In 1842, after abandoning the law, he founded a magazine, _The Pioneer_,

which, however, was issued only three times. After this unsuccessful

venture he went back to his poetry, and late in 1843 published a second

volume of verse. In the following year appeared his first critical

studies in prose, _Conversations on Some of the Old Poets_. This work,

like most of the first book of poems, Lowell found in later life to be

unworthy of reprinting.

The income from his writings, though small, was sufficient for him to

marry in 1844; and not long after this event he became a regular

contributor to the _Anti-Slavery Standard_. In this appeared the first

series of the _Biglow Papers_, in which, through vigorous prose and

verse, largely in the Yankee dialect of Hosea Biglow, he protested

against the evils that brought on the Mexican War. The collected numbers

of the series were published in 1848 and shared the popularity of two

other of Lowell's greatest works, produced in the same year,--the _Fable

for Critics_ and _The Vision of Sir Launfal_, a beautiful narrative poem

filled with the spirit of Christian brotherhood.

It was not long after this that Lowell began to feel that his work as a

writer for the abolitionist cause was narrowing in its effect. For

"red-hot" reform he had no liking. It seemed to him that the hope of his

cause lay not so much in treating others harshly as in living according

to the high principles that the reformers professed. "The longer I

live," he wrote, "the more am I convinced that the world must be healed

by degrees. I see why Jesus came eating meat and drinking wine and

companying with publicans and sinners. He preached the highest doctrine,

but he lived the life of other men.... Let us sow the best seed we have

... and convert other men by our crops, not by drubbing them with our

hoes or putting them under our harrows." He decided, then, to take life

in a more leisurely way and let the poetic power that he considered his

best gift express itself freely.

In 1851, accompanied by his wife and his two children, Lowell visited

Europe. The months spent abroad gave him much wished-for opportunities

for study and observation, but they were darkened by the death of his

son Walter. Close upon this sorrow came the death of Mrs. Lowell in the

following year (1853), after the return of the family to Elmwood. From

that time for many months the poet could find relief from his keen sense

of loss only in his literary work, and in the companionship of his

daughter Mabel, the only one of his four children who had lived.

Some lectures on the English poets given at the Lowell institute in

1854-55 found so much favor with the authorities at Harvard College that

soon afterward he was appointed to succeed Longfellow as professor of

foreign languages and literatures. After a period of study in Europe, he

assumed charge of classes at Harvard in 1856, and for sixteen years

continued in this work, bringing to it with most remarkable success all

the warmth and sincerity and broad scope of his own interest in the

subjects that he taught. Not many months afterward he was still further

honored by being given the editorship of the newly founded _Atlantic

Monthly_, a position that he held until 1861. The year 1857 was made

memorable also by his marriage to Miss Frances Dunlap, a much-valued

friend and the governess of his daughter. In 1864 he became joint editor

of the _North American Review_, and in this magazine continued the

second series of the _Biglow Papers_, begun in the _Atlantic Monthly_,

the series in which is expressed his finest power as a poet-patriot. Of

the same excellence is the famous _Commemoration Ode_ written for

memorial ceremonies held at Harvard College in honor of the students who

had fallen during the war. Among other contributions to these

periodicals were numerous studies of poets and poetry--essays that rank

among the best of their kind. Thus did Lowell prove himself to possess a

rare combination of the powers of original composition and of criticism.

So ably had he served the best interests of his country through his

writings, that in 1877 he was appointed Minister of the United States to

Spain, and served here until 1880, when he was sent as Minister to

England. These high trusts, it proved, had not been wrongly placed.

Lowell's devotion to the truest American principles, together with his

large experience in public affairs, made him a most successful diplomat.

He was given high honors by British universities, and he made many

friends in England.

After his return to America in 1885 he withdrew gradually from his

former active life. Occasionally he wrote and lectured, and several

times he made trips to England where he always received a cordial

welcome. It was in his much loved Elmwood that death came to him August

12, 1891.

Lowell was a man of wide learning, and has a prominent place in American

literature for his exceptional critical ability and delightful wit, and

for the artistic excellence of both his prose and poetry; but the secret

of his power lies not so much in these things as in the sincerity and

vigor of thought that rise above all bookishness, and in the warm human

feeling that reached out for the love of his fellow-men rather than for

fame and distinction. Probably that which most endears him to his

countrymen is the quality he attributes to others in these words of

admiration: "I am sure that both the President (Hayes) and his wife have

in them that excellent new thing we call Americanism, which, I suppose,

is that 'dignity of human nature' which the philosophers of the last

century were always seeking and never finding, and which, after all,

consists, perhaps, in not thinking yourself either better or worse than

your neighbors by reason of any artificial distinction. As I sat behind

them at the concert the other night, I was profoundly touched by

the feelings of this kingship without mantle and crown from the

property-room of the old world. Their dignity was in their very

neighborliness, instead of in their distance." Certainly in the realm of

American literature, there is no one better entitled than Lowell to this

"kingship without mantle and crown."

A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF GOD

_By_ ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

They say that God lives very high,

But if you look above the pines

You cannot see our God, and why?

And if you dig down in the mines

You never see Him in the gold;

Though, from Him, all that's glory shines.

God is so good, He wears a fold

Of heaven and earth across His face--

Like secrets kept, for love, untold.

But still I feel that His embrace

Slides down by thrills, through all things made,

Through sight and sound of every place.

As if my tender mother laid

On my shut lids, her kisses' pressure,

Half-waking me at night, and said,

"Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?"

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

Round the young life of Elizabeth Barrett was so much of illness and

dreariness, that we have accustomed ourselves to thinking joy came to

her only with her marriage, and we forget, often, that her childhood was

not unhappy. Few children, it would seem, were ever born with greater

promise of a bright life. Her father was wealthy and generous; she had

brothers and sisters near her in age and congenial in tastes, and she

was, at least, a fairly strong, active child.

She was born on March 6, 1806, at Coxhoe Hall, in the county of Durham,

and when she was but three years old, her father removed to Hope End, in

Herefordshire. The estate which he purchased there was a beautiful one,

and the house, with its Turkish windows and Oriental-looking

decorations, was most picturesque. That the scenery which surrounded her

in her youth made on Elizabeth an impression which remained with her all

her life is shown clearly in various passages in her poems:

"Green the land is where my daily

Steps in jocund childhood played,

Dimpled close with hill and valley,

Dappled very close with shade;

Summer-snow of apple-blossoms running up from glade to glade."

Of all the brothers and sisters, Elizabeth was her father's favorite,

and he encouraged her constantly in her precocious studies and in her

childish attempts at composition. Long before she was able to read Homer

in the original, she came upon Pope's translation of the _Iliad_, and it

took a rare hold upon her. She showed its influence and her own bent

toward poetry by composing, before she was fourteen, an epic on the

"Battle of Marathon," of which her father, to whom it was dedicated,

thought so highly that he had it printed and circulated it among his

friends. But she also showed the influence of her beloved _Iliad_ in a

much more childish way, of which she has written delightfully in a poem

called _Hector in the Garden_. A great flower bed, roughly shaped like a

man and bordered about with turf, was made for her, and this she named

after Hector, the Trojan hero and her great favorite.

"Eyes of gentianellas azure,

Staring, winking at the skies;

Nose of gillyflowers and box;

Scented grasses put for locks,

Which a little breeze at pleasure

Set a-waving round his eyes."

"Brazen helm of daffodillies,

With a glitter toward the light;

Purple violets for the mouth,

Breathing perfumes west and south;

And a sword of flashing lilies,

Holden ready for the fight."

"And a breastplate made of daisies,

Closely fitting, leaf on leaf;

Periwinkles interlaced

Drawn for belt about the waist;

While the brown bees, humming praises,

Shot their arrows round the chief."

[Illustration: ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

1806-1861]

It was natural enough that Elizabeth should have wanted to begin the

study of Greek; and with the help of her father and of Mr. Boyd, a blind

friend of her father's, she became a most proficient Greek scholar.

When she was fifteen years old she met with an accident which deprived

her in part of the out-of-door life and rambles which she had loved, and

threw her more than ever upon her books for company. Impatient because a

horse which she desired to ride was not ready just when she wanted it,

she went out into the field and attempted to saddle it herself. She

fell, with the saddle on top of her; and while this did not leave her

the invalid she later became, it weakened her and made her an easy prey

to the troubles which afterward came upon her.

That Pope, as well as Homer, left his mark on Miss Barrett was shown by

her first published volume, which was brought out when she was about

twenty. It was entitled _An Essay on Mind, and Other Poems_, and the

poem which gave its name to the book was quite after the manner of Pope.

This poem, while remarkable for a girl of Miss Barrett's age, contained

little freshness or originality, and she spoke of it afterwards as

having been "long repented of as worthy of all repentance."

In 1828 Mrs. Barrett died, and left Elizabeth, the eldest of the ten

children, with much of the responsibility of the family. Since her death

came before her daughter reached fame or began that voluminous

correspondence from which have been gathered most of the facts of her

life, little can be known of the mother's character, or of her influence

on her daughter. That Miss Barrett was devotedly attached to her mother,

however, is to be seen from a sentence in one of her letters. "Her

memory," she says, "is more precious to me than any earthly blessing

left behind!"

The beloved home at Hope End was sold in 1832, owing, apparently to some

fall in the family fortunes, and the Barretts removed to Sidmouth, in

Devonshire. The life there was uneventful, as the life at Hope End had

been. Miss Barrett, in writing later of herself, declared that "a bird

in a cage would have as good a story." But she was by no means idle, for

her Greek studies and her writing kept her busy and happy. While at

Sidmouth, she brought out a translation of the _Prometheus Bound_ of

AEschylus, a version with which she was so dissatisfied that she later

replaced it, in her collected works, with another.

For three years the Barretts lived at Sidmouth, and their removal to

London, in 1835, made important changes in Elizabeth's life. Her health,

never good since her fifteenth year, broke down, and from some date

shortly after the arrival in London she became an apparently hopeless

invalid, confined to her room and often to her bed. Some compensation

for this confinement, however, she found in the new friends, few,

indeed, but devoted and congenial, who were admitted to her sick room.

Chief among these friends of her earlier London years were John Kenyon,

a distant cousin, and Mary Russell Mitford, author of _Our Village_.

