " What ! is it so good ? " said Don Quixote. " So good " answered Gines, u that woe be to Lazarillo de Tonnes, and to all that have written, or shall write, in that way ! What I can affirm is, that it relates truths, and truths so ingenious and entertaining that no fictions can come up to them." " How is the book intituled ? " demanded Don Quixote. " ' The Ufe of Ginés de Passamoiite? " replied Gines himself. " And is it finished ? " quoth Don Quixote. " How can it be finished," answered he, "since my life is not yet finished ? What is written, is from my cradle to the moment of my being sent this last time to the galleys." " Then you have been there before ? " said Don Quixote. " Four years the other time," replied Gines, "to serve God and the king; and I know already the relish of the biscuit and the lash : nor does it grieve me much to go there again, since I shall there have the opportunity of finishing my book ; for I have a great many things to say, and in the galleys of Spain there is leisure more than enough, though I shall not want much for what I have to write, because I have it by heart. 119 " "You seem to be a witty fellow," said Don Quixote. " And an unfortunate one," answered Gines; " but misfortunes always pursue the ingenious." " Pursue the villanous," said the commissary. " I have already desired you Signor commissary," answered Passa- monte, "to go on fair and softly. Your superiors did not give you that staff' to misuse us poor wretches here, but to conduct and carry us whither his majesty commands. Now, by the life of 1 say no more ; but the spots which were contracted in the inn may perhaps one day come out in the bucking; and let every one hold his tongue, and live well, and speak better ; and let us march on, for this has held us long enough." The commissary lifted up his staff to strike Passamonte, in return for his threats : but Don Quixote interposed, and desired he would not abuse him, since it was but fair, that he who had his hands so tied up should have his tongue a little at liberty. Then, turning about to the whole string, he said : " From all you have 119 The author of Guzman a" Alfarache, Mateo Alemán says of his hero :— " He, himself, wrote his history in the galleys, where he was forced to tug at the oar for the crimes he committed." — VOL. I. II II 242 DON QUIXOTE. told me, dearest brethren, I clearly gather, that though it be only to punish you for your crimes, you do not much relish the punishment you are going to suffer, and that you go to it much against the grain and against your good liking. Perhaps the pusillanimity of him who was put to the torture, this man's want of money, and the other's want of friends, and in short the judge's wresting of the law, may have been the cause of your ruin, and that you did not come off as injustice you ought to have done. And I have so strong a persuasion, that this is the truth of the case, that my mind prompts, and even forces me, to shew in you why Heaven sent me into the world, and ordained me to profess the order of chivalry, which I profess, and the vow I made in it to succour the needy and those oppressed by the mighty. But, knowing that it is one part of prudence not to do that by foul means which may be done by fair, I will entreat these gentlemen your guard, and the commissary, that they will be pleased to loose you, and allow you to go in peace, there being people enough to serve the king for better reasons ; for it seems to me a hard case to make slaves of those whom God and Nature made free. Besides, gentlemen guards," added Don Quixote, "these poor men have committed no offence against you : let every one answer for his sins in the other world ; there is a God in Heaven, who does not neglect to chastise the wicked, nor to reward the good ; neither is it fitting that honest men shouldbe the executioners of others, when they have no interest in the matter. I request this of you in this calm and gentle manner, that I may have some ground to thank you for your compliance. But if you do it not willingly, this lance and this sword, with the vigour of my arm, shall compel you to do it." " This is pleasant fooling," answered thecommissary ; " anadmirable conceit he has hit upon at last. He would have us let the king's prisoners go, as if we had authority to set them free, or he to com- mand us to do it. Go on your way, Signor, and adjust that basin on your noddle, and do not go feeling for five legs in a cat." " You are a cat, and a rat, and a rascal to boot," answered Don Quixote. So, with a word and a blow, he attacked him so suddenly that before he could stand upon his defence he threw him to the ground, much wounded with the thrust of his lance. It happened luckily BOOK III. CHAPTER VIII. 243 for Don Quixote, that this was one of the two who carried a