A certain man, being deranged in his intellects, was placed by his
relations in the mad-house of Seville. He had taken his degrees in the
canon law at Ossuna; but had it been at Salamanca, many are of opinion
he would, nevertheless, have been mad. This graduate, after some years'
confinement, took into his head that he was quite in his right senses,
and therefore wrote to the archbishop, beseeching him, with great
earnestness and apparently with much reason, that he would be pleased to
deliver him from that miserable state of confinement in which he lived;
since, through the mercy of God, he had regained his senses; adding that
his relations, in order to enjoy part of his estate, kept him still
there, and, in spite of the clearest evidence, would insist upon his
being mad as long as he lived.
The archbishop, prevailed upon by the many sensible epistles he received
from him, sent one of his chaplains to the keeper of the mad-house to
inquire into the truth of what the licentiate had alleged, and also to
talk with him, and if it appeared that he was in his senses, to set him
at liberty. The chaplain accordingly went to the rector, who assured him
that the man was still insane, for though he sometimes talked very
sensibly, it was seldom for any length of time without betraying his
derangement; as he would certainly find on conversing with him. The
chaplain determined to make the trial, and during the conversation of
more than an hour, could perceive no symptom of incoherence in his
discourse; on the contrary, he spoke with so much sedateness and
judgment that the chaplain could not entertain a doubt of the sanity of
his intellects. Among other things he assured him that the keeper was
bribed by his relations to persist in reporting him to be deranged; so
that his large estate was his great misfortune, to enjoy which his
enemies had recourse to fraud, and pretended to doubt of the mercy of
Heaven in restoring him from the condition of a brute to that of a man.
In short, he talked so plausibly that he made the rector appear venal
and corrupt, his relations unnatural, and himself so discreet that the
chaplain determined to take him immediately to the archbishop, that he
might be satisfied he had done right.
With this resolution the good chaplain desired the keeper of the house
to restore to him the clothes which he wore when he was first put under
his care. The keeper again desired him to beware what he did, since he
might be assured that the licentiate was still insane; but the chaplain
was not to be moved either by his cautions or entreaties; and as he
acted by order of the archbishop, the keeper was compelled to obey him.
The licentiate put on his new clothes, and now, finding himself rid of
his lunatic attire, and habited like a rational creature, he entreated
the chaplain, for charity's sake, to permit him to take leave of his
late companions in affliction. Being desirous of seeing the lunatics
who were confined in that house, the chaplain, with several other
persons, followed him upstairs, and heard him accost a man who lay
stretched in his cell outrageously mad; though just then composed and
quiet. "Brother," said he to him, "have you any commands for me? for I
am going to return to my own house, God having been pleased, of His
infinite goodness and mercy, without any desert of mine, to restore me
to my senses. I am now sound and well, for with God nothing is
impossible; put your whole trust and confidence in Him, and he will
doubtless restore you also. I will take care to send you some choice
food; and fail not to eat it: for I have reason to believe, from my own
experience, that all our distraction proceeds from empty stomachs, and
brains filled with wind. Take heart, then, my friend, take heart; for
despondence under misfortune impairs our health, and hastens our death."
This discourse was overheard by another madman, who was in an opposite
cell; and raising himself up from an old mat, whereon he had thrown
himself stark naked, he demanded aloud, who it was that was going away
recovered and in his senses.
"It is I, brother," answered the licentiate, "that am going; for I need
stay no longer here, and am infinitely thankful to heaven for having
bestowed so great a blessing upon me."
"Take heed, licentiate, what you say, let not the devil delude you,"
replied the madman; "stir not a foot, but keep where you are, and you
will spare yourself the trouble of being brought back."