Miss Mitford made the acquaintance of Miss Barrett in one of the

latter's rare appearances in society, and she has left an account of the

meeting and a description of Miss Barrett which is famous.

"She was certainly one of the most interesting persons that I had ever

seen. Everybody who then saw her said the same; so that it is not merely

the impression of my partiality or my enthusiasm. Of a slight, delicate

figure, with a shower of dark curls falling on either side of a most

expressive face, large tender eyes, richly fringed by dark eyelashes, a

smile like a sunbeam, and such a look of youthfulness that I had some

difficulty in persuading a friend ... that the translatress of the

_Prometheus_ of AEschylus, the authoress of the _Essay on Mind_, was old

enough to be introduced into company,--in technical language, was

'out.'"

Although Miss Mitford was nineteen years older than Miss Barrett, the

friendship which sprang up between them was most close, and lasted until

Miss Mitford's death in 1855. Their correspondence was constant and

voluminous, as was that, in fact, of Miss Barrett with all of her

intimate friends. These letters of hers from her sick room are no more

remarkable for number than for brightness and vivacity. Little mention

is made of her ailments, except when her friends have specifically

demanded news of her health, and the letters deal rather with literary

than with other subjects. This was, of course, most natural; the invalid

could have little news to communicate from her couch to her friends in

the outer world. Her literary activity, too, increased, and she began to

contribute to magazines poems of various kinds, which attracted much

attention. Not all comment on them was favorable; the people declared

that some of them were Sphinx-like--too difficult, if not impossible, of

interpretation. But every one realized that here was a real poet, one of

striking individuality, and, for a woman, most remarkable learning.

By the autumn of 1838, her health had become so much worse that the

doctor ordered removal to a warmer climate, and she was taken to

Torquay, where she remained for three years. Her father and her brothers

and sisters visited her there from time to time, but her constant

companion was her brother Edward, who had all her life been her

favorite. What little good Torquay seemed to be doing her was more than

overbalanced by a tragedy which occurred in the summer of 1840. Her

brother, with two of his friends, went for a sail in a small boat,

intending to be absent only until evening. When they did not return,

inquiry was set on foot, and it was learned that a small boat had been

seen to founder in Babbicombe Bay. The fears caused by this report

became certainty three days later, on the recovery of the bodies. The

effect on Miss Barrett may be partially imagined. Not only had she lost

her best-loved companion, but she was haunted by the morbid feeling that

she had caused his death, since he had come to Torquay only to be with

her. Twelve years afterward she wrote: "I have lived heart to heart with

my husband these five years. I have never yet spoken out, in a whisper

even, what is in me; never yet could find heart or breath; never yet

could bear to hear a word of reference from his lips."

Naturally her health suffered greatly from the shock, and it was thought

that she could not possibly live more than a few months. Quite

unexpectedly, however, she began to improve; it seemed that the desire

to quit Torquay, which had grown unendurable to her since the tragedy,

gave her strength of body. During the spring and summer of 1841 she was

able to resume work on translations, compositions, plans for new poems.

Indeed, it was this which saved her, for she wrote some time later to a

friend--"I do believe I should be _mad_ at this moment, if I had not

forced back the current of rushing recollections by work, work, work."

After her return to London in the autumn of 1841, her life went on as

before--or rather, stood still as before. From her couch she continued

to send forth the poems which were bringing her ever-increasing fame,

and the letters which were binding her friends closer to her. But an

event was drawing nearer, which was from the first an event and not an

episode in Miss Barrett's life. In January, 1845, we find her writing

"And I had a letter from Browning the poet last night, which threw me

into ecstasies--Browning, the author of _Paracelsus_, and the king of

mystics;" and a little later she says, "I am getting deeper and deeper

into correspondence with Robert Browning, poet and mystic, and we are

growing to be the truest friends."

Robert Browning had felt and expressed great admiration for Miss

Barrett's poems and an allusion to himself in her _Lady Geraldine's

Courtship_ gave him an excuse for addressing her. Their correspondence

flourished, and they rapidly passed from regarding each other as mere

acquaintances, to looking upon each other as friends. In fact, there

seems to have been from the very first an almost mystical attraction

between them. Miss Barrett might have contented herself all her life

with this delightfully personal and literary correspondence, but

Browning soon grew impatient and expressed his desire to see her. The

admission of a new friend to Miss Barrett's room was at no time a thing

to be undertaken lightly, so hedged about was she by the care of her

family; and in this case she herself seems to have hesitated long before

allowing Browning to call, for the very feminine reason that "there is

nothing to see in me nor to hear in me." Had she known Browning better,

she would have realized that his determination would carry him past all

obstacles; and so, indeed, it did.

On May 20, 1845, they met for the first time, and within a short time

his friendship for her had ripened into love, and he asked her to marry

him. She herself told, in a letter to a friend after her marriage, the

story of her courtship.

"He came, and with our personal acquaintance began his attachment for

me, a sort of _infatuation_ call it, which resisted the various denials

which were my plain duty at the beginning, and has persisted past them

all. I began with the grave assurance that I was in an exceptional

position and saw him just in consequence of it, and that if he ever

recurred to that subject again, I never could see him again while I

lived; and he believed me and was silent. To my mind, indeed, it was a

bare impulse--a generous man of quick sympathies taking up a sudden

interest with both hands."

Browning was, as she said, silent, but he was not discouraged, and his

letters, his visits, his flowers, at length convinced Miss Barrett that

his feeling was something more than a "bare impulse."

"So then," she continued, "I showed him how he was throwing into the

ashes his best affections--how the common gifts of youth and

cheerfulness were behind me--how I had not strength, even of _heart_,

for the ordinary duties of life--everything I told him and showed him.

'Look at this--and this--and this,' throwing down all my disadvantages.

To which he did not answer by a single compliment, but simply that he

had not then to choose, and that I might be right or he might be right,

he was not there to decide; but that he loved me, and should to his last

hour.* * * He preferred, he said, of free and deliberate choice, to be

allowed to sit only an hour a day by my side, to the fulfilment of the

brightest dream which should exclude me, in any possible world."

What Robert Browning wanted so much, it was a foregone conclusion that

he would have; and Miss Barrett was at last brought to consent to an

engagement. But the difficulties were just begun. Mr. Barrett, adored as

he was by his daughter, was more than a little tyrannical, especially

with his favorite daughter. His family all well knew that he would never

under any circumstances be brought to consent to the marriage of any of

his children; and he had, moreover, in the case of Elizabeth, the

appearance of reason on his side, in that she was, in the opinion of her

family and of most of her medical advisers, a hopeless invalid, unfit to

be moved. "A life passed between a bed and a sofa, and avoiding too

frequent and abrupt transitions even from one to the other, was the only

life she could expect on this earth." Browning believed otherwise, and

events showed that he was right.

In the autumn of 1845, the doctors advised that Miss Barrett be taken to

Italy, declaring, in fact, that her life depended upon it. Some of her

brothers or sisters could easily have accompanied her; there was no lack

of money, and the journey was actually planned. For no apparent reason,

however, Mr. Barrett refused his consent--said that his daughter should

not leave his house. In vain the family argued; in vain a generous

friend offered to accompany Miss Barrett, paying all expenses. He was

brutally firm. Much hurt by this selfishness and disregard for her life,

Miss Barrett promised Browning that if she lived through the winter and

were no worse in the following year, she would marry him without her

father's consent, for which they knew it was useless to ask.

Accordingly, on September 12, 1846, she walked out of her father's

house, accompanied only by her maid, was married and returned home. One

week later she joined her husband, and they set out for Italy, their

future home. Mr. Barrett never forgave his daughter, and his unrelenting

anger was a deep sorrow to her, in the midst of her great life

happiness.

The Brownings went first to Pisa, and from there to Florence, which they

afterward regarded as their home, though they made many excursions and

spent seasons elsewhere. Mrs. Browning grew so much better that a friend

said to her, "You are not _improved_, you are _transformed_;" and while

she was never strong and was often very ill, she never again sank back

to the state in which she had been before her marriage. The happiness

which shows in her letters is wonderful. "As for me," she writes, "when

I am so good as to let myself be carried upstairs, and so angelical as

to sit still on the sofa, and so considerate, moreover, as _not_ to put

my foot into a puddle, why _my_ duty is considered done to a perfection,

which is worthy of all adoration." And again, "If I could open my heart

to you in all seriousness, you would see nothing there but a sort of

enduring wonder of happiness."

Mrs. Browning, like her husband, loved Italy, and especially Florence,

and many of her poems, notably the _Casa Guidi Windows_, deal with

Italian subjects. Of the poems published after her marriage, however,

none are more exquisite than the series of _Sonnets from the

Portuguese_. These sonnets, which are not translations, and to which the

name _From the Portuguese_ was given simply as a blind, describe her

uncertainty and her joy in the love which was hers.

In 1849 another joy came to her. On March 9th of that year a son, Robert

Wiedeman Barrett Browning was born, and from that time on her letters,

quite like the letters of any unliterary mother, are full of the

wonderful doings of this child. Not that her interest in things literary

flagged in the least; she read everything which the libraries of Italy

afforded, or which her friends could send to her--novels, for which she

confessed to a great liking; poems, political pamphlets, newspapers, all

that came to her hand. Her longest and greatest poem, _Aurora Leigh_,

was written during her Italian years. While the story of the poem is in

no sense autobiographical, the heroine is in her beliefs and her ideals

Mrs. Browning's self, and this was the poem by which she felt herself

most willing to be judged.

Broken by several trips to England and by excursions to the most

beautiful parts of Italy, the years slipped by in uneventful happiness.

Many friends visited the Brownings, and all came away wondering and

delighted at the perfect family life they had been allowed to witness.

Frail always, Mrs. Browning was spoken of by acquaintances in her later

years as seeming "scarce embodied at all."

In June, 1861, Mrs. Browning had an attack of bronchial trouble and on

the night of the twenty-ninth, alone in the room with her husband, she

died; and one writer says "none ever saw Browning upon earth again, but

only a splendid surface." Mrs. Browning was buried at Florence, the city

she had loved. Upon the wall of Casa Guidi, the building in which she

had lived, the citizens, grateful for her love and understanding of

them, placed a marble tablet in her memory.

The wonderful thing about Elizabeth Barrett Browning is that from her

weakness should have come poems of such strength. There was nothing

morbid in the words which came from her hushed, darkened sick room.