firelock. The rest of the guards were astonished and confounded at the unexpected encounter : but recovering themselves, those on horse- back drew their swords, and those on foot laid hold on their javelins and fell upon Don Quixote, who waited for them with much calm- ness. Doubtless it had gone ill with him if the galley-slaves, perceiving the opportunity which offered itself to them of recovering their liberty, had not procured it by breaking the chain with which they were linked together. The confusion was so great that the guards, now endeavouring to prevent the slaves from getting loose, and now engaging with Don Quixote, who attacked them, did nothing to any purpose. Sancho, for his part, assisted in loosing of Ginés de Passamonte, who was the first that leaped free and dis- embarrassed upon the plain : and setting upon the fallen commissary, he took away his sword and his gun, with which, levelling it first at one and then at another, without discharging it, he cleared the field of all the guard, who fled no less from Passamonte 's gun than from the shower of stones, which the slaves, now at liberty, poured upon them. Sancho was much grieved at this notable exploit; for he imagined, that the fugitives would give notice of the fact to the holy brother- hood, which upon ringing a bell, would sally out in quest of the delinquents. He communicated his fear to his master, and begged of him to begone from thence immediately, and take shelter among the trees and rocks of the neighbouring mountain. " It is well," said Don Quixote ; " but I know what is now expedient to be done." Then having called all the slaves together, who were in a fright, and had stripped the commissary to his buff, they gathered in a ring about him to know his pleasure, when he thus addressed them : " To be thankful for the benefits received, is the property of persons well born; and one of the sins at which God is most ofiended, is ingratitude. This I say, gentlemen, because you have already found, by manifest experience, the benefit you have received at my hands ; in recompense whereof, my will and pleasure is that, laden with this chain which I have taken off from your necks, you immediately set out and go to the city of Toboso, and there present 244 DON QUIXOTE. yourselves before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and tell her that her knight, he of the Sorrowful Figure sends you to present his service to her ; and recount to her every tittle and circumstance of this memorable adventure, to the point of settingyou at your wished- for liberty. This done, you may go, in God's name, whither you list 120 ." Ginés de Passamonte answered for them all, and said: "What your worship commands us, noble Sir our deliverer, is of all impos- sibilities the most impossible to be complied with ; for we dare not be seen together on the road, but must go separate and alone, each man by himself, and endeavour to hide ourselves in the very bowels of the earth from the holy brotherhood, who doubtless will be out in quest of us. What your worship may and ought to do is, to change this service and duty to the lady Dulcinea del Toboso into a certain number of Ave Marias and Credos, which we will say, for the success of your design. This is what we may do by day or by night, flying or reposing, in peace or in war. But to think that we will now return to the brick-kilns of Egypt, I say to take our chains and put ourselves on the way to Toboso, is to think it is now night already, whereas it is not yet ten o'clock in the morning ; and to expect this from us is to expect pears from an elm-tree." — "I vow then," quoth Don Quixote, already enraged, "Don son of a trull, Don Ginésillo de Parapilla, or however you call yourself, you alone shall go, with your tail between your legs and the whole chain upon your back." Passamonte, who was not over passive, and had already perceived that Don Quixote was not wiser than he should be, since he committed such an extravagance as the setting them at liberty, seeing himself treated in this manner, winked upon his comrades ; and they all, stepping aside, began to rain such a shower of stones upon Don Quixote, that he could not 120 Amadis of Gaul, having conquered the giant Madraque, grants him his life, on condition that he turns Christian, he and all his vassals, that he founds certain churches and monasteries, and finally, that he sets at liberty all the prisoners that he has in confinement in his dungeons, who were upwards of a hundred in number, of whom thirty were knights and forty young ladies or duennas. Amadis said to them when they came to kiss his hands, in token of gratitude : " Go, and find queen Brisena, tell her in what manner you have been sent to her by her Knight of the Firm Island, and kiss her hand for me." — (Amadis de