"I know," replied the licentiate, "that I am perfectly well, and shall
have no more occasion to visit the station churches."[6]
"You well?" said the madman; "we shall soon see that; farewell! but I
swear by Jupiter, whose majesty I represent on earth, that for this
offence alone, which Seville is now committing, in carrying you out of
this house, and judging you to be in your senses, I am determined to
inflict such a signal punishment on this city, that the memory thereof
shall endure for ever and ever, Amen. Know you not, little crazed
licentiate, that I can do it, since, as I say, I am thundering Jupiter,
who hold in my hands the flaming bolts, with which I can, and use, to
threaten and destroy the world? But in one thing only will I chastise
this ignorant people; and that is, there shall no rain fall on this
town, or in all its district, for three whole years, reckoning from the
day and hour in which this threatening is denounced. You at liberty, you
recovered, and in your right senses! and I a madman, I distempered and
in bonds! I will no more rain than I will hang myself."
All the bystanders were very attentive to the madman's discourse: but
our licentiate, turning himself to our chaplain, and holding him by both
hands, said to him: "Be in no pain, good sir, nor make any account of
what this madman has said; for, if he is Jupiter and will not rain, I,
who am Neptune, the father and the god of the waters, will rain as
often as I please, and whenever there shall be occasion." To which the
chaplain answered: "However, signor Neptune, it will not be convenient
at present to provoke signor Jupiter; therefore, pray stay where you
are; for, some other time, when we have a better opportunity and more
leisure, we will come for you." The rector and the bystanders laughed;
which put the chaplain half out of countenance. They disrobed the
licentiate, who remained where he was; and there is an end of the story.
True valor lies in the middle, between the extremes of
cowardice and rashness.
No padlocks, bolts, or bars can secure a maiden so well as
her own reserve.
Honey is not for the mouth of an ass.
He must be blind, indeed, who cannot see through a sieve.
Comparisons, whether as to sense, courage, beauty, or rank,
are always offensive.
Scruples of conscience afford no peace.
You have reckoned without your host.
When the head aches, all the members ache also.
_Me pondra en la espina de Santa Lucia_;--_i. e._, Will put
me on St. Lucia's thorn; applicable to any uneasy situation.
Let every man lay his hand upon his heart, and not take
white for black, nor black for white; for we are all as God
made us, and oftentimes a great deal worse.
"First and foremost, then," said Sancho, "the common people take your
worship for a downright madman, and me for no less a fool. The gentry
say that, not content to keep to your own proper rank of a gentleman,
you call yourself Don, and set up for a knight, with no more than a
paltry vineyard and a couple of acres of land. The cavaliers say they do
not choose to be vied with by those country squires who clout their
shoes, and take up the fallen stitches of their black stockings with
green silk."
"That," said Don Quixote, "is no reflection upon me; for I always go
well clad, and my apparel is never patched; a little torn it may be, but
more by the fretting of my armor than by time."
"As to your valor, courtesy, achievements, and undertakings," continued
Sancho, "there are many different opinions. Some say you are mad, but
humorous; others, valiant, but unfortunate; others, courteous, but
absurd; and thus they pull us to pieces, till they leave neither your
worship nor me a single feather upon our backs."
"Take notice, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that, when virtue exists in an
eminent degree, it is always persecuted."
"There cannot be a more legitimate source of gratification to a virtuous
and distinguished man," said Don Quixote, "than to have his good name
celebrated during his lifetime, and circulated over different nations; I
say his good name, for if it were otherwise than good, death in any
shape would be preferable."
To be represented otherwise than with approbation is worse
than the worst of deaths.
There are as many different opinions as there are different
tastes.
_Pedir cotufas en el golfo_, signifies to look for truffles
in the sea, a proverb applicable to those who are too
sanguine in their expectations and unreasonable in their
desires.
"There is no necessity for recording actions which are
prejudicial to the hero, without being essential to the
history. It is not to be supposed that AEneas was in all his
actions so pure as Virgil represents him, nor Ulysses so
uniformly prudent as he is described by Homer."
"True," replied Sampson; "but it is one thing to write as a poet, and
another to write as an historian. The poet may say or sing, not as
things were, but as they ought to have been; but the historian must pen
them not as they ought to have been, but as they really were, without
adding to or diminishing aught from the truth."
There is no human history that, does not contain reverses of
fortune.
