Book IV

Book IV

CHAP. I. OF THE TOILFUL END AND CONCLUSION OF SANCHO PANZA’S GOVERNMENT.

To think the affairs of this life will always remain in the same posture, is a wild supposition; on the contrary, every thing goes in a round; I mean, goes round. Spring succeeds winter, summer follows spring, autumn comes after summer, and winter comes in the rear of autumn; then spring resumes its verdure, and time turns round on an incessant wheel. The life of man alone runs lightly to its end, unlike the circle of time, without hope of renewal, except in another life, which knows no bounds. Thus moralizes Cid Hamet, the Mahometan philosopher; for the knowledge of the frailty and instability of the present life, together with the eternal duration of that which we expect, many, without the light of faith, by natural instinct have attained. But here our author makes the observation on account of the celerity with which Sancho’s government was finished, consumed, destroyed, and dissolved into smoke and vapour.

This poor governor being a-bed on the seventh night of his administration, not crammed with bread and wine, but fatigued with sitting in judgment, passing sentence, and making statutes and regulations; and sleep, maugre and in despight of hunger, beginning to weigh down his eye-lids, his ears were saluted with a terrible noise of bells and cries, as if the whole island had been going to wreck.

Sitting up in his bed, he listened attentively, in hope of comprehending the meaning and cause of such a mighty uproar: however, he not only failed in his expectation; but the noise of the cries and the bells being reinforced by that of an infinite number of drums and trumpets, he remained more terrified, confounded, and aghast, than ever. Then starting up, he put on his slippers, on account of the dampness of the ground; though without wrapping himself up in his morning-gown, or in any other sort of apparel; and opening the door of his apartment, saw above twenty persons running through the gallery, with lighted torches, and naked swords in their hands, exclaiming aloud, and all together, ‘Arm, arm, my Lord Governor, arm! a vast number of the enemy has landed on the island; and we are lost and undone, unless protected by your valour and activity.’

With this clamour, fury, and disturbance, they rushed towards Sancho, who stood astonished and perplexed at what he saw and heard, and when they came up to the spot, one of them accosting him, ‘Arm, my lord,’ said he, ‘unless you want to perish, and see the whole island destroyed.’—‘For what should I arm?’ replied Sancho; ‘I neither know the use of arms, nor can I give you protection. These matters had better be left to my master Don Quixote; who, in the turning of a straw, would dispatch the whole affair, and put every thing in safety; but, for me, as I am a sinner to God, I understand nothing of these hurly-burlys!’—‘How! my Lord Governor,’ cried another, ‘what despondence is this? Put on your armour, Signior; here we have brought arms offensive and defensive; come forth to the market-place, and be our guide and our general, seeing of right that place belongs to you, as being our governor.’—‘Arm me, then, a God’s name!’ replied Sancho. At that instant they took two large bucklers they had brought along with them, and putting over his shirt (for they would not give him time to clothe himself) one buckler before and another behind, they pulled his arms through certain holes they had made in the targets, and fastened them well together with cords, in such a manner, that the poor governor remained quite inclosed, and boarded up as straight as a spindle, without being able to bend his knees, or move one single step; and in his hands they put a lance, with which he supported himself as he stood. Having cooped him up in this manner, they desired him to march out, and conduct and animate his people; in which case he being the north star, their lanthorn, and Lucifer, their affairs would be brought to a prosperous issue. ‘How should I march, unfortunate wight that I am,’ said Sancho, ‘when my very knee pans have not room to play, so much am I cramped by those boards, which are squeezed into my very flesh? Your only way is to take me up in your arms, and lay me across, or set me upright in some postern, which I will defend either with this lance or this carcase.’—‘Come, my Lord Governor,’ replied the other, ‘you are more hampered by fear than by your bucklers. Make haste, and exert yourself, for it grows late; the enemies swarm, the noise increases, and the danger is very pressing.’

In consequence of this persuasion and reproach, the poor governor endeavoured to move, and down he came to the ground with such a fall that he believed himself split to pieces. There he lay like a tortoise covered with its shell, or a flitch of bacon between two trays; or, lastly, like a boat stranded with her keel uppermost. Yet his fall did not excite the compassion of those unlucky wags; on the contrary, extinguishing their torches, they renewed the clamour, and repeated the alarm with such hurry and confusion, trampling upon the unhappy Sancho, and bestowing a thousand strokes upon the bucklers, that if he had not gathered, and shrunk himself up, with drawing his head within the targets, the poor governor would have passed his time but very indifferently; shrunk as he was within that narrow lodging, he sweated all over with fear and consternation, and heartily recommended himself to God, that he might be delivered from the danger that encompassed him. Some stumbled, and others fell over him; nay, one of the party stood upon him for a considerable time, and thence, as from a watch-tower, gave orders to the army, exclaiming with a loud voice, ‘This way, my fellow-soldiers; for here the enemy make their chief effort! Guard this breach; shut that gate; down with those scaling ladders; bring up the fire-pots, with the kettles of melted pitch, rosin, and boiling oil; barricado the streets with woolpacks!’ In a word, he named with great eagerness, all the implements, instruments, and munition of war, used in the defence of a city assaulted; while the bruised and battered Sancho, who heard the din, and suffered grievously, said within himself, ‘O! would it please the Lord that the island were quickly lost, that I might see myself either dead or delivered from this distress!’ Heaven heard his petition, and when he least expected such relief, his ears were saluted with a number of voices, crying, ‘Victory! victory! the enemy is overcome! Rise, my Lord Governor, and enjoy your conquest; and divide the spoil taken from the foe by the valour of your invincible arm.’

The afflicted Sancho, with a plaintive voice, desired them to lift him up; and when they helped him to rise and set him on his legs again, ‘I wish,’ said he, ‘the enemy I have conquered were nailed to my forehead. I want to divide no spoils; but I beg, and supplicate some friend, if any such I have, to bring me a draught of wine; and that he will wipe me dry of this sweat which has turned me into water.’ They accordingly wiped him clean, brought the wine, untied the bucklers, and seated him upon his bed, where he fainted away through fear, consternation, and fatigue. Those concerned in the joke now began to be sorry for having laid it on so heavy; but Sancho’s recovery moderated their uneasiness at his swooning. He asked what it was o’clock; and they answered it was day-break: then, without speaking another syllable, he began to dress himself, in the most profound silence; and all present gazed upon him with looks of expectation, impatient to know the meaning of his dressing himself so earnestly. At length, having put on his cloaths very leisurely, for his bruises would not admit of precipitation, he hied him to the stable, attended by all the by-standers, where, advancing to Dapple, he embraced him affectionately, and gave him the kiss of peace upon the forehead, saying, while the tears trickled from his eyes, ‘Come hither, my dear companion! my friend, and sharer of all my toil and distress; when you and I consorted together, and I was plagued with no other thoughts than the care of mending your furniture and pampering your little body, happy were my hours, my days, and my years! but since I quitted you, and mounted on the towers of pride and ambition, my soul has been invaded by a thousand miseries, a thousand toils, and four thousand disquiets.’

While he uttered this apostrophe, he was employed in putting the pack-saddle on his ass, without being interrupted by any living soul; and Dapple being equipped for the road, he made shift to mount him, with great pain and difficulty: then, directing his words and discourse to the steward, secretary, sewer, Doctor Pedro, and many others who were present, ‘Make way, gentlemen,’ said he, ‘and let me return to my ancient liberty; let me go in quest of my former life, that I may enjoy a resurrection from this present death: I was not born to be a governor, or to defend islands and cities from the assaults of their enemies. I am better versed in ploughing and delving, in pruning and planting vines, than in enacting laws, and defending provinces and kingdoms. I know St. Peter is well at Rome—that is, every one does well in following the employment to which he was bred; a sickle becomes my hand better than a governor’s sceptre; and I would rather fill my belly with soup-meagre, than undergo the misery of an impertinent physician who starves me to death. I would much rather solace myself under the shade of an oak in summer, and clothe myself with a sheepskin jacket in the winter, being my own master, than indulge, under the subjection of a government, with holland sheets, and robes of sables—God be with you, gentlemen; and pray tell my lord duke, Naked I was born, and naked I remain; and if I lose nothing, as little I gain. That is, I would say, Pennyless I took possession of this government, and pennyless I resign my office; quite the reverse of what is usually the case with governors of other islands. Make way, therefore, and let me go and be plaistered; for I believe all my ribs are crushed, thanks to the enemies who have this night passed and repassed over my carcase.’

‘It must not be so, my Lord Governor,’ said Doctor Positive: ‘I will give your worship a draught, calculated for falls and bruises, that will instantly restore you to your former health and vigour; and with respect to the article of eating, I promise your lordship to make amends, and let you eat abundantly of every thing you desire.’—‘Your promise comes too late,’ answered Sancho; ‘and I will as soon turn Turk as forbear going. Those are no jokes to be repeated. Before God! I will as soon remain in this, or accept of any other government, even though it should be presented in a covered dish, as I will fly to Heaven without the help of wings. I am of the family of the Panzas, who are all headstrong, and if once they say Odds, odds it must be, though in fact it be even, in spite of all the world. In this stable I leave the pismire’s wings, that carried me up into the clouds, to make me a prey to martlets and other birds; and now let us alight, and walk softly and securely on the ground; and if my feet are not adorned with pinked shoes of Cordovan leather, they shall not want coarse sandals of cord or rushes; Let ewe and wether go together; and, Nobody thrust his feet beyond the length of his sheet. Now, therefore, let me pass, for it grows late.’

To this address the steward replied, ‘We shall freely allow your lordship to go, although we shall be great sufferers in losing you, whose ingenuity, and Christian conduct, oblige us to desire your stay; but it is well known that every governor is obliged, before he quits his government, to submit his administration to a scrutiny; and if your lordship will give an account of yours, during the seven days you have stood at the helm, you may depart in peace, and God be your guide.’—‘Nobody can call me to an account,’ said Sancho, ‘but such as are appointed by my lord duke. Now to him am I a going, and to him will I render it fairly and squarely; besides, there is no occasion for any other proof than my leaving you naked as I am, to shew that I have governed like an angel.’—‘’Fore God! the great Sancho is in the right,’ cried Doctor Positive; ‘and, in my opinion, we ought to let him retire; for the duke will be infinitely rejoiced to see him.’

All the rest assented to the proposal, and allowed him to pass; after having offered to bear him company, and provide him with every thing he should want for entertainment of his person, and the convenience of the journey. Sancho said he wanted nothing but a little barley for Dapple, and half a cheese, with half a loaf, for himself, the journey being so short, that he had no occasion for any better or more ample provision. All the company embraced him, and were in their turns embraced by the weeping Sancho, who left them, equally astonished at his discourse, as at his resolute and wise determination.

CHAP. II. WHICH TREATS OF MATTERS BELONGING TO THIS HISTORY, AND NO OTHER WHATSOEVER.

The duke and duchess resolved, that the defiance which Don Quixote breathed against their vassal for the cause already mentioned, should be answered; and although the young man was in Flanders, whither he had fled to avoid such a mother-in-law as Donna Rodriguez, they determined to supply his place with a Gascon lacquey, called Tosilos, whom they beforehand minutely instructed how to behave on this occasion.

Two days after these measures were taken, the duke told Don Quixote that in four days his antagonist would come and present himself in the lists, armed as a knight, and maintain that the damsel lyed by one half of her beard, and even by every hair of it, if she affirmed that he had promised her marriage. The knight received these tidings with great pleasure, flattering himself he should do something to excite the admiration of the whole family; and he thought himself extremely fortunate in having found an opportunity of shewing this noble pair how far the valour of his powerful arm extended. He, therefore, with great joy and satisfaction, waited the expiration of the four days, which, reckoned by his impatience, seemed equal to four hundred centuries.

In the mean time, let them pass, as we have already let many other matters pass; and attend Sancho, who, between merry and sad, jogged along upon Dapple, in quest of his master, whose company he preferred to the government of all the islands upon earth. Well, then, he had not travelled far from the island of his government, (for he never dreamed of being certified whether what he governed was island, city, town, or village) when he saw coming towards him six pilgrims, with their staves, of that sort which begs charity by singing. So soon, therefore, as they approached him, they made a lane; and, raising their voices together, began to sing in their language, though Sancho understood nothing of what they said, except the word Charity, which they distinctly pronounced; so that he immediately conceived the meaning of their outlandish song. Now, he being, according to the asseveration of Cid Hamet, extremely charitable, took out of his bags and gave them the bread and cheese with which he had been furnished, making them understand by signs, that he had nothing else to give. They received his benefaction chearfully, pronouncing, however, the word, ‘Guelte, Guelte;’ to which Sancho answering—‘I really do not understand what you want, good people:’ one of them took a purse from his bosom, and held it up, giving him to understand they wanted money. Then Sancho clapping his thumb to his throat, and displaying the back of his hand, signified that he had not so much as the corner of a rial, and spurred up Dapple, in order to make his way through the midst of them. As he passed, one of them having considered him very attentively, laid hold on Dapple’s halter, and clasping him round the middle, exclaimed aloud, in very good Castilian—‘The Lord protect me! what is this I see? Is it possible that I actually held in my arms my dear friend, and good neighbour, Sancho Panza? Yes, doubtless; for I am neither asleep nor drunk.’

Sancho was astonished to hear his own name, and see himself embraced by a pilgrim, and a stranger, whom, though he silently gazed upon him with the utmost attention, he could by no means recollect. The pilgrim perceiving his surprize—‘Is it possible, brother Sancho Panza,’ said he, ‘that thou dost not know thy neighbour Ricote, the Moresco shopkeeper, that lived in your town?’ Then Sancho, reviewing him with greater attention, began to recal his features; and at length, perfectly recognizing the Moor, he, without alighting, threw his arms about his neck, saying—‘Who the devil could know thee, Ricote, in that disguise? Tell me who has pilgrimized thee; and wherefore hast thou dared to return to Spain, where, if thou art found and known, thou wilt suffer for thy rashness?’—‘If thou wilt not discover me, Sancho, I am secure,’ replied the pilgrim; ‘for in this disguise, nobody will know me. Let us quit the high-road, and remove to yon poplar grove, where my companions intend to take some refreshment and repose; there thou shalt partake with them, for they are a very good sort of people; and there I shall have leisure to recount every thing that has befallen me since I departed from our town, in obedience to his majesty’s proclamation, which so severely threatened the unfortunate people of my nation; as, no doubt, thou hast heard.’

Sancho assented to his proposal; and Ricote having spoke to the other pilgrims, they betook themselves to the tuft of poplars, at a good distance from the high-road. There they threw down their staves, laid aside their rochets or mantles, so as to remain in their doublets; and all of them appeared to be young men of genteel persons, except Ricote, who was already advanced in years. Each had a wallet, in all appearance well provided; at least, with incentives which provoked thirst, at the distance of two leagues. They stretched themselves upon the ground, and using the grass as a table-cloth, spread upon it bread, salt, knives, nuts, crusts of cheese, and some clean bones of bacon, which, though they could not be eaten, were in a condition to be sucked with pleasure. They likewise produced a black dish, which they called caviere, made of the roes of fishes, a great awakener of drought; nor did they want olives, which, though dry and without pickles, were very savoury and delicate; but what made the best figure in the field of this banquet, was a bottle of wine which every pilgrim drew forth from his wallet, not excepting honest Ricote, who, being transformed from a Moor into a German or Teutonian, pulled out his bottle also, which in size might have vied with all the other five. They began to eat with infinite relish, and great deliberation, smacking their lips at every mouthful which they took with the point of a knife, though they are but little; then, all at once, the whole squadron together raised their arms and bottles aloft, and joining mouth to mouth, with their eyes fixed on the firmament, they seemed to take aim at heaven. In this manner, shaking their heads from side to side, in token of the satisfaction they received, they continued a good while in the act of transfusing the contents of the bottles into their own bellies.

Sancho beheld this scene, with every part of which he was perfectly well pleased; and, in compliance with the proverb which he very well knew, importing, ‘When thou art at Rome, follow the fashion of Rome,’ he begged an embrace of Ricote’s bottle, and took his aim like the rest; nor was his satisfaction inferior to theirs. Four times did their bottles admit of elevation; but the fifth was to no purpose: for, by that time, they were as clean and as dry as a rush; a circumstance that threw a damp upon the mirth which had hitherto prevailed. From time to time each pilgrim, in his turn, shook hands with Sancho, saying—‘Spaniard or German, all one, goot companion.’ To which compliment Sancho replied—‘Goot companion, by the Lord!’ bursting out into a fit of laughter which lasted a whole hour, without remembering at that time the least circumstance of what had happened to him in his government; for over the times and seasons of eating and drinking, care seldom holds jurisdiction. Finally, the conclusion of the wine was the beginning of sleep, which overwhelmed the whole company, and stretched them along upon the table and cloth they had been using. Ricote and Sancho were the only two who remained awake, in consequence of having eaten more, and drank less, than their fellows: then Ricote taking Sancho aside, they sat down at the root of a beech, leaving the pilgrims buried in an agreeable slumber; and without stumbling in the least upon his Moresco language, he spoke in pure Castilian to this effect.

‘Well thou knowest, O Sancho Panza, my neighbour and friend, how the edict and proclamation which his majesty published against those of my religion, overwhelmed us all with terror and consternation; at least, they terrified me to such a degree, that long before the time allotted to us for our removal from Spain, I thought the rigour of the penalty was already executed against me and my children. I therefore resolved, and, I think, wisely, like the man who knowing he must quit the house he lives in, at such a time, provides himself with another to which he may remove—I resolved, I say, to retire by myself, without my family, and go in quest of some place to which I might carry it commodiously, without that hurry and confusion which attended the departure of my neighbours; for I was very well convinced, and so were all our elders, that those edicts were not only threats, as some people said, but real laws, that would certainly be put in execution at the appointed time: and this truth I was compelled to believe, by knowing the base and mad designs which our people harboured; such designs that, I verily think, his majesty was divinely inspired to execute such a gallant resolution. Not that we were all guilty; for some among us were firm and staunch Christians: but they were so few in number, that they could not oppose the schemes of those who were otherwise; and it was dangerous to nurse a serpent in one’s bosom, by allowing the enemy to live within the house. In a word, we were justly chastised by the sentence of banishment, mild and gentle in the opinion of some, but to us the most terrible that could be pronounced. In what country soever we are, we lament our exile from Spain: for, in fine, here we were born; this is our native country; in no clime do we find a reception suitable to our misfortunes; nay, in Barbary, and all the other parts of Africk, where we expected to be received, cherished, and entertained, we have been most injured and maltreated; we knew not our happiness until we lost it; and so intense is the longing desire which almost all of us have to return to Spain, that the greatest part of those, and they are many, who understand the language like me, return to this kingdom, leaving their wives and children, unprotected abroad, such is their affection for this their native soil; and now, I know, by experience, the truth of the common saying, Sweet is the love of native land.

‘Leaving our town, as I have already said, I repaired to France; and, though there we met with a civil reception, I was desirous of seeing other countries. I, therefore, travelled into Italy, from whence I passed into Germany, where people seemed to live with more freedom: the natives do not pry with curious eyes into one another’s concerns; every one lives according to his own humour; for in most parts of the empire there is liberty of conscience. I left a house which I hired in a village near Augsburg, and joined these pilgrims, a great number of whom are wont to come hither yearly, on pretence of visiting the sanctuaries of Spain, which are their Indies, as being productive of well known advantage, and most certain gain. They traverse the whole country; and there is not a village from which they are not dismissed with a belly full of meat and drink, as the saying is, and a rial at least, in money; so that at the end of their peregrination, they are above a hundred crowns in pocket, which, being changed into gold, they conceal in the hollow of their staves, or in the patches of their cloaks; or task their industry in such a manner as to carry off their purchase to their own country, in spite of the guards at the passes and gates, where they are examined and registered.

‘My present intention, Sancho, is to carry off the money I have buried, which being without the town, I can retrieve without danger; then I shall write, or take a passage from Valencia, to my wife and daughter, who, I know, are at Algiers, in order to contrive a method for transporting them to some port of France, from whence I will conduct them to Germany, where we will bear with resignation the will of Heaven: for, in fine, Sancho, I am positively certain that my daughter Ricota, and my wife Francisca Ricote, are real Catholick Christians; and, though I myself am not entirely of that way of thinking, I have more of the Christian than the Mussulman; and I incessantly pray to God to open the eyes of my understanding, that I may know how to serve him in the right way. But what excites my wonder, and baffles my penetration, is the conduct of my wife and daughter; who have chosen to retire into Barbary, rather than to France, where they might have lived as Christians.’

To this observation Sancho replied—‘Why, look ye, Ricote, they were not, I suppose, at liberty to chuse for themselves, inasmuch as they were carried off by your wife’s brother, John Tiopieyo, who, being a rank Moor, would naturally go to the place where he himself intended to make his abode: and, I can tell you, moreover, I believe it will be in vain for you to go in search of what you left under ground; for we are informed that thy wife and brother-in-law were stripped of a number of pears, and a great deal of money, which was carried off to be registered.’—‘That may be very true,’ said Ricote: ‘but I am certain, Sancho, they have not touched my hoard; for I would not tell them where it was hid, because I dreaded some misfortune: and, therefore, Sancho, if thou wilt come along with me, and assist me in taking up and concealing it, I will gratify thee with two hundred crowns, to relieve thy necessities, which thou art sensible I know to be manifold.’—‘I would comply with thy proposal,’ answered Sancho; ‘but I am not at all covetous; were I that way inclined, I this morning quitted an employment by which I might have been enabled to build the walls of my house of beaten gold, and in less than six months, eat out of plate: for this reason, therefore, and because I should think myself guilty of treason to my king, in favouring his enemies, I will not go along with thee, even though in lieu of promising me two hundred, thou shouldst here lay down four hundred crowns upon the nail.’—‘And, pray, what office is this that thou halt quitted?’ said Ricote. ‘I have quitted the government of an island,’ replied Sancho: ‘aye, and such a one as, in good faith, you will not find its fellow in three bow-shots.’—‘And whereabouts is this island?’ resumed the other. ‘Whereabouts!’ cried Panza: ‘about two leagues from hence, and it is called the Island Barataria.’—‘Spare me, spare me, good Sancho,’ said Ricote: ‘islands are far at sea; there are none upon the continent.’—‘How, none!’ replied Sancho: ‘I tell thee, friend Ricote, I left it but this mornings and yesterday governed in it at my pleasure, like a perfect sagittary; but, for all that, I resigned my place; for I found the office of governors is very troublesome and dangerous.’—‘And what hast thou got by this government?’ said Ricote. ‘I have got sense enough to know that I am fit for governing nothing but a flock of sheep,’ answered Sancho: ‘and that the wealth acquired in such governments is got at the expence of ease, sleep, and even sustenance; for in islands the governors must eat very little, especially if they have physicians to watch over their health.’—‘I really do not understand thee, Sancho,’ said Ricote: ‘but every thing thou hast spoke, to me seems mere madness; for who would give thee islands to govern, when there is plenty of men in the world so much more capable of governing than thou? Keep thy own counsel, Sancho, and recollect thy judgment, and consider whether or not thou wilt accompany me, as I proposed, to assist me in conveying the treasure I have hid; for the sum is really so great, it may well be called a treasure, and I will give thee wherewithal to live, as I have already promised.’—‘I have already told thee, Ricote, that I will not,’ answered Sancho: ‘be satisfied that by me thou shalt not be discovered; continue thy journey in happy hour, and let me proceed in mine: for, well I know, What’s honestly earned may be easily lost, but ill-got wealth is ever at the owner’s cost.’—‘Well, I will not farther importune thee,’ said Ricote: ‘but, pray tell me, Sancho, wast thou in our village when my wife and daughter departed with my brother-in-law?’—‘Yes, I was,’ replied Sancho: ‘and I can tell thee, thy daughter appeared so beautiful, that all the people in town went forth to see her, and every body owned she was the fairest creature under the sun; she went along weeping, and embraced all her friends and acquaintance; and begged of all that came to see her, that they would recommend her to God, and our Lady his blessed mother. Indeed, her behaviour was so moving, that I myself, who am no blubberer, could not help shedding tears; and, in good sooth, many persons were very desirous of going after, and carrying her off, in order to conceal her; but they were diverted from that design, by the fear of acting contrary to the king’s proclamation. He that shewed himself the most passionately fond of her, was Don Pedro Gregorio, the young rich heir, who, thou knowest, was said to be in love with her. After her departure, he never more appeared in our town, and every body believed he went away in order to carry her off; but hitherto we have had no account of his motions.’—‘I had always a suspicion,’ said Ricote, ‘that the young gentleman was enamoured of my daughter; but, as I confided in the virtue of Ricota, his passion gave me no disturbance; for thou must have heard, Sancho, that the Moorish women seldom or never engage in amorous intercourse with old Christians; and my daughter, whose inclination, I believe, leaned more to Christianity than to love, paid no attention to the importunities of that young heir.’—‘God grant it may be so,’ replied Sancho; ‘for it would have been to the prejudice of both: and now let me depart in peace, friend Ricote; for, this night, I intend to be with my master Don Quixote.’—‘God be thy guide, brother Sancho,’ said the Moor: ‘I see my companions are stirring, and it is time for us to make the best of our way.’

Then the two having embraced one another, Sancho mounted Dapple, Ricote supported himself with his staff, and in this manner they parted different ways.

CHAP. III. OF CERTAIN ACCIDENTS THAT BEFEL SANCHO UPON THE ROAD—AND OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES, WHICH TO KNOW YOU NEED ONLY LOOK FORWARD.

Sancho was so long detained by Ricote, that he could not reach the duke’s castle that day, though he was within half a league of it, and there overtaken by the night, which was dark and close; but it being the summer season, he was not much concerned, and retired a little from the high-road with intention to wait patiently for morning. It was, however, the pleasure of his niggard and unhappy fortune, that in seeking a place proper for his accommodation, he and Dapple tumbled into a deep and very dark pit, among a number of old buildings. In falling, he recommended himself to God, with all his heart, in the firm persuasion that he would not stop until he reached the bottom of the profound abyss: but this apprehension was happily disappointed; for Dapple having descended little more than three fathoms, touched the ground, and his rider found himself on his beast’s back, without having sustained the least hurt of damage. He felt his body all over, and held in his breath to know whether he was sound or perforated in any part; and when he found himself safe, whole, and in Catholick health, he did not fail to thank our Lord God for his protection, as he actually thought he had been shattered into a thousand pieces. He likewise felt about the sides of the pit, to know if there was any possibility of being extricated without assistance; but he found them all smooth and perpendicular, without any projection or cranny of which he could take the least advantage; a circumstance that greatly increased his chagrin, especially when he heard Dapple complain in a most pathetick and lamentable tone; and, indeed, it was no great wonder, nor did he lament out of wantonness, for in truth he was in a very sorry condition.

It was then that Sancho Panza exclaimed—‘Alack, and a-well-a-day! how unexpected are the accidents which, at every turn, befal those who live in this miserable world! Who could foretel, that he who yesterday saw himself enthroned as governor of an island, giving orders to his servants and vassals, should to-day be buried in a dungeon, without a soul to remedy his misfortune, or a servant or vassal to hasten to his relief? Here I and my poor beast must perish by hunger, if we do not give up the ghost before that period; he, in consequence of being battered and bruised, and I, from pure sorrow and vexation. At least, I shall not be so lucky as my master Don Quixote de La Mancha; who, when he descended, and sunk into the cave of that same enchanted Montesinos, was better entertained than he could have been in his own house; so that the cloth seemed to be laid, and the bed fairly made. There he enjoyed beautiful and agreeable visions; but here, I believe, I shall see nothing but toads and serpents. Unfortunate wretch that I am! to what a pass am I brought by my fantasies and folly! From this cavern (when Heaven shall be pleased to discover them) my bones, together with those of my honest friend Dapple, will be taken up smooth, and white, and bare as an atomy; and, from this particular, perhaps, it will be discovered who we are, especially by those who know that Sancho Panza never parted from his ass, nor his ass from Sancho Panza. I say again, miserable creatures that we are! why would not our niggard fortune allow us to die at home, in our own country, in the midst of our friends? where, though our misfortune would admit of no remedy, we should not have wanted relations to grieve at our fate, and close our eyes in the last hour of our trial!

‘O my dear companion, and my friend! how ill have I rewarded thy good services! Forgive me, honest Dapple, and entreat fortune, in the best terms thou canst use, to deliver us from this vexatious misery in which we are equally involved; in which case, I promise to put a crown of laurel upon thy head, so as that thou shalt look like a poet-laureat; and, withal, to give thee double allowance of provender.’ In this manner did Sancho Panza pour forth his lamentation, to which the poor beast listened without answering one word; such was the danger and distress to which the poor animal found himself exposed.

At length, after they had passed the whole night in miserable complaints and lamentations, day broke; and by the light and splendor of the morning, Sancho perceived, that of all impossibilities it was the most impossible to free himself from that pit without assistance; so that he began to lament afresh, and roar aloud, in hope that somebody might hear his voice: but all his cries were uttered to the desart; for in all that neighbourhood there was not a soul by whom he could be heard; and therefore he gave himself up for lost. As Dapple lay with his mouth uppermost, Sancho Panza exerted himself in such a manner as to raise his friend upon his legs, which, by the bye, could scarce bear his weight; and, taking a piece of bread out of his wallet, which had likewise suffered the same unfortunate fall, gave it to the poor beast, who received it very thankfully; and Sancho told him, as if he understood his words—‘All ills are good, when attended with food.’ About this time he discovered a hole at one side of the dungeon, large enough to give passage to a man, provided he could bend his body, and creep through; to this he hastened, and squeezing himself into it, perceived, within, a large extensive space, the particulars of which he could distinguish; for, through what may be termed the roof, descended a small stream of light that illuminated the whole place, which, as he observed, dilated and extended itself through another spacious concavity.

Sancho, having made these remarks, returned to the place where his companion stood, and with a stone began to clear away the rubbish from the hole, which he in a little time enlarged to such a degree that Dapple passed with ease. Then taking the halter in his hand, he led him forwards through that cavern, in hope of finding an exit at the other end: and sometimes he proceeded darkling, and sometimes without one ray of light; but always in fear and trepidation. ‘God Almighty protect me!’ said he within himself; ‘this, that is such a dismal expedition to me, would be an excellent adventure to my master, who would look upon these depths and dungeons as so many flower-gardens, and palaces of Galiana[194]; and expect to pass from this distress and obscurity, into some blooming meadow adorned with the pride of spring: whereas I, a miserable wretch! equally impudent and poor-spirited, dread, at every step, that another dungeon, still more deep, will suddenly open under my feet, and swallow me up at once. We may bear, without a groan, the misfortune that comes alone.’ In venting these ejaculations, he fancied he had proceeded about half a league, when he perceived a kind of confused light, like that of day, glimmering through a passage that seemed to be the road from this to the other world.

Here Cid Hamet Benengeli, leaving the squire, returns to Don Quixote, waiting with joy and transport for the combat in which he was to engage with the person who had robbed the daughter of Donna Rodriguez of her precious virtue; for he made no doubt of redressing the grievance and disgrace which the delinquent had feloniously entailed upon the innocent damsel.

Chancing one morning to go out, in order to improve and inure himself to the exercise of arms, which he meant to practise in that combat to which in a few days he must be exposed, he, in wheeling about, or giving the charge with Rozinante, rode so near the mouth of a cavern, that if he had not vigorously pulled in the reins, he must have plunged into it, without all possibility of escape. He kept his seat, however, and at length made his retreat good; then, re-approaching the hole, he, without alighting, surveyed the depth of the cave; and, while he was thus employed, heard loud cries issuing from below; in consequence of which, listening with great attention, he could distinguish articulate sounds, and distinctly understand the following exclamation: ‘So ho! above there; is there any Christian within hearing? or any charitable gentleman whose bowels yearn at the distress of a sinner buried alive, and an unfortunate misgoverned governor?’

Don Quixote thought he recognized the voice of Sancho Panza, at hearing which he was confounded and astonished; and raising his own voice as high as he could strain—‘Who is that below,’ cried he, ‘complaining so grievously?’—‘Who should be here, or who complain, but the bewildered Sancho Panza, for his sins and misfortune, appointed governor of the Island Barataria, who was formerly squire to the renowned knight Don Quixote de La Mancha?’ When the knight heard this declaration, his surprize redoubled, his amazement increased, and he was struck with the notion that Sancho Panza was dead, and his soul doing penance in that place. Swayed by this conjecture, he exclaimed—‘I conjure thee, by all that is sacred, as a Catholick Christian, to tell me who thou art? If a soul in punishment, let me know what I can do in thy behalf; for, as it is my profession to savour and assist the needy of this world, so likewise am I ready to succour and relieve the miserable objects of the other world, who cannot relieve themselves.’—‘At that rate, and by your worship’s discourse,’ answered the voice, ‘you should be my master Don Quixote de la Mancha; and, indeed, by the tone of your voice, I know you can be no other.’—‘Don Quixote I am,’ replied the knight; ‘he who professed to aid and assist the living, as well as the dead, in their distresses. Tell me, therefore, who thou art, by whom I am thus held in astonishment; for if thou art my squire Sancho Panza, and hast quitted this life, seeing the devils have not got possession of thy soul, but through the mercy of God thou art now in purgatory, our holy mother, the Roman Catholick Church, has prayers sufficient to deliver thee from thy present pain; and I, for my part, will solicit them in thy behalf, as far as my whole fortune will extend; I say, therefore, make haste, and declare thy name and situation.’—‘I vow to God!’ answered the voice, ‘and swear by the birth of whom your worship pleases, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha, that I am your identical squire, Sancho Panza, and was never yet dead in the whole course of my life, but I quitted my government for causes and considerations which I must have more leisure to explain. Last night I fell into this dungeon, together with Dapple, who will not suffer me to tell an untruth; by the same token he stands now at my back.’ One would have imagined the beast understood what his master said; for that moment he began to bray so strenuously, that the whole cave echoed with the sound. ‘A most unexceptionable evidence!’ cried Don Quixote; ‘I know that note as well as if I had given it birth; and, besides, I recognize thy voice, my good Sancho. Wait a little, I will ride to the duke’s castle, which is hard by, and bring people to extricate thee from that dungeon into which thou hast been plunged for thy sins and transgressions.’—‘I entreat your worship to go, for the love of God! and return speedily; for I cannot bear to be buried here alive; and, moreover, I am ready to die with fear!’