Indeed, her spirit was never tamed, and she herself confessed that one

of her faults was "head-longness;" that she snatched parcels open

instead of untying the string, and tore letters instead of cutting them.

In Browning's poems, which contain numerous beautiful allusions to her,

there is nothing more beautiful and more descriptive than the lines--

"O lyric love, half angel and half bird,

And all a wonder and a wild desire."

DON QUIXOTE

_By_ CERVANTES

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

Unlike many of his class, Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, the greatest of

the old Spanish writers, was born to a changeful and busy life. The year

1547 marked his birth, and during the sixty-nine years of his life he

was constantly in action.

He served as a soldier in the war against the Turks, and at the Battle

of Lepanto, where he lost the use of his left hand, and in other battles

in which he took part, he showed great bravery and won a reputation of

the highest kind. While returning in 1575 from Italy to Spain, he was

captured by Algerian pirates and was sold in Algiers as a slave.

Throughout his five years' captivity, he was constantly threatened with

torture, but at no time did his courage fail him. Finally his widowed

mother and his sister, helped by some of their friends, none of whom

were by any means wealthy, succeeded in getting together sufficient

money to ransom him, and immediately on his return to Spain he rejoined

his old regiment.

Cervantes had written verses before the beginning of his military

career, but had won no name for himself. By 1583, however, he seems to

have determined to devote the rest of his life to literature, and in

that year he again began writing verses. For a number of years he earned

his livelihood by writing for the stage, but few of his plays survive.

In 1605 there appeared the first part of the work which made Cervantes

famous, and which has kept his name before the world ever since. This

was the inimitable _Don Quixote_, which gives the burlesque adventures

of the self-styled "Knight of the Rueful Countenance." This book was not

intended to satirize knight-errantry itself, for that had long before

died out in Spain. What it did aim to do was to make ridiculous the

romances of chivalry over which all Spain at the time of Cervantes

seemed to have gone mad. How well Cervantes succeeded in his aim may be

known from the fact that after the appearance of his masterpiece, no new

romance of chivalry was published in Spain.

The hero of this great work, Don Quixote, is presented as the most

courteous and affable of gentlemen, wise on all points except those

pertaining to chivalry. It was not only, however, the masterly drawing

of the characters of Don Quixote and his squire, Sancho Panza, which

made the book popular; the inexhaustible fund of humor has made it to

the present day a book which every one delights to read.

The following selections from _Don Quixote_ describe some of the typical

adventures of the gallant "Knight of the Rueful Countenance," and will

serve to give the reader an idea of the book.

DON QUIXOTE PREPARES TO SET OUT ON HIS ADVENTURES

In a village of La Mancha there lived not long since one of those

gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean

hack, and a greyhound for coursing. An olla[433-1] of rather more beef

than mutton, a salad on most nights, scraps on Saturdays, lentils on

Fridays, and a pigeon or so extra on Sundays, made away with

three-quarters of his income. The rest of it went in a doublet of fine

cloth, and velvet breeches and shoes to match for holidays, while on

week days he made a brave figure in his best homespun. He had in his

house a housekeeper past forty, a niece under twenty, and a lad for the

field and market-place, who used to saddle the hack as well as handle

the bill-hook. The age of this gentlemen of ours was bordering on fifty,

he was of a hardy habit, spare, gaunt-featured, a very early riser and a

great sportsman. They will have it his surname was Quixada or Quesada

(for here there is some difference of opinion among the authors who

write on the subject), although from reasonable conjectures it seems

plain that he was called Quixana. This, however, is of but little

importance to our tale; it will be enough not to stray a hair's breadth

from the truth in the telling of it.

You must know, then, that the above-named gentleman whenever he was at

leisure (which was mostly all the year round) gave himself up to

reading books of chivalry with such ardor and avidity that he almost

entirely neglected the pursuit of his field-sports, and even the

management of his property; and to such a pitch did his eagerness and

infatuation go that he sold many an acre of tillage-land to buy books of

chivalry to read, and brought home as many of them as he could get.

* * * * *

In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strangest notion

that ever madman in this world hit upon, and that was that he fancied it

was right and requisite, as well for the support of his own honor as for

the service of his country, that he should make a knight-errant of

himself, roaming the world over in full armor and on horseback in quest

of adventures, and putting in practice himself all that he had read of

as being the usual practices of knights-errant; righting every kind of

wrong, and exposing himself to peril and danger from which, in the

issue, he was to reap eternal renown and fame. Already the poor man saw

himself crowned by the might of his arm Emperor of Trebizond at least;

and so, led away by the intense enjoyment he found in these pleasant

fancies, he set himself forthwith to put his scheme into execution.

The first thing he did was to clean up some armor that had belonged to

his great-grandfather, and had been for ages lying forgotten in a corner

eaten with rust and covered with mildew. He scoured and polished it as

best he could, but he perceived one great defect in it, that it had no

closed helmet, nothing but a simple morion.[434-2] This deficiency,

however, his ingenuity supplied, for he contrived a kind of half-helmet

of pasteboard which, fitted on to the morion, looked like a whole one.

It is true that, in order to see if it was strong and fit to stand a

cut, he drew his sword and gave it a couple of slashes, the first of

which undid in an instant what had taken him a week to do. The ease with

which he had knocked it to pieces disconcerted him somewhat, and to

guard against that danger he set to work again, fixing bars of iron on

the inside until he was satisfied with its strength; and then, not

caring to try any more experiments with it, he passed it and adopted it

as a helmet of the most perfect construction.

He next proceeded to inspect his hack, which surpassed in his eyes the

Bucephalus[435-3] of Alexander or the Babieca of the Cid.[435-4] Four

days were spent in thinking what name to give him, because (as he said

to himself) it was not right that a horse belonging to a knight so

famous, and one with such merits of his own, should be without some

distinctive name, and he strove to adapt it so as to indicate what he

had been before belonging to a knight-errant, and what he then was; for

it was only reasonable that, his master taking a new character, he

should take a new name, and that it should be a distinguished and

full-sounding one, befitting the new order and calling he was about to

follow. And so, after having composed, struck out, rejected, added to,

unmade, and remade a multitude of names out of his memory and fancy, he

decided upon calling him Rocinante, a name, to his thinking, lofty,

sonorous, and significant of his condition as a hack before he became

what he was now, the first and foremost of all the hacks in the

world.[436-5]

Having got a name for his horse so much to his taste, he was anxious to

get one for himself, and he was eight days more pondering over this

point, till at last he made up his mind to call himself Don Quixote,

whence, as has been already said, the authors of this veracious history

have inferred that his name must have been beyond a doubt Quixada, and

not Quesada as others would have it. Recollecting, however, that the

valiant Amadis[436-6] was not content to call himself curtly Amadis and

nothing more, but added the name of his kingdom and country to make it

famous, and called himself Amadis of Gaul, he, like a good knight,

resolved to add on the name of his, and to style himself Don Quixote of

La Mancha, whereby, he considered, he described accurately his origin

and country, and did honor to it in taking his surname from it.

So then, his armor being furbished, his morion turned into a helmet, his

hack christened, and he himself confirmed, he came to the conclusion

that nothing more was needed now but to look out for a lady to be in

love with; for a knight-errant without love was like a tree without

leaves or fruit, or a body without a soul. As he said to himself, "If,

for my sins, or by my good fortune, I come across some giant

hereabouts, a common occurrence with knights-errant, and overthrow him

in one onslaught, or cleave him asunder to the waist, or, in short,

vanquish and subdue him, will it not be well to have some one I may send

him to as a present, that he may come in and fall on his knees before my

sweet lady, and in a humble, submissive voice say, 'I am the giant

Caraculiambro, lord of the island of Malindrania, vanquished in single

combat by the never sufficiently extolled knight Don Quixote of La

Mancha, who has commanded me to present myself before your Grace, that

your Highness dispose of me at your pleasure'?" Oh, how our good

gentleman enjoyed the delivery of this speech, especially when he had

thought of some one to call his Lady! There was, so the story goes, in a

village near his own a very good-looking farm girl with whom he had been

at one time in love, though, so far as is known, she never knew it nor

gave a thought to the matter. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon her

he thought fit to confer the title of Lady of his Thoughts; and after

some search for a name which should not be out of harmony with his own,

and should suggest and indicate that of a princess and great lady, he

decided upon calling her Dulcinea del Toboso--she being of El Toboso--a

name, to his mind, musical, uncommon, and significant, like all those he

had already bestowed upon himself and the things belonging to him.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS

Upon the plain they came in sight of thirty or forty windmills, and as

soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to his squire, "Fortune is

arranging matters for us better than we could have shaped our desires

ourselves, for look there, friend Sancho Panza,[438-1] where thirty or

more monstrous giants present themselves, all of whom I mean to engage

in battle and slay, and with whose spoils we shall begin to make our

fortunes; for this is righteous warfare, and it is God's good service to

sweep so evil a breed from off the face of the earth."

"What giants?" said Sancho Panza.

"Those thou seest there," answered his master, "with the long arms, and

some have them nearly two leagues long."

"Look, your worship," said Sancho, "what we see there are not giants but

windmills, and what seem to be their arms are the sails that turned by

the wind make the millstone go."

"It is easy to see," replied Don Quixote, "that thou art not used to

this business of adventures: those are giants; and if thou art afraid,

away with thee out of this and betake thyself to prayer while I engage

them in fierce and unequal combat."

[Illustration: DON QUIXOTE TILTS WITH THE WIND MILLS]

So saying, he gave the spur to his steed Rocinante, heedless of the

cries his squire Sancho sent after him, warning him that most certainly

they were windmills and not giants he was going to attack. He, however,

was so positive they were giants that he neither heard the cries of

Sancho, nor perceived, near as he was, what they were, but made at them

shouting, "Fly not, cowards and vile beings, for it is a single knight

that attacks you."

A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great sails began to

move, seeing which Don Quixote exclaimed, "Though ye flourish more arms

than the giant Briareus,[440-2] ye have to reckon with me."

So saying, and commending himself with all his heart to his lady

Dulcinea, imploring her to support him in such a peril, with lance in

rest and covered by his buckler, he charged at Rocinante's fullest

gallop and fell upon the first mill that stood in front of him; but as

he drove his lance-point into the sail the wind whirled it round with

such force that it shivered the lance to pieces, sweeping with it horse

and rider, who went rolling over on the plain, in a sorry condition.