Let every man take care how he speaks or writes of honest
people, and not set down at a venture the first thing that
comes uppermost.
"Sancho, thou art an arch rogue," replied Don Quixote, "and in faith,
upon some occasions, hast no want of memory."
"Though I wanted ever so much to forget what my poor body has suffered,"
quoth Sancho, "the tokens that are still fresh on my ribs would not let
me."
"Peace, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and let signor bachelor proceed,
that I may know what is further said of me in the history."
"And of me too," quoth Sancho, "for I hear that I am one of the
principal parsons in it."
"Persons, not parsons, friend Sancho," quoth Sampson.
"What, have we another corrector of words?" quoth Sancho; "if we are to
go on at this rate, we shall make slow work of it."
"As sure as I live, Sancho," answered the bachelor, "you are the second
person of the history; nay, there are those who had rather hear you talk
than the finest fellow of them all; though there are also some who
charge you with being too credulous in expecting the government of that
island promised you by Signor Don Quixote, here present."
"There is still sunshine on the wall," quoth Don Quixote; "and when
Sancho is more advanced in age, with the experience that years bestow,
he will be better qualified to be a governor than he is at present."
"'Fore Gad! sir," quoth Sancho, "if I am not fit to govern an island at
these years, I shall be no better, able at the age of Methusalem. The
mischief of it is, that the said island sticks somewhere else, and not
in my want of a headpiece to govern it."
"Recommend the matter to God, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and all will
be well--perhaps better than thou mayst think; for not a leaf stirs on
the tree without his permission."
"That is very true," quoth Sampson; "and if it please God, Sancho will
not want a thousand islands to govern, much less one."
"I have seen governors ere now," quoth Sancho, "who, in my opinion, do
not come up to the sole of my shoe; and yet they are called 'your
lordship,' and eat their victuals upon plate."
With hay or with straw it is all the same.
Much knowledge and a mature understanding are requisite for
an historian.
Wit and humor belong to genius alone.
The wittiest person in the comedy is he that plays the fool.
History is a sacred subject, because the soul of it is
truth; and where truth is, there the divinity will reside;
yet there are some who compose and cast off books as if they
were tossing up a dish of pancakes.
There is no book so bad but something good may be found in
it.
Printed works may be read leisurely, their defects easily
seen, so they are scrutinized more or less strictly in
proportion to the celebrity of the author.
"Men of great talents, whether poets or historians, seldom
escape the attacks of those who, without ever favoring the
world with any production of their own, take delight in
criticising the works of others."
"Nor can we wonder at that," said Don Quixote, "when we observe the same
practice among divines, who, though dull enough in the pulpit
themselves, are wonderfully sharp-sighted in discovering the defects of
other preachers."
"True, indeed, Signor Don Quixote," said Carrasco; "I wish critics would
be less fastidious, nor dwell so much upon the motes which may be
discerned even in the brightest works; for, though _aliquando bonus
dormitat Homerus_, they ought to consider how much he was awake to
produce a work with so much light and so little shade; nay, perhaps even
his seeming blemishes are like moles, which are sometimes thought to be
rather an improvement to beauty. But it cannot be denied that whoever
publishes a book to the world, exposes himself to imminent peril, since,
of all things, nothing is more impossible than to satisfy everybody.
Above all, I would let my master know that, if he takes me with him, it
must be upon condition that he shall battle it all himself, and that I
shall only have to tend his person--I mean, look after his clothes and
food; all which I will do with a hearty good-will; but if he expects I
will lay hand to my sword, though it be only against beggarly
wood-cutters with hooks and hatchets, he is very much mistaken. I,
Signor Sampson, do not set up for being the most valiant, but the best
and most faithful squire that ever served knight-errant; and if my lord
Don Quixote, in consideration of my many and good services, shall please
to bestow on me some one of the many islands his worship says he shall
light upon, I shall be much beholden to him for the favor; and if he
give me none, here I am, and it is better to trust God than each other;
and mayhap my government bread might not go down so sweet as that which
I should eat without it; and how? do I know but the devil, in one of
these governments, might set up a stumbling-block in my way, over which
I might fall, and dash out my grinders? Sancho I was born, and Sancho I
expect to die; yet for all that, if, fairly and squarely, without much
care or much risk, Heaven should chance to throw an island, or some such
thing, in my way, I am not such a fool neither as to refuse it; for, as
the saying is, 'when the heifer is offered, be ready with the rope.'"