The knight leaving him accordingly, repaired to the castle, where he recounted to the duke and duchess the accident which had befallen poor Sancho, at which they were not a little surprized, though they at once comprehended how he must have fallen by the correspondence of that cavern which had been there time out of mind; but they could not conceive how he should have quitted the government without giving them notice of his coming. Finally, ropes and cables were provided, together with a good number of people; and Dapple and Sancho Panza, though not without a great deal of trouble, were hoisted up from dungeons and darkness to the chearful light of day. ‘In this manner,’ said a student, who chanced to be among the spectators, ‘should all bad governors be dragged from their governments like that poor sinner from the profound abyss, half dead with hunger, pale with fear, and, as I believe, without a penny in his pocket.’ Sancho, hearing this observation, replied—‘Eight or ten days are now elapsed, brother growler, since I assumed the reins of government in that island, which was committed to my charge; and, in all that time, I never once had my belly-full, even of dry bread. I have been persecuted by physicians; my bones have been crushed by the enemy; but I never had a bribe in view, nor did I ever receive my due. And this being the case, as it certainly is, methinks, I have not deserved to be dragged out in this manner; but Man projects in vain, for God doth still ordain; Heaven knows how meet it is to grant, what every one pretends to want; Every season has its reason; Let no man presume to think, of this cup I will not drink; for, Where the stitch we hoped to find, not even a hook is left behind. God knows my meaning, and that’s enough; I shall say no more, though perhaps I could speak more plainly.’—‘Be not angry, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘and give thyself no concern about what thou mayest hear, otherwise there will be no end of thy vexation; console thyself with a good conscience, and let them say what they will; for it is as impracticable to tye up the tongue of malice, as to erect barricadoes in the open fields. If a governor resigns his office in good circumstances, people say he must have been an oppressor and a knave; and if poverty attends him in his retreat, they set him down as an idiot and fool.’—‘For this time,’ answered Sancho, ‘I am certain they will think me more fool than knave.’

Thus discoursing, and surrounded by a number of boys, and other spectators, they arrived at the castle, where the duke and duchess waited to receive them in a gallery; but Sancho would not go up stairs, until he saw Dapple properly accommodated in the stable; for, he observed, the poor creature had passed the preceding night in very indifferent lodging. Then he went to pay his respects to his noble patrons; before whom, falling on his knees—‘According to the good pleasure of your graces,’ said he, ‘and without any merit on my side, I went to govern your Island Barataria, which Naked I entered, and naked I remain; and if I lose nothing, as little I gain. Whether I have governed righteously or amiss, there are witnesses, who will declare, and say, whatsoever they think proper, I have explained doubts, and decided causes, though all the time half dead with hunger, because my fasting seemed good under Doctor Pedro Positive, native of Snatchaway, the island and governor’s physician. We were assaulted in the night by the enemy, who put us all in great jeopardy and consternation; and the inhabitants of the island said they were delivered, and proved victorious, by the valour of my invincible arm; but, so may God deal with them as they speak truth. In a word, I have, during my administration, considered the cares and obligations that attend the exercise of power, and found them, by my reckoning, too weighty for my shoulders; they are neither fit burthens for my back, nor arrows for my quiver; and, therefore, that the government might not discard me, I have thought proper to discard the government; and yesterday I left the island as I found it, with the same streets, houses, and roofs, which belonged to it when I took possession. I have borrowed of no man, nor consulted my own private gain or advantage; and, although my intention was to make some wholesome regulations, I did not put my design in execution, because I was afraid they would not be observed; and a law neglected, is the same thing as one that never was enacted.

‘I quitted the island, as I have said, without any other company than that of Dapple; I fell into a dungeon, through which I groped my way, until this morning, by the light of the sun, I perceived a passage out of it, though not so easy but that if Heaven had not sent my master Don Quixote to my assistance, there I should have remained to the day of judgment. Here, then, my Lord Duke and Lady Duchess, is your governor Sancho Panza, who, during the ten days of his administration, has gained nothing but so much knowledge, that he would not give a farthing to be governor, not only of an island, but even of the whole world; and in this opinion, kissing your graces’ feet, and imitating the game of boys, who cry, “Leap and away,” I take a leap from the government into the service of my master Don Quixote; for, in short, though with him I eat my bread in terror and alarm, I at least fill my belly; and so that is full, I care not whether it be with carrots or partridge.’

Here Sancho concluded his harangue, during which the knight was in continual apprehension that he would utter a thousand absurdities; but when he heard it finished with so few, he thanked Heaven in his heart; while the duke embraced Sancho, and told him he was grieved to the soul that he had so soon left his government; but he would find means to invest him with another office in his estate, which would be attended with less care and more advantage. He was likewise consoled by the duchess, who gave particular orders about his entertainment, as he seemed to be sorely bruised, and in a lamentable condition.

Footnote 194:

This was a Moorish princess, for whom her father built a stately palace near the Tagus, the ruins of which remain to this day.

CHAP. IV. OF THE DREADFUL AND UNSEEN BATTLE, FOUGHT BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA, AND THE LACQUEY TOSILOS, IN BEHALF OF THE DAUGHTER OF RODRIGUEZ THE DUENNA.

The duke and duchess did not repent of the joke they had executed upon Sancho Panza, with respect to his government, especially as the steward arrived the same day, and gave a circumstantial detail of all the words and actions which he had said and performed during the term of his administration. In fine, he magnified the assault of the island, and the terror of Sancho, and described the manner of his departure, from the account of which they received no small pleasure and satisfaction.

The history afterwards relates, that the day appointed for the combat arrived; and the duke having again and again instructed his lacquey Tosilos how to manage Don Quixote, so as to conquer without slaying, or even wounding the knight, ordered the lances to be divested of their iron heads, observing to Don Quixote that Christianity, upon which he valued himself, would not allow him to let the combat be fought with any risk or danger of his life; and that he hoped the knight would be satisfied with his granting a field for the lists in his territories, an indulgence contrary to the decree of the holy council, which prohibits all such challenges: he therefore desired that the battle might not be fought to the last extremity. Don Quixote said his excellency might order the particulars of that affair according to his own pleasure, and that he would punctually comply with every circumstance of the disposition.

The dreadful day then being arrived, and the duke having caused a spacious scaffold to be erected before the courtyard of the castle, for the accommodation of the judges of the field, and the mother and daughter, who were plaintiffs in the cause; an infinite number of people assembled from all the neighbouring towns and villages, to see the novelty of this battle; for such a combat had never been seen nor heard of in that country, by either the living or the dead. The first that entered the lists was the master of the ceremonies, in order to examine the ground; and he accordingly surveyed the whole field, to see that there was no deceit, or any thing concealed that might occasion stumbling or falling; then came the duennas and took their seats, veiled down to the eyes, and even to the bosom, with demonstrations of excessive grief. They being seated, Don Quixote presented himself in the lists; and in a little time appeared the great lacquey Tosilos upon a mighty steed that shook the very ground, accompanied with a number of trumpets, his vizor being down, and his whole body stiffened with strong and shining armour; his horse seemed to be of the Friezland breed, broad built, and of a flea-bitten colour, with a stone of wool hanging to every foot. Thus approached the valiant combatant, well instructed by the duke how to engage the valorous Don Quixote de La Mancha, and particularly cautioned against taking away the life of his knightly opponent; for he was warned to avoid the first encounter as he would shun his own death, which must have been certain had they met full shock in the midst of their career. This champion, crossing the field, and riding up to the place where the duennas were seated, began very earnestly to contemplate the person who claimed him as her husband[195]; while the master of the field, calling to Don Quixote, who had likewise entered the lists, and kept close to Tosilos, asked the duennas if they consented to depend upon Don Quixote de La Mancha for the redress of their grievances; they replied in the affirmative, declaring, at the same time, that whatever he should do in the affair they would hold as well done, firm, and sufficient[196]. By this time, the duke and duchess had placed themselves in a gallery that overlooked the barriers, which were crouded with an infinite number of people, who came to see the dreadful and never-beheld encounter; but, before they engaged, it was stipulated, that if Don Quixote should overcome his antagonist, he, the said antagonist, should marry the daughter of Donna Rodriguez; but should victory declare for the defendant, he should be released from the promise they pretended he had made, without giving any other satisfaction.

The master of the ceremonies having divided the sun, and stationed each combatant in his proper post, the drums began to thunder, the sound of trumpets filled the air, the earth trembled beneath their feet, and the hearts of the gazing multitude throbbed with suspense and expectation, some hoping, and others fearing, the good or bad success of the battle. Finally, Don Quixote, recommending himself with all his heart to our Lord God, and to the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, waited with impatience for the precise signal of engaging; while our lacquey, engrossed by far other sentiments, thought of nothing but what we will now explain. While he stood gazing at his female enemy, she appeared in his eyes the most beautiful creature he had ever seen in the whole course of his life, and the little blind urchin, vulgarly known by the name of Cupid, was unwilling to lose this opportunity to triumph over a lacqueyan soul, and register this subject in the list of his atchievements; he, therefore, approached him fairly and softly, and unperceived let fly an arrow two yards long, which, entering his left side, transfixed his heart: nor was it difficult to perform this exploit; for Love is invincible, and makes his entrance and exit wheresoever he chuses to pass, without being called to account by any person upon earth—I say, when they gave the signal for battle, our lacquey’s soul was transported by the beauty of her, to whom, by this time, he had surrendered his liberty; and therefore, he was not so much affected by the sound of the trumpet as his antagonist Don Quixote, whose ears it no sooner saluted, than he sprang forwards to assault his adversary with all the mettle that Rozinante could exert; and his good squire Sancho seeing him begin his career, exclaimed with an audible voice, ‘God be thy guide, thou cream and flower of knights-errant: God grant thee the victory, seeing thy cause is the best!’

Although Tosilos saw Don Quixote advancing against him, he did not budge one step from his station, but called aloud to the field-master, to whom, when he went up to see what he wanted, he thus addressed himself: ‘Tell me, Signior, is not this combat appointed to determine whether I shall or shall not marry that lady?’ To this question the other having replied in the affirmative, ‘Well, then,’ resumed the lacquey, ‘I have a tender conscience, that would be grievously burdened should I proceed in this quarrel; and, therefore, I own myself vanquished, and will forthwith take the lady to wife.’ The field-master was surprized at this declaration of Tosilos; and, being in the secret of the plan, knew not what answer to make; while Don Quixote, perceiving his enemy did not come on to the assault, checked Rozinante in the middle of his career. The duke, being ignorant of the cause that retarded the battle, was by the field-master, informed of what Tosilos had said, at which he was extremely surprized and incensed; whereas, Tosilos, in the mean time, rode up towards the place where Donna Rodriguez was seated, and pronounced with a loud voice, ‘Madam, as I am willing to marry your daughter, there is no occasion to seek that by disputes and contention which I may obtain peaceably without the danger of death.’ The valiant Don Quixote hearing this address, ‘Since that is the case,’ said he, ‘I am released and acquitted of my promise; let them marry a-God’s name, and as our Lord bestows the bride, may St. Peter bless the nuptials!’

The duke descending into the court-yard of the castle, and advancing to Tosilos, ‘Knight,’ said he, ‘is it true, that you own yourself vanquished, and that, instigated by your timorous conscience, you consent to marry this damsel?’ When he answered, ‘Yes, my lord.’—‘He is very much in the right,’ cried Sancho: ‘Give always to the cat what was kept for the rat; and, Let it still be thy view all mischief to eschew.’ As for Tosilos, he began to unlace his helmet, and earnestly begged that somebody would come to his assistance; for his breath was almost gone, and he could not bear to be confined so long in such a narrow lodging. People accordingly ran to his relief; and his head being uncased, Donna Rodriguez discovered the individual countenance of our lacquey, which the daughter no sooner beheld than she cried aloud, ‘A cheat! a cheat! My Lord Duke has palmed his lacquey upon us, in lieu of my lawful husband: I demand justice of God and the king, for this malicious, not to call it knavish contrivance.’

‘Ladies,’ said Don Quixote, ‘give yourselves no concern; there is neither malice nor knavery in the case; or if there is, it cannot be occasioned by the duke, but by those wicked inchanters who persecute me without ceasing: envious of the glory I should have acquired in this atchievement, they have metamorphosed your husband’s face into the aspect of this man, who, you say, is the duke’s lacquey. Take my advice, therefore, maugre the malice of mine enemies, bestow your hand upon him; for, without all doubt, he is the very person whom you desire to obtain as an husband.’

The duke, overhearing this admonition, had well-nigh vented all his indignation in laughter, saying, ‘The adventures that happen to Signior Don Quixote are so extraordinary, that I am apt to believe this is not really my lacquey; but, let us make use of this expedient and stratagem: we will, if it be agreeable, delay the marriage a fortnight, and confine this person, of whom we are doubtful, and in that time perhaps he will retrieve his former figure; for surely the rancour of those wicked inchanters, who hate Don Quixote, cannot last so long; especially as such delusions and transformations avail them so little.’—‘O my lord!’ cried Sancho, ‘those banditti have been long accustomed to chop, change, and transmography every thing that belongs to my master; some time ago he vanquished an errant, called the Knight of the Mirrours, and in a twinkling they transformed him into the figure of the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, a townsman and great friend of ours; as for my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, they have changed her into a homely country wench; and, therefore, I take it for granted that this man will die and live a lacquey all the days of his life.’

Here the daughter of Donna Rodriguez interposing, ‘Be he who he will,’ said she, ‘I am obliged to him for asking me in marriage: and I would rather be the lawful wife of a lacquey, than the deluded mistress of a gentleman; although he who deluded me has no pretensions to that title.’ In fine, all these incidents and explanations ended in the resolution to confine Tosilos, until they should see the issue of his transformation; while, with unusual acclamation, the victory was adjudged to Don Quixote; though the greatest part of the spectators seemed melancholy and disappointed, because they had not seen two such hopeful combatants hew one another in pieces: in the same manner as the boys are out of humour, when the execution is prevented by the malefactor’s being pardoned, either by the party or the king.

The crowd dispersed, the duke and Don Quixote returned to the castle, Tosilos was sent to prison; Donna Rodriguez and her daughter rejoiced exceedingly, when they saw, that one way or another, this affair would end in marriage, and the lover consoled himself with the same prospect.

Footnote 195:

A critick inclined to enumerate the inadvertencies of Cervantes, might observe that Sancho pulled a piece of bread out of his wallet and gave it to Dapple, after he had given the contents of the said wallet to the pilgrims; that he tells the duke and duchess he had governed ten days, whereas he had continued but seven days in office; and, lastly, that Tosilos contemplated the beauties of the damsel, though we are previously told that she was veiled down to the bosom.

Footnote 196:

In the romance of Gerard de Nevers we read, that a certain young lady, perceiving the eagerness with which that knight undertook her defence, pulled the glove from her left-hand, and presented it to him, saying, ‘Sir Knight, my body, life, lands, and honour, I commit to the protection of God and you, to whom I pray he may grant grace to obtain the victory, and deliver us from the danger in which we are now involved.’

CHAP. V. GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF THE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE TOOK LEAVE OF THE DUKE; AND OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN HIM AND THE GAY AND WITTY ALTISIDORA, ONE OF THE DUCHESS’S DAMSELS.

By this time Don Quixote thought he would do well to quit that idle way of life which he led in the castle; for he imagined himself much to blame in living thus buried and inactive among those infinite dainties and entertainments with which he, as a knight-errant, was indulged by that noble pair; and he concluded that he would be obliged to give a severe account to Heaven of this idleness and sequestration. He, therefore, one day, begged leave of the duke and duchess to depart; and they granted his request, with marks of being extremely grieved at his intention. The duchess delivered to Sancho Panza his wife’s letter, and the good squire wept bitterly when he understood the contents; saying, ‘Who could have thought such mighty hopes as were engendered in the breast of my wife Teresa Panza, by the news of my government, would vanish in my returning again to the woeful adventures of my master Don Quixote de La Mancha? Nevertheless, I am pleased to find that my Teresa behaved like herself, in sending the acorns to the duchess; for had she failed in that particular, I should have been sorely vexed, and she would have shewn herself ungrateful: what comforts my poor heart is, that they cannot call this present a bribe; for I was actually in possession of the government before the acorns were sent: and it is but reasonable, that folks who receive any sort of benefit should shew their gratitude, even though in trifles. In effect, naked I took possession of the government, and naked I resigned my office; therefore, I may say with a safe conscience, which is no small boast, I naked was born, and naked remain; and if I lose nothing, as little I gain.’

This conference Sancho held with his own bosom on the day of their departure: as for Don Quixote, having taken leave of their graces over-night, he in the morning presented himself armed in the court-yard of the castle, where he furnished a spectacle to all the people of the family, not even excepting the duke and duchess, who viewed him from the gallery. Sancho was mounted upon Dapple, extremely well pleased with the contents of his bags, wallet, or store; for the duke’s steward, who acted the part of the Countess Trifaldi, had given him a small purse of two hundred crowns, to answer the emergencies of the road: but of this supply Don Quixote was ignorant. While every individual, as we have said, stood gazing at the knight, all of a sudden, from among the other duennas and damsels of the duchess, the gay and witty Altisidora, raising her voice, pronounced what follows, in a lamentable tone.

‘Ah! hear my plaint, unlucky knight, Pull in thy rein, and do me right; And pr’ythee spare, at my request, The flanks of that poor batter’d beast. Consider she whose heart’s at stake, False man! is not a scaly snake; But a young lambkin, meek and true, Just wean’d from teat of mother ewe. Say, monster, why undo a maid More beautiful than ever stray’d With Cynthia, huntress of the wood, Or Venus, native of the flood? But Æneas-like thou mean’st to fly, The death of Barrabas may Quixote die!

‘Thou, robber! in thy claws hast got The heart and bowels, and what not, Of a weak virgin, Heav’n befriend her! Mild, humble, timorous, and tender. Three linen night-caps hast thou stole, And silken garters strong and whole, That to these legs did appertain; These legs, as marble smooth and clean. Thou carriest off two thousand sighs, Which, kindled by thy beaming eyes, Would in a twinkling quite destroy Two thousand cities great as Troy. But if Æneas-like thou mean’st to fly, The death of Barrabas may Quixote die!

‘May Sancho’s buttocks, and his heart, Ne’er feel the ignominious smart Prescrib’d, when he is pleas’d and ready To disinchant thy fav’rite lady! Since thine’s the offence, and thine the blame, Endure the punishment and shame Which in my country, once a year, The righteous for the wicked bear. Be thy adventures (small and great) Inglorious and unfortunate; Like dreams may all thy pleasures fade, Thy constancy oblivion shade; And if Æneas-like thou mean’st to fly, The death of Barrabas may Quixote die!

‘May’st thou be deem’d a perjur’d devil, E’en from Marchena unto Seville; From Loja to Granada hated, From London Tow’r to England baited. At drafts should’st thou attempt to play, Or waste at ombre all the day, May no crown’d monarch or spadille Attend the efforts of thy skill; When angry corn disturbs thy toe, May blood at ev’ry paring flow; And of each tooth the barbers draw, The stump still fester in thy jaw: Nay, since Æneaslike thou mean’st to fly, The death of Barrabas may Quixote die!’

While the afflicted Altisidora complained in these strains, Don Quixote surveyed her attentively; and, without answering a word to her lamentation, turned to Sancho, saying, ‘By the age of thine ancestors, my dear Sancho, I conjure thee to tell me the truth: say, hast thou actually got the three caps and the garters, which this enamoured damsel mentions?’ To this question the squire replied, ‘The three caps I have; but as to the garters, I know nothing of the matter.’

The duchess was surprized at the freedom of Altisidora’s behaviour; for, although she knew her to be forward, merry, and frank, she did not think the girl possessed of assurance enough to attempt a scheme of this nature; and her admiration was the greater, as she had not been previously apprized of the intended joke. The duke, however, in order to reinforce the jest, addressed himself to Don Quixote in these words: ‘It does not look well, Sir Knight, that you who have met with such honourable reception and treatment in this my castle, should presume to carry off by stealth three knight-caps, at least, if not a pair of garters likewise, belonging to my damsel: these are marks of a bad heart, and but ill agree with your reputation. Restore the garters to the right owner; otherwise, I challenge you to mortal combat, without any apprehension that knavish inchanters will transform or change my face, as they have practised upon my lacquey Tosilos, your last antagonist.’

‘God forbid,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that I should unsheath my sword against your illustrious person, of whom I received such favours! The three night-caps shall be restored; for Sancho owns they are in his custody: but it is impossible to make restitution of the garters, as neither he nor I did ever receive them; and I dare say your damsel will find them, if she will take the trouble to rummage her own drawers. I, my lord duke, was never a thief, and I hope never shall in the whole course of my lite, provided God will not withdraw from me his guiding hand. The damsel, according to her own declaration, talks like an enamoured person; but surely I am not to blame for her impertinence: and, therefore, I have no reason to ask pardon either of her or your excellency, whom I entreat to look upon me with more favourable sentiments, and beseech anew to consent that I may prosecute my journey.’—‘God grant your departure may be so happy,’ said the duchess, ‘that we may always hear good news of Don Quixote’s exploits. Go, then, a God’s name; for the longer you stay, your presence blows up the fire the more fiercely in the bosoms of the damsels who behold you: as for mine, I will chastise her in such a manner, that from henceforward she shall never transgress either in word or deed.’—‘One word more, however, I beg thou wilt hear me speak, O valiant Don Quixote!’ said Altisidora. ‘I crave pardon for having taxed you with the garters; for, as I shall answer to Heaven and my own conscience, they are now upon my legs; and I have been guilty of a mistake, like the man who went in search of his ass, while he was mounted on his back.’—‘Did not I tell you so?’ cried the squire: ‘I should be a rare fellow indeed, to receive and conceal stolen goods; had I been that way inclined, I might have had opportunity enough in my government.’

Don Quixote bowing his head, made a profound reverence to the duke and duchess, and all the spectators; then turning Rozinante, and being followed by Sancho upon Dapple, he set out from the castle, directing his course to Saragossa.

CHAP. VI. SHEWING HOW ADVENTURES THRONGED UPON DON QUIXOTE SO THICK AS TO ENTANGLE ONE ANOTHER.

When Don Quixote found himself in the open field, free and disembarrassed from the complaints of Altisidora, he seemed to be placed in the very center of his own wish, and to enjoy a renovation of spirits, in order to prosecute anew the aim of his chivalry. Turning, therefore, to his squire, ‘Sancho,’ said he, ‘liberty is one of the most precious gifts which Heaven hath bestowed on man, exceeding all the treasures which earth encloses, or which ocean hides; and for this blessing, as well as for honour, we may and ought to venture life itself: on the other hand, captivity and restraint are the greatest evils that human nature can endure. I make this observation, Sancho, because thou hast seen the delicacies and the plenty with which we were entertained in that castle: yet, in the midst of those savoury banquets, and ice-cooled potations, I thought myself confined within the very straits of famine, because I did not enjoy the treat with that liberty which I should have felt, had it been my own; for obligations incurred by benefits and favours received, are fetters which hamper the freeborn soul. Happy is he to whom Heaven hath sent a morsel of bread, for which he is obliged to none but Heaven itself.’

‘But notwithstanding all that your worship hath said,’ replied Sancho, ‘we, for our parts, ought not to be ungrateful, considering the two hundred crowns of gold which the duke’s steward gave me in a purse, and which, as a plaister and a cordial, I keep next my heart, in case of emergency; for we shall not always find such castles where we can be entertained; on the contrary, we may sometimes stumble upon sorry inns, where we shall be soundly cudgelled.’

With this and other such discourse, the two errants, knight and squire, amused themselves while they proceeded on their journey. Having travelled a little more than a league, they perceived upon a green spot of ground, about a dozen countrymen at dinner, with their cloaks spread under them; and hard by, certain white sheets at some distance from one another, that seemed to cover something, above which they were raised up and stretched with great care and caution. Don Quixote approaching the men, first of all saluted them courteously, and then asked what it was they covered so carefully with these pieces of linen. ‘Signior,’ replied one of the countrymen, ‘under these sheets are carved images for an altar-piece to be set up in our town; we cover them in this manner, that they may not be sullied, and carry them upon our shoulders that they may not be broken.’—‘If you please,’ replied the knight, ‘I should be glad to see them; they must certainly be good images, which you so carefully convey.’—‘Good!’ cried the other, ‘aye, that the price of them will declare: I can assure you there is not one of them that does not cost above fifty ducats; and that your worship may be convinced of the truth of what I say, stay a moment, and you shall see it with your own eyes.’

So saying, he left his dinner, and rising up, uncovered the first piece, which represented St. George on horseback, with his lance thrust into the throat of a serpent coiled at his feet, exhibiting all the fierceness with which that animal is usually painted; and the whole groupe looked, as the saying is, like a flame of gold.

Don Quixote, immediately recognizing the subject, ‘This knight,’ said he, ‘was one of the best errants that ever signalized themselves in divine warfare; his name was St. George, and he was, moreover, a protector of damsels. Let us see the next;’ which, when displayed, appeared to be the image of St. Martin on horseback, dividing his cloak with the beggar. Don Quixote no sooner beheld it, than he said to Sancho, ‘This knight was also one of the Christian adventurers, and, I believe, more liberal than valiant, as thou mayest perceive by this circumstance of dividing his cloak, and giving one half to the beggar; and, doubtless, this incident must have happened in the winter season, otherwise the saint was so charitable he would have given the whole.’—‘Nay, that surely was not the case,’ replied the squire; ‘but he held fast by the old proverb, which says, The man in wisdom must be old, who knows in giving where to hold.’

Don Quixote smiled at this remark, and desired the man to lift the third cover, under which appeared the figure of the patron of Spain on horseback, with his bloody sword, trampling down and bruising the heads of the Moors. Don Quixote seeing this representation, exclaimed, ‘Ah! this is a knight, and chief in the squadrons of Christ; his name is Don San Diego Mata Moros[197], and he was one of the most valiant saints and knights which earth ever produced, or heaven now contains.’ Then they unveiled the fourth, which exhibited St. Paul falling from his horse, with all the circumstances usually set forth in the picture of his conversion, so lively represented, that one would have almost thought Christ was speaking, and Paul answering the voice. ‘This,’ said Don Quixote, ‘was the most bitter enemy the church of God ever had, while our Lord and Saviour was on earth, and afterwards the greatest defender it will ever have: a knight-errant in his life, and a perfect saint in his death; an unwearied labourer in the vineyard of our Lord, a teacher of the Gentiles, schooled by Heaven, and whose professor and master was Jesus Christ himself.’

There being no other images to see, Don Quixote desired the man to cover up those he had examined; and addressing himself to the bearers, ‘Brothers,’ said he, ‘I look upon it as a good omen to have met with these images; for these saints and knights were of my profession, which is the exercise of arms: with this difference, however, they were saints, and fought in a divine manner; and I, who am a sinner, fight in the manner of men. They conquered Heaven by the force of their arms; for the kingdom of Heaven suffers violence; whereas I know not, hitherto, what I have conquered by the toils and troubles I have undergone: but if my Dulcinea del Toboso should be delivered from those she now sustains, my fortune will be bettered, my judgment repaired, and perhaps my steps may be directed through a better path than that which I at present follow.’

This declaration was closed with an exclamation of Sancho, who cried aloud, ‘The Lord give ear, I pray; and sin be deaf for aye!’ The men were equally astonished at the knight’s appearance and discourse, one half of which they did not understand; nevertheless, they made an end of their meal, shouldered their images, and taking leave of Don Quixote, pursued their journey. Sancho was, on this occasion, as much astonished at the learning of his master, as if he had never known him before that day; and imagined there was not an history or event in the whole world, that was not decyphered on his nail, or nailed to his memory. ‘Truly, master of mine,’ said he, ‘if what has happened to us to-day may be called an adventure, it is the most sweet and delicious of all that have yet befallen us in the whole course of our peregrinations; from this we have escaped with whole skins and fearless hearts; we have neither unsheathed our swords, battered the earth with our poor carcases, nor are we left in a starving condition; blessed be God who hath spared me to see this good luck with my own eyes!’—‘Thou sayest well, Sancho,’ replied the knight; ‘but thou must take notice, that all times are not the same, nor equally fortunate; and those incidents which the vulgar call omens, though not founded on any natural reason, have, even by persons of sagacity, been held and deemed as fair and fortunate. One of these superstitious omen-mongers rises in the morning, goes abroad, chances to meet a friar belonging to the beatified St. Francis; and, as if he had encountered a dragon in his way, runs back to his own house with fear and consternation. Another Foresight[198] by accident scatters the salt upon the table, by which fear and melancholy are scattered through his heart; as if nature was obliged to foretel future misfortunes by such trivial signs and tokens; whereas, a prudent man and a good Christian will not so minutely scrutinize the purposes of Heaven. Scipio chancing to fall in landing upon the coast of Africk, and perceiving that his soldiers looked upon this accident as a bad omen, he embraced the soil with seeming eagerness, saying, “Thou shalt not ’scape me, Africk; for I have thee safe within my arms.” Therefore, Sancho, my meeting with those images I consider as a most happy encounter.’—‘I am of the same opinion,’ answered the squire; ‘but I wish your worship would be pleased to tell me, for what reason the Spaniards, when they join battle, and invoke that same St. Diego Mata Moros, cry, “St. Jago!” and “Close, Spain!” Is Spain cloven in such a manner, as to want closing; or what is the meaning of that ceremony?’—‘Sancho,’ replied the knight, ‘thy simplicity is very great. You must know, that God has given this great Knight of the Red Cross, as a patron and protector to Spain, especially in those dreadful battles fought against the Moors. The Spaniards, therefore, invoke and call upon him as their defender on all such occasions; nay, many times hath he been seen overthrowing, trampling, slaying, and destroying the squadrons of the children of Hagar[199]; and of this truth I could convince thee by many examples recorded in the authentick histories of Spain[200].’

Sancho changing the subject of conversation, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘I was astonished at the boldness of her grace’s damsel, Altisidora. I’faith! she must be rarely pricked and stabbed by him they call Cupid; who, they say, is a mischievous blind boy, and is able, with those bleared eyes of his, or rather with no eyes at all, if once he takes aim, to pierce through and through with his arrows, the smallest heart that ever was seen. I have also heard it observed, that by the modesty and reserve of young women, these same amorous shafts are blunted and broken; but in Altisidora they seem rather to be whetted than blunted.’—‘Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘you must know that love has no respect of persons; nor, in his progress, does he confine himself within the bounds of reason; indeed he is of the same disposition with death; for he assaults the lofty palaces of kings, as well as the humble cottages of swains. When he once has taken full possession of the soul, his first exploit is to expel fear and modesty; and without these did Altisidora declare her passion, which engendered not pity, but confusion in my breast.’—‘O monstrous and notorious cruelty!’ cried Sancho, ‘unheard-of ingratitude! I can say for myself, that the least kind word from her would have subdued and made me her bond slave. Ah, the son of a whore! what a heart of marble, bowels of brass, and soul of plaister!—But I cannot, for the blood of me, conceive what the damsel could see in your worship, to tame and bring her to such an humble pass; what finery, what good humour, what gentility could she observe about your person? or what beauty could she spy in that face? for women are taken with these qualities either severally or conjunctly. Verily, verily, I have often stopped to survey your worship from the sole of your foot to the last hair upon your scull; and I protest before God! I think you would be more apt to frighten than to captivate a fair lady; and as I have, moreover, heard it said, that beauty is the chief and principal article that inspires love, your worship being quite destitute of that commodity, I cannot imagine what the poor creature was in love with.’—‘Take notice, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘there are two kinds of beauty, one of the mind, and another of the body: that of the mind displays itself in the understanding, in honourable and virtuous behaviour, in a liberality of disposition, and in good breeding; now, all these qualifications may center in an ugly man; and when this kind of beauty, preferable to that of the body, is the object of admiration, it produces love that glows with equal impetuosity and advantage. For my own part, Sancho, I can easily see that I am not beautiful; but I likewise know I am not deformed; and a gentleman who is not altogether monstrous, may inspire the most ardent love, provided he is in possession of those qualities of the mind which I have mentioned.’

Thus discoursing together they entered a wood, at a small distance from the highway; and, all of a sudden, without dreaming of any such lett or impediment, Don Quixote found himself entangled among some nets of green thread, which were spread and stretched from tree to tree. As he could not conceive the meaning of this phænomenon, ‘I believe,’ said he to Sancho, ‘that this of the nets must be one of the newest adventures that ever were imagined or contrived. Let me die if the inchanters by whom I am persecuted, have not a mind to entangle me in them, and obstruct my journey, in revenge for my rigour and indifference towards Altisidora! But I shall give them to understand, that although these nets, instead of thread, were made of the hardest adamant, and stronger than that in which the jealous God of blacksmiths caught Mars and Venus together, I would break through them as easily as if they were of rushes and unspun cotton.’

So saying, he endeavoured to proceed and destroy this obstacle, when all at once, from a tuft of trees, came forth two most beautiful shepherdesses, at least they were clad like shepherdesses, though their jackets and petticoats were of fine brocade—I say, their petticoats were of the richest gold tabby; their hair hung loose upon their shoulders, and in shining might have vied with the rays of Apollo himself; their heads were adorned with garlands of green laurel, interwoven with sprigs of red amaranth; and their age seemed to be neither under fifteen, nor turned of eighteen; a sight that struck Sancho with admiration, the knight with surprize, and suspended the sun in the middle of his career. All the four, for some time, remained in silent wonder; and at length, the first who spoke was one of the two country maidens, who, addressing herself to Don Quixote, ‘Forbear, Sir Knight,’ said she, ‘and do not break our nets, which, I assure you, were not spread for your inconvenience, but merely for our own pastime: and because I know you will ask for what reason they are placed, and who we are, I will satisfy your curiosity in a few words. At a village about two leagues from hence, which is inhabited by many people of fortune and fashion, it was agreed among a number of friends and relations, that they, their wives, sons, daughters, neighbours, friends and kinsfolks, should come and enjoy the fine season in this spot, which is the most agreeable situation in all this country; and here form a new pastoral Arcadia, the girls being habited like shepherdesses, and the young men like swains. We have studied two eclogues; one of the famous poet Garcilasso, and another of the most excellent Camoens, in his own Portuguese language; though they are not yet represented, for we arrived only yesterday. Among these trees we have pitched some field-tents, upon the banks of a plentiful stream which fertilizes all these meadows; and last night we spread these nets from tree to tree, in order to deceive and catch the simple little birds, which, frightened by the noise we make, may fly into the snare: if you chuse to be our guest, Signior, you shall be treated liberally and courteously, for at present neither melancholy nor disgust shall enter this place.’

Here she left off speaking; and Don Quixote replied—‘Assuredly, most beauteous nymph, Acteon himself could not be seized with more surprize and admiration, when he all of a sudden beheld Diana bathing, than that which but now overwhelmed me at sight of such uncommon charms! I applaud the scheme of your entertainments and diversions; I thank you heartily for your courteous proffer, and if I can serve you in any shape, you may command me, with full assurance of being obeyed; for I have chosen this profession solely because it consists in being grateful and benevolent to all mankind, especially to persons of rank such as your appearance declares you to be; and if these nets, which I suppose occupy but a small space, were extended over the whole circumference of the globe, I would find new worlds through which I might pass, rather than by breaking the least mesh, run the risque of interrupting your diversion. That you may give some credit to this exaggeration, be pleased to take notice, that he who makes it is no other than Don Quixote de La Mancha, if peradventure such a name hath ever reached your ears.’

The young lady no sooner heard these words, than turning to the other shepherdess, ‘O my dear companion!’ cried she, ‘what an happy incident is this! that there knight, I assure thee, is the most valiant, enamoured, and courteous person in the whole world, if we are not misled and deceived by the printed history of his exploits, which I have read from end to end; and I’ll lay a wager that honest man who accompanies him is one Sancho Panza, his squire, whose pleasantry is above all comparison.’—‘You are in the right,’ said Sancho; ‘I am that same pleasant fellow and loyal squire whom your ladyship hath so honourably mentioned; and that gentleman is my master, the very individual historified and aforesaid Don Quixote de La Mancha.’