Sancho hastened to his assistance as fast as his ass could go, and when

he came up found him unable to move, with such a shock had Rocinante

fallen with him.

"God bless me!" said Sancho, "did I not tell your worship to mind what

you were about, for they were only windmills? and no one could have made

any mistake about it but one who had something of the same kind in his

head."

"Hush, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote; "the fortunes of war more

than any other are liable to frequent fluctuations; and moreover I

think, and it is the truth, that some sage[440-3] turned these giants

into mills in order to rob me of the glory of vanquishing them, such is

the enmity he bears me; but in the end his wicked arts will avail but

little against my good sword."

"God order it as he may," said Sancho Panza, and helping him to rise got

him up again on Rocinante, whose shoulder was half out; and then,

discussing the late adventure, they followed the road to Puerto Lapice,

for there, said Don Quixote, they could not fail to find adventure, as

it was a great thoroughfare.

Finally they passed the night among some trees, from one of which Don

Quixote plucked a dry branch to serve him as a lance, and fixed on it

the head he had removed from the broken one.

MAMBRINO'S HELMET

Rain fell in gentle drops, and Sancho was for going into the fulling

mills,[441-1] but Don Quixote had taken such a disgust to them on

account of the late joke that he would not enter them on any account; so

turning aside to the right they came upon another road, different from

that which they had taken the night before. Shortly afterwards Don

Quixote perceived a man on horseback who wore on his head something that

shone like gold, and the moment he saw him he turned to Sancho and said,

"I think, Sancho, there is no proverb that is not true, all being maxims

drawn from experience itself, the mother of all sciences, especially

that one that says, 'Where one door shuts, another opens.' I say so

because if last night fortune shut the door of the adventure we were

looking for against us, cheating us with the fulling mills, it now opens

wide another one for better and more certain adventure, and if I do not

contrive to enter it, it will be my own fault, and I cannot lay it to my

ignorance of fulling mills, or the darkness of the night. I say this

because, if I mistake not, there comes toward us one who wears on his

head the helmet of Mambrino,[442-2] concerning which I took the oath

thou rememberest."

"Mind what you say, your worship, and still more what you do," said

Sancho, "for I don't want any more fulling mills to finish off fulling

and knocking our senses out."

"The devil take thee, man," said Don Quixote; "what has a helmet to do

with fulling mills?"

"I don't know," replied Sancho, "but, faith, if I might speak as I used,

perhaps I could give such reasons that your worship would see you were

mistaken in what you say."

"How can I be mistaken in what I say, unbelieving traitor?" returned Don

Quixote. "Tell me, seest thou not yonder knight coming towards us on a

dappled gray steed, who has upon his head a helmet of gold?"

"What I see and make out," answered Sancho, "is only a man on a gray ass

like my own, who has something that shines on his head."

"Well, that is the helmet of Mambrino," said Don Quixote; "stand to one

side and leave me alone with him; thou shalt see how, without saying a

word, I shall bring this adventure to an issue and possess myself of the

helmet I have so longed for."

"I will take care to stand aside," said Sancho; "but God grant, I say

once more, that it may not be fulling mills again."

"I have told thee, brother, on no account to mention those fulling mills

to me again," said Don Quixote, "or I vow--and I say no more--I'll full

the soul out of you."

Sancho held his peace in dread lest his master should carry out the vow

he had hurled like a bowl at him.

The fact of the matter as regards the helmet, steed, and knight that Don

Quixote saw, was this: In that neighborhood there were two villages, one

of them so small that it had neither apothecary's shop, nor barber,

which the other that was close to it had; so the barber of the larger

served the smaller; and in it there was a sick man who required to be

bled and another man who wanted to be shaved, and on this errand the

barber was going, carrying with him a brass basin; but as luck would

have it, as he was on the way it began to rain, and not to spoil his

hat, which probably was a new one, he put the basin on his head, and

being clean it glittered at half a league's distance. He rode upon a

gray ass, as Sancho said, and this was what made it seem to Don Quixote

to be a dapple-gray steed and a knight and a golden helmet; for

everything he saw he made to fall in with his crazy chivalry and ill

errant notions; and when he saw the poor knight draw near, without

entering into any parley with him, at Rocinante's top speed he bore down

upon him with the pike pointed low, fully determined to run him through

and through, and as he reached him, without checking the fury of his

charge, he cried to him, "Defend thyself, miserable being, or yield me

of thine own accord that which is so reasonably my due."

[Illustration: "DEFEND THYSELF, MISERABLE BEING!"]

The barber, who without any expectation or apprehension of it saw this

apparition coming down upon him, had no other way of saving himself from

the stroke of the lance but to let himself fall off his ass; and no

sooner had he touched the ground than he sprang up more nimbly than a

deer and sped away across the plain faster than the wind.

He left the basin on the ground, with which Don Quixote contented

himself, saying that the pagan had shown his discretion and imitated the

beaver, which finding himself pressed by the hunters bites and cuts off

with its teeth that for which by its natural instinct, it knows it is

pursued.

He told Sancho to pick up the helmet, and he, taking it in his hands,

said, "By God the basin is a good one, and worth a piece of eight[445-3]

if it is worth a maravedi," and handed it to his master, who immediately

put it on his head, turning it round, now this way, now that, in search

of the visor. Not finding it he said, "Clearly the pagan to whose

measure this famous headpiece was first forged must have had a very

large head; but the worst of it is half of it is wanting."

When Sancho heard him call the basin a headpiece he was unable to

restrain his laughter, but remembering his master's wrath he checked

himself in the midst of it.

"What art thou laughing at, Sancho?" said Don Quixote.

"I am laughing," said he, "to think of the great head the pagan must

have had who owned this helmet, for it looks exactly like a regular

barber's basin."

"Dost thou know what I suspect, Sancho?" said Don Quixote; "that this

wonderful piece of this enchanted helmet must by some strange accident

have come into the hands of some one who was unable to recognize or

realize its value, and who, not knowing what he did, and seeing it to

be of the purest gold, must have melted down one half for the sake of

what it might be worth, and of the other made this which is like a

barber's basin, as thou sayest; but be it as it may, to me who recognize

it, its transformation makes no difference, for I will set it to rights

at the first village where there is a blacksmith, and in such style that

that helmet the god of smithies[446-4] forged for the god of battles

shall not surpass it or even come up to it; and in the meantime I will

wear it as well as I can, for something is better than nothing; all the

more as it will be quite enough to protect me from any chance blow of a

stone."

"Will your worship," said Sancho, "tell me what are we to do with this

dapple-gray steed that looks like a gray ass, which that Martino[446-5]

that your worship overthrew has left deserted here? for, from the way he

took to his heels and bolted, he is not likely ever to come back for it;

and by my beard but the gray is a good one."

"I have never been in the habit," said Don Quixote, "of taking spoil of

those whom I vanquish, nor is it the practice of chivalry to take away

their horses and leave them to go on foot, unless indeed it be that the

victor have lost his own in the combat, in which case it is lawful to

take that of the vanquished as a thing won in lawful war; therefore,

Sancho, leave this horse, or ass, or whatever thou wilt have it to be;

for when its owner sees us gone hence he will come back for it."

"God knows I should like to take it," returned Sancho, "or at least to

change it for my own, which does not seem to me as good a one; verily

the laws of chivalry are strict, since they cannot be stretched to let

one ass be changed for another; I should like to know if I might at

least change trappings."

"On that head I am not quite certain," answered Don Quixote, "and the

matter being doubtful, pending better information, I say thou mayest

change them, if so be thou hast urgent need of them."

"So urgent is it," answered Sancho, "that if they were for my own person

I could not want them more;" and forthwith, fortified by this license,

he effected the change, and rigged out his beast to the ninety-nines,

making quite another thing of it. This done, they broke their fast on

the remains of the spoils of war plundered from the sumpter mule, and

drank of the brook that flowed from the fulling mills, without casting a

look in that direction, in such loathing did they hold them for the

alarm they had caused them; and, all anger and gloom removed, they

mounted and, without taking any fixed road (not to fix upon any being

the proper thing for true knights-errant), they set out, guided by

Rocinante's will, which carried along with it that of his master, not to

say that of the ass, which always followed him wherever he led, lovingly

and sociably; nevertheless they returned to the high road, and pursued

it at a venture without any other aim.

DON QUIXOTE'S ENCOUNTER WITH THE LIONS

When the author of this great history came to relate what is set down in

this chapter he would have preferred to pass it over in silence, fearing

it would not be believed, because here Don Quixote's madness reaches the

confines of the greatest that can be conceived, and even goes a couple

of bowshots beyond the greatest. But after all, though still under the

same fear and apprehension, he has recorded it without adding to the

story or leaving out a particle of the truth, and entirely disregarding

the charges of falsehood that might be brought against him.

When Don Quixote called Sancho to bring his helmet, Sancho was buying

some curds the shepherds agreed to sell him, and flurried by the great

haste his master was in did not know what to do with them or what to

carry them in; so, not to lose them, for he had already paid for them,

he thought it best to throw them into his master's helmet, and acting on

this bright idea he went to see what his master wanted with him. He, as

he approached, exclaimed to him, "Give me that helmet, my friend, for

either I know little of adventures, or what I observe yonder is one that

will, and does, call upon me to arm myself."

He of the green gaban,[448-1] hearing this, looked in all directions,

but could perceive nothing except a cart coming towards them with two or

three small flags, which led him to conclude it must be carrying

treasure of the King's, and he said so to Don Quixote. He, however,

would not believe him, being always persuaded and convinced that all

that happened to him must be adventures and still more adventures; so he

replied to the gentleman, "He who is prepared has his battle half

fought; nothing is lost by my preparing myself, for I know by experience

that I have enemies, visible and invisible, and I know not when or

where, or at what moment, or in what shapes they will attack me;" and

turning to Sancho he called for his helmet; and Sancho, as he had no

time to take out the curds, had to give it as it was.

Don Quixote took it, and without perceiving what was in it, thrust it

down in hot haste upon his head; but as the curds were pressed and

squeezed the whey began to run all over his face and beard, whereat he

was so startled that he cried out to Sancho, "Sancho, what's this? I

think my head is softening, or my brains are melting, or I am sweating

from head to foot! If I am sweating it is not indeed from fear. I am

convinced beyond a doubt that the adventure which is about to befall me

is a terrible one. Give me something to wipe myself with, if thou hast

it, for this profuse sweat is blinding me."