When good fortune knocks, make haste to bid her welcome.
"Brother Sancho," quoth the bachelor, "you have spoken like any
professor; nevertheless, trust in Heaven and Signor Don Quixote, and
then you may get not only an island but even a kingdom."
"One as likely as the other," answered Sancho, "though I could tell
Signor Carrasco that my master will not throw the kingdom he gives me
into a rotten sack; for I have felt my pulse, and find myself strong
enough to rule kingdoms and govern islands; and so much I have signified
before now to my master."
"Take heed, Sancho," quoth the bachelor, "for honors change manners; and
it may come to pass, when you are a governor, that you may not know even
your own mother."
"That," answered Sancho, "may be the case with those that are born among
the mallows, but not with one whose soul, like mine, is covered four
inches thick with the grace of an old Christian. No, no, I am not one of
the ungrateful sort."
"Heaven grant it," said Don Quixote; "but we shall see when the
government comes, and methinks I have it already in my eye."
Sancho went home in such high spirits that his wife observed his gayety
a bow-shot off, insomuch that she could not help saying, "What makes you
look so blithe, friend Sancho?"
To which he answered: "Would to Heaven, dear wife, I were not so well
pleased as I seem to be!"
"I know not what you mean, husband," replied she, "by saying you wish
you were not so much pleased; now, silly as I am, I cannot guess how any
one can desire not to be pleased."
"Look you, Teresa," answered Sancho, "I am thus merry because I am
about to return to the service of my master, Don Quixote, who is going
again in search after adventures, and I am to accompany him, for so my
fate wills it. Besides, I am merry with the hopes of finding another
hundred crowns like those we have spent, though it grieves me to part
from you and my children; and if Heaven would be pleased to give me
bread, dryshod and at home, without dragging me over crags and
cross-paths, it is plain that my joy would be better grounded, since it
is now mingled with sorrow for leaving you; so that I was right in
saying that I should be glad if it pleased Heaven I were not so Well
pleased."
"Look you, Sancho," replied Teresa, "ever since you have been a
knight-errant man you talk in such a roundabout manner that nobody can
understand you."
"It is enough, wife," said Sancho, "that God understands me, for He is
the understander of all things; and so much for that. And do you hear,
wife, it behooves you to take special care of Dapple for these three or
four days to come, that he may be in a condition to bear arms; so double
his allowance, and get the pack-saddle in order and the rest of his
tackling, for we are not going to a wedding, but to roam about the world
and to give and take with giants, fiery dragons, and goblins, and to
hear hissings, roarings, bellowings, and bleatings, all which would be
but flowers of lavender if we had not to do with Yangueses and enchanted
Moors."
"I believe, indeed, husband," replied Teresa, "that your squires-errant
do not eat their bread for nothing, and therefore I shall not fail to
beseech Heaven to deliver you speedily from so much evil hap."
"I tell you, wife," answered Sancho, "that did I not expect, ere long,
to see myself governor of an island, I vow I should drop down dead upon
the spot."
"Not so, good husband," quoth Teresa, "let the hen live, though it be
with the pip. Do you live, and the devil take all the governments in the
world! Without a government you came into the world, without a
government you have lived till now, and without it you can be carried to
your grave whenever it shall please God. How many folks are there in the
world that have no government! and yet they live and are reckoned among
the people. The best sauce in the world is hunger, and as that is never
wanting to the poor, they always eat with a relish. But if, perchance,
Sancho, you should get a government, do not forget me and your children.
Consider that your son Sancho is just fifteen years old, and it is fit
he should go to school if his uncle the abbot means to breed him up to
the church. Consider, also, that Mary Sancha, your daughter, will not
break her heart if we marry her; for I am mistaken if she has not as
much mind to a husband as you have to a government. And verily say I,
better a daughter but humbly married than highly kept."