‘Good now, my dear,’ said the other, ‘let us beseech them to stay; our fathers and brothers will be infinitely pleased with their conversation; for I have likewise heard the same account of the knight’s valour and the squire’s pleasantry: as for Don Quixote, in particular, he is said to be the most constant and loyal lover that ever was known; and that his mistress is one Dulcinea del Toboso, who bears away the palm of beauty from all the ladies in Spain.’—‘Aye, and justly too,’ said the knight; ‘unless your unequalled beauty should invalidate her claim. Weary not yourselves, fair ladies, in persuading me to stay; for the indispensible duties of my profession will not allow me to rest in any place whatever.’

Just as he pronounced these words, they were joined by a brother of one of the two nymphs, clad likewise in the fashion of a shepherd, though his dress, in point of richness and gaiety, corresponded with that of the ladies, who told him that the gentleman on horseback was the valiant Don Quixote de La Mancha, and the other his squire Sancho, whose characters he already knew from his having perused their history. The gallant youth paid his compliments, and pressed Don Quixote to accompany them to the tents, in such a manner that he could not help complying. Then setting up the shout, the nets were filled with different kinds of little birds, which, deceived by the colour of the meshes, flew precipitately into the very danger they sought to avoid.

In this place they were joined by above thirty persons, gaily clad like shepherds and shepherdesses, who were immediately informed of the names of Don Quixote and his squire; a circumstance which afforded them no small satisfaction, as the history had already made them acquainted with the characters of both.

Repairing to the tents, where they found tables ready furnished with elegance and abundance, they complimented the knight with the place of honour, and all the company gazed upon him with admiration. At length, when the cloth was taken away, Don Quixote raising his voice, thus harangued them with great solemnity: ‘Of all the crimes which mankind commit, though some say pride is the greatest, I affirm that ingratitude is the most atrocious, adhering to the common supposition, that hell is crouded with the ungrateful. This crime I have, as much as in me lies, endeavoured to avoid ever since the first moment in which I could exercise my reason; and though I may not be able to repay in kind the benefits which I receive, I substitute the will for the deed: when that is not sufficient, I publish them to the world; for he that promulgates the favours he has received, would also requite them with equal generosity, if it was in his power to make such recompence. But, for the most part, people who receive benefits are inferior to those who bestow them; and, therefore, God is above all, because he is the fountain of all good things. Yet there is an infinite difference between the benefits conferred by men and those bestowed by God, so as to reject all comparison; and this narrowness and insufficiency on our part, is in some measure supplied by gratitude. Now, I being grateful for the favours you have done me, which I cannot repay in the same measure, and being hampered by the narrow limits of my ability, must offer that which is in my power to present; I say, therefore, that I will for two natural days, in the middle of that high-road that leads to Saragossa, maintain that the ladies here present, disguised in pastoral habits, are the most fair and courteous damsels in the whole world, excepting always and only, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, sole mistress of my thoughts; without offence to the honourable hearers be it spoken.’

Here Sancho, who had stood listening attentively to what he said, exclaimed with great vociferation, ‘Is it possible, now, that there can be persons in the world, who have the presumption to say and swear that my master is a madman? Pray tell me, gentlemen and ladies, shepherds and shepherdesses, is there ever a country-curate in Spain, let him be never so wise and learned, that could say what my master has just now said; or is there a knight-errant, let him be never so famed for valour, who could make such an offer as my master has made!’

Don Quixote turning to Sancho, with rage and indignation in his countenance, ‘Miscreant,’ said he, ‘is it possible there should be a person upon earth who would not say thou art stark mad, and that thy soul is lined and bordered with fillets of malice and knavery? By what authority, wretch! art thou entitled to intermeddle in my affairs, and give thy opinion whether my brain be sound or crazy? Seal up thy lips, and make no reply; but saddle Rozinante, if he is without his saddle, and let us go immediately and perform my promise; for as I have justice on my side, you may deem all those who shall contradict my assertion as already vanquished.’

So saying, he rose from his seat with great fury and demonstrations of wrath, leaving the whole company astonished, and doubting whether they should consider him as a lunatick or person of sound intellects. However, they endeavoured to dissuade him from publishing such a declaration, saying they took his gratitude for granted, and that there was no need of new proofs to demonstrate his valour, seeing those were sufficient which they had seen recorded in the history of his atchievements.

Notwithstanding this remonstrance, the knight executed his design; he mounted Rozinante, embraced his shield, and grasping his lance, posted himself in the middle of the king’s highway, which was not far from their verdant habitation, being followed by Sancho upon Dapple and the whole flock of those pastoral gentry, who were curious to see the issue of his arrogant and hitherto unseen enterprize.

Having taken possession of the ground, he wounded the very vault of heaven with the loudness of the tone in which he pronounced these words: ‘O ye passengers and travellers, knights, squires, persons on horseback or a-foot, who come or are to come this way, within the space of two days, from this present hour, know that Don Quixote de La Mancha, knight-errant, is here posted to maintain that the nymphs who inhabit these meadows and woods, excel in beauty and courtesy all the ladies upon earth, exclusive of Dulcinea del Toboso, the mistress of my soul. Let him who thinks the contrary, advance; here I am ready to receive him.’

Twice did he repeat this declaration, and twice was it repeated unheard by any knight adventurer; but fortune, which was bent upon directing his affairs to better purpose, ordained, that in a very little time he descried upon the road a great number of men on horseback, some of them armed with lances riding towards him in great haste, and all in a cluster. Those who were with Don Quixote no sooner perceived this troop, than they turned their backs and retired a good way from the road, knowing that some mischief would befal them, should they keep their ground: the knight alone maintained his post with an undaunted heart, and Sancho Panza shielded himself with the flanks of Rozinante.

When this troop of lancemen advanced, one of them that rode before the rest, began to halloo as loud as he could cry to Don Quixote, ‘Get out of the way, thou servant of the devil, or these bulls will trample thee to dust!’—‘So ho, caitiffs!’ replied the knight; ‘your bulls shall not avail against me, even though they are the fiercest that ever fed upon the banks of Xarama; confess, ye miscreants, unsight, unseen, the truth of what I have proclaimed, or meet my vengeance in the field of battle.’

The herdsman had no time to reply, nor Don Quixote to retire, had he been never so willing; so that the drove of wild bulls and tame cattle, together with a multitude of drivers and other people employed to convey them to a place where, in a few days, they were to be baited—the whole throng, I say, passed over the bellies of Don Quixote, Sancho, Rozinante, and Dapple, whom they in a twinkling overthrew and rolled in the mire, in such a manner that the squire was squeezed as flat as a pancake, his master astonished, Dapple terribly bruised, and Rozinante in no very catholick condition. At length, however, all the four got upon their legs; and Don Quixote, staggering here, and tumbling there, began to pursue the drove on foot, calling aloud—‘Halt, and wait a little, ye felonious plebeians; he is a single knight who defies you to the combat, and not of the disposition and opinion of those who say—“Lay a bridge of silver for a flying enemy.”’

But notwithstanding all his exclamation, the drovers did not slacken their pace, or mind his threats, more than they minded last year’s weather. Don Quixote being so tired, that he could run no farther, sat down upon the side of the road, more incensed than revenged, and waited for Sancho, Rozinante, and Dapple, who soon arrived. Then the knight and squire, mounting their beasts, proceeded on their journey with more shame than satisfaction; and never dreamed of returning to take a formal leave of the feigned or counterfeit Arcadia.

Footnote 197:

Moor-killer.

Footnote 198:

The original word is Mendoza, the name of a great family in Spain, one of whom was remarkably superstitious.

Footnote 199:

The Moors are said to be descended from Hagar.

Footnote 200:

Sancho must have been very simple indeed, to be satisfied with this explanation, which does not even hint at the main point of his question; namely, Why do the Spanish soldiers, when they charge their enemy, cry, ‘Close, Spain?’ A phrase of encouragement, by which the soldiers exhort one another to do their duty, and close with the foe.

CHAP. VII. IN WHICH IS RECOUNTED THE EXTRAORDINARY INCIDENT THAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE, AND MAY WELL PASS FOR AN ADVENTURE.

The dust and drought which Don Quixote and Sancho derived from the uncivil behaviour of the bulls, were remedied by a clear and limpid stream which they had the good fortune to find in a good shade, and on the margin of which this down-trodden pair, the master and man, seated themselves, after Rozinante and Dapple were unbridled, and unhaltered, and left to the freedom of their own will. Sancho immediately had recourse to the store of his wallet, from which he drew forth what he usually called his belly-timber; but not before he had rinsed his mouth, and his master had washed his own face, in consequence of which refreshment they recovered their exhausted spirits. Nevertheless, Don Quixote forbore eating, out of pure vexation; while Sancho, who durst not touch the food that was before him, waited, out of pure good manners, until his master should begin. Seeing, however, the knight so absorbed in his own imagination, that he forgot to lift the bread to his mouth, he, without letting one word escape his own, but trampling under-foot all kind of good-breeding, began to cram his paunch with the bread and cheese which constituted his provision. ‘Eat, friend Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘and support life, which is of more importance to thee than to me, and leave me to die by the strength of imagination and the severity of my misfortunes. I, Sancho, was born to live dying, and thou to die eating; and that thou mayest be convinced of this truth, consider me recorded in history, renowned in arms, courteous in demeanour, respected by princes, courted by damsels; and, after all, when I expected palms, triumphs, crowns of laurel, obtained and merited by my valiant atchievements, I have this morning seen myself trampled, spurned, and bruised, by the feet of filthy, unclean animals! This consideration blunts my teeth, stupifies my grinders, benumbs my hands, and deprives me wholly of appetite; so that I believe I shall die of hunger, the most cruel of all deaths.’—‘At that rate,’ answered the squire, without suspending the action of his jaws, ‘your worship will not approve of the proverb which says—“Let Martha die, but not for lack of pye.” At least I, for my own part, have no intention to starve myself; on the contrary, I am resolved to follow the example of the cordwainer who stretches the leather with his teeth until it is sufficient for his purpose; now, I will also employ my teeth in stretching out my life with eating, to that end which is ordained by Heaven; and you must know, Signior, that it is the greatest madness in nature to seek to despair like your worship. Take my advice; eat a little for refreshment, and then take a nap upon the green couch of this delightful grass, and when you awake you will see how much you’ll be relieved.’

The knight relished his advice, which he thought savoured more of the philosopher than of the ideot; and said to him, ‘Now, Sancho, if thou wouldst do that for me which I am going to mention, my relief would be more certain, and my affliction diminished: my proposal is, that while I sleep, in compliance with thy advice, thou wouldst go aside a little farther, and, exposing thy flesh to the air, bestow upon it, with the reins of Rozinante’s bridle, three or four hundred stripes, of the three thousand three hundred which thou hast undertaken to endure for the disinchantment of Dulcinea; for it is a lamentable circumstance that the poor lady should remain so long inchanted, through thy carelessness and neglect.’—‘There is much to be said on that subject,’ replied Sancho: ‘let us both go to sleep in the mean time; and afterwards God must ordain that which will come to pass. Your worship must know, that it requires great resolution in a man to scourge himself in cold blood; especially when the stripes fall upon a body which is poorly fed and supported: let my Lady Dulcinea have a little patience; when she least thinks of it, she will see my body scourged into a perfect sieve; and while there is life there is hope; my meaning is, that while I hold life, I shall never quit the desire of performing my promise.’

Don Quixote, thanking him for his good-will, took a little sustenance, Sancho ate voraciously, and then both laid themselves down to sleep, leaving Rozinante and Dapple, those two friends and inseparable companions, at full liberty to feed, without restraint, upon the luxuriant grass with which the meadow abounded.

The day being far spent before they awoke, they remounted their cattle, and pursued their journey with uncommon expedition, in order to reach an inn which they descried at a league’s distance. I say, an inn, because it was so called by Don Quixote, contrary to his former custom of mistaking every inn for a castle. When they arrived at this place of entertainment, they asked if they could be accommodated with lodging; and the landlord replied in the affirmative, telling them at the same time, that his house afforded as good conveniences and entertainment as could be found in the whole city of Saragossa. They alighted accordingly, and Sancho carried his bags into an apartment, of which the innkeeper gave him the key; then he led the cattle to the stable, where he gave them their allowance; from thence he went to receive the commands of his master, who had sat down upon a bench, and thanked Heaven, in a particular manner, that Don Quixote had not committed his usual mistake. They retired to their chamber, and supper-time approaching, Sancho desired to know what they could have for that meal. To this interrogation mine host replied, that his taste should be fitted to a hair, and that he might bespeak what he liked best; for, as far as the birds of the air, the fowls of the land, and the fish of the sea could go, he would find the house provided. ‘Less than all that will serve,’ answered Sancho: ‘we shall be satisfied with a couple of chickens roasted; for my master has a very delicate taste, and eats but little; and as for myself, I am not a very unconscionable cormorant.’

The other frankly owned he had no chickens; for the kites had destroyed the whole brood. ‘Well, then, Mr. Landlord,’ said the squire, ‘you may order a pullet to be put to the fire; but see it be very tender.’—‘A pullet!’ cried the innkeeper; ‘body o’ my father! now, as I’m an honest man, I sent above half a hundred yesterday to market; but setting aside pullets, you may have what you will.’—‘If that be the case,’ said Sancho, there will be no want of veal or kid.’—‘At present,’ replied the innkeeper, ‘there is really none in the house; we are just out of these articles; but next week she shall have enough and to spare.’—‘To be sure, we shall be much the better for that!’ answered Sancho; ‘I’ll lay a wager all these wants will be supplied with plenty of eggs and bacon.’—‘’Fore God!’ said the host, ‘my guest has an admirable knack at guessing; I have told him there is neither hen nor pullet in the house, and he would have me treat him with eggs[201]! Shift about, if you please, to some other delicacies, and think no more of poultry.’

‘Body o’ me!’ cried Sancho, ‘let us come to some resolution; tell me at once what is in the house, and pray, Mr. Landlord, no more of your shiftings.’—‘What I really and truly can afford,’ said the innkeeper, ‘is a dish of cow-heel, so delicate they might be taken for calves-feet; or you may call them calves-feet, that might pass for cow-heel. They are stewed with pease, onions, and bacon, and this blessed minute cry—“Come, eat me; come, eat me.”’—‘I mark them for my own,’ cried Sancho, ‘from henceforth for ever, amen. Let no man touch the mess, for which I will pay you handsomely; for nothing in the whole world could be more agreeable to my taste; and, provided I have cow-heel, the calves-feet may go to the devil.’—‘No man shall interfere with you,’ replied the landlord; ‘as for the other company in the house, they, out of pure gentility, bring along with them their own cook, butler and sumpter mule.’—‘Nay, as for gentility,’ said the squire, ‘no man has more of that than my master; but his profession will not admit of travelling stores and butteries: lack-a-day! we lay ourselves down in the middle of a green field, and fill our bellies with medlars and acorns.’ Such was the conversation that passed between the innkeeper and Sancho; who would not, however, go any greater lengths in satisfying the curiosity of mine host, who was very desirous to know the office or profession of his master.

Supper being ready, Don Quixote retired to his apartment, whither the landlord brought the pot just as it was, and very decently sat down to partake of the meal. At that instant, the knight heard people talking in the next room, from which he was divided only by a partition of lath, and could plainly distinguish these words: ‘As you hope to live, Don Geronimo, I conjure you, as supper is not yet ready, to read another chapter of the second part of Don Quixote de La Mancha.’

The knight, hearing his own name mentioned, started up immediately, and listening with great attention, heard Geronimo reply to this effect: ‘What pleasure can you have in reading such absurdities, Don John? No person who has seen the first part of the history of Don Quixote de La Mancha, can possibly be entertained with this which is called the second.’—‘Nevertheless,’ said Don John, ‘it will not be amiss to read a little; for there is no book so bad as to contain nothing that deserves regard. What displeases me most in this performance is, the author’s describing Don Quixote as altogether disengaged and detached from Dulcinea del Toboso.’

The knight, hearing this remark, was filled with rage and vexation, and exclaimed aloud, ‘If any person whatever affirms that Don Quixote de La Mancha either has forgotten or can forget Dulcinea del Toboso, I will, with equal arms, make him know and own, that his affection is far distant from the truth; for the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso cannot possibly be forgot; nor is Don Quixote susceptible of forgetfulness: his motto is Constancy, which he professes to maintain with gentleness and suavity of manners.’—‘Who is he that answers?’ cried the voice. ‘Who should it be,’ replied Sancho, ‘but Don Quixote de La Mancha, in his own person, who will make good whatever he has said, and whatever he shall say; for, “A good paymaster wants no pawn.”’

Scarce had the squire pronounced these words, when two gentlemen, for such they appeared, entered the apartment; and one of them throwing his arms about Don Quixote’s neck, ‘Your appearance,’ said he, ‘does not belye your name, and your name cannot but give credit to your appearance. Without all doubt, you, Signior, are the true Don Quixote de La Mancha, the north-star and luminary of knight errantry, maugre and in despite of him who has thought proper to usurp your name, and annihilate your exploits; I mean, the author of this here book:’ which he took from his companion, and put into the hand of Don Quixote; who, without answering one word, began to turn over the leaves, and in a very little time gave it back to the stranger, saying—‘In the little I have read, I find three things worthy of reprehension in the author; first, some expressions in the prologue or preface; secondly, his using the Arragonian dialect, and writing sometimes without articles; and thirdly, that which confirms my opinion of his ignorance, his erring and deviating from the truth in the most material circumstances of the history; for he says, the wife of my squire Sancho Panza, is called Mary Gutierrez, whereas her name is Teresa Panza; now, if he blunders in such an essential circumstance, we may justly conclude that his whole history is full of mistakes[202].’

‘A pleasant historian, i’faith!’ cried Sancho: ‘he must be well acquainted with our adventures, to be sure, when he calls my dame Teresa by the name of Mary Gutierrez! Take the book again, Signior, and see if he has lugged me in, too, under a borrowed name!’—‘From what you have said, friend,’ replied Don Geronimo, ‘I find you must certainly be Sancho Panza, squire to Signior Don Quixote.’—‘Even so,’ answered the squire; ‘and I am proud of the occupation.’—‘Then, in good sooth!’ said the cavalier, ‘this author has not treated you so handsomely as from your appearance I conclude you deserve; he represents you as a gormandizer, a simpleton without the least vein of humour or pleasantry; and, in short, quite different from the Sancho described in the first part of the history of your master!’—‘The Lord in heaven forgive him!’ cried Sancho: ‘he might have let me sleep in my corner, without remembering there was such a sinner as me upon the face of the earth: for, “He that has skill should handle the quill[203];” and I know that St. Peter is well at Rome.’

The two gentlemen invited Don Quixote to sup with them in their apartment, as they knew the inn could not afford any thing proper for his entertainment; and the knight, who was always the pink of courtesy, complied with their request; so that Sancho remained undisputed master of the pot. Cum mero mixto imperio, he seated himself at the head of the table, in company with the landlord, who vied with him in affection for the cow-heel and calves-feet.

Don John, in the course of the conversation at supper, asked what news Don Quixote had concerning the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; he begged to know if she was married, brought to-bed, or in a state of pregnancy; or, if still single, she, as far as modesty and decorum would permit, smiled upon the passion of her lover Don Quixote. ‘Dulcinea,’ answered the knight, ‘is still unmarried, and my passion more intense than ever: our correspondence stands on the old footing, and her beauty is transformed into the appearance of a base-born, rustick wench.’

Then he, in a very circumstantial manner, related the inchantment of his mistress, together with his adventure in the cave of Montesinos, and the means prescribed by the sage Merlin for her relief; namely, the flagellation of Sancho.

Unspeakable was the satisfaction which the two cavaliers enjoyed in hearing Don Quixote recount the strange incidents of his history; and they were equally astonished at the folly of his adventures and the elegance with which he related them: here they esteemed him as a man of sound understanding; and there he slipped through their opinion into the sink of madness; so that they could not determine what rank he should maintain between lunacy and discretion.

Meanwhile, Sancho having finished his meal, left his landlord more than half seas over; and entering the chamber where his master sat, ‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I’ll be hanged if the author of that book your worships were talking of, has any mind or inclination that he and I should be messmates. Since he has given me the character of a glutton, as your worships have observed, I wish he may not have likewise called me a drunkard.’—‘He has indeed,’ replied Don Geronimo: ‘but I do not remember the expression, though I know the words are very scurrilous and false above measure, as I can plainly perceive in the physiognomy of honest Sancho here present.’—‘Take my word for it, noble gentlemen,’ said the squire, ‘the Sancho and Don Quixote of that history must be persons quite different from those recorded by Cid Hamet Benengeli, who are no other than we ourselves, here standing and sitting in your presence: my master, valiant, sagacious, and enamoured; and I simple, and withal pleasant, but neither sot nor gormandizer.’—‘I believe what you say,’ replied Don John: ‘and wish it were possible to obtain a mandate, prohibiting any person or persons from presuming to meddle with the affairs of the great Don Quixote, excepting Hamet, his original author; in the same manner as Alexander the Great decreed that no painter but Apelles should draw his portrait.’—‘Any body may draw my portrait,’ said the knight; ‘but let no man maltreat my character; for patience often falls to the ground, when it is overloaded with injuries.’—‘No injury can be done to Don Quixote, but what he can easily revenge,’ answered Don John: ‘unless he chuse rather to ward it off with the buckler of his patience, which, I believe, is both strong and ample.’

In this and other such conversation they spent great part of the night; and although Don John would fain have persuaded Don Quixote to read a little more of the book, that they might hear him descant upon particulars, he could not accomplish his purpose; the knight assuring him he considered it as good as read, and pronounced the whole an heap of absurdities; nor did he chuse that the author, who might perhaps hear it was in his hands, should have the satisfaction of thinking he had perused his performance; for, from objects of obscenity and turpitude, not only the eyes but even the imagination ought to be kept sacred. When they asked, whither his course was at present directed, he told them he was bound for Saragossa, in order to signalize himself in the prize-jousts which are yearly solemnized in that city.

Then Don John gave him to understand that the new history gives an account of the spurious Don Quixote’s having been in that place at a course, the description of which was barren of invention, low in stile, miserably poor in devices, and rich in nothing but folly and impertinence.—‘For that very reason,’ said Don Quixote, ‘I will not set foot in Saragossa, and so demonstrate to the wide world, the falshood of this modern historian, and let the nations see I am not the Don Quixote whom he has described.’—‘I applaud your resolution,’ replied Don Geronimo; ‘and there will be a tournament in Barcelona, where Don Quixote will have an opportunity to signalize his valour.’—‘And that I shall surely embrace,’ answered the knight: ‘at present, gentlemen, as it is high time, you will give me leave to retire to bed; and I beg you will esteem and place me among the number of your most sincere friends and humble servants.’—‘And me also,’ said Sancho: ‘peradventure my service may be good for something.’ They accordingly took their leave, and retired to their apartment, leaving Don John and his companion astonished at the medley of sense and madness they had observed in his discourse: they believed, without hesitation, these to be the real Don Quixote and Sancho, and not the persons described by the Arragonian author.

Don Quixote rising early next morning, tapped at the partition, and bade farewel to his entertainers: and Sancho paid his reckoning like a prince; advising the landlord, however, either to furnish his house better, or to brag less of his accommodations.

Footnote 201:

Why might not this innkeeper have had eggs in his house, as he had sent no less than fifty pullets to market the very day before?

Footnote 202:

I am apt to believe that this remark was intended as an ironical sarcasm on the trivial observations of hypercriticks: for we cannot suppose Cervantes did not know, by this time, that he himself had more than once, in the first part of this history, actually called Sancho’s wife by the name of Mary Gutierrez; an oversight which I have taken notice of in the proper place.

Footnote 203:

The proverb in the original, alludes to a kind of tabor: as if one should say, ‘He alone should attempt to play, who knows how to beat the tabor.’

CHAP. VIII. OF WHAT BEFEL DON QUIXOTE IN HIS WAY TO BARCELONA.

The morning was cold, and seemed to promise but little less for the day on which Don Quixote departed from the inn, after having informed himself of the nearest road to Barcelona which he could travel without touching at Saragossa; so eager he was to fix the lye upon the new historian by whom they said he was so scurvily treated.

So it happened that he met with nothing worthy of record within six days; at the end of which, having quitted the high road, he was benighted among a thick cluster of oak or cork-trees; for, in this particular, Cid Hamet has not preserved his usual punctuality. The master and man alighting from their beasts, and accommodating themselves at the roots of two separate trees, Sancho, who had laid in a good afternoon’s luncheon, entered the gates of sleep abruptly, and without hesitation; whereas the knight, who was kept awake more by fancy than by hunger, could not close an eye; but, on the contrary, rambled in his imagination through a thousand different scenes. Sometimes he conceived himself to be in the cave of Montesinos; sometimes he thought he saw Dulcinea skipping and leaping upon her ass, in that dismal state of rustick transformation; and then his ears seemed to tingle with the words of the sage Merlin, who pronounced the conditions and endeavours to be observed and exerted for the disinchantment of his mistress. He was driven almost to desperation, when he reflected on the sloth and uncharitable disposition of his squire Sancho, who, to the best of his belief, had hitherto given himself only five stripes; a number poor and inconsiderable in comparison with the infinite score unpaid: and this consideration overwhelmed him with such anxiety and chagrin, that he thus argued with his own bosom.

‘If Alexander the Great ventured to cut the Gordian knot, on the supposition that cutting would be as effectual as untying it; and notwithstanding this violence, became sole master of all Asia, the same success may now attend my efforts in disinchanting Dulcinea, should I scourge Sancho against his own consent; for if the condition of this remedy be, that Sancho shall receive three thousand three hundred stripes, what signifies it to me whether they are bestowed by his own hand, or that of some other person, seeing the essential point is in his receiving them, from what quarter soever they may come?’

Inspired with this notion, he took the reins of Rozinante’s bridle, which he formed into an instrument of flagellation; and, approaching the sleeping squire, began to untruss his points: indeed, it is the general opinion, that he had but one before which kept up his breeches. But scarce had he began to perform this operation, when Sancho, shaking off the fetters of slumber at one start, exclaimed aloud, ‘What’s the matter? Who the devil is that so busy untrussing me while I’m asleep?’—‘It is I,’ answered the knight, ‘who mean to atone for thy omissions, and remedy my own misfortunes. I come to scourge thee, Sancho, and discharge some part of the debt which thou art obligated to pay. Dulcinea pines in a state of transformation; and, while thou livest at thine heart’s ease, I am dying with desire: untie these points, therefore, of thy own free-will; for mine, I assure thee, is to afflict thy posteriors with two thousand stripes at least, before we quit this unfrequented place.’—‘By no manner of means!’ cried Sancho; ‘I advise your worship to be quiet, or, by the God of Israel! the deaf shall hear us: the stripes I have obliged myself to receive, must be given with my own free-will and consent, not by force or compulsion; and, at present, I have not the least inclination to discipline my own flesh: let it suffice, I give your worship my word and honour, that I will flog and fly-flap my carcase as soon as ever I find myself disposed for such exercise.’—‘I must not leave it to thy courtesy,’ replied the knight; ‘for thou hast a stony heart, and though a peasant, art very tender of thy flesh.’ He accordingly struggled with all his might to unbreech the squire; who, finding the affair become very serious, started up from the ground, sprung upon his master, and closing with him in a trice, tripped up his heels, so that the knight came instantly to the ground, where he lay with his face uppermost: then the victor, clapping his right knee to the breast of the vanquished party, and griping him fast by both wrists, hampered him in such a manner, that he could scarce either breathe or move. Nevertheless he made shift to pronounce these words: ‘How now, traitor! dost thou presume to rebel against thy master and natural lord, whose bread thou hast eaten?’—‘I neither exalt kings nor dethrone them,’ answered Sancho; ‘but, being my own master, I stand up in my own defence: if your worship will promise to be quiet, and think no more of scourging me for the present, I will forthwith free and disencumber you from these bonds: otherwise, here thou shalt die, traitor and enemy to Donna Sancha.’

The knight subscribed to the conditions, swearing by the life of his inclinations, that he would not touch the nap of his garment, but leave him at full liberty to begin the flagellation when he himself should think proper. On these considerations Sancho arose, and went aside a good away to another tree, at whose root he resolved to take his lodging for the remaining part of the night. There he felt something bob against his head, and putting up his hand, found two legs provided with shoes and stockings: trembling with affright, he moved with great expedition to another tree, where he met with the same salutation, which increased his terror to such a pitch, that he roared aloud for assistance. His master hearing this exclamation, ran towards the place, and enquired into the cause of his fear and confusion; when the squire gave him to understand that all these trees were loaded with human legs and feet. The knight reaching up his hand, immediately conceived the meaning of this strange circumstance, and said to Sancho, ‘Thou needest not be afraid, for those legs and feet which thou hast felt without seeing, certainly belong to some robbers and outlaws who are hanged upon the trees; for, when they are apprehended in this place, the officers of justice string them up by twenties and thirties; and from this particular, I am convinced that we must now be near Barcelona.’ And, indeed, his conjecture was right. Soon as objects were rendered visible by the dawn, they lifted up their eyes, and saw that the clusters depending from the trees were no other than the bodies of banditti. The morning forthwith ushered in the day; and if they were scared by the dead, they were no less aghast when they found themselves all of a sudden surrounded by above forty living robbers, who called to them in the Catalonian language to be quiet, and stand still until their captain should arrive.

Don Quixote being a-foot, his horse unbridled, his lance leaning against a tree, and, in short, his person without any means of defence, he thought proper to cross his arms upon his breast, and hung his head, reserving himself for a better season and more happy conjuncture. Meanwhile, the robbers made such dispatch in plundering Dapple, that in the twinkling of an eye there was not the least crumb left in the wallet and pillion; and lucky it was for Sancho that he had secured, in a concealed girdle, the duke’s crowns and the money he had brought from home; nay, notwithstanding this precaution, those honest gentlemen would have searched and rummaged him in such a manner as to have found the cash, even though it had been hidden between the flesh and the skin, had not they been interrupted by the seasonable arrival of their captain, who seemed to be about four and thirty years of age, of a robust make, middling stature, grave countenance, and brown complexion; he rode a strong horse, was provided with a coat of mail, and he had slung a pair of pistols with firelocks at each side of him. Seeing his squires (for so they call the gentlemen of that profession) very busy in rifling Sancho Panza, he ordered them to desist; and, as they immediately obeyed his command, the girdle happily escaped. Surprized to see a lance leaning against a tree, a shield lying on the ground, and Don Quixote armed at all points and in manifest despondence, exhibiting the most rueful and melancholy figure that Melancholy herself could have formed, he approached the knight, saying, ‘Be not so dejected, honest friend; you have not fallen into the hands of a cruel Osiris, but of those of Roque Guinart, who has more of compassion than cruelty in his disposition.’

‘My dejection,’ answered the knight, ‘does not proceed from my having fallen under thy power, O valiant Roque, whose fame the limits of this earth cannot confine; but from the consciousness of my own neglect, in consequence of which thy soldiers found me unprepared: whereas I am bound by the order of chivalry, which I profess, to be always alert and vigilant, and to stand as it were at all times sentry upon myself; and give me leave to tell thee, O renowned Roque! they would not have found it such an easy task to subdue me, had I been on horseback, armed with my lance and shield: for know, I am Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose exploits are celebrated through this whole terraqueous globe.’

Roque Guinart immediately perceived that the knight’s infirmity partook more of madness than of valour; and although he had frequently heard him named, he looked upon his atchievements as altogether fabulous, and could not believe that such a humour did ever prevail in the heart of man: he was therefore extremely well pleased with this encounter, that he might with his own eyes see immediately before him what he had heard reported afar off. ‘Valiant knight,’ said he, ‘do not vex yourself, or consider your present situation in the light of a misfortune; perhaps, by stumbling in this manner your crooked fate may be made straight; for Heaven, by strange unforeseen windings, which mankind cannot comprehend, is wont to raise the fallen, and enrich the needy.’

Don Quixote’s mouth was already open to thank him for his courteous behaviour, when they heard behind them a noise like that of a whole troop of horse, though there was only one, upon which came at full speed a youth who seemed to be about the age of twenty, dressed in green damask laced with gold, long breeches, a loose coat, a hat cocked in the Walloon fashion, with strait waxed boots and spurs; armed with a gold hilted sword and dagger, a small fusil in his hand, and a case of pistols by his side.

Roque hearing the noise, turned about, and was surprized with the sight of this handsome figure, who accosted him in these terms: ‘In search of thee, courageous Roque! I came hither, hoping by thy means to find, if not a remedy, at least an alleviation, of my misfortune: and, to keep thee no longer in suspense, as I am certain you never saw me before, know that I am Claudia Geronima, daughter of Simon Forte, who is thy intimate friend, as well as the particular enemy of Clauquel Torellas, thy inveterate foe, as being head of the party which thou hast always opposed. This Torellas, thou knowest, has a son called Don Vincente Torrellas, at least he was, two hours ago, distinguished by that name. I will be as brief as possible in the account of my disaster, and explain the occasion of it in a few words. That youth happened to see me, and courted my good graces; I listened to his addresses, and gave him my heart, without the knowledge of my father; for there is no woman whatsoever so retired and mewed up, but she will find a time to execute and gratify her irresistible desires. In a word, he promised to be my husband, I consented to become his wife, and this was the farthest extent of our correspondence. Yesterday I was informed, that, forgetting this obligation, he intended to marry another woman, and that this morning he had set out to celebrate his nuptials. My brain was disturbed, and my indignation arrouzed to such a degree by these fatal tidings, that, taking the advantage of my father’s absence, I disguised myself in this apparel, pursued a-horseback my perfidious lover, whom, having overtaken about a league from this place, I, without staying to make complaints, or hear apologies, discharged upon him this fusil and these two pistols; so that, I believe, he has more than a brace of bullets in his body: thus I opened a gate through which my honour, though bathed in his blood, may escape, and left him in the hands of his servants, who neither could nor presumed to exert themselves in his defence. Thence I came in quest of thee, to beg that thou wilt conduct me safely to France, where I have relations; and, at the same time, promise to defend my father from the numerous kindred of Don Vincente, who may otherwise sacrifice him to their insatiable revenge.’

Roque was struck with admiration at the gallantry, gay appearance, genteel mien, and adventure of the beauteous Claudia, to whom he replied, ‘Come, Madam, let us first see whether or not your enemy is actually dead, and then we will consider about the most proper measures to be taken in your behalf.’ Here Don Quixote, who had listened with great attention to Claudia’s address, and Roque’s reply, interposing in the conversation, exclaimed, ‘No man has any occasion to give himself the least trouble about the defence of this lady, which I take upon my own shoulders. Give me my horse and my arms, and stay where you are; I will go in quest of the gentleman, and dead or alive compel him to perform the promise he hath made to so much beauty.’—‘Who doubts that!’ cried Sancho; ‘adad! my master has an excellent hand at match-making; a few days ago, he compelled another person who likewise refused to keep his word with a young woman; and if those plaguy inchanters who persecute him so much, had not transmographied the gallant into a lacquey, that very hour, She that was a maid before, would have been a maid no more[204].’