Sancho held his tongue, and gave him a cloth, and gave thanks to God at

the same time that his master had not found out what was the matter. Don

Quixote then wiped himself, and took off his helmet to see what it was

that made his head feel so cool, and seeing all that white mash inside

his helmet, he put it to his nose, and as soon as he had smelled it he

exclaimed, "By the life of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, but it is curds

thou has put here, thou treacherous, impudent, ill-mannered squire!"

To which, with great composure and pretended innocence, Sancho replied,

"If they are curds let me have them, your worship, and I'll eat them;

but let the devil eat them, for it must have been he who put them there.

I dare to dirty your worship's helmet! You have guessed the offender

finely! Faith, sir, by the light God gives me, it seems I must have

enchanters too, that persecute me as a creature and limb of your

worship, and they must have put that nastiness there in order to provoke

your patience to anger, and make you baste my ribs as you are wont to

do. Well, this time, indeed, they have missed their aim, for I trust to

my master's good sense to see that I have got no curds or milk, or

anything of the sort; and that if I had, it is in my stomach I would put

it and not in the helmet."

"May be so," said Don Quixote. All this the gentleman was observing, and

with astonishment, more especially when, after having wiped himself

clean, his head, face, beard, and helmet, Don Quixote put it on, and

settling himself firmly in his stirrups, easing his sword in the

scabbard, and grasping his lance, he cried, "Now come who will, here am

I, ready to try conclusions with Satan himself in person!"

By this time the cart with the flags had come up, unattended by any one

except the carter on a mule, and a man sitting in front. Don Quixote

planted himself before it and said, "Whither are you going, brothers?

What cart is this? What have you got in it? What flags are those?"

To this the carter replied, "The cart is mine; what is in it is a pair

of fine caged lions, which the governor of Oran is sending to court as a

present to his Majesty; and the flags are our lord the King's, to show

that what is here is his property."

"And are the lions large?" asked Don Quixote.

"So large," replied the man who sat at the door of the cart, "that

larger, or as large, have never crossed from Africa to Spain; I am the

keeper, and I have brought over others, but never any like these. They

are male and female; the male is in that first cage and the female in

the one behind, and they are hungry now, for they have eaten nothing

to-day, so let your worship stand aside, for we must make haste to the

place where we are to feed them."

Hereupon, smiling slightly, Don Quixote exclaimed, "Lion-whelps to me!

to me whelps of lions, and at such a time! Then, by God! those gentlemen

who send them here shall see if I am a man to be frightened by lions.

Get down, my good fellow, and as you are the keeper open the cages, and

turn me out those beasts, and in the midst of this plain I will let them

know who Don Quixote of La Mancha is, in spite and in the teeth of the

enchanters who send them to me."

"So, so," said the gentleman to himself at this; "our worthy knight has

shown of what sort he is; the curds, no doubt, have softened his skull

and brought his brains to a head."

At this instant Sancho came up to him, saying, "Senor, for God's sake do

something to keep my master, Don Quixote, from tackling these lions; for

if he does they'll tear us all to pieces here."

"Is your master then so mad," asked the gentleman, "that you believe and

are afraid he will engage such fierce animals?"

"He is not mad," said Sancho, "but he is venturesome."

"I will prevent it," said the gentleman; and going over to Don Quixote,

who was insisting upon the keeper's opening the cages, he said to him,

"Sir Knight, knights-errant should attempt adventures which encourage

the hope of a successful issue, not those which entirely withhold it;

for valor that trenches upon temerity savors rather of madness than of

courage; moreover, these lions do not come to oppose you, nor do they

dream of such a thing; they are going as presents to his Majesty, and it

will not be right to stop them or delay their journey."

"Gentle sir," replied Don Quixote, "you go and mind your tame partridge

and your bold ferret, and leave every one to manage his own business;

this is mine, and I know whether these gentlemen the lions come to me or

not"; and then turning to the keeper he exclaimed, "By all that's good,

sir scoundrel, if you don't open the cages this very instant, I'll pin

you to the cart with this lance."

The carter, seeing the determination of this apparition in armor, said

to him, "Please your worship, for charity's sake, senor, let me unyoke

the mules and place myself in safety along with them before the lions

are turned out; for if they kill them on me I am ruined for life, for

all I possess is this cart and mules."

"O man of little faith," replied Don Quixote, "get down and unyoke; you

will soon see that you are exerting yourself for nothing, and that you

might have spared yourself the trouble."

The carter got down and with all speed unyoked the mules, and the keeper

called out at the top of his voice, "I call all here to witness that

against my will and under compulsion I open the cages and let the lions

loose, and that I warn this gentleman that he will be accountable for

all the harm and mischief which these beasts may do, and for my salary

and dues as well. You, gentlemen, place yourselves in safety before I

open, for I know they will do me no harm."

Once more the gentleman strove to persuade Don Quixote not to do such a

mad thing, as it was tempting God to engage in such a piece of folly. To

this, Don Quixote replied that he knew what he was about. The gentleman

entreated him to reflect, for he knew he was under a delusion.

"Well, senor," answered Don Quixote, "if you do not like to be a

spectator of this tragedy, as in your opinion it will be, spur your

flea-bitten mare and place yourself in safety."

Hearing this, Sancho with tears in his eyes entreated him to give up an

enterprise compared with which the one of the windmills, and the awful

one of the fulling mills, and, in fact, all the feats he had attempted

in the whole course of his life, were cakes and fancy bread. "Look ye,

senor," said Sancho, "there's no enchantment here, nor anything of the

sort, for between the bars and chinks of the cage I have seen the paw of

a real lion, and judging by that I reckon the lion such a paw could

belong to must be bigger than a mountain."

"Fear, at any rate," replied Don Quixote, "will make him look bigger to

thee than half the world. Retire, Sancho, and leave me; and if I die

here thou knowest our old compact; thou wilt repair to Dulcinea--I say

no more." To these he added some further words that banished all hope of

his giving up his insane project. He of the green gaban would have

offered resistance, but he found himself ill-matched as to arms, and did

not think it prudent to come to blows with a madman, for such Don

Quixote had shown himself to be in every respect; and the latter,

renewing his commands to the keeper and repeating his threats, gave

warning to the gentleman to spur his mare, Sancho his Dapple, and the

carter his mules, all striving to get away from the cart as far as they

could before the lions broke loose. Sancho was weeping over his master's

death, for this time he firmly believed it was in store for him from the

claws of the lions; and he cursed his fate and called it an unlucky hour

when he thought of taking service with him again; but with all his tears

and lamentations he did not forget to thrash Dapple so as to put a good

space between himself and the cart. The keeper, seeing that the

fugitives were now some distance off, once more entreated and warned Don

Quixote as he had entreated and warned him before; but he replied that

he heard him, and that he need not trouble himself with any further

warnings or entreaties, as they would be fruitless, and bade him make

haste.

During the delay that occurred while the keeper was opening the first

cage, Don Quixote was considering whether it would not be well to do

battle on foot, instead of on horseback, and finally resolved to fight

on foot, fearing that Rocinante might take fright at the sight of the

lions; he therefore sprang off his horse, flung his lance aside, braced

his buckler on his arm, and drawing his sword, advanced slowly with

marvelous intrepidity and resolute courage, to plant himself in front of

the cart, commending himself with all his heart, first to God, and then

to his lady Dulcinea.

[Illustration: THE LION PUT HIS HEAD OUT OF THE CAGE]

The keeper, seeing that Don Quixote had taken up his position, and that

it was impossible for him to avoid letting out the male without

incurring the enmity of the fiery and daring knight, flung open the

doors of the first cage, containing, as has been said, the lion, which

was now seen to be of enormous size, and grim and hideous mien. The

first thing he did was to turn round in the cage in which he lay, and

protrude his claws, and stretch himself thoroughly; he next opened his

mouth, and yawned very leisurely, and with near two palms'-length of

tongue that he had thrust forth, he licked the dust out of his eyes and

washed his face; having done this, he put his head out of the cage and

looked all round with eyes like glowing coals, a spectacle and demeanor

to strike terror into temerity itself. Don Quixote merely observed him

steadily, longing for him to leap from the cart and come to close

quarters with him, when he hoped to hew him in pieces.

So far did his unparalleled madness go; but the noble lion, more

courteous than arrogant, not troubling himself about silly bravado,

after having looked all round, as has been said, turned about and

presented his hind-quarters to Don Quixote, and very coolly and

tranquilly lay down again in the cage. Seeing this, Don Quixote ordered

the keeper to take a stick to him and provoke him to make him come out.

"That I won't," said the keeper, "for if I anger him, the first he'll

tear to pieces will be myself. Be satisfied, sir knight, with what you

have done, which leaves nothing more to be said on the score of courage,

and do not seek to tempt fortune a second time. The lion has the door

open; he is free to come out or not to come out; but as he has not come

out so far, he will not come out to-day. The greatness of your worship's

courage has been fully manifested already; no brave champion, so it

strikes me, is bound to do more than challenge his enemy and wait for

him on the field; if his adversary does not come, on him lies the

disgrace, and he who waits for him carries off the crown of victory."

"That is true," said Don Quixote; "close the door, my friend, and let me

have, in the best form thou canst, what thou hast seen me do, by way of

certificate; to wit, that thou didst open for the lion, that I waited

for him, that he did not come out, that I still waited for him, and that

still he did not come out, and lay down again. I am not bound to do

more; enchantments avaunt, and God uphold the right, the truth, and true

chivalry! Close the door as I bade thee, while I make signals to the

fugitives that have left us, that they may learn this exploit from my

lips."

The keeper obeyed, and Don Quixote, fixing on the point of his lance the

cloth he had wiped his face with after the deluge of curds, proceeded to

recall the others, who still continued to fly, looking back at every

step, all in a body, the gentleman bringing up the rear. Sancho,

however, happening to observe the signal of the white cloth, exclaimed,

"May I die, if my master has not overcome the wild beasts, for he is

calling to us."