"In good faith, dear wife," said Sancho, "if Heaven be so good to me
that I get anything like a government, I will match Mary Sancha so
highly that there will be no coming near her without calling her your
ladyship."
"Not so, Sancho," answered Teresa, "the best way is to marry her to her
equal; for if you lift her from clouted shoes to high heels, and
instead of her russet coat of fourteenpenny stuff, give her a
farthingale and petticoats of silk, and instead of plain Molly and thou
she be called madam and your ladyship, the girl will not know where she
is and will fall into a thousand mistakes at every step, showing her
homespun country stuff."
"Peace, fool!" quoth Sancho, "she has only to practise two or three
years and the gravity will set upon her as if it were made for her; and
if not, what matters it? Let her be a lady, and come of it what will."
"Measure yourself by your condition, Sancho," answered Teresa, "and do
not seek to raise yourself higher, but remember the proverb, 'Wipe your
neighbor's son's nose and take him into your house.' It would be a
pretty business, truly, to marry our Mary to some great count or knight,
who, when the fancy takes him, would look upon her as some strange
thing, and be calling her country-wench, clod-breaker's brat, and I know
not what else. No, not while I live, husband; I have not brought up my
child to be so used. Do you provide money, Sancho, and leave the
matching of her to my care; for there is Lope Tocho, John Tocho's son, a
lusty, hale young man, whom we know, and I am sure he has a sneaking
kindness for the girl. To him she will be very well married, considering
he is our equal, and will be always under our eye; and we shall be all
as one, parents and children, grandsons and sons-in-law, and so the
peace and blessing of Heaven will be among us all; and do not you be for
marrying her at your courts and great palaces, where they will neither
understand her nor she understand herself."
"Hark you, beast, and wife for Barabbas," replied Sancho, "why would you
now, without rhyme or reason, hinder me from marrying my daughter with
one who may bring me grandchildren that may be styled your lordships?
Look you, Teresa, I have always heard my betters say, 'He that will not
when he may, when he will he shall have nay'; and it would be wrong, now
that fortune is knocking at our door, not to open it and bid her
welcome. Let us spread our sail to the favorable gale, now that it
blows.' ... Can't you perceive, animal, with half an eye," proceeded
Sancho, "that I shall act wisely, in devoting this body of mine to some
beneficial government that will lift us out of the dirt, and enable me
to match Mary Sancha according to my own good pleasure; then wilt thou
hear thyself called Donna Teresa Panza, and find thyself seated at
church upon carpets, cushions, and tapestry, in despite and defiance of
all the small gentry in the parish; and not be always in the same moping
circumstances, without increase or diminution, like a picture in the
hangings. But no more of this; Sanchica shall be a countess, though thou
shouldst cry thy heart out."
"Look before you leap, husband," answered Teresa; "after all, I wish to
God this quality of my daughter may not be the cause of her perdition;
take your own way, and make her duchess or princess, or what you please;
but I'll assure you it shall never be with my consent or good-will; I
was always a lover of equality, my dear, and can't bear to see people
hold their heads high without reason. Teresa was I christened, a bare
and simple name, without the addition, garniture, and embroidery of Don
or Donna; my father's name is Cascajo, and mine, as being your spouse,
Teresa Panza, though by rights I should be called Teresa Cascajo; but as
the king minds, the law binds; and with that name am I contented, though
it be not burdened with a Don, which weighs so heavy that I should not
be able to bear it. Neither will I put it in the power of those who see
me dressed like a countess or governor's lady, to say: 'Mind Mrs.
Porkfeeder, how proud she looks! it was but yesterday she toiled hard at
the distaff, and went to mass with the tail of her gown about her head,
instead of a veil; but now, forsooth, she has got her fine farthingales
and jewels, and holds up her head as if we did not know her.' If God
preserves me in my seven or five senses, or as many as they be, I shall
never bring myself into such a quandary. As for your part, spouse, you
may go to your governments and islands, and be as proud as a peacock;
but as for my daughter and me, by the life of my father! we will not
stir one step from the village; for, the wife that deserves a good name,
stays at home as if she were lame; and the maid must be still a-doing,
that hopes to see the men come awooing."