Roque, whose attention was engrossed by the adventure of the beautiful Claudia, paid very little regard to what was said either by the master or the man; but, ordering his squires to restore the spoils of Dapple to Sancho, and retire to the place appointed for their quarters that night, he set out with Claudia, in great haste, to reconnoitre the situation of the dead or wounded Don Vincente. When they arrived at the spot where he had been overtaken by the young lady, they found nothing but some recent blood; but, casting their eyes around, they discovered some people on the side of a hill, and conjectured they could be no other than the servants of Don Vincente carrying their master to a proper place, where he might be cured, if alive, or buried, if dead. Their supposition was just; and spurring up their horses, they soon overtook the unhappy cavalier, whom they found in the arms of his attendants, whom he entreated, with a faint and languid voice, to let him die where he was; for the pain of his wounds would not suffer him to proceed farther. Then Claudia and Roque approached him, to the great terror of his servants, who stood aghast at sight of this famous free-booter; but Claudia was greatly disturbed at the melancholy situation of Don Vincente; and agitated by the conflicting passions of tenderness and resentment, took him by the hand, saying, ‘Hadst thou given me this of thy own accord, conformable to the mutual promise subsisting between us, thou wouldst never have been in this condition.’

The wounded cavalier opened his eyes, which were almost shut for ever, and recognizing Claudia, ‘I plainly perceive,’ said he, ‘most beautiful and misled young lady, that I owe my death to your hand; a punishment altogether unmerited and unsuited to my inclinations, which, as well as my conduct, were, in regard to your person, altogether void of offence.’—‘What!’ cried Claudia, ‘is it not true, that you, this morning, intended to marry Leonora, daughter of the rich Balvastro?’—‘No, surely,’ replied Don Vincente; ‘my evil genius must have alarmed you with such information, that, your jealousy being inflamed, you might deprive me of life, which, as I leave it in your arms, and your embrace, I consider as happily lost; and, that you may be convinced of my sincerity, give me your hand, and, if you please, receive me for your husband, this being the only satisfaction I can make for the offence I was supposed to have given.’ Accordingly, Claudia and he joined hands and hearts together, in such a manner that she fainted away upon his bloody breast, and he sunk into a mortal paroxism.

Roque being confounded and perplexed, the servants ran for water which they sprinkled upon their faces, and Claudia recovered from her swoon; but this was not the case with her unhappy lover, who had already breathed his last. The young lady, perceiving her beloved husband was no more, rent the air with her groans, wounded the heavens with her lamentation, tore her locks and scattered them to the winds, and disfigured her face with her own nails, exhibiting all the marks of the most severe grief that ever took possession of an afflicted bosom. ‘O cruel and inconsiderate woman!’ she cried; ‘how easily wast thou provoked to execute such dire revenge! O furious jealousy! to what dire despair dost thou conduct all those who give thee harbour in their breasts! O my dear husband! whose unhappy fate, in being mine, hath made thy marriage-bed thy grave!’

Such were the melancholy exclamations of Claudia, which brought water into the eyes of Roque, who had seldom or never shed tears before; their servants wept bitterly; the young lady swooned almost at every step, and this whole circuit seemed to be the scene of sorrow, and field of misfortune. At length Roque Guinart ordered the servants to carry their master’s body to his father’s country-seat, which was hard by, that it might be buried according to the old gentleman’s directions; and Claudia expressed her desire of retiring to a certain monastery, the abbess of which was her aunt, where she intended to finish her life, in company of a better and more eternal husband. Roque applauded her design, and offered to conduct her to the place, promising, at the same time, to defend her father from the kindred of Don Vincente, and all the world, should they conspire against his peace. She would by no means avail herself of his attendance; but, thanking him for his obliging offers in the most courteous terms she could use, took her leave of him, shedding a torrent of tears: the servants of Don Vincente carried off the body, Roque returned to his gang, and thus ended the amour of Claudia Geronima; a catastrophe not to be wondered at, when we consider that the web of her melancholy fate was woven by the baleful and invincible force of jealousy.

Roque Guinart found his squires in the place where he had ordered them to take up their night’s lodging, and in the midst of them Don Quixote upon Rozinante, exhorting them in a long harangue, to quit that way of life, so dangerous both to soul and body; but as the greatest part of them were Gascons, a brutal and disorderly sort of people, the knight’s arguments made but little impression. The chief arriving, asked Sancho Panza if the men had restored the furniture and effects they had taken from Dapple; and the squire replied in the affirmative, excepting, however, three night-caps worth as many royal cities. ‘What the devil does the fellow say!’ cried one of the gang; ‘here they are, and any body may see they would not sell for three rials.’

‘True,’ said Don Quixote; ‘but my squire values them at that rate, on account of the person of whom I received them in a present.’ Roque commanded the man to restore them instantly; then, forming his people into a line, gave orders for bringing before them all the cloaths, jewels, money, and every thing they had acquired by robbery since the last partition; then, making a short valuation, and reducing the indivisibles into cash, he shared the whole among his company, with such equity and discretion, that in the most minute article, he neither exceeded nor fell short of distributive justice.

Having made this partition, with which every individual was perfectly well satisfied and contented, Roque turning to Don Quixote, ‘If we did not observe this punctuality,’ said he, ‘there would be no living among such a crew.’ To this declaration Sancho replied, ‘From what I have seen, I find justice so excellent in itself, that the practice of it is necessary even among thieves.’

One of the squires overhearing the remark, lifted up the butt-end of his musket, with which, in all probability, he would have shattered Sancho’s scull, had not the general commanded him to desist; while Panza, trembling in every limb, resolved never to open his lips again so long as he should sojourn among such ruffians.

About this time arrived one of the gang, who was placed centinel on the road to reconnoitre travellers, and bring intelligence; and riding up to their chief, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘not far from hence, there is a large company of people travelling to Barcelona.’—‘Have you perceived,’ answered Roque, ‘whether they are such as we seek, or such as are in quest of us.’ When the squire replied that they were such as he sought; ‘Set out, then, all together,’ said he, ‘and bring the whole company hither, without suffering one to escape.’

This whole gang departed accordingly, leaving their chief alone with Don Quixote and Sancho, to wait the issue of their expedition; and during this interval, Roque addressing himself to the knight, ‘This life of ours,’ said he, ‘must appear very strange to Don Quixote, exposed as it is to infinite adventures and incidents replete with danger; and, indeed, I do not wonder that it should appear in that light; for I must know there can be no situation so full of terror and disquiet as that in which I live, and into which I was misled by the desire of revenge, which is often powerful enough to disturb the most philosophick breast. I am naturally benevolent and compassionate; but, as I have already observed, the desire of revenging an injury which I received, hath overturned all my virtuous inclinations in such a manner, that I persevere in this career, maugre and in despite of my own understanding; and, as deep calleth unto deep, and sin unto sin, different schemes of revenge are so linked together, that I undertake not only my own, but also those of other people; yet, by the blessing of God, although I find myself thus involved in a labyrinth of confusion, I have not lost the hope of being, one day, happily extricated from all my troubles.’

Don Quixote was surprized to hear Roque talk so sensibly and with such moderation; for he imagined, that among those who were in the daily practice of assaulting, robbing, and murdering their fellow-creatures, there could not surely be one single person of sense and reflection. ‘Signior Roque,’ said he, ‘the beginning of health is the knowledge of the disease, and the patient’s desire to comply with the physician’s prescription. You are now in the diseased condition, sensible of your infirmity, and Heaven, or rather God himself, who is the great physician, will apply those medicines which are proper for the cure of your distemper; but these remedies are wont to operate slowly, not in a sudden miraculous manner; and sensible sinners are much more likely to recover, than delinquents of little understanding. Now, as your discourse evinces your discretion, be of good chear, and courageously wait for the perfect recovery of your conscience. If you are in earnest inclined to quit this road, and enter at once into that which leads to salvation, come along with me and learn to be a knight-errant, in which capacity you will undergo such toils and disasters as will be deemed sufficient penance, and exalt you to Heaven in the turning of two balls.’

Roque could not help smiling at Don Quixote’s advice; but changing the conversation, he recounted the tragical adventure of Claudia Geronima, at which Sancho was exceedingly grieved; for he had been hugely pleased with the beauty, vivacity, and demeanor of the young lady.

About this time they were joined by the squires of the booty, who brought along with them two gentlemen on horseback, two pilgrims on foot, and a coach full of women, attended by six servants, partly mounted, and partly footmen, together with two muleteers, who waited upon the gentlemen. These came all in a troop surrounded by the squires, and universal silence prevailed among the victors and the vanquished; both sides expecting, with resignation, the commands of the great Roque Guinart, who, approaching the gentlemen, asked who they were, whither they were going, and what money they had.

To these interrogations one of them replied, ‘Signior, we are captains of the Spanish infantry, our companies are in Naples; our intention is to embark on board of four gallies, which, they say, are now in the harbour of Barcelona, ready to sail for Sicily; and our funds amount to two or three hundred crowns, with the possession of which we thought ourselves rich and happy, considering the narrow appointments of a soldier, which will not permit him to heap up a great deal of wealth.’

Then Roque putting the same questions to the pilgrims, they answered, that their design was to embark for Italy, in order to visit Rome; and that, between both, they could muster about sixty rials. He likewise desired to know the quality of those who were in the coach, the place to which they were going, and the state of their finances. In these particulars he was satisfied by one of the horsemen, who said, ‘The company in the coach consists of my Lady Donna Guiomar de Quinones, wife to the regent of the vicariate of Naples, her little daughter a damsel, and a duenna; I am one of the six servants who attend them, and her ladyship’s cash may amount to six hundred crowns.’—‘At that rate, then,’ replied the mighty Roques, ‘here are nine hundred crowns and, sixty rials; I have sixty soldiers; see what each man’s share will come to, for I am but an indifferent arithmetician.’ The robbers hearing this decision, cried aloud, ‘Long life to Roque Guinart, and confusion to the knaves who endeavour to effect his ruin!’

The captains exhibited evident marks of affliction, my lady regent assumed a very sorrowful countenance, and the pilgrims did not at all rejoice at this confiscation of their effects. Although Roque kept them for some time in suspense, he had no mind to protract their melancholy, which was plainly perceivable a gunshot off; but, turning to the captains, ‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘be so good as to lend me sixty crowns, and my lady regent will favour me with fourscore, in order to satisfy my squadron; you know, The abbot must not want, who for his bread doth chant; then you may prosecute your journey without fear or molestation, by virtue of a safe conduct I will grant; in consequence of which, you will be exempted from plunder, in case you should fall in with any other of those squadrons which I have posted up and down in different divisions; for it is not my intention to aggrieve either soldiers or ladies, especially ladies of quality.’

Infinite and well turned were the compliments in which the captains acknowledged their obligation to Roque for his politeness and liberality, for such they accounted it, in leaving them possessed of their own money. My Lady Donna Guiomar de Quinones would have thrown herself from the coach, in order to kiss the feet and hands of the great Roque; but he would by no means accept such marks of submission: on the contrary, he begged pardon for the injury which he was compelled to do them, in compliance with the precise duty of his wicked profession. The lady ordered her servant to pay instantly the eighty crowns which were demanded; the captains had already disbursed threescore; and the pilgrims were going to surrender their miserable pittance; when Roque desired them to desist, and turning to his gang, ‘Of these crowns,’ said he, ‘two shall fall to the share of each man, and then there will be an overplus of twenty, one half of which I give to the pilgrims, and the other ten to this honest squire, that he may make a favourable report of the adventure.’

After this decision, he took pen, ink, and paper, with which he was always provided, and writing a safe conduct directed to the chiefs of his squadrons, gave it to the company, whom he courteously dismissed, and they proceeded on their journey, struck with admiration at his noble demeanour, gallant disposition, and strange conduct, looking upon him rather as an Alexander the Great, than a notorious robber. One of the squires, displeased at the booty, said in his Catalonian dialect, ‘This captain of ours is fitter for praying than preying; if henceforth he has a mind to shew his generosity, let it be from his own purse, and not what is ours by right of conquest.’

The unhappy wretch did not speak so softly, but that he was overheard by Roque, who instantly unsheathing his sword, cleft his head almost in two, saying, ‘Thus I chastise mutiny and presumption.’ All the rest of the gang were terrified at this execution, and not one of them durst open his lips, so much were they over-awed by the character of their chief.

As for Roque, he went aside and wrote a letter to a friend at Barcelona, giving him to understand how he had met with the famous Don Quixote de La Mancha, that knight-errant whose exploits were in every body’s mouth; and, he assured him, that the adventurer was the most agreeable and understanding man in the whole world: he likewise gave him notice, that in four days from the date of the letter, on the feast of St. John, the said knight-errant would appear on the beach of the city, armed cap-a-pee, mounted on Rozinante, and accompanied by his squire Sancho upon an ass. He, therefore, desired his correspondent to communicate this intelligence to his friends the Nearri, that they might enjoy the character of Don Quixote, and wished his enemies the Cadelli might not partake of the diversion. But that was a vain desire, because the mixture of madness and discretion in the knight, and the pleasantries of his squire, were such as could not fail to yield entertainment to the whole world in general.

This letter was dispatched by one of his squires; who, disguising himself in the habit of a peasant, entered Barcelona, and delivered it according to the direction.

Footnote 204:

This rhime is substituted in lieu of Sancho’s playing on the word fuera, in the original.

CHAP. IX. OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE ON HIS ENTRANCE INTO BARCELONA—WITH OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES THAT PARTAKE MORE OF TRUTH THAN OF DISCRETION.

Three days and three nights did Don Quixote remain with Roque, and had he staid as many hundred years, he would not have wanted subject for enquiry and admiration at their way of life: they lodged in one place, dined in another; sometimes they fled from they knew not what, sometimes waited for they knew not whom. They slept standing, and even that slumber was often interrupted; they shifted from place to place; in a word, their whole time was spent in appointing spies, examining centinels, and blowing matches for their musquets, though they had but few; for they chiefly used firelocks. As for Roque, he passed the night by himself, in private haunts and places concealed even from the knowledge of his own gang; for the repeated proclamations issued by the viceroy of Barcelona, setting a price upon his head, had rendered him restless, diffident, and fearful; so that he durst not confide in any person whatever, being apprehensive that even his own followers would either murder or deliver him up to justice; a life, of all others, assuredly the most tiresome and miserable! At length, this renowned freebooter, accompanied by Don Quixote and Sancho, and attended by six of his own squires, set out for Barcelona, through unfrequented roads, short cuts, and private paths, and arrived upon the strand, after it was dark, on the eve of St. John.

Here Roque, embracing Don Quixote, and giving to Sancho the ten crowns, which, though promised, had not hitherto been paid, took his leave and returned to his station, after mutual protestations of friendship had passed between him and our hero, who resolved to sit on horseback as he was till day, which was not far off. Accordingly, they had not tarried long in this situation, when Aurora disclosed her rosy face through the balconies of the east, infusing vigour and seeming joy into every plant and flower, instead of gratifying the ear, which, however, was also that instant regaled with the sound of waits and kettle-drums, together with the noise of morrice bells; the clatter of horses upon the pavement, and the repetition, of ‘Clear the way!’ pronounced by the couriers who came forth from the city. Aurora vanished before the sun; who, with a countenance ample as a target, gradually arose from below the horizon; then Don Quixote and Sancho, extending their view all around, perceived the sea, which they had never before beheld, and which seemed to be infinitely vast, and abundantly more spacious than even the lakes of Ruydera, which they had seen in La Mancha: they likewise beheld the gallies in the road, which, when their awnings were furled, displayed a glorious sight of pendants, flags, and streamers, that wantoned in the wind, and kissed and brushed the surface of the deep; while they were surrounded with clarions, trumpets, and other sorts of musick, which filled the air, for many leagues around, with sweet and martial accents. Now they began to move, and forming themselves into line of battle, exhibited the representation of a naval fight upon the tranquil bosom of the sea. At the same time, a mock skirmish was acted on the shore, by a great number of gentlemen, mounted on beautiful horses, who came forth from the city, in gay attire, with splendid liveries. The soldiers of the gallies discharged an infinite number of fire-arms, which were answered from the wall and forts of the city; and to the great guns, which seemed to rend the air with their tremendous sound, the midship cannons of the gallies made a suitable reply; the joy that resounded on board, the pleasure that appeared on shore, together with the serenity of the air, which was sometimes disturbed by the smoke of the artillery, seemed to infuse and engender a sudden flow of spirits and delight in every breast. As for Sancho, he could not conceive how those great hulks could use such a number of feet in moving through the sea.

About this time, the cavaliers so richly caparisoned, crying, hallooing, and shouting, in the Moorish manner, came riding up to the place where Don Quixote sat on horseback, overwhelmed with surprize and astonishment; and one of their number, who had been apprized by Roque, exclaimed in a loud voice, ‘Welcome to our city, thou mirrour; lanthorn, planet, and polar star, of all chivalry in its utmost extent! Welcome, valorous Don Quixote de La Mancha, not the false, fictitious, and apocryphal adventurer, lately in spurious history described; but the real, legal, and royal knight recorded by Cid Hamet Benengeli, the flower of historians.’

Don Quixote answered not a word; nor did the cavaliers wait for his reply; but, with their followers, began to wheel and turn, and curvet in a circle round the knight; who, addressing himself to Sancho, ‘As these people know us so well,’ said he, ‘I will lay a wager they have read our history, and even that of the Arragonian, which hath been lately printed.’ The gentleman who had at first accosted him returning, renewed his address in these words; ‘Signior Don Quixote, be so good as to go along with us, who are all the intimate friends and humble servants of Roque Guinart.’ To this entreaty the knight replied, ‘If courtesy engenders courtesy, yours, Signior Cavalier, is the daughter, or, at least, nearly allied to that which I experienced in the gallant Roque. Conduct me whither you please to go; my will shall, in all respects, be conformable to yours, and I should be proud if you would employ it in your service.’

The gentleman answered this compliment with expressions equally polite; and all his companions surrounding the knight in a body, they, to the musick of the waits and kettle-drums, conducted him to the city, his entrance into which was attended with a small misfortune. That mischief, from which all mischief is produced, ordained, that two bold and impudent boys, more mischievous than mischief itself, should squeeze themselves through the crowd, and approaching Rozinante and Dapple, clap a handful of furze under the tail of each: the poor animals, feeling the severity of this new kind of spurs, augmented the pain, by pressing their tails more closely to their buttocks; so that, after a thousand plunges, they came with their riders to the ground, to the unutterable shame and indignation of Don Quixote; who, with great dispatch, delivered the posteriors of his companion from this disagreeable plumage; while Sancho performed the same kind office for his friend Dapple.

The gentlemen would have willingly chastised the boys for their presumption; but it was not in their power to give the strangers that satisfaction; for, they had no sooner executed their purpose, than they concealed themselves among the crowd of above a thousand youngsters who followed the cavalcade: so that Don Quixote and Sancho were obliged to pocket the affront; and remounting their beasts, proceeded with the same musick and acclamation to the house of their conductor, which was large and magnificent, and in all respects suitable to the rank of an opulent cavalier. Here, then, we shall leave him for the present; for such is the will of Cid Hamet Benengeli.

CHAP. X. CONTAINING THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED HEAD—WITH OTHER TRIVIAL INCIDENTS, WHICH, HOWEVER, MUST NOT BE OMITTED.

Don Quixote’s landlord was called Don Antonio Moreno, a wealthy gentleman of good understanding, who loved a joke in a fair and good-humoured way; so that finding our knight safely housed under his roof, he began to contrive means for extracting diversion from the madness of his guests, without prejudice to his person; for those are no jests that give pain; nor is that pastime to be indulged which tends to the detriment of a fellow-creature. His first step was to unarm Don Quixote, and in that strait shamoy doublet, which we have already painted and described, expose him to publick view in a balcony that jetted out into one of the chief streets in the city, where he was surveyed by the people and the children, who gazed upon him as if he had been a monster or baboon. While he stood in this situation, the gentlemen with the rich liveries performed their courses before him, as if for his sake only, and not in order to celebrate the festival, they had provided all their finery; and Sancho was ravished with the thoughts of having so luckily found, without knowing how or wherefore, another wedding of Camacho, another house like that of Don Diego de Miranda, and another place equal to the duke’s castle, where he had been so hospitably entertained.

Don Antonio had that day invited some friends to dinner, and all of them paid particular respect to Don Quixote, whom they treated as a renowned knight-errant, a circumstance that elevated his vanity to such a pitch, that he could scarce contain his satisfaction; and Sancho’s conceits flowed so fast and humourous, that all the servants of the family, and all who heard his sallies, seemed to hang upon his lips. While he waited at table, Don Antonio accosting him, ‘Honest Sancho,’ said he, ‘we are informed you are such a lover of fowls and balls of forced meat, that, when you can eat no longer, you pocket what remains for next day.’—‘No, Signior,’ answered Sancho; ‘that is not the case, and your worship must have been misinformed; I am a cleanly squire, and no such filthy glutton; for my master, here present, knows very well, that we have often passed eight whole days, without any other sustenance than an handful of nuts or acorns. True it is, If ever the heifer is offered, the tether is at hand; my meaning is, I eat what I get, and ride the ford as I find it[205]. If, therefore, any person whatever hath said that I am an exceeding glutton and foul feeder, your worship may take it for granted that he is in a mistake; and I would tell him my mind in another manner, if it was not for the respect I bear to the honourable beards of this company.’—‘Assuredly,’ said Don Quixote, ‘Sancho’s cleanliness, and moderation in eating, might be inscribed and engraved on tables of brass, for an everlasting memorial and example to succeeding ages. True it is, when very hungry, he may seem to be a little voracious; for he eats with precipitation, chewing with both sides of his jaws; but cleanliness he punctually maintains; and, while a governor, learned to eat so delicately, that he took up grapes, and even the grains of a pomegranate, with a fork.’—‘How!’ cried Don Antonio, ‘hath Sancho been a governor?’—‘Yes, sure,’ replied the squire; ‘and that of an island called Barataria, which I governed according to my own will and pleasure, for the space of ten days, during which I lost my natural rest, and learned to despise all the governments upon earth: I, therefore, fled from it as I would fly from the devil, and tumbled into a cavern, from whence, though I gave myself up as a dead man, I was brought up alive by a perfect miracle.’ Then Don Quixote gave them a circumstantial account of Sancho’s government, which afforded extraordinary entertainment to the whole audience.

Dinner being ended, and the table uncovered, Don Antonio took our hero by the hand, and conducted him into a private apartment, where there was no furniture but a table, that seemed to be of jasper, supported by one foot of the same substance; and upon this table was placed a bust of bronze, from the breast upwards, representing a head of one of the Roman emperors. Don Antonio, after having traversed the room with his guest, and more than once walked round the table, ‘Signior Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘now that I am assured no person overhears us, as nobody listens, and the door is bolted, I will impart to your worship one of the rarest adventures, or rather one of the greatest rarities, that ever was known; on condition, however, that you will deposit the secret in the most hidden recess of your heart.’—‘I swear to the condition,’ answered Don Quixote: ‘and, for the greater security, will put a tomb-stone over whatever you shall communicate; for, know, Signior Don Antonio,’ (by this time he had learned his name) ‘your worship is talking to one, who, though he has ears to hear, has never a tongue to tattle; so that you may securely transfuse the contents of your own breast into mine, and take it for granted, you have ingulphed them in the abyss of silence.’—‘On the faith of that promise,’ replied Don Antonio, ‘I will excite your worship’s admiration with what you shall see and hear; and I, myself, will enjoy some alleviation of the pain I have felt from having no person to whom I could communicate the secret, which is not to be trusted to every body’s discretion.’ Don Quixote waited with impatience and surprize to see the result of this preamble; when his entertainer, taking him by the hand, made him feel all around the bust, the table, and the jasper foot upon which it was supported; then accosting him with great solemnity of aspect: ‘This bust, Signior Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘was made and contrived by one of the greatest inchanters and necromancers that ever the world produced. He was, I think, a native of Poland, and disciple of the famous Escotillo[206], of whose knowledge such wonders are reported. As he chanced to be in this part of the world, I took him into my house, where, in consideration of a thousand crowns which I paid, he wrought this head, in which is centered the surprizing power and virtue of answering every question communicated to its ear. The master performed certain rites, erected schemes, consulted the stars, and carefully observed the lucky and unlucky minutes, until, at length, he brought it to that perfection which we shall perceive to-morrow; for on Fridays it is mute, and this being Friday, we must wait till another day: in the mean time, your worship may consider and prepare your questions, which I know by experience it will truly answer.’ Don Quixote was confounded and astonished at this property and virtue of the head, and indeed, almost tempted to disbelieve Don Antonio’s account; but, seeing how little time was required to make the experiment, he would not mention his incredulity; but, in very polite terms, thanked his entertainer for having entrusted him with such an important secret. They accordingly quitted the apartment, and Don Antonio having locked the door, returned to the rest of the company, who were highly entertained with Sancho’s recapitulation of many adventures and incidents to which his master had been exposed.

The same evening, they persuaded Don Quixote to make a progress along the streets with them, not in his armour, but in a loose coat of tawny-coloured cloth, which would have made ice itself sweat at that season; and, in the mean time, they directed their servants to amuse Sancho within doors, that he might not come forth and spoil their diversion. The knight was not mounted on Rozinante, but accommodated with an ambling mule, gaily caparisoned; and, upon the back of his coat or cloak, they, without his knowledge, pinned a parchment inscribed in large letters, ‘This is Don Quixote de La Mancha.’ The procession no sooner began, than this scroll attracted the eyes of the people; and, when they read it aloud, the knight was astonished to find himself known, and hear his name repeated by all the spectators. He, therefore, turning to Don Antonio, who rode by his side, ‘Great,’ said he, ‘is the prerogative that centers in knight-errantry, the professors of which are known and celebrated through all the corners of the earth: take notice, Signior Don Antonio, how my name is repeated by the very boys who never saw me before.’—‘It is even so, Signior Don Quixote,’ replied Antonio; ‘for, as light cannot be shut up and concealed, so neither can virtue remain unknown; and, that which is acquired by the profession of arms, shines with superior splendor over all other acquisitions.’

While our knight thus proceeded amidst the acclamation of the crowd, a certain Castilian happened to pass, and reading the scroll, exclaimed aloud, ‘Now, the devil take thee, Don Quixote de La Mancha! how hast thou made shift to come so far without expiring under some of those infinite drubbings which thy ribs have received? A madman thou surely art: and if the defect of thine understanding affected thyself only, and was confined within the gates of thy own madness, the misfortune would be the smaller; but thy frenzy is of such a peculiar nature as to turn the brains of all those with whom thou hast any commerce or communication; witness these gentlemen by whom thou art now accompanied. Return to your own house, Mr. Goose-cap, mind your family-concerns; look after your wife and children; and discard these vain maggots, which have eaten and burrowed into your brain, and skimmed off the very cream of your understanding.’—‘Hark ye, brother,’ said Don Antonio, ‘go about your business; and do not pretend to offer your advice to those who want none of your counsel: Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha is renowned for wisdom, and we who accompany him are not so mad as you may imagine. Virtue ought to be honoured wheresoever it is found: therefore be gone with a vengeance; and seek not to meddle in those affairs with which you have no concern.’—‘’Fore God! your worship is in the right,’ replied the Castilian: ‘advising that honest man is kicking against the pricks. Nevertheless, I am extremely sorry that the good sense, which, they say, this madman displays in some things, should be unprofitably wasted through the canal of his knight-errantry: and may that vengeance which your worship imprecated, overtake me and all my posterity, if, from this day forwards, I give advice to any person whatever, asked, or unasked, even though I should live to the age of Methusalem!’ So saying, this counsellor went away, and the procession went on; but the throng was so great, occasioned by the boys and other idle people who pressed in to read the scroll, that Don Antonio was fain to take it off, on pretence of freeing the knight from some other annoyance.

In the twilight they returned to the house of Don Antonio, where they found a ball prepared by his lady, who was a woman of birth, beauty, good humour, and discretion; and had invited a number of friends to come and honour her guest, and enjoy the strange peculiarities of his madness: they accordingly came, and after supper, at which they were entertained in a very splendid manner, the ball began about ten o’clock. Among the company were two ladies who had a turn for satire, accompanied with a great deal of humour; and who, though persons of unblemished honour, indulged themselves with uncommon freedom of behaviour, in order to keep up the spirit of the diversion, that it might not flag. This pair of female wags persisted with incredible eagerness, in dancing with Don Quixote, until not only his body, but even his very soul, seemed fainting with fatigue; and nothing could be more ludicrous than the figure of the knight, so long, so lank, so lean, so yellow, capering about in a straight shamoy doublet, with an air unspeakably aukward, and legs that were never designed for such exercise. The young ladies affected to court his good graces by stealth; and he privately treated their advances with disdain, until, finding them become more and more pressing, he pronounced aloud, ‘Fugite partes adversæ! disturb not my repose, ye unwelcome thoughts! avaunt, ladies, with your unruly desires; for she who is queen of mine, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, will not consent that I should surrender or be subject to any other than her own!’

So saying, he sat down upon the floor in the middle of the hall, quite exhausted and demolished with the violent exercise he had undergone; so that Don Antonio gave orders for his being carried forthwith to bed; and the first person who touched him in obedience to this order, was his own squire Sancho Panza; who, as he endeavoured to raise him upon his legs, could not help reprehending him in these words: ‘What a plague tempted your worship to fall a capering? Did you suppose every valiant man was as nimble as an harlequin, or that all knights-errant must needs be masterly dancers? If that was your opinion, I say you were much deceived: for there be men who would rather undertake to slay a giant, than to cut a caper. Had it been the shoe-slapping horn-pipe, I could have supplied your place; for I slap like a jerfaulcon; but as for your figured dances, I know not a stitch of the matter.’ With this address Sancho raised a laugh from the assembly, and his master from the floor, and carrying the knight to bed, covered him up very warm, that he might sweat out the cold caught in dancing.

Next day Don Antonio thought proper to try the experiment of the inchanted head, and for this purpose entered the apartment, accompanied by Don Quixote, Sancho, a couple of friends, with our hero’s two waggish partners, who had staid all night with Antonio’s lady. The door being fast bolted, he explained the property of the bust, after having laid injunctions on the company to keep the secret, and declared this was the day on which he intended to make the first trial of the virtue contained in the inchanted head[207]. Indeed, except his two friends, no other person knew the mystery; and if they had not been previously informed by Don Antonio, they would certainly have shared in the same admiration which necessarily seized the rest who were present at the execution of a scheme so artfully contrived.

The first who approached the ear of this inchanted head was Don Antonio himself, who said in a low voice, but so as to be overheard by all present, ‘Tell me, O head, by thy inherent virtue, what are my present thoughts?’ To this interrogation the head, without moving its lips, replied in a clear and distinct voice, which was heard by the whole company, ‘I do not pretend to investigate the thoughts.’ Those who knew not the plot were confounded at hearing this answer, as they plainly perceived there was not a living soul under the table or in the whole apartment to utter this reply. Don Antonio addressing himself again to it, asked, ‘How many persons are here in company?’ and was answered in the same key, ‘You and your wife[208], two friends of yours, and two of her companions, with a famous knight called Don Quixote de La Mancha, and his squire Sancho Panza by name.’ Here was fresh amazement! here was their hair standing on end with affright; while Don Antonio, stepping aside from the table, said, ‘This is enough to convince me that I have not been deceived by the person of whom I purchased thee; thou sage, speaking, oracular, and admirable head! Let some other person go and question it at will.’

As women are usually very curious and impatient, the next who approached was one of the two ladies, and her question was this: ‘Tell me, O head, what I shall do to be extremely beautiful?’ She received for answer, ‘Be extremely virtuous;’ and replied, ‘I ask no more.’ Then her companion advanced, saying, ‘I want to know, sagacious head, whether or not I am fondly beloved by my husband?’ and she was answered, ‘That you will learn by observing his behaviour.’ The married lady retired, observing that it required no magick to solve that question; for, in effect, an husband’s behaviour to his wife will always declare the state of his affection. The third person that approached the table was one of Don Antonio’s friends, who asked, ‘What am I?’ and when the voice answered, ‘Thou knowest best,’ he replied, ‘That is not the purport of my question; I desire thou wilt tell me if thou knowest my name?’—‘Yes,’ said the oracle; ‘I know thou art Don Pedro Noriez.’—‘Then I am satisfied,’ answered Don Pedro; ‘for that answer is sufficient to convince me, O head, that thou knowest every thing.’ Then he withdrew, and was succeeded by the other gentleman; who, advancing to the table, ‘Tell me, O head,’ said he, ‘the wish of my eldest son?’—‘I have already owned that I cannot dive into the thoughts of men,’ said the voice; ‘nevertheless, I will tell thee, that the wish of thy son is to bury his father.’—‘That is indeed his wish,’ replied the cavalier; ‘I see it with my eye, I touch it with my finger, and do not chuse to ask another question.’ Don Antonio’s lady approached, saying, ‘I know not how to interrogate thee, O head; but I should be glad to know if I shall long enjoy my good husband?’—‘Yes, you will,’ replied the voice; ‘his healthy constitution, and moderate way of life, promise a long succession of years and a good old age, of which many men deprive themselves by their own intemperance.’

Don Quixote now took his turn, and addressing himself to the bust, ‘Tell me then, whatsoever thou art,’ said he, ‘is my account of what befel me in the cave of Montesinos really fact, or only the illusion of a dream? Will the flagellation of my squire Sancho be certainly accomplished? and will the disinchantment of Dulcinea take effect?’—‘With respect to the cave,’ replied the oracle, ‘much may be said; the adventure partakes both of truth and illusion. The flagellation of Sancho will proceed slowly; but Dulcinea will be disinchanted in process of time.’—‘And that is all I desire to know,’ cried the knight; ‘for, in the disinchantment of Dulcinea, I shall reckon all my wishes at once happily fulfilled.’

The last interrogator was Sancho; who, approaching the table, ‘Pray, good Mr. Head,’ said he, ‘shall I peradventure obtain another government? shall I ever rise above the humble station of a squire? and lastly, shall I ever see again my wife and children?’ To these questions he received these answers: ‘If it be thy fate to return to thy own house, thou wilt govern thy family, and see thy wife and children; and in ceasing to serve, thou wilt cease to be a squire.’—‘’Fore God! an excellent response!’ cried Sancho; ‘that I could have foretold myself, and the prophet Perogrullo could have said no more.’—‘What answer would you have, you beast?’ said Don Quixote; ‘is it not sufficient that the responses delivered by the head, correspond with the questions you have asked?’—‘It shall suffice,’ replied the squire; ‘but I wish it had explained itself a little more fully, and told me some more of my fortune.’