Ganle, liv, iii. chap. 65.) BOOK III. CHAPTER VIII. 245 contrive to cover himself with his buckler; and poor Rocinante made no more of the spur than if he had been made of brass. — Sancho got behind the ass, and thereby sheltered himself from the storm and hail that poured upon them both. Don Quixote could not screen himself so well but that he received I know not how many thumps of the body, with such force, that they brought him to the ground ; and scarce was he fallen, when the student set upon him, and, taking the basin from off his head, gave him three or four blows with it on the shoulders, and then struck it as often against the ground, whereby he almost broke it to pieces. They stripped him of a jacket he wore over his armour, and would have stripped him of his trowsers too, if the greaves had not hindered them. They took from Sancho his cloak, leaving him in his doublet ; * * En pelota. The phrase signifies " to be stark naked." l'elota is likewise a garment formerly used in Spain, but now unknown. The reader will easily sec that it ought not to be understood here in the first of these senses. 246 DON QUIXOTE. and sharing among themselves the spoils of the battle, they made the best of their way off, each by a separate road, with more care how to escape the holy brotherhood they were in fear of, than to load themselves with the chain and to go and present themselves before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso. The ass and Rocinante, Sancho and Don Quixote, remained by themselves ; the ass hanging his head and pensive, and now and then shaking his ears, thinking that the storm of stones was not yet over, but still whizzing about his head ; Rocinante stretched along close by his master, he also being knocked down with another stone ; Sancho in his doublet, and afraid of the holy brotherhood ; and Don Quixote very much out of humour to find himself so ill treated by those very persons to whom he had done so much good. BOOK III. — CHAPTER IX. 247 CHAPTER IX. OF WHAT BEFELL THE RENOWNED DON QUIXOTE IN THE SIERRA MORENA, 121 BEING ONE OF THE MOST CURIOUS AND UNCOMMON ADVENTURES RELATED IN THIS VERACIOUS HISTORY. on quixote, finding himself so ill treated, said to his squire : " Sancho, I have always heard it said, that to do good to low fellows is to throw water into the sea. Had I believed what you said to me, I might have prevented this trouble ; but it is done, I must have ^/^■^^^^B^^W^^J^^ patience, and take warning hence- forward." "Your worship will as much take warning," answered Sancho, " as I am a Turk. But, since you say that if you had believed me you had avoided this mischief, believe me now, and you will avoid a greater; for, let me tell you, there is no putting off the holy brotherhood with chivalries : they do not care two farthings for all the knights-errant in the world ; and know, that I fancy already I hear 121 In Spain, they give the term sierra (saw) to a chain of mountains. The Sierra- Morena (brown mountains), which extend nearly from the mouth of the Ebro to Cape St. Vincent, in Portugal, separates La Mancha from Andalusia. The Romans called it Mons Marianus. 248 DON QUIXOTE. their arrows whizzing about my ears m ." " Thou art naturally a coward, Sancho," said Don Quixote ; " but thatyou may not say I am obstinate, and that I never do what you advise, I will for once take your counsel, and get out of the reach of that fury you fear so much. But upon this one condition, that, neither living nor dying, you shall ever tell any body that I retired, and withdrew myself from this peril out of fear, but that I did it out of mere compliance with your entreaties. Should you say otherwise, you will lie in so doing; and from this time to that, and from that time to this, I tell you you lie, and will he, every time you say or think it. Make no reply ; for the bare thought of withdrawing and re- treating from any danger, and especially from this, which seems to carry some or no appearance of fear with it, makes me now stand prepared to abide here, and expect alone, not only that holy brotherhood you talk of and fear, but the brothers of the twelve tribes of Israel, and the seven Maccabees, and Castor and Pollux, and even all the brothers and brotherhoods that are in the world." "Sir," answered Sancho, "retreating is not running away, nor is staying wisdom when the danger overbalances the hope : and it is the part of wise men to secure themselves to-day for to-morrow, and not to venture all upon one throw. Though I am but a clown and a peasant, I have yet some smattering of what is called good conduct ; therefore, repent not of having taken my advice, but get upon Rocinante if you can, and if not, I will assist you ; and follow me, for my heart tells me, that for the present we have more need of heels than hands," Don