He that covers, discovers.
The poor man is scarcely looked at, while every eye is
turned upon the rich; and if the poor man grows rich and
great, then I warrant you there is work enough for your
grumblers and backbiters, who swarm everywhere like bees.
"The first time, he was brought home to us laid athwart an
ass, all battered and bruised. The second time he returned
in an ox-wagon, locked up in a cage, and so changed, poor
soul, that his own mother would not have known him; so
feeble, wan, and withered, and his eyes sunk into the
farthest corner of his brains, insomuch that it took me
above six hundred eggs to get him a little up again, as
Heaven and the world is my witness, and my hens, that will
not let me lie."
"I can easily believe that," answered the bachelor; "for
your hens are too well bred and fed to say one thing and
mean another."
All objects present to the view exist, and are impressed
upon the imagination with much greater energy and force,
than those which we only remember to have seen.
When we see any person finely dressed, and set off with rich
apparel and with a train of servants, we are moved to show
him respect; for, though we cannot but remember certain
scurvy matters either of poverty or parentage, that formerly
belonged to him, but which being long gone by are almost
forgotten, we only think of what we see before our eyes. And
if, as the preacher said, the person so raised by good luck,
from nothing, as it were, to the tip-top of prosperity, be
well behaved, generous, and civil, and gives himself no
ridiculous airs, pretending to vie with the old nobility,
take my word for it, Teresa, nobody will twit him with what
he was, but will respect him for what he is; except, indeed
the envious, who hate every man's good luck.
People are always ready enough to lend their money to
governors.
Clothe the boy so that he may look not like what he is, but
what he may be.
To this burden women are born, they must obey their husbands
if they are ever such blockheads.
He that's coy when fortune's kind, may after seek but never
find.
All knights cannot be courtiers, neither can all courtiers
be knights.
The courtier knight travels only on a map, without fatigue
or expense; he neither suffers heat nor cold, hunger nor
thirst; while the true knight-errant explores every quarter
of the habitable world, and is by night and day, on foot or
on horseback, exposed to all the vicissitudes of the
weather.
All are not affable and well-bred; on the contrary, some
there are extremely brutal and impolite. All those who call
themselves knights, are not entitled to that distinction;
some being of pure gold, and others of baser metal,
notwithstanding the denomination they assume. But these last
cannot stand the touch-stone of truth; there are mean
plebeians, who sweat and struggle to maintain the appearance
of gentlemen; and, on the other hand, there are gentlemen of
rank who seem industrious to appear mean and degenerate; the
one sort raise themselves either by ambition or virtue,
while the other abase themselves by viciousness or sloth; so
that we must avail ourselves of our understanding and
discernment in distinguishing those persons, who, though
they bear the same appellation, are yet so different in
point of character. All the genealogies in the world may be
reduced to four kinds. The first are those families who from
a low beginning have raised and extended themselves, until
they have reached the highest pinnacle of human greatness;
the second are those of high extraction, who have preserved
their original dignity; the third sort are those who, from a
great foundation, have gradually dwindled, until, like a
pyramid, they terminate in a small point. The last, which
are the most numerous class, are those who have begun and
continue low, and who must end the same.
Genealogies are involved in endless confusion, and those
only are illustrious and great who are distinguished by
their virtue and liberality, as well as their riches; for
the great man who is vicious is only a great sinner, and the
rich man who wants liberality is but a miserly pauper.
The gratification which wealth can bestow is not in mere
possession, nor in lavishing it with prodigality, but in the
wise application of it.
The poor knight can only manifest his rank by his virtues
and general conduct. He must be well-bred, courteous, kind,
and obliging; not proud nor arrogant; no murmurer. Above
all, he must be charitable, and by two maravedis given
cheerfully to the poor he shall display as much generosity
as the rich man who bestows large alms by sound of bell. Of
such a man no one would doubt his honorable descent, and
general applause wall be the sure reward of his virtue.