Thus ended the questions and answers, but not the admiration of the whole company; except Antonio’s two friends, who had been let into the secret; which Cid Hamet Benengeli will now explain, that the world may not be kept longer in suspense, or imagine that any necromantick talisman or extraordinary mystery was contained in this wonderful bust. He gives us, therefore, to understand, that Don Antonio Moreno, in imitation of such another head which he had seen at Madrid, contrived by a statuary, ordered this to be made in his own house for his private amusement, and with a view to surprize the vulgar; and in this manner was the whole fabricated. The table was of wood painted and varnished like jasper, and the foot that supported it of the same materials, carved into the resemblance of four eagles talons, which kept it firm and steady in its position. The head formed from the medal of one of the Roman emperors, and covered with a copper colour, was hollow, as well as the table, in which it was so nicely fixed, that no eye could perceive the joining; the foot was likewise hollow, and answered to the neck and breast of the bust; and the whole corresponed with another chamber below, by means of a concealed tin pipe which passed through the bust, the table, and the foot. In this lower apartment, communicating with that of the inchanted head, did the person who uttered the responses fix his mouth to the pipe, so as that the voice ascended and descended in distinct and articulate sounds, and it was impossible for any person to discover the deception. The respondent was Antonio’s nephew, a student of acute parts, and a well-cultivated understanding, who, being previously informed by his uncle of the number and names of the persons whom he intended to introduce into the chamber of the inchanted head, was enabled to answer the first question with great facility and precision; and to the rest he replied by conjectures which were equally ingenious and discreet.

Cid Hamet moreover relates, that for ten or twelve days the virtue of this wonderful machine continued in full force; but a report diffusing itself through the city, that Don Antonio had in his house an inchanted head, which could answer all manner of questions, he began to be afraid that these tidings might reach the ears of the vigilant centinels of our faith; for which reason he explained the whole affair to the fathers of the inquisition, who forbade him to proceed with the deception, and gave orders that the head should be broke in pieces, lest it should give umbrage to the superstitious vulgar: but, in the opinion of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, it passed for a head that was really inchanted and oracular; though it had given more satisfaction to the knight than the squire.

The gentlemen of the city, in complaisance to Don Antonio, and for the entertainment of Don Quixote, whom they wanted to furnish with an opportunity of discovering his diverting follies, appointed a running at the ring to be performed in six days; but this was prevented by an incident which will be explained in the sequel. Meanwhile, the knight was desirous of going out and viewing the city at leisure, and afoot; fearing that, should he appear on horseback, he would again be persecuted by the boys and vulgar. He accordingly went forth, attended by Sancho, and two of Antonio’s servants, whom their master had chosen for that purpose; and chancing to lift up his eyes in passing through one of the streets, he saw inscribed over a gate, in capital letters, ‘This is a printing-house;’ a circumstance which gave him uncommon satisfaction, as hitherto he had never seen a printing-press, and longed much to know something of that art: he therefore entered the house with all his train, and saw people casting off in one part, correcting in another, composing in a third, revising in a fourth, and, in short, the whole œconomy of a large printing-house. Going up to one box, he asked what was doing; and being informed by the workmen, expressed his admiration, and proceeded to a second. Among others, he went up to one, and putting the same question, the workman replied, ‘Signior, that there gentleman,’ pointing to a grave person of a very prepossessing appearance, ‘has translated a book from the Tuscan into the Castilian language, and I am now composing it for the press.’—‘What is the name of the book?’ said Don Quixote. ‘Signior,’ answered the author, ‘the book in the original is called, Le Bagatelle.’—‘And what is the signification of Le Bagatelle in our language?’ resumed the knight. ‘Le Bagatelle,’ replied the author, ‘is, as if we should say, in Castilian, Juquetes[209]: and, although the title of the book be so humble, it includes and contains a great deal of excellent and substantial writing.’—‘I am not altogether ignorant of the Tuscan language,’ said Don Quixote, ‘for I value myself upon singing some stanzas of Ariosto; but, pray tell me, Signior, (and what I am going to ask is not with any intention to sound your genius, but merely to satisfy my own curiosity) have you ever, in composing your books, met with the word pignatta?’—‘Yes, frequently,’ replied the author. ‘And how do you translate it into Castilian?’ resumed the knight. ‘How should I translate it,’ said the other, ‘but by the word olla?’—‘Body o’me!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘what progress you have made in the knowledge of the Tuscan idiom! I will lay a good wager that you translate piace into plaze, piu into mas, su into arriba, and giu into abaxo.’—‘Certainly,’ said the author, ‘because these words of the two languages correspond with one another.’—‘Notwithstanding all your learning,’ replied the knight, ‘I could almost swear you are hitherto unknown to the world, which is ever averse to remunerate a flourishing genius, and works of merit. What talents are lost, what abilities obscured, and what virtues are undervalued, in this degenerate age! yet, nevertheless, a translation from one language to another, excepting always those sovereign tongues the Greek and Latin, is, in my opinion, like the wrong side of Flemish tapestry, in which, though we distinguish the figures, they are confused and obscured by ends and threads, without that smoothness and expression which the other side exhibits: and to translate from easy languages, argues neither genius nor elocution, nor any merit superior to that of transcribing from one paper to another; but from hence I would not infer that translation is not a laudable exercise, for a man may employ his time in a much worse and more unprofitable occupation. At any rate, my observation cannot affect our two famous translators, Doctor Christoval de Figueroa, in Pastor Fido, and Don Juan de Xaurigui in Aminta, two pieces they have so happily executed, as to render it doubtful which is the original and which the translation: but pray, Signior, is this book printed on your own account, or have you sold the copy to a bookseller?’—‘I publish it on my own account,’ replied the author, ‘and expect to gain a thousand ducats at least upon the first impression, of which there will be two thousand copies, that will fetch six rials a piece in the turning of a straw.’—‘That is a very clear and comfortable reckoning,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘but you seem to be very little acquainted with the outgoings and the incomings, the schemes, conspiracies, and cabals of booksellers: when you find your back burdened with two thousand copies, I give you my word both your mind and body will be terribly fatigued; especially if the books should be harsh, or a little deficient in point of spirit.’—‘What!’ said the author, ‘your worship thinks, then, I ought to offer my performance to a bookseller, who would give me three maravedis for the copy, and insist upon it that he had done me a favour into the bargain? I do not publish with a view to acquire reputation in the world, where, thank Heaven, I am already well known by my works; I print for profit, without which, reputation is not worth a doit.’—‘God send you good luck, Signior,’ answered the knight; who, advancing to another box, where he saw the corrector employed on the sheet of a book, intitled, ‘The Light of the Soul;’—‘Aye,’ said he, ‘these are the books that ought to be printed; for, although there is already a pretty large number of this kind in print, numerous are the sinners for whose use they are intended; and for such multitudes who are in darkness, an infinite number of lights is required.’ He proceeded in his enquiry, and when he asked another corrector the name of a book on which he saw him at work, he understood it was the second part of The Sage Hidalgo Don Quixote de La Mancha, written by a certain person a native of Tordesillas. ‘I have heard of this performance,’ said the knight; ‘and really, in my conscience, thought it was long before this time burned into ashes, or pounded into dust, for the impertinence it contains; but, as we say of hogs, “Martinmas will come in due season[210].” Works of imagination are the more useful and entertaining the nearer they approach to truth, and the more probability they contain; and even history is valued according to its truth and authenticity.’

So saying, he quitted the printing-house with some marks of displeasure; and that same day, Don Antonio proposed that he should go on board, and see the gallies in the road; a proposal which was extremely agreeable to Sancho, who had never seen the inside of a galley in the whole course of his life; and he sent a message to inform the commodore of his intention to visit him in the evening, with his guest the renowned Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose name and person were already well known to this commander and all the citizens of Barcelona. What passed during this visit, will be related in the following chapter.

Footnote 205:

Literally, ‘Use the times as I find them.’

Footnote 206:

This was Michael Scot, who lived in the thirteenth century, and was such an adept in medicine, mathematicks, chymistry, alchymy, and other branches of natural knowledge, that the vulgar looked upon him as a wizard or magician. But as this philosopher died in 1291, and this conversation between Don Antonio and our knight must have happened after the year 1605, when the first part of Don Quixote was licensed, how could the disciple of Scot be in the house of Don Antonio? Yet this anachronism might easily pass upon Don Quixote, as it related to matters of inchantment.

Footnote 207:

But in this very chapter he has already told Don Quixote, that he knew the virtue of the head from experience.

Footnote 208:

Antonio’s wife must have been here before the others entered: for she is not in the list of those who went in with her husband.

Footnote 209:

Trifles.

Footnote 210:

About Martinmas they killed the hogs designed for bacon.

CHAP. XI. OF THE MISFORTUNE WHICH BEFEL SANCHO PANZA ON BOARD OF THE GALLIES, AND THE RARE ADVENTURE OF THE BEAUTIFUL MOOR.

Manifold and profound were the self-deliberations of Don Quixote on the response of the inchanted head, without his being able to discover the deceit; and the result of all his reflections was the promise of Dulcinea’s being disinchanted, on which he reposed himself with the most implicit confidence. This was the goal of all his thoughts, and he rejoiced, in full assurance of seeing it suddenly accomplished. As for Sancho, although he abhorred the office of a governor, as we have already observed, he could not help wishing for another opportunity of issuing out orders and seeing them obeyed; a misfortune which never fails to attend the exertion of power, even though founded on mock authority.

In a word, that very evening his landlord Don Antonio Moreno, and his two friends, went on board of the gallies with Don Quixote and Sancho; and the commodore being apprized of the visit intended by two such famous personages, no sooner perceived them coming towards the sea-side, than he ordered the awnings to be struck and the musick to play; the barge was hoisted out, covered with rich carpets, and furnished with velvet cushions, and the minute Don Quixote embarked, the cannon a-midships of the captain-galley was discharged, and the others followed her example. When the knight ascended the accommodation-ladder, on the starboard side, the whole crew saluted him with three cheers, a compliment usually paid to persons of the first quality; and the general, for by this name we shall henceforth call him, who was a noble Valentian, presented his hand, and embracing Don Quixote, ‘This day,’ said he, ‘will I mark with a white stone, as one of the happiest I shall ever enjoy, on account of seeing the renowned Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha, in whom the whole worth of knight-errantry is cyphered and concentered.’ No less courteous and polite was the reply of Don Quixote, who rejoiced above measure at seeing himself treated with such respect. The whole company having ascended the poop, which was very gaily ornamented, and seated themselves upon benches, the boatswain repaired to the gangway, and making a signal with his whistle for all the slaves to strip, was obeyed in an instant, to the no small discomposure of Sancho, who was terrified at the sight of so many naked backs; nor did his apprehension abate, when he saw the awning stretched with such incredible dispatch, that he thought all the devils in hell had assisted in the operation. Yet this was nothing but cakes and gingerbread to what I am going to relate.

The squire sat upon the stentril, close by the aftermost rower on the starboard side; who, in consequence of the previous instructions he had received, lifted up Sancho in his arms, and while the whole crew of slaves stood up, alert with the prospect of the joke, tossed him like a tennis-ball to his fellow, who in the same manner committed him to a third; and thus he was bandied forwards on the starboard side, from slave to slave, and bench to bench, with such expedition, that poor Panza lost his eyesight entirely, and firmly believed himself in the possession of the fiends: nor did they desist from this exercise, until he was reconveyed by the larboard-side to the poop, where this miserable object lay bruised, breathless, and covered with a cold sweat, and in such perturbation of spirits that he scarce knew what he had undergone.

Don Quixote seeing Sancho flying in that manner without wings, asked the general, if it was a ceremony practised upon every person at his first going on board; for, in that case, as he himself did not intend to make profession of a seafaring life, he had no ambition to perform such an exercise; and he vowed to God, if any man should attempt to seize him, as a fit subject for flying, he would spurn his soul out of his body; in confirmation of which resolve, he started up, and laying his hand upon his sword, put himself in a posture of defence.

At that instant the awning was furled, and the main-yard lowered with such a terrible noise, that Sancho imagined the heavens were tore from off their hinges and tumbling down upon his head, which he forthwith shrunk between his legs in an agony of terror: nor was all serene in the breast of Don Quixote; who, while his legs trembled under him, shrugged up his shoulders, and changed colour. The crew having hoisted the main-yard, with the same expedition and noise which were made in its descent; while they themselves continued as silent as if they had been altogether without breath or utterance, the boatswain piped all hands to weigh anchor, and leaping into the middle of the gangway, began to ply their shoulders with his supple-jack, or bull’s-pizzle, and the galley by little and little stood out to sea.

Sancho beholding such a huge body, moved by so many painted feet, for such he took the oars to be, said within himself, ‘This, indeed, is really inchantment; but what my master takes for it is no such matter. What have these miserable wretches done to be scourged in this manner? and I wonder how the devil that single man, who skips up and down, piping and whistling, dares whip and flog so many people; now, on my conscience, I believe this is hell itself, or purgatory at least!’

Don Quixote perceiving with what attention the squire observed every circumstance, ‘Friend Sancho,’ said he, ‘with what facility and dispatch might you now, if you please, strip yourself from the middle upwards, and taking your place among these gentlemen, finish at once the disenchantment of Dulcinea; for, amidst the distress of so much good company, you would hardly be sensible of bodily pain: and who knows, but the sage Merlin would reckon each of these stripes, which are bestowed with goodwill, equivalent to ten of these, which, at the long run, you must receive from your own hand.’ The general had just opened his mouth to enquire about the nature of this flagellation, and Dulcinea’s disenchantment, when a mariner came and told him, that the fort of Munjuy had made signal of a rowing bark upon the coast, to the westward. He no sooner received this intelligence, than advancing into a gang-way, ‘Pull away, my lads!’ cried he, ‘let not this corsair brigantine escape; for certainly she must be a vessel belonging to Algiers which the castle has discovered.’

The other three gallies ranging alongside of the admiral to receive orders, the general directed that two of them should stand out to sea, and the other keep along shore, so that the Algerine should not escape. The slaves immediately began to ply their oars, which impelled the gallies with such velocity, that they seemed to fly; while the two that put to sea, at the distance of two miles, discovered a bark, which, from the view, they judged to have fourteen or fifteen banks, and their conjecture was right. This vessel no sooner descried the gallies, than she made the best of her way, in hope of being able to escape by her nimbleness; but she was baffled in this expedition; for the admiral being one of the swiftest gallies that ever sailed, came up with her apace, and the captain of the brigantine perceiving plainly that he could not escape, desired the rowers to quit their oars and strike, that he might not by his obstinacy incense the officer who commanded the gallies: but fate, which conducted their affairs in another manner, ordained, that even after the admiral was within hearing, and ordered them to strike, two Toraquis, that is, a couple of drunken Turks, belonging to the brigantine, discharged two firelocks, which killed as many soldiers who chanced to be in the head of the galley; an incident which was no sooner perceived by the general, than he swore he would not leave one person alive in the brigantine, which he ordered his people to board with all expedition; nevertheless, she, for the present, escaped under the oars, and the galley had such way, that she shot a-head to a good distance, so that the people on board the chace, seeing themselves in danger of being destroyed, hoisted their sails and put before the wind, while the galley tacked and pursued with all her force of canvas and of oars. The diligence and dexterity of the Algerines did not turn out so much to their advantage, as their presumption conduced to their prejudice; for, the admiral running along-side, grappled with the brigantine, and took the whole crew prisoners. The other two gallies came up, and all returned with the prize to the road, while a great concourse of people stood on the beach, to see the contents of the ship they had taken. The general anchored close by the shore, and understanding the viceroy of the city was among the spectators, he ordered the barge to be hoisted out to fetch him on board, and commanded the yard to be lowered for the convenience of hanging the master of the brigantine, and the other Turks he had taken, to the number of thirty-six, all stout young fellows, and mostly Turkish musqueteers. When he asked who commanded the brigantine, one of the prisoners, who was afterwards known to be a Spanish renegado, answered in Castilian, ‘That there young man is our master;’ pointing to one of the most beautiful and genteel youths that human imagination can conceive, whose age to all appearance was under twenty. ‘Ill-advised dog,’ said the general, ‘what induced thee to kill my soldiers, when thou sawest it was impossible to escape? Is that the respect which is due to admiral-gallies? Dost thou not know, that rashness is not valour, and that doubtful hopes ought to make men resolute, but not desperate?’

The Moor was about to reply, but the general could not at that time hear his answer, because he was obliged to go and receive the viceroy, who had just entered the galley, with some of his own servants, and a few other persons. ‘General,’ said this nobleman, ‘you have had a fine chace.’—‘Aye, so fine,’ replied the other, ‘that your excellency shall see it presently hoisted up at the yard-arm.’—‘For what reason?’ said the viceroy. ‘I mean, the master of the brigantine and his crew,’ answered the commodore, ‘who have, against all law, reason, and custom of war, killed two of the best soldiers that ever served on board; so that I have sworn to hang all the prisoners, especially this youth who was their captain,’ pointing to the handsome Moor; who, by this time, waited for execution, with his hands tied, and a rope about his neck.

The viceroy, surveying this unhappy prisoner, (whose beauty, genteel mien, and humility, served him instead of a recommendation) was seized with the desire of saving his life, and approaching him, ‘Tell me, corsair,’ said he, ‘art thou a Turk, Moor, or Renegado?’ To this question the youth answered, in the Castilian tongue, ‘I am neither Turk, Moor, or Renegado.’—‘Then, what art thou?’ resumed the viceroy. ‘A Christian woman,’ replied the captive. ‘A Christian woman,’ cried the viceroy, ‘in such dress and situation! this is a circumstance more worthy of admiration than of credit.’—‘Gentlemen,’ said the youth, ‘be so good as to suspend my execution, until I shall have recounted the particulars of my story; and that small delay will not much retard the accomplishment of your revenge.’ What heart could be so obdurate as not to relent at this address; so far at least, as to hear the story of the afflicted youth? The general, accordingly, told him he might proceed with his relation, but by no means expect pardon for the crime of which he was convicted. With this permission he began in these terms.

‘I was born of that nation, more unfortunate than wise, which hath been lately overwhelmed by a sea of trouble: in other words, my parents were Moors; and, in the torrent of their misfortune, I was carried by two uncles into Barbary, notwithstanding my professing myself a Christian; not one of those impostors, who are so only in appearance, but a true and faithful Roman catholick. This declaration did not avail me with those who had the charge of our miserable expulsion; nor was it believed by my uncles, who, on the contrary, supposing it no more than a lye, and expedient, by which I thought to obtain permission to remain in my native country, hurried me along with them in a forcible manner. My mother was a Christian, and my father a prudent man of the same religion: I sucked in the catholick faith when an infant at the breast, and was trained up in the ways of virtue; nor do I think I have ever given the least marks of Mahometanism, either in word or deed. In equal pace with my virtue, (for I really think my life was virtuous) my beauty, such as it is, hath ever walked; and notwithstanding the extraordinary reserve in which I lived, concealed from publick view, it was my fate to be seen by a young cavalier, called Don Gregorio, eldest son of a gentleman who had an estate in our neighbourhood. How he became desperately enamoured of me, and how I grew fond of him to distraction, it would be tedious to relate, considering my present situation, standing as I am, with the fatal cord between my tongue and throat: I shall therefore only observe, that Don Gregorio resolved to accompany me in my exile, and actually mingled with those Moors who joined us in different places, without being discovered; for he spoke the language perfectly well. Nay, in the course of our voyage, he insinuated himself into the friendship of my two uncles, with whom I travelled; for my father, who was a man of prudence and foresight, no sooner heard the first mandate for our expulsion, than he went abroad to foreign kingdoms in quest of an asylum for his family, leaving a large quantity of pearls, valuable jewels, with some money, in crusadoes and doubloons of gold, concealed and interred in a certain place, to which I alone was privy; and laying strong injunctions upon me to avoid touching this treasure, in case we should be exiled before his return. I obeyed his commands in this particular, and as I have already observed, set sail with my uncles, relations, and friends, for Barbary; and the place in which we settled was Algiers, whereas we might as well have taken up our habitation in hell itself. The king hearing of my beauty, and the report of my wealth, which was partly fortunate for my designs, ordered me to be brought before him, and asked from what part of Spain I had come, and what money and jewels I had brought to Barbary. I told him the place of my nativity, and gave him to understand that the money and jewels were buried under-ground: but that I should easily recover the whole hoard, provided I could return alone for that purpose. This information I gave, that he might be more blinded by his own avarice than my beauty: but, during the conversation, a person told him that I was accompanied in my voyage by one of the most beautiful and genteel youths that ever was seen. I immediately understood that this was no other than Don Gasper Gregorio, whose beauty far exceeds the fairest that ever was extolled; and was exceedingly afflicted at the prospect of danger to which the dear youth might be exposed; for, among those barbarous Turks, a boy or handsome youth is more prized and esteemed than any woman, let her be never so beautiful.

‘The king forthwith ordered his people to bring Don Gregorio into his presence, and in the mean time asked me if his person actually corresponded with this report. Then I, as if inspired by Heaven, answered in the affirmative; though at the same time I assured him, it was no youth, but a woman like myself; and begged leave to go and dress her in her natural attire, which would shew her beauty to the best advantage, and enable her to appear in his presence with less confusion. He said I might go, in good time, and that some other day he would concert measures for my return into Spain, to bring off the hidden treasure. Thus dismissed, I went and explained to Don Gaspar the risque he would run in appearing as a man, and dressing him in the habit of a Moorish woman, accompanied him that same evening to the presence of the king, who was seized with admiration at sight of her beauty, and resolved to keep her for a present to the Grand Signior. In order to avoid the danger to which this young creature might be exposed in his seraglio, from his own inordinate desires, he ordered her to be lodged, quartered, and attended, in the house of some Moorish ladies, whither she was immediately conveyed; and what we both felt at parting, for I cannot deny that I love him tenderly, I leave to the confederation of lovers who have experienced such a cruel separation.

‘The king afterwards contrived a scheme for my returning to Spain in this brigantine, accompanied by two native Turks, the very persons who killed your soldiers, and that Spanish renegado,’ (pointing to him who spoke first) ‘who I know is a Christian in his heart, and is much more desirous of remaining in Spain than of returning to Barbary; the rest of the crew are Moors and Turks, whom we engaged as rowers. The two insolent and rapacious Turks, without minding the order they received to land the renegado and me in the habit of Christians, with which we were provided on the first part of Spain they could make, resolved previously to scour the coast, with a view to take prizes, fearing that should they set us on shore beforehand, we might meet with some accident which would oblige us to discover that there was a corsair on the coast, and they of consequence run the risk of being taken by the gallies. At night we descried this road, though we did not perceive the four gallies, and being discovered, were taken as you see. In a word, Don Gregorio remains in the habit of a woman among the Moorish ladies, at the imminent hazard of his life, and here I stand fettered and manacled, in expectation, or rather in fear, of losing that existence of which I am already tired. This, Signior, is the end of my lamentable story, which is equally true and unfortunate; and all I beg of you is, that I may die like a Christian, seeing, as I have already observed, I have in no shape been guilty of the fault which hath been charged upon our unhappy nation!’

So saying, she stood silent, her lovely eyes impregnated with tears, which few of the spectators could behold unmoved; and the viceroy, whose disposition was humane and compassionate, unable to speak, advanced to the place, and with his own hands released those of the beautiful Moor.

While this Christian Moor related her peregrinations, an ancient pilgrim who had followed the viceroy into the galley, kept his eyes close fixed upon her countenance, and her story was no sooner finished than he threw himself at her feet, which he bathed with his tears, while in accents interrupted with a thousand sighs and groans, he exclaimed, ‘O, Anna Felix! my unhappy daughter; I am thy father Ricote, who have returned in search of thee to Spain, because I could not live without thee, who art dear to my affection even as my own soul!’

At these words, Sancho opened his eyes, and raised his head, which he had hitherto hung in manifest despondence, reflecting upon the disgrace of his flying adventure; and looking at the pilgrim, recognized that same Ricote whom he had encountered the very day on which he quitted his government: he likewise recollected the features of his daughter, who being by this time unbound, mingled her tears with those of her father, whom she tenderly embraced; and then the old man, addressing himself to the viceroy and general, ‘My lords,’ said he, ‘this is my daughter; not so happy in the incidents of her life, as in her name, which is Anna Felix, with the addition of Ricote, as famous for her beauty as for her father’s wealth. I left my country in quest of a place where we should be received and hospitably entertained; and having found such an asylum in Germany, I returned as a pilgrim in the company of some people of that nation; hoping to find my daughter, and fetch away the wealth which I had buried in the earth: my daughter was gone, but I recovered my hoard, which is in my possession; and now, by this strange vicissitude which you have seen, I have retrieved that treasure which is the chief object of my affection, I mean, my beloved daughter. If our innocence and mutual tears can have influence enough upon your integrity and justice, to open the gates of mercy, O let it prevail in favour of us, who never offended you even in thought, nor in any shape corresponded with the designs of our people, who have been justly expelled.’ Here Sancho interposing, ‘I am very well acquainted with Ricote,’ said he, ‘and know all he has said about his daughter Anna Felix to be true; but with respect to that other trash of his comings and goings, and his good or evil designs, I neither meddle nor make.’ Every person present expressed admiration at this strange incident; and the general turning to the daughter, ‘Every tear you let fall,’ said he, ‘conspires in preventing the performance of my oath. Live, beauteous Anna Felix, the term of your life prescribed by Heaven; and let those insolent and presumptuous wretches suffer punishment for the crimes they have committed.’

So saying, he ordered the two Turks, who had killed his soldiers, to be hanged at the yard’s-arm; but the viceroy earnestly entreated him to spare their lives, as their crime was rather the effect of madness than of preconceived design. The general granted his request, especially as he did not think it commendable to execute revenge in cold blood.

Then they began to contrive some method for extricating Don Gaspar Gregorio from the danger in which he was involved; and Ricote offered to the value of above two thousand ducats, which he had about him in pearls and jewels, to any person who could effect his deliverance. Many schemes were projected; but none of them seemed so sensible as that which was presented by the fore-mentioned Spanish renegado, who offered to return to Algiers in some small bark of about six banks, manned with Christians, as he knew where, how, and when he might land with safety, and was well acquainted with the house in which Don Gaspar remained. The general and the viceroy were dubious of the renegado, and scrupled to trust him with the command of Christian rowers; but Anna Felix was satisfied of his integrity, and her father said he would engage to ransom them, should they chance to be taken and enslaved.

Matters being settled on this footing, the viceroy went ashore, after having laid strong injunctions on Don Antonio Moreno, who had invited the Moorish beauty and her father to his house, to make much of his guests, and command whatever his own palace could afford for their entertainment. Such was the charity and benevolence which Anna’s beauty had infused into his heart!

CHAP. XII. GIVING THE DETAIL OF AN ADVENTURE WHICH GAVE DON QUIXOTE MORE MORTIFICATION THAN HE HAD RECEIVED FROM ALL THE MISFORTUNES WHICH HAD HITHERTO BEFALLEN HIM.

Don Antonio’s lady, as the history relates, was extremely pleased at the sight of Anna Felix, whom she received with great cordiality, equally enamoured of her beauty and discretion; for, indeed, the Moor excelled in both; and here she was visited by all the people of fashion in town, as if by toll of bell. As for Don Quixote, he gave Antonio to understand, that in his opinion, the plan they had formed for the deliverance of Don Gregorio was more dangerous than expedient; and that it would be much more effectual to set him on shore in Barbary, with his arms and horse; in which case he would bring home the young gentleman in despight of the whole Moorish race, as heretofore Don Gayferos had delivered his wife, Melisandra. Sancho, hearing this proposal, ‘Consider,’ said he, ‘that Signior Don Gayferos delivered his wife from captivity on the main land, and carried her off to France through the high road; but, in this case, even granting we should have the good luck to release Don Gregorio from his confinement, we shall not be able to convey him hither to Spain, because the sea is between us and Barbary.’—‘There’s a remedy for all things but death,’ replied the knight: ‘for, if there is a bark by the shore, we can go aboard, in opposition to the whole universe.’—‘Your worship describes it a very easy matter,’ said the squire; ‘but, between Said and Done, a long race may be run; and, for my part, I would stick to the offer of the renegado, who seems to be a very honest person, and a man of compassionate bowels.’ Don Antonio said, that if the renegado should fail in his undertaking, they would certainly find some means for transporting the great Don Quixote to Barbary; and in two days the renegado departed in a light bark with six oars on a side, manned with a crew of approved valour. In two days after her departure the gallies likewise set sail for the Levant, after the general had begged and obtained the viceroy’s promise to let him know the success of the scheme they had contrived for the deliverance of Don Gregorio, together with the fate of the lovely Anna Felix.

One morning, Don Quixote rode forth upon the strand, completely armed; for he often observed, arms were his ornaments, and fighting his diversion, and he never cared to appear in any other dress; and as he pranced along, he saw coming towards him a knight, likewise armed cap-a-pee, having a full moon painted on his shield. This apparition was no sooner within hearing, than he addressed his discourse to Don Quixote, pronouncing aloud, ‘Renowned cavalier, never enough applauded Don Quixote de La Mancha, I, the Knight of the White Moon, whose unheard-of exploits, may, peradventure, recal him to your remembrance, am come with hostile intent to prove the force of thine arm; to convince and compel thee to own that my mistress, whosoever she is, exceeds in beauty thy Dulcinea del Toboso, beyond all comparison: which truth, if thou wilt fairly and fully confess, thou wilt avoid thy own death, and spare me the trouble of being thy executioner; but shouldst thou presume to engage with me in single combat, and be overcome, all the satisfaction I demand is, that thou wilt lay aside thine arms, desist from travelling in quest of adventures, and quitting the field, retire to thine own habitation, where thou shalt continue a whole year, without drawing a sword, in comfortable peace and profitable tranquillity, which may tend to the augmentation of thy fortune, and the salvation of thy precious soul. On the other hand, if it be my fate to be vanquished, my life shall exist at thy discretion; thine shall be the spoils of all my arms and horse, and to thee shall be transferred all the fame of my atchievements: consider which of these alternatives thou wilt chuse, and answer me on the spot; for, on this very day, the affair must be dispatched and determined.’

Don Quixote was astonished and confounded, as well at the arrogance of the Knight of the White Moon, as at the cause of his defiance; and, after a short pause of recollection, replied with a solemn tone, and countenance severe, ‘Sir Knight of the White Moon, whose exploits have not as yet reached mine ear, I dare say you have never seen the illustrious Dulcinea; for, had you enjoyed that happiness, I know you would not have dreamed of making such a rash demand: one glimpse of her would have undeceived you perfectly, and plainly demonstrated, that there never was, or will be, beauty comparable to that which she possesses. I, therefore, without giving you the lye, but only affirming that you are egregiously mistaken, accept of your defiance on the conditions you have proposed, and will fight you forthwith, before the day you have pitched upon shall be elapsed; with this exception, however, that I will by no means adopt the fame of your exploits; because I know not how, where, or wherefore they were atchieved, and am content with my own, such as they are: chuse your ground therefore, and I will take my share of the field; and let St. Peter bless what God shall bestow.’

The Knight of the White Moon being discovered from the city, and seen talking with Don Quixote, notice was given to the viceroy; who, supposing it was some new adventure contrived by Don Antonio Moreno, or some other gentleman of the town, went down to the strand, accompanied by the said Don Antonio, and a number of other cavaliers, and reached the spot just as Don Quixote wheeled about on Rozinante to measure his distance. Seeing both parties ready for returning to the encounter, he placed himself in the middle between them, and demanded the cause that induced them so suddenly to engage in single combat. The Knight of the White Moon answered, that it was the precedency of beauty; and briefly repeated his proposal to Don Quixote, with the mutual acceptation of the conditions proposed. Then the viceroy taking Don Antonio aside, asked if he knew this Knight of the White Moon; and if this was a joke which he intended to perpetrate upon Don Quixote. Don Antonio assured him that he knew not the stranger, nor could guess whether the challenge was given in jest or earnest. He was a little perplexed, and dubious whether or not he should allow the battle to be fought; but, as he could not conceive it to be any thing else than a preconcerted joke, he retired, saying, ‘Valiant knights, seeing there is no other remedy, but you must confess or die; and Signior Don Quixote persists in denying what you, of the White Moon, presume to affirm; I leave you to your fate, and God stand by the righteous.’

The stranger, in very polite terms, and well-selected phrase, thanked the viceroy for the permission he had granted; and his example was, in this particular, followed by Don Quixote, who, having recommended himself heartily to Heaven and his Dulcinea, according to his usual practice when he engaged in any combat, turned about to take a little more ground, in imitation of his antagonist; then, without receiving a signal for engaging, either by sound of trumpet, or any other instrument, both parties wheeled about at the same instant. The Knight of the White Moon having the fleeter horse, coming up with his adversary, before this last had run one third of his career, lifting up his lance purposely that he might not wound Don Quixote, whom, however, he encountered with such an irresistible shock, that both he and Rozinante came to the ground with a very dangerous fall: the victor instantly sprung upon him, and clapping his lance to his vizor, ‘Knight,’ said he, ‘you are vanquished, and a dead man, unless you acknowledge the terms of the defiance.’ To this address the battered and astonished Don Quixote, without lifting up his beaver, replied in a languid tone and feeble voice, that seemed to issue from a tomb, ‘Dulcinea del Toboso is the most beautiful woman in the world, and I the most unfortunate knight on earth; and, as it is not reasonable that my weakness should discredit this truth, make use of your weapon, knight, and instantly deprive me of life, as you have already divested me of honour.’—‘By no means’ said he of the White Moon: ‘let the fame of my Lady Dulcinea’s beauty flourish in full perfection; all the satisfaction I ask is, that the great Don Quixote shall retire to his own house, and there abide for the space of one year, or during the term which I shall prescribe, according to the articles agreed upon before we engaged.’ This whole dialogue was overheard by the viceroy, Don Antonio, and a number of other people who were present, and they were also ear-witnesses of the answer made by Don Quixote, who said, that as the victor had demanded nothing to the prejudice of Dulcinea, he would comply with his proposal like a true and punctual knight.

He of the White Moon hearing his declaration, turning his horse, and, bowing courteously to the viceroy, entered the city at an half gallop, whither he was followed by Don Antonio, at the desire of the viceroy, who entreated him to make enquiry, and obtain satisfactory information concerning this romantick stranger. In the mean time, they raised up Don Quixote; and uncovering his face, found him pale as death, and his forehead bedewed with a cold sweat, while Rozinante lay motionless, from the rough treatment he had received. As for Sancho, he was so overwhelmed with sorrow and vexation, that he knew not what to say or do: this unlucky incident seemed to be a dream, and he looked upon the whole scene as a matter of inchantment. Seeing his lord and master overcome, and obliged to lay aside his arms for the space of a whole year, he imagined the splendor of his exploits was eclipsed, and all those fair hopes, produced from his late promise, dispersed in the air, as smoak is dissipated by the wind, in a word, he was afraid that Rozinante was maimed for ever, and his master’s bones dislocated; and even thought it would be a great mercy if he was not in a worse condition.

Finally, the viceroy ordered his people to bring a sedan, in which the knight was carried to the city, accompanied by that nobleman, who longed very much to know who this Knight of the White Moon was, by whom Don Quixote had been left in such a cruel dilemma.