They all stopped, and perceived that it was Don Quixote who was making

signals, and shaking off their fears to some extent, they approached

slowly until they were near enough to hear distinctly Don Quixote's

voice calling to them. They returned at length to the cart, and as they

came up, Don Quixote said to the carter, "Put your mules to once more,

brother, and continue your journey; and do thou, Sancho, give him two

gold crowns for himself and the keeper, to compensate for the delay they

have incurred through me."

"That will I give with all my heart," said Sancho; "but what has become

of the lions? Are they dead or alive?"

The keeper, then described the end of the contest, exalting to the best

of his power and ability the valor of Don Quixote, at the sight of whom

the lion quailed, and would not and dared not come out of the cage,

although he had held the door open ever so long; and showing how, in

consequence of his having represented to the knight that it was tempting

God to provoke the lion in order to force him out, which he wished to

have done, he very reluctantly, and altogether against his will, had

allowed the door to be closed.

"What dost thou think of this, Sancho?" said Don Quixote. "Are there any

enchantments that can prevail against true valor? The enchanters may be

able to rob me of good fortune, but of fortitude and courage they can

not."

Sancho paid the crowns, the carter put to, the keeper kissed Don

Quixote's hands for the bounty bestowed upon him, and promised to give

an account of the valiant exploit to the King himself, as soon as he saw

him at court.

"Then," said Don Quixote, "if his Majesty should happen to ask who

performed it, you must say The Knight of the Lions; for it is my desire

that into this the name I have hitherto borne of Knight of the Rueful

Countenance be from this time forward changed, altered, transformed, and

turned."

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED BARK

Upon proceeding with their journey, they discovered a small boat,

without oars or any other gear, that lay at the water's edge tied to the

stem of a tree growing on the bank. Don Quixote looked all around, and

seeing nobody, at once, without more ado, dismounted from Rocinante and

bade Sancho get down from Dapple and tie both beasts securely to the

trunk of a poplar or willow that stood there. Sancho asked him the

reason of this sudden dismounting and tying. Don Quixote made answer,

"Thou must know, Sancho, that this bark here is plainly, and without the

possibility of any alternative, calling and inviting me to enter it, and

in it go to give aid to some knight or other person of distinction in

need of it, who is no doubt in some sore strait; for this is the way of

the books of chivalry and of the enchanters who figure and speak in

them. When a knight is involved in some difficulty from which he cannot

be delivered save by the hand of another knight, though they may be at a

distance of two or three thousand leagues or more one from the other,

they either take him up on a cloud, or they provide a bark for him to

get into, and in less than the twinkling of an eye they carry him where

they will and where his help is required; and so, Sancho, this bark is

placed here for the same purpose; this is as true as that it is now day,

and ere this one passes tie Dapple and Rocinante together, and then in

God's hand be it to guide us; for I would not hold back from embarking,

though bare-footed friars were to beg me."

"As that's the case," said Sancho, "and your worship chooses to give in

to these--I don't know if I may call them absurdities--at every turn,

there's nothing for it but to obey and bow the head, bearing in mind the

proverb, 'Do as thy master bids thee, and sit down to table with him;'

but for all that, for the sake of easing my conscience, I want to warn

your worship that it is my opinion this bark is no enchanted one, but

belongs to some of the fishermen of the river, for they catch the best

shad in the world here."

As Sancho said this, he tied the beasts, leaving them to the care and

protection of the enchanters with sorrow enough in his heart. Don

Quixote bade him not be uneasy about deserting the animals, for he who

would carry themselves over such longinquous roads and regions would

take care to feed them.

"I don't understand that logiquous," said Sancho, "nor have I ever heard

the word all the days of my life."

"Longinquous," replied Don Quixote, "means far off; but it is no wonder

thou dost not understand it, for thou art not bound to know Latin, like

some who pretend to know it and don't."

"Now they are tied," said Sancho; "what are we to do next?"

"What?" said Don Quixote, "cross ourselves and weigh anchor; I mean,

embark and cut the moorings by which the bark is held;" and jumping into

it, followed by Sancho, he cut the rope, and the bark began to drift

away slowly from the bank. But when Sancho saw himself somewhere about

two yards out in the river, he began to tremble and give himself up for

lost; but nothing distressed him more than hearing Dapple bray and

seeing Rocinante struggling to get loose, and said he to his master,

"Dapple is braying in grief at our leaving him, and Rocinante is trying

to escape and plunge in after us. O dear friends, peace be with you, and

may this madness that is taking us away from you, turned into sober

sense, bring us back to you."

And with this he fell weeping so bitterly, that Don Quixote said to him,

sharply and angrily, "What art thou afraid of, cowardly creature? What

art thou weeping at, heart of butter-paste? Who pursues or molests thee,

thou soul of a tame mouse? What dost thou want, unsatisfied in the very

heart of abundance? Art thou, perchance, tramping barefoot over the

mountains, instead of being seated on a bench like an archduke on the

tranquil stream of this pleasant river, from which in a short space we

shall come out upon the broad sea? But we must have already emerged and

gone seven hundred or eight hundred leagues; and if I had here an

astrolabe to take the altitude of the pole, I could tell thee how many

we have traveled, though either I know little, or we have already

crossed or shall shortly cross the equinoctial line which parts the two

opposite poles midway."

"And when we come to that line your worship speaks of," said Sancho,

"how far shall we have gone?"

"Very far," said Don Quixote, "for of the three hundred and sixty

degrees that this terraqueous globe contains, as computed by Ptolemy,

the greatest cosmographer known, we shall have traveled one-half when we

come to the line I spoke of."

"By God," said Sancho, "your worship gives me a nice authority for what

you say, putrid Dolly something transmogrified, or whatever it is."

Don Quixote laughed at the interpretation Sancho put upon "computed,"

and the name of the cosmographer Ptolemy.

* * * * *

"I can see with my own eyes," said Sancho, "that we have not moved five

yards away from the bank, or shifted two yards from where the animals

stand, for there are Rocinante and Dapple in the very same place where

we left them; and watching a point, as I do now, I swear by all that's

good, we are not stirring or moving at the pace of an ant."

They now came in sight of some large water mills that stood in the

middle of the river,[462-1] and the instant Don Quixote saw them he

cried out to Sancho, "Seest thou there, my friend? there stands the

city, castle, or fortress, where there is, no doubt, some knight in

durance, or ill-used queen, or infanta, or princess, in aid of whom I am

brought hither."

"What the devil city, fortress, or castle is your worship talking about,

senor?" said Sancho; "don't you see that those are mills that stand in

the river to grind corn?"

"Hold thy peace, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "though they look like mills

they are not so; I have already told thee that enchantments transform

things and change their proper shapes; I do not mean to say they really

change them from one form into another, but that it seems as though they

did, as experience proved in the transformation of Dulcinea, sole refuge

of my hopes."

By this time, the boat, having reached the middle of the stream, began

to move less slowly than hitherto. The millers belonging to the mills,

when they saw the boat coming down the river, and on the point of being

sucked in by the draught of the wheels, ran out in haste, several of

them, with long poles to stop it, and being all mealy, with faces and

garments covered with flour, they presented a sinister appearance. They

raised loud shouts, crying, "Devils of men, where are you going to? Are

you mad? Do you want to drown yourselves, or dash yourselves to pieces

among these wheels?"

"Did I not tell thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote at this, "that we had

reached the place where I am to show what the might of my arm can do?

See what ruffians and villains come out against me; see what monsters

oppose me; see what hideous countenances come to frighten us! You shall

soon see, scoundrels!" And then standing up in the boat he began in a

loud voice to hurl threats at the millers, exclaiming, "Ill-conditioned

and worse-counselled rabble, restore to liberty and freedom the person

ye hold in durance in this your fortress or prison, high or low or of

whatever rank or quality he be, for I am Don Quixote of La Mancha,

otherwise called the Knight of the Lions, for whom, by the disposition

of Heaven above, it is reserved to give a happy issue to this

adventure;" and so saying he drew his sword and began making passes in

the air at the millers, who, hearing but not understanding all this

nonsense, strove to stop the boat, which was now getting into the

rushing channel of the wheels.

[Illustration: SANCHO FELL ON HIS KNEES]

Sancho, in very real despair, fell upon his knees devoutly appealing to

Heaven to deliver him from such imminent peril; which it did by the

activity and quickness of the millers, who, pushing against the boat

with their poles, stopped it, not, however, without upsetting it and

throwing Don Quixote and Sancho into the water; and lucky it was for Don

Quixote that he could swim like a goose, though the weight of his armor

carried him twice to the bottom; and had it not been for the millers,

who plunged in and hoisted them both out, it would have been Troy town

with the pair of them. As soon as, more drenched than thirsty, they were

landed, Sancho went down on his knees and with clasped hands and eyes

raised to heaven, prayed a long and fervent prayer to God to deliver him

evermore from the rash projects and attempts of his master.

The surprised fishermen, the owners of the boat, which the mill-wheels

had knocked to pieces, now came up, and seeing it smashed they proceeded

to strip Sancho and to demand payment for it from Don Quixote; but he

with great calmness, just as if nothing had happened to him, told the

millers and fishermen that he would pay for the bark most cheerfully, on

condition that they delivered up to him, free and unhurt, the person or

persons that were in durance in that castle of theirs.

"What persons or what castle art thou talking of, madman?" said one of

the millers; "art thou for carrying off the people who come to grind

corn in these mills?"

"That's enough," said Don Quixote to himself, "it would be preaching in

the desert to attempt by entreaties to induce this rabble to do any

virtuous action. In this adventure two mighty enchanters must have

encountered one another, and one frustrates what the other attempts; one

provided a bark for me, and the other upset me; God help us, this world

is all machinations and schemes at cross purposes one with the other. I

can do no more." And then turning towards the mills he said aloud,

"Friends, whoe'er ye be that are immured in that prison, forgive me

that, to my misfortune and yours, I cannot deliver you from your misery;

this adventure is doubtless reserved and destined for some other

knight."

So saying he settled with the fishermen, and paid fifty reals for the

boat, which Sancho handed to them very much against the grain, saying,

"With a couple more bark businesses like this we shall have sunk our

whole capital, which is none too large."

The fishermen and the millers stood staring in amazement at the two

figures, so very different to all appearance from ordinary men, and were

wholly unable to make out the drift of the observations and questions

Don Quixote addressed to them; and coming to the conclusion that they

were madmen, they left them and betook themselves, the millers to their

mills, and the fishermen to their huts.