There are two roads by which men may attain riches and
honor: the one by letters, the other by arms.
The path of virtue is narrow, that of vice is spacious and
broad; as the great Castilian poet expresses it:--
"By these rough paths of toil and pain
The immortal seats of bliss we gain,
Denied to those who heedless stray
In tempting pleasure's flowery way."
Fast bind, fast find.
He who shuffles is not he who cuts.
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
Though there is little in a woman's advice, yet he that
won't take it is not over-wise.
We are all mortal: here to-day and gone to-morrow.
The lamb goes to the spit as soon as the sheep.
No man in this world can promise himself more hours of life
than God is pleased to grant him; because death if deaf, and
when he knocks at the door of life is always in a hurry, and
will not be detained either by fair means or force, by
sceptres or mitres, as the report goes, and as we have often
heard it declared from the pulpit.
The hen sits, if it be but upon one egg.
Many littles make a mickle, and he that is getting aught is
losing naught.
While there are peas in the dove-cote, it shall never want
pigeons.
A good reversion is better than bad possession, and a good
claim better than bad pay.
The bread eaten, the company broke up.
A man must be a man, and a woman a woman.
Nothing inspires a knight-errant with so much valor as the
favor of his mistress.
O envy! thou root of infinite mischief and canker-worm of
virtue! The commission of all other vices, Sancho, is
attended with some sort of delight; but envy produces
nothing in the heart that harbors it but rage, rancor, and
disgust.
The love of fame is one of the most active principles in the
human breast.
Let us keep our holy days in peace, and not throw the rope
after the bucket.
"And now pray tell me which is the most difficult, to raise a dead man
to life or to slay a giant?"
"The answer is very obvious," answered Don Quixote; "to raise a dead
man."
"There I have caught you!" quoth Sancho. "Then his fame who raises the
dead, gives sight to the blind, makes the lame walk, and cures the sick;
who has lamps burning near his grave, and good Christians always in his
chapels, adoring his relics upon their knees,--his fame, I say, shall be
greater both in this world and the next than that which all the heathen
emperors and knights-errant in the world ever had or ever shall have."
"I grant it," answered Don Quixote.
"Then," replied Sancho, "the bodies and relics of saints have this power
and grace, and these privileges, or how do you call them, and with the
license of our holy mother church have their lamps, winding-sheets,
crutches, pictures, perukes, eyes, and legs, whereby they increase
people's devotion and spread abroad their own Christian fame. Kings
themselves carry the bodies or relics of saints upon their shoulders,
kiss the fragments of their bones, and adorn their chapels and most
favorite altars with them."
"Certainly, but what wouldst thou infer from all this, Sancho?" quoth
Don Quixote.
"What I mean," said Sancho, "is, that we had better turn saints
immediately, and we shall then soon get that fame we are seeking after.
And pray take notice, sir, that it was but yesterday--I mean very
lately--a couple of poor barefooted friars were canonized, and people
now reckon it a greater happiness to touch or kiss the iron chains that
bound them, and which are now held in greater veneration than Orlando's
sword in the armory of our lord the king, Heaven save him; so that it is
better to be a poor friar of the meanest order than the bravest
knight-errant, because four dozen of good penitent lashes are more
esteemed in the sight of God than two thousand tilts with a lance,
though it be against giants, goblins, or dragons."
"I confess," answered Don Quixote, "all this is true. We cannot all be
friars, and many and various are the ways by which God conducts his
elect to Heaven. Chivalry is a kind of religious profession, and some
knights are now saints in glory."
"True," quoth Sancho, "but I have heard say there are more friars in
Heaven than knights-errant."
"It may well be so," replied Don Quixote, "because their number is much
greater than that of knights-errant."
"And yet," quoth Sancho, "there are abundance of the errant sort."
"Abundance, indeed," answered Don Quixote, "but few who deserve the name
of knight."