CHAP. XIII. WHICH DISCOVERS WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON WAS, AND GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF THE DELIVERANCE OF DON GREGORIO—WITH OTHER INCIDENTS.

Don Antonio Moreno followed the Knight of the White Moon, who was also accompanied, and even persecuted by a number of boys, until they had housed him in one of the city inns, which was at the same time entered by Don Antonio, who burned with impatience to know what he was; and, without ceremony, intruded himself into the apartment to which the stranger retired, with his squire, to be unarmed. He of the White Moon, perceiving how much the gentleman’s curiosity was inflamed, and that he was resolved to stick close by him until it should be satisfied, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘I am not ignorant that you are come hither on purpose to know who I am; and as there is no reason why I should refuse you that satisfaction, I will, while my servant is employed in taking off my armour, explain the whole mystery, without the least reserve: you must know, then, Signior, that I am called the Batchelor Sampson Carrasco, a townsman of Don Quixote de La Mancha, whose madness and extravagance has given great concern to all his acquaintance, and to me in particular. Believing that his recovery would depend upon his living quietly at his own habitation, I projected a scheme for compelling him to stay at home; and, about three months ago, sallied forth upon the highway, as a knight-errant, assuming the appellation of the Knight of the Mirrours, fully resolved to engage and vanquish Don Quixote, without hurting him dangerously, after I should have established, as the condition of our combat, that the vanquished should be at the discretion of the victor: and, as I deemed him already conquered, my intention was to demand that he should return to his own house, from which he should not stir for the space of one year, in which time I hoped his cure might be effected. But fate ordained things in another manner; I was conquered and overthrown, and my design entirely frustrated; he proceeded in quest of new adventures, and I returned vanquished, ashamed, and sorely bruised by the dangerous fall I had sustained in battle: nevertheless, I did not lay aside the design of returning in quest of him to overthrow him in my turn, and you have this day seen my intention succeed; for he is so punctual in observing the ordinances of chivalry, that he will, doubtless, perform his promise in complying with my demand. This, Signior, is an account of the whole affair: nor have I omitted one circumstance; and I beg you will not discover and disclose to Don Quixote who I am, that my Christian intention may take effect, and the poor gentleman retrieve his judgement, which would be altogether excellent, were he once abandoned by those mad notions of chivalry.’—‘God forgive you, Signior,’ cried Don Antonio, ‘for the injury you have done the world, in seeking to restore to his senses the most agreeable madman that ever lived! Do not you perceive, Signior, that the benefit resulting from the cure of Don Quixote will never counterbalance the pleasure produced by his extravagances? But, I imagine, all the care and industry of Signior Batchelor will hardly be sufficient to effect the recovery of a man who is so thoroughly mad, and, if it was no breach of charity, I would say, May Don Quixote never be cured; for, in his recovery, we not only lose his own diverting flights, but also those of his squire Sancho Panza; and any of these conceits are such as might convert Melancholy herself into merriment and laughter: nevertheless, I shall put a seal upon my lips, and say nothing, that I may see whether or not I shall judge aright, in supposing that the diligence of Signior Carrasco will not answer his expectation.’ The batchelor answered, that all things considered, the business was already in a fair way; and, he did not doubt, would be blessed with a prosperous issue. Don Antonio having made a tender of his services, and taken his leave, Sampson ordered his arms to be fastened upon a mule; then mounting the horse on which he engaged Don Quixote, he quitted the city the same day, on his return to his own country, in which he arrived without having met with any incident worthy of being recorded in this authentick history. Don Antonio made the viceroy acquainted with all the particulars he had learned from Carrasco, which afforded no great pleasure to that nobleman, as the retirement of Don Quixote would destroy all that entertainment enjoyed by those who had the opportunity of observing his madness.

Six whole days did Don Quixote lie a-bed, pensive, melancholy, mauled, and meagre, revolving in his imagination, and meditating incessantly on the unfortunate incident of his overthrow; notwithstanding the consolations of Sancho, who, among other arguments of comfort, exhorted his worship to hold up his head, and dispel his sorrow, if possible. ‘Your worship,’ said he, ‘has reason to thank God, that, though you are overthrown, your ribs are still whole: you know that, in those matters, we must take as well as give; and where there are hooks we do not always find bacon—A fig for the physician, seeing we do not want his help in the cure of this distemper: let us return to our habitation, and leave off travelling about in quest of adventures, through lands and countries unknown; nay, if we rightly consider the case, I am the greatest loser, though your worship is the most roughly handled; for though, when I quitted the government, I likewise quitted all thought of governing, I did not give up the desire of being a count, which will never be fulfilled if your worship should renounce your design of being a king, and quit the exercise of chivalry; in that case all my hopes must vanish into smoke.’—‘Peace, Sancho,’ said the disconsolate knight; ‘the term of my penance and retirement will not exceed a year, at the end of which I will return to the honourable duties of my profession, and then we shall find kingdoms to conquer and countships to bestow.’—‘The Lord give ear, and my sin never hear!’ cried Sancho: ‘and I have always heard it said, that righteous hope is better than unjust possession.’

Their conversation was interrupted by Don Antonio; who, entering the apartment with marks of infinite satisfaction, exclaimed—‘Money for my good news, Signior Don Quixote: Don Gregorio, and the renegado who undertook his deliverance, are now in the road—in the road! they are, by this time, in the viceroy’s palace, and will be here in an instant.’ The knight was a little revived by these tidings, and replied—‘In truth, I was going to say, I should have been glad to hear that the scheme had not succeeded, so that I should have been obliged to cross over into Barbary, where I would, by the strength of my arm, have given liberty not only to Don Gregorio, but also to all the Christian captives in Algiers—but what am I saying, miserable caitif? am not I vanquished? am not I overthrown? am not I excluded from the exercise of arms for the space of a whole year? wherefore, then, promise what I cannot perform? wherefore praise my own valour, when I am fitter for handling a distaff than for wielding a sword?’—‘No more of that, good Signior,’ replied the squire; ‘Let the hen live though she has the pip: To-day for thee, and to-morrow for me: as to those matters of encounters and dry bastings, they are not to be minded; for he that falls to-day may rise to-morrow, if he does not chuse to lie a-bed; I mean, if he does not chuse to despair, without endeavouring to recover fresh spirits for fresh adventures. Get up, therefore, I beseech your worship, and receive Don Gregorio; for the people are in such an uproar, that by this time he must be in the house.’

This was really the case: Don Gregorio and the renegado having given the viceroy an account of the voyage and success of the undertaking, the young gentleman, impatient to see his dear Anna Felix, was come with his deliverer to the house of Don Antonio; and although Don Gregorio was in woman’s apparel when they delivered him from Algeirs, he had exchanged it in the vessel with another captive by whom he was accompanied; but, in any dress whatsoever, his appearance was such as commanded friendship, service, and esteem; for he was exceedingly beautiful, and seemingly not above seventeen or eighteen years of age. Ricote and his daughter went forth to receive him; the father with tears of joy, and Anna with the most modest deportment: nor did this fair couple embrace one another; for, where genuine love prevails, such freedom of behaviour is seldom indulged. The beauty of Don Gregorio and his mistress excited the admiration of all the spectators; while silence spoke for the lovers themselves, and their eyes performing the office of the tongue, disclosed the joy of their virtuous thoughts. The renegado recounted the stratagem and means he had used for the deliverance of the youth; who likewise entertained the company with a detail of the dangers and distresses to which he was exposed among the women with whom he had been left; and this task he performed not with diffused prolixity, but in elegant and concise terms, which plainly proved that his discretion far exceeded his years. Finally, Ricote liberally rewarded the rowers and the renagado, who re-united and re-incorporated himself with the church, and from a rotten member, became fair and sound, by dint of mortification and sincere repentance.

Two days after the arrival of Don Gregorio, the viceroy consulted with Don Antonio about the means of obtaining permission for Anna Felix and her father to reside in Spain, as they were persuaded that no inconvenience could arise from such indulgence to a daughter who was so perfectly a Christian, and a father so righteously disposed. Don Antonio offered to negotiate this affair at court, whither he was pressingly called by his own occasions; observing, that by dint of interest and presents many difficulties are removed. Ricote, who was present at this conversation, said, ‘There is nothing to be hoped from favour or presents; neither tears, entreaties, promises, nor presents, will avail with the great Don Bernandino de Velasco, Count de Selaza, to whom his majesty has entrusted the charge of our expulsion; for, although he really tempers justice with mercy, as he perceives the whole body of our nation contaminated and gangrened, he applies the actual cautery instead of the mollifying ointment; so that, by his diligence, prudence, sagacity, and terrifying threats, he has sustained upon his able shoulders the weight of that vast project which he has successfully put in execution, without suffering his Argus eyes, which are always alert, to be blinded by all our industry, stratagem, fraud, and solicitation. He is resolved that none of our people shall remain concealed; lest, like an hidden root, they may hereafter bud and bring forth fruit which may be poisonous to Spain, already cleansed and delivered from those fears that arose from the prodigious number of Moors: an heroick resolution of the great Philip III. who has, at the same time, displayed the most consummate wisdom, in committing the execution of the scheme to the courage and ability of Don Bernandino de Velasco.’—‘Nevertheless,’ said Don Antonio, ‘I will, while at court, use all possible means in your behalf, and leave the determination to Heaven; Don Gregorio shall go along with me, and console his parents for the grief they have suffered from his absence; Anna Felix shall stay with my wife, or be boarded in a monastery; and, I know, my lord viceroy will be pleased to lodge honest Ricote until we shall see the issue of my negociation.’ The viceroy agreed to every circumstance of the proposal; but Don Gregorio, being informed of the scheme, declared he neither could nor would leave his charming Anna Felix. At length, however, he assented to the proposal, resolving to go and visit his parents, with whom he would concert measures for returning to fetch away his mistress; so that Anna Felix remained with Don Antonio’s lady, and Ricote staid in the viceroy’s palace.

The hour of Antonio’s departure arrived; and, in two days, was followed by that of Don Quixote, whose fall would not permit him to travel before that time. The parting of the lovers was attended with weeping, sighing, sobbing, and swooning; and Ricote offered to accommodate Don Gregorio with a thousand crowns; but the young gentleman would take but five, which he borrowed of Don Antonio, promising to repay them at court. Thus they set out together for Madrid; and soon after, as we have already observed, Don Quixote and Sancho departed from Barcelona; the knight unarmed, in a travelling dress, and the squire trudging a-foot, because Dapple carried the armour of his master.

CHAP. XIV. TREATING OF THAT WHICH WILL BE SEEN BY HIM WHO READS, AND KNOWN BY HIM WHO HEARS IT READ.

Don Quixote, in leaving Barcelona, turned about to survey the fatal spot in which he had fallen, and thus exclaimed: ‘Here Troy once stood! here, by misfortune, not by cowardice, was I despoiled of all the glory I had acquired! Here did I feel the vicissitudes of fortune! here all my atchievements were eclipsed! and, finally, here fell my fortune, never more to rise!’ Sancho hearing this effusion, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘it is the part of a valiant man to bear with patience his sufferings and adversity, as well as to enjoy his prosperity with good humour. I judge from my own feeling; for, if I was merry when a governor, I am not melancholy now that I am a poor squire travelling a-foot; and I have often heard, that she we call Fortune is a drunken, fickle female, and so blind withal, that she sees not what she does, and knows not whom she is abusing, or whom exalting.’—‘Sancho,’ answered the knight, ‘thou art very philosophical, and hast spoke with great discretion, which I know not where thou hast learned; I can tell thee, however, there is no such thing as fortune in the whole world; nor do those things which happen, whether good or evil, proceed from chance, but solely from the particular providence of Heaven; and hence comes the usual saying, That every man is the maker of his own fortune. I at least have been the maker of mine, though not with sufficient prudence, and therefore my presumptuous hopes miscarried. I ought to have considered that Rozinante’s weakness could not resist the weight and magnitude of my adversary’s horse; in a word, I tried my fortune, did what I could, found myself vanquished and overthrown, and though I lost mine honour, I neither did nor can forfeit my integrity, and the merit of fulfilling my promise; while I was a knight-errant valiant and intrepid, my hand and my performance gave credit to my exploits; and now that I am no more than a pedestrian squire, my word shall be confirmed by the accomplishment of my promise. Make haste, then, friend Sancho, let us return to our own country, and pass the year of our probation, and during that term of confinement acquire fresh vigour and virtue, to resume the never by me forgotten exercise of arms.’—‘Signior,’ answered the squire, ‘the pastime of trudging a-foot is not quite so pleasant, as to move and instigate me to travel a great pace; let us leave these arms of yours, hanging like a malefactor on some tree; and then I, occupying the back of Dapple, with my feet no longer in the mire, we may travel just as your worship shall desire or demand; but, to think that I can make long marches a-foot, is a vain supposition.’—‘Thou art in the right, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘let my arms be suspended in form of a trophy; and beneath, or around them, we will engrave upon the tree, an inscription like that which appeared under the armour of Orlando—

‘“Let him alone these arms displace, Who dares Orlando’s fury face.”’

‘A most excellent device!’ cried the squire; ‘and if it were not that we should feel the want of him in our journey, it would not be amiss to hang up Rozinante at the same time.’—‘Nevertheless,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘neither Rozinante nor my arms will I suffer to be hung up; for it shall never be said of me, that a good service met with a bad remuneration.’—‘Your worship talks very much to the purpose,’ said Sancho; ‘for according to the opinion of wise men, The pannel ought not to suffer for the fault of the ass; and since your worship alone was to blame for the bad success of the last adventure, you ought to punish yourself only, and not vent your indignation upon your bloody and already rusted arms, or upon the meekness of Rozinante, or, lastly, upon the tenderness of my feet, in desiring them to walk at a pace which they cannot maintain.’

In this conversation, and other such discourse, they passed that whole day and the next four, without meeting with any incident that could interrupt their journey: on the fifth, which was a holiday, they entered a village where they saw a number of people making merry at the gate of an inn; and when Don Quixote approached, a countryman exclaimed, ‘One of these gentlemen travellers, who are unacquainted with the parties, shall decide our wager.’ The knight assuring them he would give his opinion freely and honestly, as soon as he should be informed of the matter, the peasant replied, ‘Worthy Signior, this here is the case: One of our townsmen, who is so fat and bulky that he weighs little less than three hundred weight, has challenged one of his neighbours, a thin creature, not half so heavy, to run with him one hundred yards with equal weight. The match was accordingly made; but when the challenger was asked how the weight of both should be made equal, he insisted on the other’s carrying the difference in bars of iron, by which means, Limberham would be upon a footing with Loggerhead.’—‘By no means,’ cried Sancho, interposing before his master could answer one word, ‘to me, who have been lately a governor and a judge, as all the world knows, it belongs to resolve these doubts, and give my opinion in every dispute.’—‘Speak, then, in happy time, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘for my judgment is so confounded and disturbed, that I am hardly fit to throw crumbs to a cat.’ With this permission, Sancho addressing himself to the peasants, who had assembled around him, and waited his decision with open mouths, ‘Brothers,’ said he, ‘the demand of Loggerhead will not hold water, and is indeed without the least shadow of justice; for if what all the world says be true, namely, that the challenged party has the choice of the weapons, it is not reasonable that the said Loggerhead should pretend to chuse such arms as will encumber his adversary, and secure the victory to himself; it is therefore my opinion, that Loggerhead, the challenger, shall scrape, shave, pare, polish, slice, and take away, one hundred and fifty pounds weight of his own individual flesh from different parts of his body, according to his own fancy and convenience; so that, leaving the other moiety, which will be sufficient to counterbalance his antagonist, the parties may run with equal advantage.’—‘’Fore God!’ cried one of the countrymen, hearing this wise decision, ‘the gentleman has spoken like a saint, and given sentence like a canon; but, sure I am, Loggerhead will not part with an ounce, much less one hundred and fifty pounds of his flesh.’—‘The best part of the joke,’ replied another peasant, ‘is, that the match cannot be run; for Limberham will not touch a bar of iron, and Loggerhead will not pare himself; let us therefore spend the half of the money in treating these gentlemen at the tavern with some of the best wine; and, when it rains, let the shower fall upon my cloak.’—‘Gentlemen,’ said Don Quixote, ‘I thank you for your invitation, but I really cannot tarry a moment; for melancholy thoughts and unlucky adventures oblige me to appear uncivil on this occasion, and to travel faster than the ordinary pace.’ So saying, he clapped spurs to Rozinante, and set on; leaving them astonished in consequence of having seen and observed the strange figure of the master, and the sagacity of the servant, for such they supposed Sancho to be. One of them could not help saying, ‘If the servant is so wise, what must the master be? I’ll lay a wager if they go to study at Salamanca, they will in a trice be created alcaldes of the court; for it is nothing but children’s play, studying and poring, and having interest and good luck: and when a man thinks least about the matter, he finds himself with a white rod in his hand, or a mitre upon his head.’

That night our adventurer and his squire passed in the middle of an open field, under the spacious cope of heaven; and next day, proceeding on their journey, they saw coming towards them a man on foot, with a javelin or half-pike in his hand, and a wallet on his back; circumstances from which they judged he was a post or courier. As he advanced he quickened his pace, and running to Don Quixote, embraced his right thigh, for he could reach no higher, exclaiming, with marks of extraordinary satisfaction, ‘O my good Signior Don Quixote! how will the heart of my lord duke be rejoiced when he knows your worship is returning to his castle, where he still continues with my lady duchess!’—‘Friend,’ said the knight, ‘I do not recollect your features, nor do I know who you are, unless you will be pleased to tell me.’—‘Signior Don Quixote,’ replied the courier, ‘I am my lord duke’s lacquey Tosilos, who refused to fight with your worship concerning the marriage of the duenna’s daughter.’—‘God in heaven protect me!’ cried the knight, ‘is it possible that you are he whom my enemies the enchanters transformed into that same lacquey you mention, to deprive me of the glory of that combat?’—‘No more of that, worthy Signior,’ replied the post; ‘there was no inchantment in the case, nor any sort of transformation; I was as much the lacquey Tosilos when I entered the lists, as when I left them. I thought the girl handsome, and therefore would have married her without fighting, but the event did not answer my expectation. Your worship was no sooner gone from the castle, than my lord duke ordered me to be severely bastinadoed, for having contradicted the instructions he had given me before I entered the lists; and this is the upshot of the whole affair: the girl is by this time a nun, Donna Rodriguez is gone back to Castile, and I am now bound for Barcelona with a packet of letters from his grace to the viceroy. If your worship is inclined to take a small draught of good wine, though not very cool, I have here a calabash full of the best, and some slices of Tronchon cheese, which will serve as provocatives and rouzers of thirst, if perchance it should be asleep.’—‘Your invitation is accepted,’ cried Sancho; ‘truce with your compliments and skink away, honest Tosilos, maugre and in despite of all the inchanters of the Indies.’—‘Verily, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘thou art the most insatiate glutton in the universe, and the most ignorant animal upon earth: but, as thou art not persuaded that this courier is inchanted, and no other than a counterfeit Tosilos, thou mayst tarry along with him and fill thy belly, and I will jog on at a slow pace until thou shalt overtake me.’ The lacquey smiled at his infatuation, unsheathed his calabash, unwalletted his cheese, and producing a small loaf, he and Sancho sat down upon the grass, where in peace and harmony they dispatched and discussed the contents of the wallet with great perseverance and good-will, and even licked the packet, because it smelled of cheese. During the repast, Tosilos said to the squire, ‘Doubtless, friend Sancho, thy master is bankrupt in common-sense.’—‘How, bankrupt!’ answered Panza; ‘he owes no man a farthing, but pays like a prince, especially where madness is the current coin; I see the matter plain enough, and tell him my opinion freely: but to what purpose? Now, indeed, he is going home in despair, for having been vanquished by the Knight of the White Moon.’ Tosilos earnestly begged he would recount that adventure; but Sancho declined the talk, observing, that it would be unmannerly to let his master wait for him; though at their next meeting he should have more leisure. He accordingly started up, and shaking the crumbs from his garment and beard, bade adieu to Tosilos; then driving Dapple before him, soon came up with his master, whom he found waiting for him under the shade of a tree.

CHAP. XV. OF THE RESOLUTION WHICH DON QUIXOTE TOOK TO BECOME A SHEPHERD, AND LEAD A PASTORAL LIFE UNTIL THE TERM OF HIS CONFINEMENT SHOULD BE ELAPSED— WITH OTHER INCIDENTS TRULY ENTERTAINING.

If Don Quixote was perplexed with cogitation before his overthrow, much more was he fatigued by his own thoughts after his late misfortune. Under the shade of a tree, as we have already observed, did he remain, and there he was stung with reflections that swarmed like flies about honey; some dwelling upon the disinchantment of Dulcinea, and others revolving plans for the life he was to lead in his compulsive retirement. When Sancho joined him, and began to expatiate upon the liberal disposition of Tosilos, ‘Is it possible, O Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘that thou still believest that man to be the individual lacquey? One would think thou hadst forgot that thy own eyes have seen Dulcinea converted and transformed into a country wench, and the Knight of the Mirrours into the Bachelor Carrasco, by the wicked arts of those inchanters who persecute my virtue. But, tell me now didst thou ask Tosilos how Providence hath disposed of Altisidora? Hath she bewailed my absence, or already consigned to oblivion those amorous thoughts by which she was tormented during my residence at the castle?’—‘My thoughts,’ answered Sancho, ‘were not such as allowed me to ask these childish questions. Body O me! Signior, is your worship at present in a condition to enquire about other people’s thoughts, especially those you call amorous?’—‘Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘you must consider there is a wide difference between the suggestions of love, and those of gratitude: a gentleman may very well be insensible to love; but, strictly speaking, he can never be ungrateful. Altisidora, in all appearance, loved me to distraction: she, as thou very well knowest, made me a present of three night-caps; she bewailed my departure, loaded me with curses and reproach, and, in spite of maiden shame, complained of me in publick; undoubted proofs of my being the object of her adoration; for the indignation of lovers usually vents itself in maledictions. I had no hopes to give, nor treasures to offer; all my affections are yielded to Dulcinea; and the treasures of knights-errant are like those of the fairies, altogether phantom and illusion: all, therefore, that I can return, is a kind remembrance, without prejudice, however, to the memory of Dulcinea, who is greatly aggrieved by thy remissness in delaying to scourge and chastise that flesh which I hope will be a prey to the wolves; seeing thou seemed more inclined to reserve it for the worms, than to use it in behalf of that poor distressed lady.’—‘Signior,’ answered the squire, ‘if the truth must be told, I cannot persuade myself that the whipping of my posteriors can have any effect in disenchanting those who are inchanted, no more than if we should anoint the shins to cure the head-ache; at least, I will venture to swear that in all the histories your worship has read concerning knight-errantry, you have never found that any person was disinchanted by such a whipping: but be that as it may, I will lay it on when I have time, convenience, and inclination, to make free with my own flesh.’—‘God grant thou mayst,’ said Don Quixote; ‘and Heaven give thee grace to understand and be sensible of the obligation thou liest under, to assist my mistress; who, as thou art mine, is thine also.’

With such conversation they amused themselves in travelling, until they arrived at the very spot where they had been overturned by the bulls; when Don Quixote recognizing the ground, ‘This is the meadow,’ said he, ‘where we met the gay shepherdesses and gallant swains, who sought to renew and re-act the pastoral Arcadia, a project equally original and ingenious; in imitation of which, shouldst thou approve of the scheme, we will assume the garb and employment of shepherds during the term of our retirement. I will purchase some sheep, together with all the necessary implements of a pastoral life, and taking the name of Quixotiz, while thou shalt bear that of the swain Pancino; we will stroll about through mountains, woods, and meadows, singing here, lamenting there, drinking liquid chrystal from the gelid springs, the limpid rills, and mighty rivers. The lofty oaks will shed upon us abundance of their delightful fruit; the trunks of hardest cork trees will yield us seats; the willows will afford us shade; the rose perfume; the extended meadow, carpets of a thousand dyes; the pure serenity of air will give us breath; the moon and stars will grant us light in spite of darkness; our singing will inspire delight; our lamentations, mirth; Apollo, verses; and Love himself, conceits to render us immortal and renowned, not only in the present age, but also to the latest posterity.’—‘Odds tens!’ cried Sancho, ‘such a life will square, aye, and be the very corner-stone of my wishes: the Batchelor Sampson Carrasco and Master Nicholas the barber, as soon as they have a glimpse of it, will wish to join us in the scheme, and turn shepherds for our company; and God grant that the curate himself may not take it in his head to enter the fold; for he is a merry companion, and a great friend to good fellowship.’—‘Thou hast a very good notion,’ said the knight; ‘and if the batchelor shall be inclined to join our pastoral association, as he doubtless will, he may take the appellation of the shepherd Sansonino, or of the swain Carrascon: Nicholas the barber may be called Niculoso, as old Boscan called himself Nemoroso: and as for the curate, I know not what title we can confer upon him, except some derivative from his own name, such as the shepherd Curiambro. For the nymphs of whom we must be enamoured, there is plenty of names to chuse; but seeing that of my mistress will suit as well with a shepherdess as with a princess, I need not give myself the trouble to invent any other that might be more proper; as for thee, Sancho, thou mayest give thy mistress what appellation will please thy own fancy.’—‘I have no intention,’ replied the squire, ‘to give her any other than that of Teresona, which will fit her fatness to an hair, as well as be agreeable to her own name Teresa; especially as in celebrating her in verse, I shall disclose my chaste desires, without going in search of fine bread in a neighbour’s house: the curate would be in the wrong to chuse a shepherdess, because he ought to set a good example to his flock; and as for the batchelor, if he has any such inclination, Let him please his own soul, without lett or controul.’

‘Good Heaven! friend Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘what a life shall we lead! how will our ears be regaled with pipes and bagpipes of Zamora, tambourines, timbrels, and rebecks! and if these different kinds of musick be reinforced with the sound of the albogues, we shall have a full concert of all the pastoral instruments.’—‘And pray what are the albogues?’ said Sancho, ‘I never saw nor heard them named before, in the whole course of my life.’—‘Albogues,’ answered the knight, ‘are plates of brass resembling candlesticks, the hollow parts of which being clashed together produce a sound, if not ravishing or harmonious, at least not disagreeable nor unsuited to the rusticity of the bagpipe and tabor. The name of albogues is Moorish, as are all the words in our language beginning with al; for example, almoaca, almorcar, alhombra, alguazil, alucima, almacen, alcanzia, and a few others; and we have only three Moorish words ending in i, namely, borcegui, zaquicami, and maravedi; as for alheli and alsaqui, they are known to be Arabick, as well from their beginning with al, as for their ending in i: these observations I have made, by the bye, in consequence of having mentioned albogues, which recalled them to my remembrance. But, to return to our scheme, nothing will conduce so much to the perfection of it, as my having a talent for versification, as thou very well knowest, and the batchelor’s being an excellent poet. Of the curate I shall say nothing; though I would lay a good wager that his collars and points are truly poetical: and that Master Nicholas is in the same fashion I do not at all doubt; for people of his profession are famous for making ballads and playing on the guittar. For my own part, I will complain of absence; thou wilt extol the constancy of thy own love; the swain Carrascon will lament the disdain of his mistress; the curate Curiambro chuse his own subject; and every thing proceed in such a manner as to fulfil the warmest wishes.’

To this effusion Sancho replied, ‘Verily, Signior, I am such an unlucky wretch, that I am afraid the time will never come when I shall see myself in that blessed occupation. O what delicate wooden spoons shall I make when I am a shepherd! O what crumbs and cream shall I devour! O what garlands and pastoral nick-nacks shall I contrive! and though these may not, perhaps, add much to my reputation for wisdom, they will not fail to convince the world of my ingenuity. My daughter Sanchica shall bring our victuals to the fold; but ’ware mischief! the wench is buxom, and there are some shepherds more knavish than simple; I would not have her come out for wool and go home shorn. Those same amours, and unruly desires, are gratified in the open field as well as in the city chamber, in a shepherd’s cot as well as in a royal palace. The sin will cease when the temptation is removed; The heart will not grieve for what the eye does not perceive; and, What prayers ne’er can gain, a leap from a hedge will obtain.’ ‘No more of your proverbs, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote; ‘any one of those thou hast repeated is sufficient to explain thy meaning; and I have often exhorted thee to be less prodigal of old saws, and keep them more under command; but, I see, it is like preaching to the desart: and My mother whips me, and I scourge the top.’—‘Under correction,’ answered the squire, ‘your worship, methinks, is like the frying-pan which called to the pot, “Avaunt black-a-moor, avaunt!” Even in the very act of rebuking me for uttering proverbs, your worship strings them together in pairs.’—‘But, then, you must consider, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that when I use them, they are seasonably brought in, and fit the purpose as the ring fits the finger: whereas, by thee, they are not brought in, but lugged in, as it were, by the head and shoulders. If my memory fails me not, I have formerly told thee, that proverbs are short sentences extracted from the experience and speculation of ancient sages; and a proverb unseasonably introduced, is rather an absurdity than a judicious apothegm. But let us quit the subject, and, as the day is already spent, retire from the highway to some place where we may pass the night; for God alone knows what will be to-morrow.’

They accordingly retired to a grove, where they made a late and very indifferent supper, to the no small mortification of Sancho, who ruefully reflected upon the meagre commons of chivalry, so uncomfortably discussed among woods and mountains; though his imagination was also regaled with the remembrance of that abundance which he had enjoyed at the castle, as well as at the wedding of the rich Camacho, and in the houses of Don Diego de Miranda, and Don Antonio de Moreno: but, finally, considering it could not be always day, or always night, he resolved, for the present, to sleep, while his master indulged his contemplations awake.

CHAP. XVI. OF THE BRISTLY ADVENTURE IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE WAS INVOLVED.

The night was a little dark; for, although the moon was in the heavens, she was invisible to the people of our hemisphere, Madam Diana having taken a trip to the Antipodes, and left our mountains obumbrated and our vallies obscured.

Don Quixote, in compliance with nature, enjoyed his first sleep without indulging himself in a second, quite contrary to the practice of Sancho, who never desired a second, because the first always lasted from night till morning; a sure sign of little care, and an excellent constitution. As for the knight, his cares interfered so much with his repose, that he wakened his squire, to whom he said, ‘I am amazed, Sancho, at the indifference of thy disposition, and imagine thou art made of marble or obdurate brass, unsusceptible of sentiment or emotion. I watch whilst thou art snoring; I weep whilst thou art singing; I faint with fasting, whilst thou art overloaded and out of breath with eating! It is the province of a good servant to sympathize with his master’s pain, and to share his anguish, even for the sake of decorum. Observe the serenity of the sky and the solitude of the place, which invite us to make an intermission in our repose. I conjure thee, by thy life, to rise and go aside to some proper place, where, with good will and grateful inclination, thou mayest conveniently inflict upon thyself three or four hundred stripes, on account of Dulcinea’s inchantment; and this favour I humbly request, without any intention to try again the strength of thine arms, which I know to be heavy and robust: after the performance of that task, we will pass the remainder of the night in harmony; I, in singing the torments of absence, and thou, in chanting the constancy of thy passion; and thus will we begin the pastoral life which we are to lead at our own village.’—‘Signior,’ answered the squire, ‘I am no monk, to rise and discipline my flesh in the middle of the night; nor do I think the extremity of pain is such a provocative to musick; I therefore desire your worship will let me take out my nap, without pressing me farther to scourge myself, lest I should grow desperate, and solemnly swear never to whip the nap of my garment, much less an hair of my skin.’—‘Soul of a savage! flinty-hearted squire!’ cried Don Quixote: ‘O ill-bestowed bread! O ill-requited benefits, intended or conferred! By my means wast thou created governor; and through me alone dost thou now enjoy the near prospect of being a count, or something else of equal title; nor will the accomplishment of thy wishes be retarded longer than the term of one fleeting year; for, Post tenebras spero lucem.’—‘Your conclusion,’ said Sancho, ‘I do not understand; but well I know, that while I sleep, I am troubled neither with fear nor hope, nor toil nor glory; and praise be to him who invented sleep, which is the mantle that shrouds all human thoughts; the food that dispels hunger; the drink that quenches thirst; the fire that warms the cold; the cool breeze that moderates heat; in a word, the general coin that purchases every commodity; the weight and balance that makes the shepherd even with his sovereign, and the simple with the sage: there is only one bad circumstance, as I have heard, in sleep, it resembles death; inasmuch as between a dead corpse and a sleeping man there is no apparent difference.’—‘Truly, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘I never heard thee talk so elegantly before, whence I perceive the truth of the proverb which thou hast often repeated, Not he with whom you was bred, but he by whom you are fed.’—‘Odds my life! Sir master of mine,’ cried Sancho, ‘I am not the only person who strings proverbs: they fall from your worship’s mouth in couples, faster than from mine; indeed, there is some difference; for your worship’s proverbs come at a proper time, whereas mine are always out of season; but, nevertheless, they are all proverbs.’

Thus far the conversation had proceeded, when they heard a dull confused noise, intermingled with very harsh sounds, that seemed to extend through the whole valley. The knight immediately started up and unsheathed his sword; while the squire squatted down under Dapple, fencing himself on each side with his master’s armour and the pannel of the ass, being as much afraid as Don Quixote was astonished; for the noise increased every moment, as the cause of it approached the two tremblers, or rather one trembler, for the other’s valour and courage are well known. The case, in fact, was this: some dealers were driving about six hundred hogs to a fair; and, as they travelled in the night, the noise of their feet, together with their grunting and blowing, made such a din, as almost deafened Don Quixote and Sancho, who could not conceive the meaning of such an uproar. Meanwhile, the numerous grunting herd advanced; and, without shewing the least respect to the authority of Don Quixote or Sancho, ran over them in a twinkling, demolished the barricadoes of the squire, and trampled down not only the master, but also his steed Rozinante; the thronging, the grunting, and the hurry of those unclean animals, throwing every thing in confusion, and strewing the master and the man, the horse and the ass, the pannel and the armour, along the ground. Sancho, getting up as well as he could, demanded his master’s sword, in order to sacrifice half a dozen of those discourteous gentlemen porkers; for by this time he had discovered what they were; but the knight refused to grant his request, saying, ‘Let them pass, friend Sancho; this affront is the punishment of my crime; and the just chastisement of Heaven inflicted upon a vanquished knight, is, that he shall be devoured by dogs, stung by wasps, and trampled upon by swine.’—‘At that rate, then,’ replied the squire, ‘the chastisement which Heaven inflicts upon squires of vanquished knight-errants, is, that they shall be bitten by fleas, devoured by lice, and assaulted by famine: if we squires were sons of the knights we serve, or even their near relations, it would be no great wonder if the punishment of our faults should overtake us to the fourth generation: but what affinity is there between the Panzas and the Quixotes? At present let us put things to rights again, so that we may sleep out the remainder of the night, and we shall be in better plight when God sends us a new day.’—‘Enjoy thy repose,’ said Don Quixote; ‘thou wast born to sleep and I to watch; and during the little of night that remains, I will give my thoughts the rein, and cool the furnace of my reflections with a short madrigal, which I have this evening, unknown to thee, composed in my own mind.’—‘In my opinion,’ answered the squire, ‘your thoughts could not be very troublesome and unruly, if they gave you leisure to make couplets; but, however, your worship may couple as many as you please, and I will sleep as much as I can.’ So saying, he chose his ground, on which he huddled himself up, and enjoyed a most profound sleep, which received no interruption from the remembrance of debt, surety, or any other grievance. As for Don Quixote, he leaned against a beech or cork-tree; for Cid Hamet Benengeli has not distinguished the genus; and, to the musick of his own sighs, sung the following stanzas.