Quixote mounted without replying a word more ; and Sancho leading the way upon his ass, they entered a pass in the Sierra-Morena, which was hard by, it being Sancho's intention to pass quite across that chain of mountains, and to get out at Viso or Almodovar del Campo, and to hide for some days among those craggy rocks, that they might not be found if the holy brotherhood should come in quest of them. — He was encouraged to this by seeing that the provisions carried by his ass had escaped safe from 122 The Sainte-Hermandad had criminals condemned to death, shot with bow and arrow and left the corpses exposed on a gibbet. BOOK III. CHAPTER IX. 249 the skirmish with the galley-slaves, which he looked upon as a miracle, considering what the slaves took away, and how narrowly they searched. That night they got into the heart of the Sierra-Morena, where Sancho thought it convenient to halt and remain some days, at least while the provisions he had with him lasted. Accordingly they took up their lodging between two great rocks, and amidst abundance of cork-trees. But destiny, which according to the opinion of those who have not the light of the true faith, guides fashions, and disposes all things its own way, so ordered it that Gines de Passamonte, the famous cheat and robber whom the valour and madness of Don Quixote had delivered from the chain, being justly afraid of the holy brotherhood, took it into his head to hide himself in those very mountains. His fortune and his fear carried him to the same place where Don Quixote's fortune and Sancho Panza's prudence had carried them, just at the time he could distinguish who they were, and at the instant they had fallen asleep. As the wicked are always ungrateful, and necessity puts people upon applying to shifts, and the present conveniency overcomes the consideration of the future, Ginés, who had neither gratitude nor good-nature, resolved to steal Sancho Panza's ass, taking no notice of Rocinante, as a thing neither pawnable nor saleable. Sancho Panza slept ; the varlet stole his ass, and before it was day, he was too far oft" to be found. Aurora issued forth, rejoicing the earth, and saddening Sancho Panza, who missed his ass, and finding himself deprived of him, he began the dolcfullest lamentation in the world ; and so loud it was, that Don Quixote awakened by his cries, heard him say : " O child of my bowels, born in my own house, the joy of my children, the entertainment of my wife, the envy of my neighbours, the relief of my burdens, and lastly, the half of my maintenance ! for, with six- and-twenty maravedís I earned every day by thy means, I half supported my family." Don Quixote, hearing the lamentation and learning the cause, comforted Sancho with the best reasons he could, and desired him to have patience, promising to give him a bill of exchange for three young asses out of five he had left at home. VOL i. I 1 250 DON QUIXOTE. Sancho was comforted herewith, wiped away his tears, moderated his sighs, and thanked his master for the kindness he shewed him. Don Quixote's heart leaped for joy at entering into the mountains, such kind of places seeming to him the most likely to furnish him with those adventures he was in quest of. They recalled to his memory the marvellous events which had befallen knights-errant in such solitudes and deserts. He went on meditating on these things, and so wrapped and transported in them that he remembered nothing else. Nor had Sancho any other concern, now that he thought he was out of danger, than to appease his hunger with what remained of the clerical spoils. So, sitting sideling as women do, upon his beast, 123 he jogged after his master, emptying the bag, and filling his belly : and while he was thus employed, he would not have given a farthing to meet with any new adventure whatever. 123 It appears that Cervantes added subsequently in this chapter, and after he had already written the two following ones, the theft of Sancho's ass by Ginés de Passa- monte. In the first edition of Don Quixote, he continued, after the relation of the theft, to speak of the ass as though it had not ceased to be in Sancho's possession, and said in this place: " Sancho followed his master, sitting sideways on his ass — ." In the second edition, he corrected this in advertance, but incompletely, and allowed it to remain in several places. The Spaniards have religiously preserved his text, even to the contradictions made by this partial correction. We have, after M. Viardot, made them disappear, with the exception of once mentioning the ass, in chapter XI of this book (post). It will be seen, in the second part of Don Quixote, that Cervantes ridicules himself very pleasantly for his heedlessness, and for the contradictions that it causes in the narrative. BOOK III. — CHAPTER IX.