Whereupon Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, like a pair of senseless animals

themselves, returned to the animals they had left, and thus ended the

adventure of the enchanted bark.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE WOODEN HORSE

NOTE.--Don Quixote and Sancho his squire, having encountered in a

forest a certain duke and his duchess, had been invited to pass

some time in the ducal palace. The duke and his friends, bent on

amusement, persuaded Don Quixote that a vile enchanter, angered at

some ladies, had for punishment caused heavy beards to grow on

their faces. They even showed him the ladies, impersonated, of

course, by men; and they persuaded him that the beards would be

removed if he, with his squire, would take a long ride on a famous

wooden horse, Clavileno.

And now night came, and with it the appointed time for the arrival of

the famous horse Clavileno, the non-appearance of which was already

beginning to make Don Quixote uneasy, for it struck him that, as

Malambruno[467-1] was so long about sending it, either he himself was

not the knight for whom the adventure was reserved, or else Malambruno

did not dare to meet him in single combat. But lo! suddenly there came

into the garden four wild-men all clad in green ivy bearing on their

shoulders a great wooden horse. They placed it on its feet on the

ground, and one of the wild-men said, "Let the knight who has heart for

it mount this machine."

Here Sancho exclaimed, "I don't mount, for neither have I the heart nor

am I a knight."

"And let the squire, if he has one," continued the wild-man, "take his

seat on the croup, and let him trust the valiant Malambruno; for by no

sword save his, nor by the malice of any other, shall he be assailed.

It is but to turn this peg the horse has in his neck, and he will bear

them through the air to where Malambruno awaits them; but lest the vast

elevation of their course should make them giddy, their eyes must be

covered until the horse neighs, which will be the sign of their having

completed their journey."

With these words, leaving Clavileno behind them, they retired with easy

dignity the way they came. As soon as the Distressed One[468-2] saw the

horse, almost in tears she exclaimed to Don Quixote, "Valiant knight,

the promise of Malambruno has proved trustworthy; the horse has come,

our beards are growing, and by every hair in them we all of us implore

thee to shave and shear us, as it is only mounting him with thy squire

and making a happy beginning with your new journey."

"That I will, Senora Countess Trifaldi," said Don Quixote, "most gladly

and with right good will, without stopping to take a cushion or put on

my spurs, so as not to lose time, such is my desire to see you,

senora, and all these duennas shaved clean."

"That I won't," said Sancho, "with good will or bad will or any way at

all; and if this shaving can't be done without my mounting on the croup,

my master had better look out for another squire to go with him, and

these ladies for some other way of making their faces smooth; I'm no

witch to have a taste for traveling through the air. What would my

islanders say when they heard their governor was going strolling about

on the winds?"[468-3]

"Friend Sancho," said the duke at this, "the island that I have promised

you is not a moving one, or one that will run away; it has roots so

deeply buried in the bowels of the earth that it will be no easy matter

to pluck it up or shift it from where it is; you know as well as I do

that there is no sort of office of any importance that is not obtained

by a bribe of some kind, great or small; well, then, that which I look

to receive for this government is that you go with your master Don

Quixote, and bring this memorable adventure to a conclusion; and whether

you return on Clavileno as quickly as his speed seems to promise, or

adverse fortune brings you back on foot traveling as a pilgrim from

hostel to hostel and from inn to inn, you will always find your island

on your return where you left it, and your islanders with the same

eagerness they have always had to receive you as their governor, and my

good will will remain the same; doubt not the truth of this, Senor

Sancho, for that would be grievously wronging my disposition to serve

you."

"Say no more, senor," said Sancho; "I am a poor squire and not equal to

carrying so much courtesy; let my master mount; bandage my eyes and

commit me to God's care, and tell me if I may commend myself to our Lord

or call upon the angels to protect me when we go towering up there."

To this the Trifaldi[469-4] made answer, "Sancho, you may freely commend

yourself to God or whom you will; for Malambruno, though an enchanter,

is a Christian, and works his enchantments with great circumspection,

taking very good care not to fall out with any one."

"Well then," said Sancho, "God and the most holy Trinity give me help!"

"Cover thine eyes, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and mount; for one who

sends for us from lands so far distant cannot mean to deceive us for the

sake of the paltry glory to be derived from deceiving persons who trust

in him; though all should turn out the contrary of what I hope, no

malice will be able to dim the glory of having undertaken this exploit."

"Let us be off, senor," said Sancho, "for I have taken the beards and

tears of the ladies deeply to heart, and I shan't eat a bite to relish

it until I have seen them restored to their former smoothness. Mount,

your worship, and blindfold yourself, for if I am to go on the croup, it

is plain the rider in the saddle must mount first."

"That is true," said Don Quixote, and, taking a handkerchief out of his

pocket, he begged the Distressed One to bandage his eyes very carefully;

but after having them bandaged he uncovered them, saying, "If my memory

does not deceive me, I have read in Virgil of the Palladium of Troy, a

wooden horse the Greeks offered to the goddess Pallas, which was big

with armed knights, who afterwards destroyed Troy; so it would be as

well to see, first of all, what Clavileno has in his stomach."

"There is no occasion," said the Distressed One; "I will be bail for

him, and I know that Malambruno has nothing tricky or treacherous about

him; you may mount without any fear, Senor Don Quixote; on my head be it

if any harm befalls you."

Don Quixote thought that to say anything further with regard to his

safety would be putting his courage in an unfavorable light; and so,

without more words, he mounted Clavileno, and tried the peg, which

turned easily; and as he had no stirrups and his legs hung down, he

looked like nothing so much as a figure in some Roman triumph painted or

embroidered on a Flemish tapestry.

Much against the grain, and very slowly, Sancho proceeded to mount, and,

after settling himself as well as he could on the croup, found it rather

hard and not at all soft, and asked the duke if it would be possible to

oblige him with a pad of some kind, or a cushion; even if it were off

the couch of his lady the duchess, or the bed of one of the pages; as

the haunches of that horse were more like marble than wood. On this the

Trifaldi observed that Clavileno would not bear any kind of harness or

trappings, and that his best plan would be to sit sideways like a woman,

as in that way he would not feel the hardness so much.

Sancho did so, and bidding them farewell, allowed his eyes to be

bandaged, but immediately afterwards uncovered them again, and looking

tenderly and tearfully on those in the garden, bade them help him in his

present strait with plenty of Paternosters and Ave Marias, that God

might provide some one to say as many for them, whenever they found

themselves in a similar emergency.

At this Don Quixote exclaimed, "Art thou on the gallows, thief, or at

thy last moment, to use pitiful entreaties of that sort? Cover thine

eyes, cover thine eyes, abject animal, and let not thy fear escape thy

lips, at least, in my presence."

"Let them blindfold me," said Sancho; "as you won't let me commend

myself or be commended to God, is it any wonder if I am afraid there is

a legion of devils about here that will carry us off?"

They were then blindfolded, and Don Quixote, finding himself settled to

his satisfaction, felt for the peg, and the instant he placed his

fingers on it, all the duennas and all who stood by lifted up their

voices exclaiming, "God guide thee, valiant knight! God be with thee,

intrepid squire! Now, now ye go cleaving the air more swiftly than an

arrow! Now ye begin to amaze and astonish all who are gazing at you from

the earth! Take care not to wobble about, valiant Sancho! Mind thou fall

not, for thy fall will be worse than that rash youth's who tried to

steer the chariot of his father the Sun!"[472-5]

As Sancho heard the voices, clinging tightly to his master and winding

his arms round him, he said, "Senor, how do they make out we are going

up so high, if their voices reach us here and they seem to be speaking

quite close to us?"

"Don't mind that, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "for as affairs of this

sort and flights like this are out of the common course of things, you

can see and hear as much as you like a thousand leagues off; but don't

squeeze me so tight or thou wilt upset me; and really I know not what

thou hast to be uneasy or frightened at, for I can safely swear I never

mounted a smoother-going steed all the days of my life; one would fancy

we never stirred from one place. Banish fear, my friend, for indeed

everything is going as it ought, and we have the wind astern."

"That's true," said Sancho, "for such a strong wind comes against me on

this side, that it seems as if the people were blowing on me with a

thousand pair of bellows;" which was the case; they were puffing at him

with a great pair of bellows; for the whole adventure was so well

planned by the duke, the duchess, and their majordomo, that nothing was

omitted to make it perfectly successful.

Don Quixote now, feeling the blast, said, "Beyond a doubt, Sancho, we

must have already reached the second region of the air, where the hail

and snow are generated; the thunder, the lightning, and the thunderbolts

are engendered in the third region, and if we go on ascending at this

rate, we shall shortly plunge into the region of fire, and I know not

how to regulate this peg, so as not to mount up where we shall be

burned."

And now they began to warm their faces, from a distance, with tow that

could easily be set on fire and extinguished again, fixed on the end of

a cane.

On feeling the heat Sancho said, "May I die if we are not already in

that fire place, or very near it, for a good part of my beard has been

singed, and I have a mind, senor, to uncover and see whereabouts we

are."

"Do nothing of the kind," said Don Quixote; "remember the true story of

the licentiate Torralva, that the devils carried flying through the air

riding on a stick with his eyes shut; who in twelve hours reached Rome

and dismounted at Torre di Nona, which is a street of the city, and saw

the whole sack and storming and the death of Bourbon, and was back in

Madrid the next morning, where he gave an account of all he had seen;

and he said, moreover, that as he was going through the air, the devil

bade him open his eyes, and he did so, and saw himself so near the body

of the moon, so it seemed to him, that he could have laid hold of it

with his hand, and that he did not dare to look at the earth lest he

should be seized with giddiness. So that, Sancho, it will not do for us

to uncover ourselves, for he who has us in charge will be responsible

for us; and perhaps we are gaining an altitude and mounting up to enable

us to descend at one swoop on the Kingdom of Kandy, as the saker or

falcon does on the heron, so as to seize it however high it may soar;

and though it seems to us not half an hour since we left the garden,

believe me we must have travelled a great distance."