I.

‘O cruel love! when I endure The dreadful vengeance of thy bow, I fly to death, the only cure For such immensity of woe.

II.

‘But, when I touch the peaceful goal, That port secure from storms of strife, The fight revives my drooping soul, I cannot enter for my life!

III.

‘Thus life exhausts my vital flame, But death still keeps the spark alive; O wond’rous fate! unknown to fame! That life should kill, and death revive.’

Every verse he accompanied with a multitude of sighs and a torrent of tears, as if his heart had been transpierced with grief for his overthrow and the absence of Dulcinea. In this situation he was found by the day, when Phœbus darting his rays into Sancho’s eyes, the squire awoke, yawned, turned, stretched his lazy limbs, and surveying the havock which the swine had made in his store, he bitterly cursed the whole herd; aye, and even went farther with his maledictions.

Then the two proceeded in their journey; and, towards the close of the afternoon, descried about ten men on horseback, and half that number on foot, advancing towards them; a sight which made the knight’s heart throb with surprize, and the squire’s with terror; for this company was armed with lance and target, and approached in a very hostile manner. Don Quixote turning to his squire, ‘Sancho,’ said he, ‘if I could now exercise my arms, and my hands were not tied by a solemn promise, I would look upon that machine, which comes upon us, with contempt, as so much cake and gingerbread; but, perhaps, it may be something else than we apprehend.’ He had scarce pronounced these words, when the horsemen coming up, and couching their lances, surrounded him in a trice; then clapping the points of their weapons to his back and breast, seemed to threaten immediate death and destruction; while one of those on foot, laying his finger on his mouth, as a signal for him to be silent, seized Rozinante’s bridle, and led him out of the highway. The rest of the footpads drove Sancho and Dapple before them, and, while a wonderful silence prevailed, followed the knight, who attempted twice or thrice to ask whither they conducted him, and what they wanted; but scarce had he began to move his lips when they threatened to shut them for ever with the points of their spears. The same menaces were practiced upon Sancho, who no sooner expressed a desire to be talking, than he was pricked in the posteriors with a goad by one of his attendants; and Dapple met with the same fate, as if he too had made a motion to speak, like his master.

As night approached they quickened their pace, and the terrors of the captives increased in proportion as the darkness deepened, especially as their guard pronounced from time to time, ‘Dispatch, ye Troglodytes! silence, ye Barbarians! now ye shall suffer, ye Antropophagi! not a word of complaint, ye Scythians! open not your eyes, ye murderous Polyphemuses! ye carnivorous lions and beasts of prey.’ With these and other such appellations, they tormented the ears of the miserable master and the forlorn Sancho, who said within himself, ‘Draggle doits! Barber Anns! Henry puff a Jay! City hens! and Paulfamouses! these are fine names with a vengeance! I’m afraid this is a bad wind for winnowing our corn! the mischief comes upon us altogether, like drubbing to a dog; and I wish this misventrous adventure, that threatens so dismally, may end in nothing worse!’ As for Don Quixote, he was utterly astonished and confounded; nor could he, with all his reflection, comprehend the meaning of his own captivity, and those reproachful terms, from which he could only conclude, that no good but a great deal of mischief was to be expected. In this state of anxious suspense he continued till about an hour after it was dark, when they arrived at a castle; which the knight immediately recognizing to be the duke’s habitation, where he had so lately resided, ‘Good Heaven!’ cried he, ‘where will this adventure end! surely this is the dwelling place of politeness and hospitality; but to those who are vanquished, good is converted into bad, and bad to worse.’ This ejaculation he uttered as they entered the court of the castle, which was decorated in a strange manner that increased their admiration, and redoubled their fear, as will be seen in the following chapter.

CHAP. XVII. OF THE MOST SINGULAR AND STRANGEST ADVENTURE THAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE IN THE WHOLE COURSE OF THIS SUBLIME HISTORY.

The horsemen alighting, with the assistance of those who were on foot, snatched up the bodies of Don Quixote and Sancho, and carried them hastily into the court of the castle, round which above a hundred flaming torches were placed, and the corridores of the court were illuminated by five hundred tapers, shining with such a blaze, that, in spite of the night, which was dark, there was no want of the day. In the middle of the court appeared a monument raised about two yards from the ground, and covered with a spacious canopy of black velvet; and, upon the steps that led up to it, above a hundred tapers of virgin wax stood burning in silver candlesticks. On the tomb lay the body of a young damsel, whose beauty was such as rendered death itself beautiful; her head was raised on a cushion of brocade, and crowned with a garland of various odoriferous flowers; and in her hands, that were crossed upon her breast, appeared a bough of green victorious palm. On one side of the court was erected a theatre, on which were seated two personages, whom their crowns and sceptres declared to be either real or fictitious kings; and hard by the theatre, which was furnished with steps, two other chairs, upon which Don Quixote and Sancho were seated by their captors, who still maintained their former silence, the observance of which they likewise recommended, by signs, to our hero and his squire; though these injunctions were altogether superfluous; for their astonishment at what they saw, had effectually tied their tongues; and, indeed, how could they help being astonished at sight of this apparatus! considering, too, that by this time the knight had discovered the dead body on the tomb to be no other than the beauteous Altisidora? At this juncture, two noble personages, with a numerous retinue, ascended the theatre, and seated themselves in magnificent chairs, hard by the figures that were crowned; then Don Quixote and Sancho, perceiving the new comers to be their former entertainers, the duke and duchess, rose up and bowed with great veneration, and their graces, rising also, returned the compliment with a slight inclination of the head. And now an officer crossing the court, and approaching Sancho, threw over him a robe of black buckram, painted all over with flames of fire; at the same time pulling off his cap, he put upon his head one of those pasteboard mitres which are worn by the penitents of the holy office; and in a whisper advised him to keep his lips fast sewed together, unless he had a mind to be gagged or put to death without mercy. Sancho surveyed himself from head to foot, and saw his robe in flames; but as they did not burn, he valued them not a farthing; then he took off his mitre, and perceiving it figured with pictures of fiends, set it on his head again, saying to himself, ‘As the flames do not burn, and the fiends do not fly away with me, I am very well satisfied.’ Don Quixote likewise surveyed the squire; and, although his reflection was still disturbed with fear and suspense, could not help smiling at the ludicrous figure.

Sancho being thus equipped, a low yet agreeable sound of flutes seemed to issue from beneath the tomb, and being uninterrupted by any human voice, for here silence itself kept silence, produced a very soft and pleasing melody. Then all of a sudden, a beautiful youth, in a Roman habit, appeared close by the cushion on which the seemingly dead body reposed, and to the sound of the harp on which he himself played, with a sweet harmonious voice he sung the two following stanzas—

I.

‘Till fair Altisidora, slain By Quixote’s cruelty, return; And all th’ inchanted female train Her hapless fate in sack-cloth mourn; Until duennas clad in baize Appear in presence of her grace, I’ll celebrate the nymph in lays That would not shame the bard of Thrace.

II.

‘Nor shall thy beauty fade unsung, When life forsakes my gelid veins; My clay-cold lips and frozen tongue, In death shall raise immortal strains. My soul when freed from cumb’rous clay, Her flight o’er Stygian waves shall take; And while on Lethe’s banks I stray, My song shall charm th’ oblivious lake.’

Here he was interrupted by one of the two pretended kings; who said—‘Enough, divine songster! it would be an infinite task to describe the death and beauties of the peerless Altisidora, not dead as the ignorant world imagines, but alive in the voice of fame, and in the penance which Sancho Panza here present must undergo, in order to restore her to the light she has lost; and therefore, O Rhadamanthus! who sittest with me in judgment, within the gloomy caverns of Lethe, as thou art intimately acquainted with all the determinations of the inscrutable fates, touching the revival of this damsel, relate and declare them without loss of time, that we may no longer delay that happiness which we expect from her recovery.’

Scarce had Minos pronounced these words, when his fellow-judge and companion Rhadamanthus stood up, saying—‘So ho! ye ministers of this house, high and low, great and small, come hither one by one, and mark the face, the arms, and loins of Sancho, with two dozen of tweaks, one dozen of pinches, and half a dozen pricks with a pin; for upon this execution depends the revival of Altisidora.’ Sancho Panza hearing this sentence, broke silence, and exclaimed aloud—‘I vow to God, I will sooner turn Turk, than allow my face to be marked or my flesh to be handled in any such manner. Body o’ me! what has the pinching of my face to do with the resurrection of that damsel. The old woman has got a liquorish tooth, forsooth, and she is still licking her fingers. Dulcinea is inchanted, and I must be scourged for the disinchantment of her ladyship: Altisidora is dead by the hand of God, and in order to bring her to life, I must suffer two dozen of tweaks, my body must be pinked into a sieve with large pins, and my arms pinched into all the colours of the rainbow! Such jokes may pass upon a brother-in-law; but I am an old dog, and will not be coaxed with a crust.’—‘Then thou shalt die,’ cried Rhadamanthus with an audible voice. ‘Tame that savage heart of thine, thou tyger; humble thyself, thou proud Nimrod! suffer and be silent. We ask not impossibilities, and therefore thou must not pretend to examine the difficulties of this affair: tweaked thou shalt be; pinked shalt thou find thyself, and pinched until thy groans declare thine anguish.—So ho! I say, ye ministers! execute my command, or by the faith of an honest man, you shall see for what you were born!’

In consequence of this summons, six duennas came walking through the court yard in procession, one by one, the four first with spectacles, and each with her right-arm raised, about four inches of the wrist being bared according to the present fashion, that the hand may seem the larger. Sancho no sooner beheld these matrons, than he began to bellow like a bull; exclaiming—‘I might have allowed myself to be handled by all the world besides, but that duennas should touch me I will by no means consent! they may cat-claw my face, as my master was served in this very castle; they may run me through the guts with daggers of steel; they may tear the flesh off my arms with red-hot pincers; all these tortures will I bear patiently, for the service of these noble persons: but I say again, the devil shall fly away with me before I suffer a duenna to lay a finger on my carcase!’ Then Don Quixote addressing himself to Sancho, broke silence in these terms—‘Exert thy patience, my son, for the satisfaction of these noble personages, and give thanks to Heaven, which hath indued thy person with such virtue, that by the martyrdom of thy flesh, the inchanted are delivered from inchantment, and even the dead revived.’

By this time the duennas had surrounded Sancho; who, being softened and persuaded, seated himself in a proper posture, and held out his face and beard to the first, who treated him with a well-planted twitch, and then dropped a profound curtsey. ‘Less courtesy, less anointing, good Madam Duenna,’ cried the squire; ‘for, by the Lord, your fingers smack of vinegar!’ In a word, he was tweaked by all the duennas, and pinched by a great number of other persons belonging to the family: but what he could by no means be brought to endure, was the puncture with pins, which they no sooner began to perform, than starting up in a rage, and seizing a lighted torch that stood near him, he assaulted the duennas, and all the rest of his executioners, crying—‘Avaunt, ye ministers of hell! I am not made of brass, to be insensible to such torture.’ At this instant, Altisidora, who must have been tired with lying so long upon her back, turned herself on one side; and this motion was no sooner perceived by the spectators, than all of them exclaimed, as if with one voice, ‘Altisidora moves! Altisidora lives!’ Then Rhadamanthus desired Sancho to lay aside his indignation, seeing the intended aim was already accomplished.

Don Quixote seeing Altisidora stirring, fell upon his knees before Sancho, saying—‘Now is the time, dear son of my bowels, and no longer my squire! now is the time to inflict upon thyself some of those lashes thou art obliged to undergo for the disinchantment of Dulcinea. This, I say, is the time, when thy virtue is seasoned, and of efficacy sufficient to perform the cure which we expect from thy compliance.’ To this apostrophe the squire replied—‘This is reel upon reel, and not honey upon pancakes; scourging, to be sure, is a very agreeable dessert to a dish of twitches, pinches, and pin-prickings. There is no more to be done, but to take and tie a great stone about my neck, and toss me into a well; it will be much better for me to die at once, than to be always the wedding-heifer, to remedy the misfortunes of other people: either let me live in peace! or, before God, all shall out, sell or not sell.’

By this time Altisidora sat upright on the tomb, and at that instant the waits beginning to play, were accompanied by the musick of flutes, and the voices of all the spectators, who acclaimed—‘Live Altisidora! Altisidora live!’ The duke and duchess, together with Minos and Rhadamanthus, rising from their seats, and being joined by Don Quixote and Sancho, went to receive this young lady, and help her in descending from the tomb; while, they were thus employed, she assumed a languid and fainting air, and inclining her head towards the duke and duchess and the two kings, darted a sidelong glance to Don Quixote, saying—‘God forgive thee, unrelenting knight! by thy cruelty I have been doomed to remain, as I believe, above a thousand years in the other world! but as for thee, thou most compassionate squire that this wide earth contains! I thank thee kindly for that life I now enjoy. From this day, friend Sancho, thou mayest command six of my shifts to be converted into shirts for thy own body; and if they are not quite whole, at least they are white and clean.’ Sancho thanked her for the present, with mitre in hand and knee on ground; and when the duke ordered his servants to take away those badges of disgrace, and restore his own cap and coat, the squire entreated his grace to let him keep the mitre and the flaming robe, and carry them to his own country, as a mark and memorial of this incredible, adventure. To this supplication the duchess replied, that he might keep these testimonials, for he knew how much she was his friend.

The duke ordered the court to be cleared, the company to retire to their several chambers, and the knight and squire to be conduced to the apartments which they had formerly occupied.

CHAP. XVIII. WHICH FOLLOWS THE PRECEDING, AND TREATS OF MATTERS THAT MUST BE DISCLOSED, IN ORDER TO MAKE THE HISTORY THE MORE INTELLIGIBLE AND DISTINCT.

Sancho slept that night in a truckle-bed, in the apartment of Don Quixote; a circumstance which he would have waved, if possible, because he well knew his master would keep him awake with questions and replies, and he was not at all in a talkative humour; for the pain of his past sufferings kept them still present in his fancy, depriving his tongue of its usual freedom; and he would have much rather slept alone in a hut, than in the richest chamber thus accompanied. His apprehension was so true, and his suspicions so just, that scarce had his master committed his body to the bed, when he accosted the squire in these words: ‘What is thy opinion, Sancho, of this night’s adventure? Great and powerful is the force of amorous disdain, as thou hast seen with thy own eyes. Altisidora dead—not by shaft, or sword, or warlike instrument, or mortal poison, but solely by the reflection of that rigour and disdain with which I have always treated her advances.’—‘She might have died in good time, when and how she thought proper,’ cried Sancho, ‘and left me in quiet at my own house, seeing I never treated her either with love or disdain in the whole course of my life; for my own part, I neither know, nor can I conceive, as I have formerly observed, what the health or life of such a whimsical girl as Altisidora has to do with the martyrdom of Sancho Panza: but now at length I can clearly and distinctly perceive, that this world actually abounds with inchanters and inchantments, from which I pray God may deliver me, since I cannot deliver myself! in the mean time, I humbly beseech your worship to let me sleep, without farther question, if you have not a mind to see me throw myself out of the window.’—‘Sleep, then, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘if thou canst enjoy the benefit of slumber after the pinching, twitching, and pricking thou hast undergone.’—‘No pain is comparable to that of the twitching,’ replied the squire; ‘for no other reason, but because it was inflicted by duennas, whom God in heaven confound! I again intreat your worship to leave me to my repose, for deep is a remedy for those miseries which we feel when awake.’—‘Be it so,’ said the knight, ‘and the Lord make thy sleep refreshing!’

While these two are left to their repose, Cid Hamet, author of this sublime history, takes occasion to explain the motives that induced the duke and duchess to raise the edifice of the adventure above related. He says, the batchelor Sampson Carrasco still remembering how, as Knight of the Mirrours, he had been vanquished and overthrown by Don Quixote, and his whole design blotted and defaced by that unlucky fall and defeat, he resolved to try his fortune once more, in hope of meeting with better success; and learning where the knight was, from the information of the page who carried the letter and the present to Sancho’s wife Teresa Panza, he purchased a new suit of armour and a horse, ordered a white moon to be painted on his shield, and fastened the whole cargo on the back of an he-mule, which was conducted by a certain ploughman, and not by his old squire Tom Cecial, lest he should be known by Sancho or Don Quixote. With this equipage he set out for the duke’s castle, where he was informed of the knight’s motions and route, together with his intention to assist at the tournament in Saragossa. His grace likewise gave him an account of the jokes they had executed upon our adventurer, with the contrivance of Dulcinea’s disinchantment, to be effected at the expence of Sancho’s posteriors. Nor did he forget to relate the trick which Sancho had practised on his master, in making him believe that Dulcinea was inchanted and transformed into a country-wench; as also how my lady duchess had persuaded the squire that Dulcinea was really and truly inchanted and transformed, and he himself the person that was mistaken and deceived: particulars which afforded abundance of mirth to the batchelor, who could not help admiring afresh the mixture of archness and simplicity in Sancho, as well as the unaccountable madness of Don Quixote. The duke begged he would return that way and communicate his success, whether he should be vanquished or victor. Sampson, having promised to comply with his request, set out in quest of our knight; and, as he did not find him in Saragossa, proceeded to Barcelona, where he met with the adventure we have already related in its proper place: then he returned to the duke’s castle, where he gave an account of the whole engagement, and the conditions of the combat; in consequence of which Don Quixote was already on his return, to fulfil, like a worthy knight-errant, the promise he had made to reside at his own habitation for the term of one year, during which, the batchelor said, he might possibly be cured of his madness. He declared this was his sole motive for disguising himself in such a manner, as it was a thousand pities that a gentleman of Don Quixote’s excellent understanding should continue under the influence of such infatuation. He accordingly took his leave of the duke, and returned to his own country, in full hope that the knight was not far behind.

From this information, his grace took the opportunity to connive this last adventure, so much was he delighted with the behaviour of Sancho and Don Quixote. He ordered a great number of his people on horseback and a-foot, to scour the country far and near, and a patrole through every road by which he thought the knight could possibly return, with orders to bring him to the castle, either by fair means or foul. Accordingly, when they found him, they gave notice to his grace, who having already pre-concerted what was to be done, no sooner heard of his coming than he directed that the torches and tapers should be lighted around the court, and Altisidora placed upon the tomb, together with all the apparatus already described; which was so naturally and artfully executed, that it differed very little from the real truth. Nay, Cid Hamet moreover observes, that he looked upon the jokers to be as mad as those who were joked; and the duke and duchess to be within two-fingers-breadth of lunacy, seeing they placed such happiness in playing pranks upon two confirmed madmen; one of whom the new day found sleeping at full snore, and the other watching over his disastrous thoughts, and very impatient to quit his couch; for, whether vanquished or victor, Don Quixote never took pleasure in lolling on the lazy down.

It was now that Altisidora, who in the knight’s opinion had returned from death, in compliance with the humour of her lord and lady, entered his apartment crowned with the same garland she had worn on the tomb, clad in a robe of white taffety powdered with flowers of gold, her hair flowing loose upon her shoulders, and supporting herself upon a staff of fine polished black ebony. This apparition discomposed our hero to such a degree, that he shrunk within his nest in silent confusion, and almost covered himself wholly with the sheets, fully determined against making any return of compliment. Meanwhile, Altisidora sitting down upon a chair, at his bed’s head, heaved a profound sigh, and thus addressed herself to him, in a faint and tender tone—‘When women of fashion, and damsels of reserve, trample upon honour, and give their tongues the liberty to break through all inconveniences, so as to divulge the secrets which their hearts conceal, their condition must be desperate indeed. I am one of those, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha; sorely hampered, vanquished, and enamoured; but withal so patient and modest, that my soul broke through my silence, and I lost my life: in consequence of thy rigour, O flinty-hearted knight! more deaf than marble to my complaints, have I been dead for two days, or at least supposed to be dead by those who saw me; and if love, in pity to my fate, had not deposited a remedy in the tortures of that worthy squire, I should have remained for ever in the other world.’—‘Love,’ said Sancho, ‘might as well have deposited the remedy in the tortures of my ass, and I should have thanked him for it heartily: but pray, Madam, tell me, so may Heaven send you a kinder lover than my master, what did you see in the other world? What is going forward in hell? for surely those who die in despair must go to that baiting-place.’—‘To tell you the truth,’ answered Altisidora, ‘I could not be quite dead, seeing I did not enter the infernal regions; for, had I been once fairly introduced, I could not have left the place again, whatever inclination I might have had to return. The truth is, I went no farther than the gate, where I saw about a dozen devils playing at tennis, in their drawers and doublets, having bands edged with Flanders lace, and ruffles of the same at their wrists, which were naked to the length of four inches, in order to enlarge the appearance of their hands, in which they wielded rackets of fire: but what I chiefly admired was, that instead of balls, they made use of books, which seemed to be filled with wind and flocks; a circumstance equally new and surprizing! and yet there was another particular which still increased my astonishment; for, whereas among the gamesters of this world, it is natural for the winners to be merry, and for the losers to be sad; in that diabolical pastime, all the players growled and grumbled, and cursed one another.’—‘That is not to be wondered at,’ replied the squire; ‘for the devils, play or not play, win or not win, can never be content.’—‘That must certainly be the case,’ answered Altisidora; ‘but there was likewise another peculiarity at which I wonder, I mean, at which I then wondered; namely, that after the first toss, the ball was useless, and could not be used a second time; so that they whirled them away, new and old, in a marvellous manner. On one of these, which was finely gilt and lettered, they bestowed such a violent stroke, that the guts flew out in scattered leaves. “What book is that?” said one devil to his fellow. The other answered, that it was the second part of the history of Don Quixote de La Mancha, composed not by the original author Cid Hamet, but by an Arragonian, who calls himself a native of Tordesillas. “Away with it!” cried the first, “plunge it into the lowest abyss of hell, that mine eyes may never behold it again.”—“What, is it so bad!” said the second. “So very bad,” replied the other, “that if I myself had endeavoured to make it worse, it would not have been in my power.” They proceeded with their play, driving about the unfortunate books; and I hearing them mention Don Quixote, whom I love and adore, endeavoured to retain the vision in my memory.’—‘A vision it must have been, without all doubt,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for there is no other I in the whole world; and as for that history, it is bandied from hand to hand, without finding a resting place, and every body has a fling at the author: nor am I in the least mortified to hear that I wander like a fantastick shadow through the dark abodes of hell, as well as through the enlightened mansions of this globe, as I am not the person recorded in that history; which, were it elegant, faithful, and authentick, would live for ages; but, being false and execrable as it is, there will be no great distance between its birth and burial.’

Altisidora was going to proceed with her lamentations, when she was prevented by the knight; who said, with great solemnity, ‘I have often told you, Madam, that I am sorry you have placed your affection upon me, who can make no other return than that of gratitude and thanks; I was born for Dulcinea del Toboso; and the Fates, if such there be, have consecrated me for her service; so that to imagine any other beauty shall ever occupy the place which she possesses in my heart, is to suppose a mere impossibility. Let this declaration, therefore, undeceive and prevail upon you to retire within the limits of virtue and decorum, seeing no man is obliged to perform impossibilities.’ Altisidora, in consequence of this repulse, assumed an air of indignation, and in an affected transport of rage, exclaimed, ‘How now, Don Stockfish! soul of a mortar! stone of a date! more positive and obstinate than a courted peasant when his harrow hath chanced to hit the mark, by the Lord! if I once fall upon you, I will tear your eyes out. Hark ye, Don Beaten-and-cudgelled, are you such a wiseacre as to suppose I died for love of you? All you have seen this last night was a pure fiction; for I am not the woman to have a finger ache, much less to die for such a camel.’—‘O my conscience! I believe what you say,’ cried Sancho; ‘that of dying for love is a most ridiculous affair: your lovers, indeed, may easily say they are dying; but that they will actually give up the ghost, Judas may believe it for me.’

During this conversation, the musician and poet, who had sung the two stanzas which we have already repeated, came into the apartment, and made a profound bow to Don Quixote, saying, ‘Sir Knight, I beg you will esteem and reckon me among the number of your most humble servants; for many days are elapsed since I have conceived the warmest affection for your person, from the fame of your character and atchievements.’ When Don Quixote desired to know who he was, that he might respect him according to his merit, he answered, that he was the musician and panegyrist of the preceding night. ‘Assuredly, your voice is extremely sweet,’ said the knight; ‘but, methinks, the verses you sung were not much to the purpose; for what affinity is there between the stanzas of Garcilasso and the death of this young lady?’—‘Your worship must not wonder at that impropriety,’ answered the musician; ‘it is a common practice among the beardless poets of this age to write what they will, and steal from whom they please to pillage, whether it be or be not to the purpose; and every absurdity that occurs in their singing or writing, they attribute to the licentia poetica.’

Don Quixote’s reply was prevented by the entrance of the duke and duchess, who came to visit him in his chamber, and a long diverting conversation ensued, in the course of which Sancho uttered so many humorous sallies, and satirical jokes, that their graces admired anew the mixture of his acuteness and simplicity. As for the knight, he humbly requested that he might be allowed to depart that very day, as it was much more proper that vanquished knights, like him, should live in hog-sties than in sumptuous palaces. They graciously complied with his request; and when the duchess enquired if Altisidora had, as yet, acquired his good graces, ‘Your grace must know,’ said he, ‘that damsel’s distemper wholly proceeds from idleness, which may be easily cured by continual and decent occupation: she tells me it is the fashion in hell to wear lace, and as she knows how to make it, let the work never be out of her hand, which being employed in moving the bobbins, the idea or ideas of what she loves will no longer move in her imagination; and this is the truth, the substance of my opinion, and the marrow of my advice.’—‘Aye, and of mine too,’ cried Sancho; ‘for never in my born days did I know a lace-maker die for love: the thoughts of girls employed at that work, run more upon the finishing of their tasks than upon the idle fancies of love; and, for myself, I can safely say, that while I am digging in the field, I never so much as dream of my duck; I mean, my wife Teresa Panza, whom I love as the apple of mine eye.’—‘You talk like an oracle, Sancho,’ said the duchess: ‘and I will take care, that, from this day forward, Altisidora shall be employed in some plain work, which she understands to perfection.’—‘Your ladyship shall not need to use any such expedient,’ replied Altisidora; ‘for the consideration of the cruelty with which I have been used by that felonious monster, will blot him effectually from my remembrance, without any other assistance; and, in the mean time, with your grace’s permission, I will retire, that I may no longer have before my eyes—I will not say his rueful countenance, but his frightful and abominable aspect.’—‘These reproaches,’ said the duke, ‘put me in mind of the old observation, that Scolding among lovers is the next neighbour to forgiveness.’

Altisidora, making a shew of wiping the tears from her eyes with a white handkerchief, dropped a low curtsey to her lord and lady, and withdrew; and Sancho sending after her an earnest look, ‘Poor damsel!’ cried he, ‘I can bequeath, bequeath thee nothing, I say, but bad luck, seeing thou hast placed thine affection upon a soul of rush, and an heart of oak: had it lighted upon me, another sort of a cock would have crowned thy fortune.’

Thus the conversation ended, Don Quixote put on his cloaths, dined with the duke and duchess, and set out that same evening for his own habitation.

CHAP. XIX. OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE, IN THEIR JOURNEY TO THEIR OWN VILLAGE.

The perplexed and vanquished Don Quixote travelled along, extremely chagrined on one account, though greatly rejoiced on another: his melancholy was occasioned by his overthrow, and his joy produced from the consideration of that virtue inherent in his squire, which he had seen demonstrated in the resurrection of Altisidora, though he had some scruples in persuading himself that the enamoured damsel was actually dead. As for Sancho, he felt no sort of pleasure; but, on the contrary, was much mortified to find that Altisidora had failed in performing her promise touching the present of the shifts; and his imagination dwelling upon this circumstance, he said to his master—‘Truly, Signior, I must certainly be the most unfortunate physician that ever lived upon the earth, in which there are many leeches, who, though they kill their patients, insist upon being paid for their trouble, which, by the bye, is no more than writing and signing a list of medicines upon a scrap of paper; for the apothecary makes up the prescription, and so the farce is acted; whereas, I receive not a doit, though I cure other people’s maladies at the expence of pinches, twitches, pin-pricks, lashes, and drops of blood; but, I vow to God! if any other patient is put into my hands, they shall be well anointed before I undertake the cure; for, The abbot chants but to supply his wants: and I cannot believe that Heaven hath bestowed such virtue upon me, in order that I should throw it away upon the undeserving.’—‘Thou art in the right, friend Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘and Altisidora is much to blame in having witheld the promised shifts, although thy virtue is gratis data, without having put thee to the trouble of studying aught but the art of enduring personal torture; for my own part, I can say, that if thou hadst demanded payment for the disinchanting stripes, I should have allowed it to thy own satisfaction; though I know not how such hire might interfere with the cure; and I should not wish that the premium might impede the effect of the medicine: nevertheless, I do not think the experiment could be attended with any bad consequence. Consider, Sancho, what thou wouldst have; then proceed to the flagellation, and pay thyself fairly out of my money which is in thy own hands.’

At this proposal, the squire opened his eyes and ears a full span, and resolving in his heart to scourge himself with good will, answered in these words—‘Aye, now, Signior, I find myself extremely well disposed to comply with your worship’s desire, since my compliance will be attended with some profit; and, I own, my regard for my poor wife and children makes me seem a little selfish.—Pray what will your worship chuse to give for every stripe?’—‘Were I to pay thee, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘according to the greatness of thy deserts, and the quality of the cure, the bank of Venice and mines of Potosi would not afford a sufficient recompence: but, see how much of my money thou hast got, and set thy own price upon every lash.’—‘The number of stripes to be given,’ answered the squire, ‘amounts to three thousand three hundred and odd: of these I have received about five, which shall stand for the odd; so that three thousand three hundred remain. Now, if we value each lash at a quarter of a rial, and I would not bate a doit though the whole world should desire me, the sum will be three thousand three hundred quartillos; the three thousand quartillos make fifteen hundred half-rials, which are equal to seven hundred and fifty rials, and the other three hundred quartillos make one hundred and fifty half-rials, which are equal to seventy five rials, and these being added to the former seven hundred and fifty, the whole reckoning amounts to eight hundred and twenty five rials. These I will deduct from your cash that is in my hands, and then I will return to my own house, rich and satisfied, though well scourged; for, We cannot catch trouts without wetting our clouts: and I will say no more upon the subject.’—‘O blessed Sancho! O lovely Sancho!’ cried Don Quixote; ‘Dulcinea and I will be bound to serve thee all the days that Heaven shall permit us to live; provided she shall retrieve her lost-form: and, in this hope, we cannot possibly be mistaken; her misfortune will prove fortunate, and my overthrow a most happy triumph. And now, Sancho, consider when thou wilt begin this discipline; towards the speedy performance of which, I add another hundred rials.’—‘When?’ replied the squire; ‘this very night, without fail: if your worship will take care to chuse our lodging in the open field, I will take care to open my own carcase.’

At length the night arrived, after it had been impatiently expected by Don Quixote, who thought the wheels of Apollo’s car had broken down, and that the day was extended to an unusual length; like those lovers whose desires ever outstrip the career of time.

In the evening, they betook themselves to the covert of some pleasant trees at a little distance from the highway, and vacating the saddle of Rozinante, and the pannel of the ass, sat down together upon the grass, and supped upon the store contained in the wallet of Sancho; who, forming a strong and flexible scourge with Dapple’s halter, retired into a tuft of beeches about twenty paces from his master. The knight seeing him withdraw so brisk and resolute—‘Beware, friend Sancho,’ said he, ‘of scourging thyself to pieces; perform thy discipline at leisure; let the stripes follow one another in regular succession, and do not run so fast as to be out of breath in the middle of thy career; I mean, do not lash thyself so severely, as to destroy thy own life before the number be compleated; and, that thou mayest not lose it by a card too many, or too few, I will stand aside and count the stripes upon my rosary. Mayest thou enjoy the protection of Heaven, which thy christian intention so richly deserves!’—‘A good paymaster needs no bail,’ answered the squire: ‘I intend to scourge myself in such a manner as will mortify my flesh, without any hazard of my life; for, in that medium the substance of the miracle must consist.’ He forthwith stripped himself naked from the waist upwards, and snatching the scourge, began to whip himself, while his master reckoned the stripes. About half a dozen or eight lashes had Sancho bestowed upon himself, when he found the joke very expensive, and the reward dog cheap; and suspending the instrument, told the knight he had been deceived, and claimed the benefit of an appeal; for every one of these stripes was worth half a rial instead of a quartillo. ‘Proceed, friend Sancho, without dismay,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘and I will double the allowance.’—‘At that rate,’ replied the squire, ‘to it again, by the grace of God, and let it rain lashes.’ But, the cunning knave no longer made application to his own shoulders, in lieu of which he began to scourge the trees, venting between whiles such dismal groans as seemed to tear his very soul up by the roots. The knight, from the tenderness of his own disposition, being apprehensive that he would actually put an end to his life, and of consequence defeat the purpose of his flagellation by his imprudence, exclaimed—‘I conjure thee, by thy life, friend Sancho, to let the business rest where it now stands: the medicine seems to have a very rough operation, and it will be better to proceed leisurely; for Zamora was not taken in one hour. Above a thousand stripes hast thou already inflicted upon thyself, if my reckoning is just, and these shall suffice for the present; for, if I may use a vulgar expression, Though the load must lie over the ass, he must not be overloaded.’—‘No, no, Signior,’ replied Sancho, ‘they shall never say of me, When money’s paid before its due, a broken limb will straight ensue. Pray stand aside a little, Signior, and let me lay on another thousand, if you please: two such bouts will perform the bargain, and leave something to boot.’—‘Since thou findest thyself in such an excellent frame and disposition,’ said the knight, ‘Heaven protect thee; stick to the stuff, and I shall withdraw.’ Sancho, resuming his task and reckoning, had already disbarked a number of trees, with the rigorous application of his scourge; when, bestowing a dreadful stroke upon an unfortunate beech, he exclaimed with great vociferation—‘Here, Sampson, shalt thou die, with all thine abettors.’ Don Quixote hearing this dismal ejaculation, and the terrible sound of the stroke, ran up to the spot, and seizing the twisted halter that Sancho used instead of a bull’s pizzle—‘Fate,’ said he, ‘friend Sancho, will not permit that for my pleasure thou shouldst lose that life on which the sustenance of thy wife and family must depend. Dulcinea shall wait for a more favourable conjuncture, and I will contain myself within the limits of the nearest hope, until thou shalt recover new strength to conclude this affair to the satisfaction of all parties.’—‘Since your worship is so inclined,’ answered the squire, ‘so be it in happy time; and pray, good Signior, throw your cloak, about my shoulders; for I am all in a sweat, and would not willingly catch cold, which is so often the case with new disciplinants.’ The knight, in compliance with this request, stripped himself of his upper garment, with which he covered up Sancho, who slept until he was wakened by the sun; then they proceeded on their journey, which, for that day, did not exceed three leagues.