There is a time for jesting, and a time when jokes are
unseasonable.
Truth may bend but never break, and will ever rise above
falsehood, like oil above water.
With lovers the external actions and gestures are couriers,
which bear authentic tidings of what is passing in the
interior of the soul.
A stout heart flings misfortune.
Where you meet with no books you need expect no bacon.
The hare often starts where the hunter least expects her.
There is a remedy for everything but death, who will take us
in his clutches spite of our teeth.
Show me who thou art with, and I will tell thee what thou
art.
Not with whom thou wert bred, but with whom thou art fed.
Sorrow was made for man, not for beasts; yet if men
encourage melancholy too much, they become no better than
beasts.
"Thou bringest me good news, then?" cried Don Quixote.
"So good," answered Sancho, "that your worship has only to clap spurs to
Rozinante, and get out upon the plain, to see the lady Dulcinea del
Toboso, who, with a couple of her damsels, is coming to pay your worship
a visit."
"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Don Quixote, "what dost thou say? Take care
that thou beguilest not my real sorrow by a counterfeit joy."
"What should I get," answered Sancho, "by deceiving your worship, only
to be found out the next moment? Come, sir, put on, and you will see the
princess our mistress all arrayed and adorned--in short, like herself.
She and her damsels are one blaze of naming gold; all strings of pearls,
all diamonds, all rubies, all cloth of tissue above ten hands deep;
their hair loose about their shoulders, like so many sunbeams blowing
about in the wind; and what is more, they come mounted upon three pied
belfreys, the finest you ever laid eyes on."
"Palfreys, thou wouldst say, Sancho," quoth Don Quixote.
"Well, well," answered Sancho, "belfreys and palfreys are much the same
thing; but let them be mounted how they will, they are sure the finest
creatures one would wish to see; especially my mistress the princess
Dulcinea, who dazzles one's senses."
They were now got out of the wood, and saw the three wenches very near.
Don Quixote looked eagerly along the road towards Toboso, and seeing
nobody but the three wenches, he asked Sancho, in much agitation,
whether they were out of the city when he left them.
"Out of the city!" answered Sancho; "are your worship's eyes in the
nape of your neck, that you do not see them now before you, shining like
the sun at noon-day?"
"I see only three country girls," answered Don Quixote, "on three
asses."
"Now, Heaven keep me from the devil," answered Sancho; "is it possible
that three palfreys, or how do you call them, white as the driven snow,
should look to you like asses? As the Lord liveth, you shall pluck off
this beard of mine if it be so."
"I tell thee, friend Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "that it is as
certain they are asses, as that I am Don Quixote and thou Sancho
Panza;--at least, so they seem to me."
"Sir," quoth Sancho, "say not such a thing; but snuff those eyes of
yours, and come and pay reverence to the mistress of your soul." So
saying he advanced forward to meet the peasant girls, and, alighting
from Dapple, he laid hold of one of their asses by the halter, and
bending both knees to the ground, said to the girl: "Queen, princess,
and duchess of beauty, let your haughtiness and greatness be pleased to
receive into grace and good-liking your captive knight, who stands
turned there into stone, all disorder, and without any pulse, to find
himself before your magnificent presence. I am Sancho Panza, his squire,
and he is that way-worn knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise
called the Knight of the Sorrowful Figure."
It is not courage, but rashness, for one man singly to
encounter an army, where death is present, and where
emperors fight in person, assisted by good and bad angels.
Good Christians should never revenge injuries.
A sparrow in the hand is better than a vulture on the wing.
At the conclusion of this drama of life, death strips us of
the robes which make the difference between man and man, and
leaves us all on one level in the grave.
From a friend to a friend,[7] etc.
Nor let it be taken amiss that any comparison should be made
between the mutual cordiality of animals and that of men;
for much useful knowledge and many salutary precepts have
been taught by the brute creation.
We may learn gratitude as well as vigilance from cranes,
foresight from ants, modesty from elephants, and loyalty
from horses.
Harken, and we shall discover his thoughts by his song, for
out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.[8]