They alighted at an inn; for such it was acknowledged by Don Quixote, who did not, as usual, suppose it a castle furnished with a fosse, turrets, portcullices, and draw-bridges: indeed, since his defeat, he had talked with more sanity on all subjects, as will presently appear. He was shewn into a low apartment, hung with old painted serge, instead of tapestry, such as is used in country places, in one piece of which some wretched hand had drawn the rape of Helen, who was carried off from Menelaus by his presumptuous guest; and in another was represented the story of Dido and Æneas, the unhappy queen standing upon a lofty tower, making signals with a white sheet to her fugitive lover, who, in a frigate or brigantine, was flying from her coast. He observed, of these two history pieces, that Helen shewed no marks of compulsion; but rather exhibited her satisfaction in a roguish smile; whereas, from the eyes of the beautiful Dido, tears as big as walnuts seemed to fall. Don Quixote having considered both pictures, ‘These two ladies,’ said he, ‘were most unfortunate, because they did not live in this our age; and I, above all men unhappy, because I did not live in theirs. Had I encountered these gentlemen, Troy had ne’er been burnt, nor Carthage laid in ruins; for, by killing Paris only, I should have prevented such disasters.’—‘I’ll lay a wager,’ said Sancho, ‘that in a very little time, every cook’s cellar, tavern, inn, and barber’s shop in the kingdom, will be ornamented with pictures containing the history of our atchievements; but I should be glad to see them painted by a better workman than him who made these daubings.’—‘Thou art in the right,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘he that painted these pieces is just such another as Orbaneja, a painter of Ubeda, who being asked what he was about, answered, “Just as it happens;” and if he chanced to represent a cock, he wrote under it, “This is a cock,” that it might not be mistaken for a fox. Such a person, I suppose, is that same painter or author, for it is the same thing, who ushered into the world the lately published history of the new Don Quixote: for he has painted or described whatever came uppermost; or, perhaps, he resembles an old court poet called Mauleon, who pretended to answer every question extempore; and being one day asked the meaning of Deum del Deo, replied, “De doude diere[211].” But, waving this subject, tell me, Sancho, if thou art resolved to take the other turn to-night, and whether thou wouldst chuse to go to work under an humble roof, or beneath the high canopy of Heaven?’—‘’Fore God! Signior,’ replied the squire, ‘as to what I intend to take, it matters not much, whether it be taken within doors or without: nevertheless, I should chuse to go to work among trees; for they seem to accompany and assist me wonderfully in bearing the brunt of the application.’—‘But it must not be so at present, friend Sancho,’ answered the knight; ‘in order to recruit your strength, the execution shall be postponed until we arrive at our own village, which we shall reach the day after to-morrow, at farthest.’ Sancho said he might take his own way; though he himself should be glad to dispatch the business now he was warm, and while the mill was a going; ‘For, Delay breeds danger; and We ought still to be doing while to God we are suing. I will give thee, is good; but, Here, take it, is better. A sparrow in hand is worth an eagle on wing.’—‘No more proverbs, Sancho, for the love of God!’ cried the knight; thou seemest to be returning to sicut erat. Speak plainly and perspicuously, without such intricate mazes, as I have often advised thee, and thou wilt find thyself one loaf per cent. in pocket.’—‘I am so unlucky,’ answered the squire, ‘that I cannot give a reason without a proverb, nor a proverb that I do not think a good reason; but I will mend if I can!’ And here the conversation ended for that time.

Footnote 211:

‘Wherever it may hit:’ an answer that has no affinity with the question, but the faint resemblance of sound.

CHAP. XX. GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF DON QUIXOTE’S ARRIVAL AT HIS OWN HABITATION.

That whole day Don Quixote and Sancho tarried at the inn, waiting for night, during which the one intended to finish his whipping task in the open field, and the other hoped to see the accomplishment of that discipline on which depended the accomplishment of his desire. In the mean time, a gentleman on horseback arrived at the door, attended by three or four servants, one of whom said to him who seemed to be the master, ‘Signior Don Alvaro Tarfe, your worship may pass the afternoon in this house; the lodging seems to be cool and cleanly.’ Don Quixote hearing this address, ‘Hark ye, Sancho,’ said he, ‘when I glanced over the second part of my history, I am very much mistaken if I did not perceive, as I turned over the leaves, this very name of Don Alvaro Tarfe.’—‘Very likely,’ replied the squire; ‘first let him alight, and then we can ask questions.’ Accordingly the traveller having alighted, was conducted by the landlady into a room that fronted the knight’s apartment, and was ornamented with the same kind of paintings which we have already described. This new-come cavalier, laying aside his upper garment, came out into the porch, which was cool and spacious, where seeing Don Quixote walking backwards and forwards for the benefit of the air, he asked in a courteous manner, which way his worship was travelling. The knight told him he was going to the place of his nativity, which was a village in the neighbourhood; and, in his turn, expressed a desire of knowing the direction of the stranger’s course. ‘Signior,’ said the cavalier, ‘I am travelling to Grenada, which is my native country.’—‘And a good country it is,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘but will your worship be so good as to tell me your name, which I believe is of more importance to me to know, than I can well explain.’—‘My name,’ said the stranger, ‘is Don Alvaro Tarfe.’—‘Without doubt, then,’ replied the knight, ‘you must be the gentleman mentioned in the second part of the history of Don Quixote de La Mancha, lately printed and published by a modern author.’—‘The very same,’ answered the cavalier: ‘Don Quixote, the principal character of that history, was an intimate acquaintance of mine: I brought him from his own habitation; at least I persuaded him to assist at the tournament of Saragossa, whither I was going, and where I really and truly did him signal services; and particularly saved his back from being very roughly handled by the hangman, for his excessive impudence and knavery.’—‘And pray, Signior Don Alvaro, is there any resemblance between me and that Don Quixote whom your worship mentions?’ said the knight. ‘No, surely, none at all,’ replied the stranger. ‘Is not that Don Quixote attended by a squire, called Sancho Panza?’ resumed our hero. ‘Yes, he is,’ answered the other; ‘and although he was reported to be a very humorous companion, I never heard him utter one merry conceit.’—‘That I can very well believe,’ said Sancho, mingling in the discourse; ‘it is not every body that can utter conceits; and that same Sancho, whom your worship mentions, must be a very great knave, and indeed both fool and knave; for I am the true Sancho Panza, who have as many conceits as there are drops of rain. If your worship will but try the experiment, and keep me company for a year or so, you will see them fall from me at every step; nay, they are so merry and so numerous, that very often when I myself know not what I have said, they make all the hearers burst their sides with laughing; and the true Don Quixote de La Mancha, the renowned, the valiant, the sage, the enamoured knight, the undoer of wrongs, the tutor of wards and orphans, the protector of widows, the destroyer of maids, he who owns no other mistress than the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, is my master, this very gentleman here present: every other Don Quixote, and every other Sancho whatsoever, is no better than a dream or delusion.’—‘Before God! I am of the same opinion,’ replied Don Alvaro; ‘for, truly, my good friend, you have uttered more pleasantry in these few sentences you have spoke, than ever I knew come from the mouth of the other Sancho Panza, though he was an eternal babbler; he was much more of a glutton than an orator, and rather idiotical than humorous. Indeed, I am fully persuaded, that those inchanters who molest the good Don Quixote, have been pleased to persecute me with the bad Don Quixote: and yet I know not what to say; for I can take my oath that I left him at Toledo in the nuncio’s house, under the care of surgeons; and now, another Don Quixote starts up in his place, though of a very different character and complexion!’—‘I know not whether or not I am the good Don Quixote,’ replied the knight; ‘but, I will venture to say, I am not the bad Don Quixote; and, as a proof of what I alledge, my good Signior Don Alvaro Tarfe, your worship must know, that in the whole course of my life I never was at Saragossa; on the contrary, having been informed, that the fantastical Don Quixote had been present at the tournament of that city, I would not set foot within its walls, that I might demonstrate his imposture to the satisfaction of the whole world: I, therefore, openly repaired to Barcelona, that repository of politeness, that asylum of strangers, that hospital of the poor, that native place of gallantry, that avenging tribunal of the injured, that agreeable scene of unshaken friendship unparalleled both in beauty and situation! and although certain adventures which there befel me did not so much contribute to my satisfaction, but, on the contrary, conduced to my unspeakable disquiet, I bear my fate without repining, and count myself happy in having seen that celebrated place: finally, Signior Don Alvaro Tarfe, I am the real Don Quixote de La Mancha, so well known to fame, and not that wretched impostor who has thought proper to usurp my name, and deck himself with the spoils of my reputation. I must therefore entreat your worship, as you value yourself on the character of a gentleman, to make a declaration before the alcalde of the place; importing, that, before this day, you never saw me in the whole course of your life; and that I am not the Don Quixote described in the second part, nor this Sancho Panza the squire whom your worship knew in his service.’—‘With all my heart,’ said Don Alvaro; ‘and yet I cannot help being astonished to see two Don Quixotes, and two Sanchos, at the same time, so similar in name, and so unlike in character; so that I say again, and even affirm, that I have not really seen that which I thought I had seen, nor met with those incidents in which I supposed myself concerned.’—‘Doubtless,’ cried Sancho, ‘your worship must be enchanted, like my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; and would to God your disinchantment depended upon my undergoing another tale of three thousand three hundred lashes, such as I have undertaken in her favour; I would lay them on without interest or deduction.’ When Don Alvaro said he did not understand what he meant by lashes, the squire answered it was a long story, which, however, he would relate to him should they chance to travel the same road.

Don Quixote and Don Alvaro dined together; and the alcalde of the town chancing to enter the inn with a scrivener, our hero demanded, by a formal petition, that Don Alvaro Tarfe, the gentleman there present, should depose before his worship, that he was not acquainted with him, Don Quixote there present also; and that he the said Don Quixote was not the person described in a certain history, intitled, The second part of Don Quixote de La Mancha; composed by one Avellanada, native of Tordesillas. In a word, the alcalde proceeded in form; the deposition was drawn up in the strongest terms, and the knight and squire were as much rejoiced as if this certificate had been of the utmost consequence to their identity, and as if the difference between the two Quixotes and Sanchos would not have plainly appeared from their words and actions.

Many compliments and proffers of service passed between Don Alvaro and Don Quixote; and our great Manchegan gave such proofs of discretion as undeceived Don Alvaro, who persuaded himself that he was certainly inchanted, seeing he had felt, as it were with his hand, two such contrary Don Quixotes. In the evening they departed from the village, and travelled together about half a league, until they found the highway divided into two roads, one of which led to the habitation of Don Quixote, and Don Alvaro’s journey lay through the other: yet, in that small space, the knight recounted the misfortune of his overthrow, together with Dulcinea’s inchantment, and the remedy proposed; so as to excite anew the admiration of the stranger; who, embracing Don Quixote and Sancho, took his leave, and proceeded on his own affairs, while our knight jogged on at an easy pace, and passed the night in a grove of trees in order to give Sancho an opportunity to perform his penance, which he accomplished as before, at the expence of the beeches, and not of his own shoulders; these he defended with such care, that they felt not even the whiff of any stripe sufficient to displace a fly. The credulous knight lost not one in his reckoning of the lashes; which including those of the preceding night, amounted to three thousand and twenty-nine: the sun seemed to rise early on purpose to behold this sacrifice, and to light our adventurer on his way, which he prosecuted, conversing with Sancho upon the mistake and deception of Don Alvaro, and his own presence of mind in obtaining such an authentick testimonial before the justice.

The whole day and night they travelled without encountering any adventure worthy of record, except that, in the dark, Sancho finished his discipline, to the unspeakable satisfaction of the knight, who waited with impatience for the day in hope of finding his mistress Dulcinea disinchanted upon the road: indeed, he was so much engrossed by this notion, that he went up to every woman he met in the remaining part of his journey, to see if she was not Dulcinea del Toboso; infallibly persuaded that there could be no deceit in the promises of Merlin. While he indulged these reflections and desires, they ascended a rising ground from whence they descried their own village; which Sancho no sooner perceived, than he fell upon his knees, saying, ‘Open thine eyes, beloved country! and behold the return of thy son Sancho Panza; who, though not very rich in coin, is well stored with lashes: open thine arms at the same time, and receive thy son Don Quixote; who, though vanquished by a stranger’s hand, returns the victor of himself; and that, as he hath often told me, is the greatest conquest which can be desired. With regard to my own fate, I have money in my purse; for, though the stripes fell thick and heavy, I was rewarded like a gentleman.’—‘Leave these fooleries,’ said the knight, ‘and let us go directly home, where we will indulge our imagination with free scope, in contriving the scheme of pastoral felicity which we intend to enjoy.’

They accordingly descended the hill, and made the best of their way to their own village.

CHAP. XXI. OF THE OMENS THAT OCCURRED TO DON QUIXOTE WHEN HE ENTERED THE VILLAGE— WITH OTHER INCIDENTS WHICH ADORN AND AUTHENTICATE THIS SUBLIME HISTORY.

Cid Hamet relates, that Don Quixote, as he entered the village, perceived two boys quarrelling in a threshing-floor, and heard the one say to his antagonist, ‘Struggle thy fill, Periquillo, thou shalt never see it in all the days of thy life.’ These words no sooner reached the knight’s ears, than turning to his squire, ‘Friend Sancho,’ said he, ‘didst not thou mark what the boy said? “Thou shalt never see it in all the days of thy life.”’—‘And what signifies what the boy says?’ answered the squire. ‘What!’ replied the knight, ‘dost thou not perceive that these words, applied to my concerns, signify, that I shall never behold Dulcinea?’ Sancho was just going to answer, when he was prevented by the sight of an hare, which being pursued by a number of greyhounds and hunters, came running through the field and squatted down in a fright under Dapple; the squire immediately saved it from the dogs, by seizing and presenting it to his master, who said, ‘Malum signum, malum signum! the hare flies, the hounds pursue, and Dulcinea does not appear.’—‘That is a strange fancy in your worship!’ replied the squire; ‘let us, for example, suppose it Dulcinea del Toboso, and these pursuing hounds the felonious inchanters who have transformed her into a country-wench; she flies, I catch and deliver her to your worship, who hold and fondle her in your arms; what bad sign is that? or what ill omen can be conjured from such a circumstance?’ At this juncture the two boys who had been quarrelling, came up to see the hare; and Sancho having asked the cause of their quarrel, was answered by him who said, ‘Thou shalt never see it in all the days of thy life,’ that he had taken a cage full of crickets from the other boy, which he did not intend to restore in the whole course of his life. In consequence of this information, the squire pulled out of his pocket four farthings, and gave them to the boy for the cage, which he put into the hands of Don Quixote, saying, ‘Behold, Signior, the wreck and destruction of those omens, which I (though a fool) imagine have no more to do with our affairs than last year’s clouds; and if I right remember, I have heard the curate of our parish observe, that no Christian of common sense ought to mind such childish trifles; nay, even your worship made the same remark some time ago, and told me those Christians were actually mad who put any faith in omens; and therefore we have no occasion to make a stumbling-block of this accident: but let us proceed, and enter the town a-God’s name.’

The hunters coming up, demanded the hare, which was delivered to them by our knight, who jogging on with his squire, perceived the curate and batchelor Carrasco busy at their devotion, in a little meadow that skirted the town. Now the reader must know, that Sancho Panza had, over the bundle of armour carried by Dapple, thrown, by way of sumpter-cloth, the buckram robe painted with flames of fire, which he had worn in the duke’s castle on the night of Altisidora’s resurrection; and he, at the same time, had fixed the mitre upon the head of the ass, which, thus adorned, exhibited the strangest transformation that any beast of burden in the world had ever undergone. Our adventurers were immediately recognized by the curate and batchelor, who ran to receive them with open arms; when Don Quixote alighting, embraced them with great cordiality; and the boys, who are quick-sighted as lynxes, descrying the mitre of the ass, came running in crowds to behold this new spectacle, crying to one another, ‘Come along, boys, and see Sancho Panza’s Dapple, as fine as a May-morning[212], and Rozinante more lean than ever.’

In a word, they entered the town, surrounded with boys, and accompanied by the curate and batchelor, who attended them to the knight’s house, at the gate of which they found the niece and housekeeper, already apprized of his arrival. The same intimation, neither more nor less, had been given to Sancho’s spouse Teresa Panza, who came running to see her husband, half naked, with her hair hanging about her ears, and her daughter Sanchica in her hand; but, seeing he was not so gayly equipped as she thought a governor should be, ‘Hey-day, husband!’ cried she, ‘you come home a-foot, and seem to be quite foundered, and look more like a governor of hogs, than a ruler of men.’—‘Hold your tongue, Teresa,’ replied the squire; ‘you will often find hooks where there is no bacon; let us e’en trudge home, where I will tell thee wonders: I have money in my purse, (and that’s the one thing needful) earned by my own industry, without prejudice to any person whatsoever.’—‘Do you bring home the money, good husband,’ said Teresa, ‘and let it be earned here or there, or got in what shape you please, I give myself no trouble about the matter; I am sure, in getting it, you have introduced no new fashion into the world.’ Sanchica embraced her father, and asked if he had brought any thing for her, who had expected him as impatiently as if he had been May-dew: then taking hold of his girdle with one hand, and leading Dapple with the other, while her mother held him by the fist, they repaired to their own house, leaving Don Quixote to the care of his niece and housekeeper, and in company with the curate and batchelor.

The knight, disregarding times and seasons, instantly retired into an apartment with his two friends, to whom he briefly related his overthrow, and the obligation under which he lay, to stay at home for the space of one year, which obligation he intended literally to observe, without failing in the least tittle, like a true knight-errant, bound by the punctuality of the order which he had the honour to profess. During this term of retirement, he proposed to turn shepherd, and enjoy the solitude of the field, where he would give full scope to his amorous sentiments, and exercise himself in all the virtues of a pastoral life: he, at the same time, besought them (provided they had any time to spare, and were not hindered by business of more consequence) to become his companions; assuring them he would purchase a flock of sheep sufficient for a number of swains, and that the principal part of the scheme was already effected, inasmuch as he had invented names that would suit them with the utmost propriety. The curate expressing a desire to know these appellations, the knight said, he would call himself the shepherd Quixotiz, the batchelor should be distinguished by the name of the swain Carrascon, the curate he denominated Curiambro, and the squire, Pancino. They were confounded at this new species of madness; but, lest he should once more forsake his habitation to follow his new chivalries, and in hope that he might possibly be cured during the year of his confinement, they seemingly assented to this new proposal, extolled his madness as the very essence of discretion, and promised to be his companions in the exercise he had planned. ‘All the world knows that I am a celebrated poet,’ said Sampson Carrasco, ‘and at every turn I shall compose verses, pastorals, or courtly sonnets, or such as will best answer the purpose of entertaining us in the fields through which we shall rove: but there is one circumstance, gentlemen, which we must by no means neglect; and that is, every man shall chuse a name for the shepherdess he intends to celebrate, and inscribe and engrave it on every tree, let it be never so hard, according to the constant practice of enamoured swains.’—‘A very seasonable suggestion,’ answered Don Quixote: ‘but, although I am at liberty to chuse a fictitious name, I shall not employ my invention for that purpose, while there is such a person as the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the glory of these banks! the ornament of these meadows! the support of beauty! the cream of all gentility! and, finally, the subject that suits all praise, how hyperbolical soever it may be.’—‘Very true,’ said the curate; ‘but we must put up with nymphs of an inferior rank; who, though they will not square, may corner with our desires.’—‘And should we be at a loss,’ added Sampson Carrasco, ‘we will borrow names that abound in printed books; such as Phillis, Amaryllis, Diana, Florida, Galatea, and Belisarda; which, as they are publickly sold, we may purchase and appropriate to our own use. If, for example, my mistress, or rather shepherdess, be called Ann, I will celebrate her under the name of Anna; if her name is Frances, she shall be called Francenia; if Lucia, she shall be known by the appellation of Lucinda: in the same manner shall other names be metamorphosed; and if Sancho Panza is inclined to be one of our fraternity, he may celebrate his wife Teresa Panza, under the name of Teresayna.’ Don Quixote could not help smiling at this transformation; and the curate, in very high terms, applauded his honourable and virtuous resolution, promising anew to spend in his company all the time he could spare from his indispensible obligations. And now they took leave of the knight; after having advised and entreated him to have a reverend care of his health, and comfort his stomach with something good and substantial.

The niece and housekeeper having by accident overheard this conversation, entered the apartment as soon as the curate and batchelor were gone; and the former, addressing herself to Don Quixote, ‘Uncle,’ said she, ‘what is the meaning of all this! Now that we thought you was returned to stay at home, and lead a quiet and honourable life in your own house, you want to re-entangle yourself in new labyrinths, and turn a poor shepherd. Thou cam’st with a crook, and with a scrip thou wilt go, as the saying is; for, in good faith, the straw is too old to make pipes of.’—‘And does your worship think,’ added the housekeeper, ‘that you can stay in the field, during the heats of summer, and the frosts of winter, to hear the howling of wolves! no, truly, that is the office and employment of robust clowns, tanned by the weather, and brought up to the business, even from their christening blankets and swaddling cloaths; and, weighing one evil against another, you had better still be a knight-errant than a shepherd. Consider, Signior, and take my advice, which I do not give from a full stomach, but fresh and fasting, with fifty good years over my head: stay at home in your own house, look after your estate, go frequently to confession, be good to the poor, and let my conscience answer for the rest.’—‘Hold your peace, my good children,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘I know my own duty, and what I have to do; meanwhile carry me to bed, for methinks I am not very well; and be assured, that whether I continue knight-errant or turn shepherd, you may depend upon my good offices and assistance, as you shall find by experience.’

Comforted by this declaration, the good souls (for so they were, without doubt) carried the knight to bed, where they presented him with victuals, and cherished him with all possible care.

Footnote 212:

In the original, ‘as fine as Mingo,’ who was a bad poet, and tawdry beau, contemporary with Cervantes.

CHAP. XXII. GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF DON QUIXOTE’S LAST ILLNESS AND DEATH.

As nothing human is eternal, but every sublunary object, especially the life of man, is always declining from its origin to its decay; and Don Quixote had no particular privilege from Heaven, exempting him from the common fate, the end and period of his existence arrived, when he least expected its approach. Either in consequence of the melancholy produced by his overthrow, or by the particular dispensations of Heaven, he was seized with a calenture which detained him in bed for the space of six days, during which he was often visited by his friends; the curate, batchelor, and barber, and his good squire Sancho Panza never stirred from his bedside. These gentlemen, supposing his distemper proceeded from the chagrin inspired by his overthrow, and the disappointment of his hope, concerning the liberty and disenchantment of Dulcinea, endeavoured by all possible means to exhilarate his spirits. The batchelor exhorted him to chear up his heart, and forsake his couch, that they might begin their pastoral exercise, towards which he had already composed an eclogue which would disgrace all the pastorals that ever Sannazarius wrote. He likewise gave him to understand, that he had purchased with his own money from an herdsman of Quintanar, two famous dogs called Barcino and Butron, to defend their flock from the wolves. All these consolations, however, could not dispel the melancholy of Don Quixote; so that his friends called a physician, who having felt his pulse, made a very doubtful prognostick; saying, happen what would, they ought to provide for the health of his soul, as that of his body was in imminent danger; and he gave it as his opinion, that the poor gentleman was overwhelmed with melancholy and vexation. The knight heard this sentence with the most heroick composure; but that was not the case with his housekeeper, niece, and squire, who began to weep and wail most bitterly, as if they had already seen him deprived of life.

Don Quixote finding himself inclined to slumber, desired he might be left alone; and the company retiring, he is said to have slept six hours at a stretch; so that the housekeeper and niece began to fear he would never awake. Nevertheless, he awoke at the expiration of the aforesaid time, and exclaimed aloud, ‘Praised be the Almighty God, for the great benefit I have received from his bounty! His mercies know no bounds; nor are they abridged or impeded by the transgressions of man!’ The niece, who listened attentively, hearing this ejaculation, more sensible and connected than any thing he had uttered since the beginning of his illness; ‘Uncle,’ said she, ‘what do you mean? Has any thing new befallen us? What mercies and transgressions are these you mention?’—‘Mercies,’ replied the knight, ‘which Heaven hath this instant been pleased to vouchsafe unto me, notwithstanding the heinousness of my transgressions. I now enjoy my judgment undisturbed, and cleared from those dark shadows of ignorance, in which my understanding hath been involved, by the pernicious and incessant reading of those detestable books of chivalry. I am now sensible of the falsity and folly they contain; and nothing gives me concern, but that this conviction comes too late to give me time sufficient to make amends, by reading others, which would enlighten my soul. I feel myself, cousin, at the point of death; and I would not undergo that great change, in such a manner as to entail the imputation of madness on my memory; for, though I have acted as a madman, I should not wish to confirm the character, by my behaviour in the last moments of my life. Be so good, my dear child, as to send for my worthy friend the curate, the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, and master Nicholas the barber; for I want to confess, and make my will.’

The accidental arrival of these three, saved her the trouble of sending a message to each in particular; and Don Quixote seeing them enter, ‘Good gentlemen,’ said he, ‘congratulate and rejoice with me, upon my being no longer Don Quixote de La Mancha, but plain Alonzo Quixano, surnamed the Good, on account of the innocence of my life and conversation. I am now an enemy to Amadis de Gaul, and the whole infinite tribe of his descendants; now are all the profane histories of knight errantry odious to my reflection; now I am sensible of my own madness, and the danger into which I have been precipitated by reading such absurdities, which I, from dear-bought experience, abominate and abhor.’ The three friends, hearing this declaration, believed he was certainly seized with some new species of madness; and, on this supposition, Sampson replied, ‘Now, Signior Don Quixote, when we have received the news of my Lady Dulcinea’s being disenchanted, do you talk at this rate? When we are on the point of becoming shepherds, that we may pass away our time happily in singing, like so many princes, has your worship taken the resolution to turn hermit? No more of that, I beseech you; recollect your spirits, and leave off talking such idle stories!’—‘Those which I have hitherto believed, have, indeed, realized my misfortune,’ said the knight; ‘but, with the assistance of Heaven, I hope my death will turn them to my advantage.—Gentlemen, I feel myself hastening to the goal of life; and therefore, jesting apart, let me have the benefit of a ghostly confessor, and send for a notary to write my will; for in such extremities, a man must not trifle with his own soul: I entreat you, then, to call a notary; and, in the mean time, I will confess myself to Mr. Curate.’ They looked at one another, surprized at this discourse; and, though still dubious, resolved to comply with his desire: they considered this sudden and easy transition from madness to sanity, as a certain signal of his approaching death; for to those expressions already rehearsed, he added a great number so rational, so christian and well-connected, as to dispel the doubts of all present, who were now firmly persuaded, that he had retrieved the right use of his intellects. The curate having dismissed the company, confessed the penitent; while the batchelor went in quest of the notary, with whom he in a little time returned, accompanied also by Sancho, who having received an account of his master’s condition, and finding the niece and housekeeper in tears, began to pucker up his face, and open the flood-gates of his eyes.

Confession being ended, the curate came forth, saying, ‘The good Alonzo Quixano is really dying, and without all doubt restored to his senses; we may now go and see the will attested.’ These tidings gave a terrible stab to the overcharged hearts of the two ladies and his faithful squire, whose eyes overflowed with weeping, and whose bosoms had well-nigh burst with a thousand sighs and groans; for, indeed, it must be owned, as we have somewhere observed, that whether in the character of Alonzo Quixano the Good, or in the capacity of Don Quixote de La Mancha, the poor gentleman had always exhibited marks of a peaceable temper and agreeable demeanour, for which he was beloved, not only by his own family, but also by all those who had the pleasure of his acquaintance.

The notary entering the apartment with the rest of the company, wrote the preamble of the will, in which Don Quixote disposed of his soul in all the necessary Christian forms: then proceeding to the legacies, he said, ‘Item, Whereas Sancho Panza, whom, in my madness, I made my squire, has in his hands a certain sum of money for my use; and as divers accounts, disbursements, and pecuniary transactions have passed between us; it is my will, that he shall not be charged or brought to account for the said money; but, if there be any overplus, after he has deducted the payment of what I owe him, the said overplus, which must be a mere trifle, shall be his own, and much good may it do him! and as, during my disorder, I contributed to his being made governor of an island, I would now, while I enjoy my perfect senses, confer upon him, were it in my power, a whole kingdom; which he richly deserves for the innocency of his heart, and the fidelity of his service.’ Then turning to the disconsolate squire, ‘Forgive me, friend,’ said he, ‘for having been the cause of thy appearing in the eye of the world a madman, like myself; by drawing thee into my own erroneous notions, concerning the existence and adventures of knights-errant.’—‘Lack-a-day, dear Sir!’ cried Sancho, blubbering, ‘do not die; take my advice, and live many years upon the face of the earth; for the greatest madness a man can be guilty of in this life, is to let himself die outright, without being slain by any person whatever, or destroyed by any other weapon than the hands of melancholy. Hark ye, Signior! hang sloth! get up, and let us take the field in shepherds apparel, according to our agreement; who knows, but behind some bush we may find my Lady Dulcinea disenchanted, and a comely sight for to see? If you take your overthrow so much to heart, lay the blame at my door, and say you was vanquished by my carelessness, in girting Rozinante; besides, your worship must have read in your books of chivalry, that it was common for one knight to unhorse another, and for him who was vanquished to-day, to be victor to-morrow.’—‘Very true,’ said Sampson; ‘honest Sancho seems to be very well informed of these matters.’—‘Gentlemen,’ replied the knight, ‘let us proceed fair and softly, without looking for this year’s birds in last year’s nests. I was mad; but now am in my right senses. I was Don Quixote de La Mancha; but now, as I have already observed, I am Alonzo Quixano the Good: and I hope, I shall, by my veracity and repentance, recover that degree of your esteem, which I formerly enjoyed. So let Mr. Notary proceed.’

‘Item, I bequeath my whole estate, real and personal, to my niece Antonia Quixano here present, after deducting what shall be sufficient for the payment of my debts and legacies; and it is my will, that from the first of the money thence arising, the wages due to my housekeeper shall be paid, together with twenty ducats for a suit of mourning; and I appoint Mr. Curate, and Mr. Batchelor Sampson Carrasco, here present, my executors. Item, It is my will, that if my niece Antonia Quixano inclines to marriage, she shall not wed any man until she is fully satisfied, from previous information, that he is an utter stranger to books of chivalry; or, if she finds he is addicted to this kind of reading, and marries him nevertheless, she shall forfeit the whole legacy, which my executors may, in that case, dispose of in pious uses. Item, I beseech the said gentlemen, my executors, if perchance they should become acquainted with a certain author, who composed and published an history, entitled, “The Second Part of the Atchievements of Don Quixote de La Mancha;” that they will, in my name, most earnestly entreat him to forgive me for having been the innocent cause of his writing such a number of absurdities as that performance contains; for I quit this life with some scruples of conscience arising from that consideration.’ The will being thus concluded, he was seized with a fainting-fit, and stretched himself at full length in the bed; so that all the company were alarmed, and ran to his assistance. During three days which he lived after the will was signed and sealed, he frequently fainted, and the whole family was in confusion: nevertheless, the niece eat her victuals, the housekeeper drank to the repose of his soul, and even Sancho cherished his little carcase; for the prospect of succession either dispels or moderates that affliction which an heir ought to feel at the death of the testator.

At last Don Quixote expired; after having received all the sacraments, and in the strongest terms, pathetically enforced, expressed his abomination against all books of chivalry; and the notary observed, that in all the books of that kind which he had perused, he had never read of any knight-errant who died quietly in his bed, as a good Christian, like Don Quixote; who, amidst the tears and lamentations of all present, gave up the ghost, or in other words, departed this life. The curate was no sooner certified of his decease, than he desired the notary to make a testimonial, declaring, that Alonzo Quixano the Good, commonly called Don Quixote de La Mancha, had taken his departure from this life, and died of a natural death; that no other author, different from Cid Hamet Benengeli, should falsely pretend to raise him from the dead, and write endless histories of his atchievements.

This was the end of the sage Hidalgo de La Mancha, whose native place Cid Hamet would not punctually describe, because he wished that all the towns and villages of that province should contend for the honour of having given him birth, as the seven cities of Greece contended for Homer. We shall here omit the lamentations of the housekeeper, niece, and squire, together with all the epitaphs, except the following, by Sampson Carrasco.

Here lies a cavalier of fame, Whose dauntless courage soar’d so high, That death, which can the boldest tame, He scorn’d to flatter or to fly. A constant bugbear to the bad, His might the world in arms defy’d; And in his life though counted mad, He in his perfect senses dy’d.

The sagacious Cid Hamet addressing himself to his pen, ‘And now, my slender quill,’ said he, ‘whether cunningly cut, or unskilfully formed, it boots not much; here, from this rack, suspended by a wire, shalt thou enjoy repose, and live to future ages, if no presumptuous and wicked hand shall take thee down, in order to profane thee in compiling idle histories. But ere such insolent fingers can touch thine hallowed plume, accost, and warn them, if thou canst, in words like these:

“Caitifs, forbear!—Illustrious prince, let none ”Attempt th’ emprize reserv’d for me alone[213].”

‘For me alone was Don Quixote born, and I produced for him; he to act, and I to record: in a word, we were destined for each other, maugre and in despight of that fictitious Tordesilian author, who has presumed, or may presume, to write with his coarse, aukward ostrich quill, the atchievements of my valiant knight; a burden too heavy for his weak shoulders, and an undertaking too great for his frozen genius. Advise him, therefore, if ever thou shouldst chance to be in his company, to let the wearied and mouldering bones of Don Quixote rest in the grave, without seeking to carry him into Old Castile[214], in opposition to all the prerogatives of death; or to drag him from his tomb, where he really and truly lies extended at full length, and utterly incapable of making a third sally: for all the exploits performed by the whole tribe of knights-errant are sufficiently ridiculed by the two expeditions he has already made, so much to the satisfaction and entertainment, not only of Spain, but also of every foreign nation to which the fame of his adventures hath been conveyed. In so doing, thou wilt conform to thy Christian profession of doing good to those who would do thee harm; and I shall rest satisfied and perfectly well pleased, in seeing myself the first author who fully enjoyed the fruit of his writings in the success of his design: for mine was no other than to inspire mankind with an abhorrence of the false and improbable stories recounted in books of chivalry; which are already shaken by the adventures of my true and genuine Don Quixote, and in a little time will certainly sink into oblivion. Farewel.’

FINIS.

Footnote 213:

Lines probably taken from some old ballad or romance.

Footnote 214:

The author of the Second Part hinted, in his preface, a design of bringing his hero into the field again, in Old Castile.

● Transcriber’s Notes: ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (italics). ○ Footnotes have been moved to follow the sections in which they are referenced.

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