The duke, the duchess, and all in the garden were listening to the

conversation of the two heroes, and were beyond measure amused by it;

and now, desirous of putting a finishing touch to this rare and

well-contrived adventure, they applied a light to Clavileno's tail with

some tow, and the horse, being full of squibs and crackers, immediately

blew up with a prodigious noise, and brought Don Quixote and Sancho

Panza to the ground half singed. By this time the bearded band of

duennas, the Trifaldi and all, had vanished from the garden, and those

that remained lay stretched on the ground as if in swoon. Don Quixote

and Sancho got up rather shaken, and looking about them, were filled

with amazement at finding themselves in the same garden from which they

had started, and seeing such a number of people stretched on the ground;

and their astonishment was increased when at one side of the garden they

perceived a tall lance planted in the ground, and hanging from it by

two cords of green silk, a smooth, white parchment on which there was

the following inscription in large gold letters: "The illustrious Don

Quixote of La Mancha has, by merely attempting it, finished and

concluded the adventure of the Countess Trifaldi, otherwise called the

Distressed Duenna; Malambruno is now satisfied on every point, the chins

of the duennas are now smooth and clean, and when the squirely

flagellation shall have been completed, the white dove shall find

herself delivered from the pestiferous hawks that persecute her,[476-6]

and in the arms of her beloved mate; for such is the decree of the sage

Merlin, arch-enchanter of enchanters."

[Illustration: THE HORSE BLEW UP, WITH A PRODIGIOUS NOISE]

As soon as Don Quixote had read the inscription on the parchment he

perceived clearly that it referred to the disenchantment of Dulcinea,

and returning hearty thanks to Heaven that he had, with so little

danger, achieved so grand an exploit as to restore to their former

complexion the countenances of those venerable duennas, now no longer

visible, he advanced towards the duke and duchess, who had not yet come

to themselves, and taking the duke by the hand he said, "Be of good

cheer, worthy sir, be of good cheer; it's nothing at all; the adventure

is now over and without any harm done, as the inscription fixed on this

post shows plainly."

The duke came to himself slowly and like one recovering consciousness

after a heavy sleep, and the duchess and all who had fallen prostrate

about the garden did the same, with such demonstrations of wonder and

amazement that they would have almost persuaded one that what they

pretended so adroitly in jest had happened to them in reality. The duke

read the placard with half-shut eyes, and then ran to embrace Don

Quixote with open arms, declaring him to be the best knight that had

ever been seen in any age. Sancho kept looking about for the Distressed

One, to see what her face was like without the beard, and if she was as

fair as her elegant person promised; but they told him that, the instant

Clavileno descended flaming through the air and came to the ground, the

whole band of duennas with the Trifaldi vanished, and that they were

already shaved and without a stump left.

The duchess asked Sancho how he had fared on that long journey, to which

Sancho replied, "I felt, senora, that we were flying through the region

of fire, as my master told me, and I wanted to uncover my eyes for a

bit; but my master, when I asked leave to uncover myself, would not let

me; but as I have a little bit of curiosity about me, and a desire to

know what is forbidden and kept from me, quietly and without any one

seeing me I drew aside the handkerchief covering my eyes ever so little,

close to my nose, and from underneath looked towards the earth, and it

seemed to me that it was altogether no bigger than a grain of mustard

seed, and that the men walking on it were little bigger than hazel nuts;

so you may see how high we must have got to them."

To this the duchess said, "Sancho, my friend, mind what you are saying;

it seems you could not have seen the earth, but only the men walking on

it; it is plain that if the earth looked to you like a grain of mustard

seed, and each man like a hazel nut, one man alone would have covered

the whole earth."

"That is true," said Sancho, "but for all that I got a glimpse of a bit

of one side of it, and saw it all."

"Take care, Sancho," said the duchess; "with a bit of one side one does

not see the whole of what one looks at."

"I don't understand that way of looking at things," said Sancho; "I only

know that your ladyship will do well to bear in mind that as we were

flying by enchantment, so I might have seen the whole earth and all the

men by enchantment, whatever way I looked; and if you won't believe

this, no more will you believe that, uncovering myself nearly to the

eyebrows, I saw myself so close to the sky that there was not a palm and

a half between me and it; and by everything that I can swear by, senora,

it is mighty great! And it so happened we came by where the seven

she-goats[478-7] are, and by God and upon my soul, as in my youth I was

a goatherd in my own country, as soon as I saw them I felt a longing to

be among them for a little, and if I had not given way to it I think I'd

have burst. So I come and take, and what do I do? without saying

anything to anybody, not even to my master, softly and quietly I got

down from Clavileno and amused myself with the goats--which are like

violets, like flowers--for nigh three-quarters of an hour; and Clavileno

never stirred or moved from one spot."

"And while the good Sancho was amusing himself with the goats," said the

duke, "how did Senor Don Quixote amuse himself?"

To which Don Quixote replied, "As all these things and such like

occurrences are out of the ordinary course of nature, it is no wonder

that Sancho says what he does; for my own part I can only say that I

did not uncover my eyes, either above or below, nor did I see sky or

earth or sea or shore. It is true I felt that I was passing through the

region of the air, and even that I touched that of fire; but that we

passed farther I cannot believe; for the region of fire being between

the heaven of the moon and the last region of the air, we could not have

reached that heaven where the seven she-goats Sancho speaks of are

without being burned; and as we were not burned, either Sancho is lying

or Sancho is dreaming."

"I am neither lying nor dreaming," said Sancho; "only ask me the tokens

of those same goats, and you'll see by that whether I'm telling the

truth or not."

"Tell us them then, Sancho," said the duchess.

"Two of them," said Sancho, "are green, two blood-red, two blue, and one

a mixture of all colors."

"An odd sort of goat, that," said the duke; "in this earthly region of

ours we have no such colors; I mean goats of such colors."

"That's very plain," said Sancho; "of course there must be a difference

between the goats of heaven and the goats of the earth."

"Tell me, Sancho," said the duke, "did you see any he-goat among those

she-goats?"

"No senor," said Sancho; "but I have heard say that none ever passed the

horns of the moon."

They did not care to ask him anything more about his journey, for they

saw he was in the vein to go rambling all over the heavens giving an

account of everything that went on there, without having ever stirred

from the garden. Such, in short, was the end of the adventure of the

Distressed Duenna, which gave the duke and duchess laughing matter not

only for the time being, but for all their lives, and Sancho something

to talk about for ages, if he lived so long.

THE STORY OF THE LASHES

NOTE.--It had been prophesied, by a pretended enchanter, that the

Lady Dulcinea del Toboso could be freed from the enchantment under

which a wicked magician had placed her, if Sancho would of his own

free will give himself three thousand three hundred lashes.

Sancho went along anything but cheerful, and finally he said to his

master, "Surely, senor, I'm the most unlucky doctor in the world;

there's many a physician that, after killing the sick man he had to

cure, requires to be paid for his work, though it is only signing a bit

of a list of medicines, that the apothecary and not he makes up, and,

there, his labor is over; but with me, though to cure somebody else

costs me drops of blood, smacks, pinches, pin-proddings, and whippings,

nobody gives me a farthing."

"Thou art right, Sancho, my friend," said Don Quixote, "and I can say

for myself that if thou wouldst have payment for the lashes on account

of the disenchantment of Dulcinea, I would have given it to thee freely

ere this. I am not sure, however, whether payment will comport with the

cure, and I would not have the reward interfere with the medicine.

Still, I think there will be nothing lost by trying it; consider how

much thou wouldst have, Sancho, and whip thyself at once, and pay

thyself down with thine own hand, as thou hast money of mine."

At this proposal Sancho opened his eyes and his ears a palm's breadth

wide, and in his heart very readily acquiesced in whipping himself, and

said he to his master, "Very well then, senor, I'll hold myself in

readiness to gratify your worship's wishes if I'm to profit by it; for

the love of my wife and children forces me to seem grasping. Let your

worship say how much you will pay me for each lash I give myself."

"If, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "I were to requite thee as the

importance and nature of the cure deserves, the treasures of Venice, the

mines of Potosi, would be insufficient to pay thee. See what thou hast

of mine, and put a price on each lash."

"Of them," said Sancho, "there are three thousand three hundred and odd;

of these I have given myself five, the rest remain; let the five go for

the odd ones, and let us take the three thousand three hundred, which at

a quarter real apiece (for I will not take less though the whole world

should bid) make three thousand three hundred quarter reals; the three

thousand are one thousand five hundred half reals, which make seven

hundred and fifty reals; and the three hundred make a hundred and fifty

half reals, which come to seventy-five reals, which added to the seven

hundred and fifty make eight hundred and twenty-five reals in all. These

I will stop out of what I have belonging to your worship, and I'll

return home rich and content, though well whipped."

"O blessed Sancho! O dear Sancho!" said Don Quixote; "how we shall be

bound to serve thee, Dulcinea and I, all the days of our lives that

Heaven may grant us! If she returns to her lost shape (and it cannot be

but that she will) her misfortune will have been good fortune, and my

defeat a most happy triumph. But look here, Sancho; when wilt thou begin

the scourging? For if thou wilt make short work of it, I will give a

hundred reals over and above."

"When?" said Sancho; "this night without fail. Let your worship order it

so that we pass it out of doors and in the open air, and I'll scarify

myself."

Night, longed for by Don Quixote with the greatest anxiety in the world,

came at last. They made their way at length in among some pleasant trees

that stood a little distance from the road, and there vacating

Rocinante's saddle and Dapple's pack-saddle, they stretched themselves

on the green grass and made their supper off Sancho's stores, and he,

making a powerful and flexible whip out of Dapple's halter and

headstall, retreated about twenty paces from his master among some beech

trees. Don Quixote, seeing him march off with such resolution and

spirit, said to him, "Take care, my friend, not to cut thyself to

pieces; allow the lashes to wait for one another, and do not be in so

great a hurry as to run thyself out of breath midway; I mean, do not lay

on so strenuously as to make thy life fail thee before thou hast reached

the desired number; and that thou mayest not lose by a card too much or

too little, I will station myself apart and count on my rosary here the

lashes thou givest thyself. May heaven help thee as thy good intention

deserves."

"'Pledges don't distress a good paymaster,'" said Sancho; "I mean to lay

on in such a way as without killing myself to hurt myself, for in that,

no doubt, lies the essence of this miracle."

He then stripped himself from the waist upwards, and snatching up the

rope he began to lay on and Don Quixote to count the lashes. He might

have given himself six or eight when he began to think the joke no

trifle, and its price very low; and holding his hand for a moment, he

told his master that he cried off on the score of a blind bargain, for

each of those lashes ought to be paid for at the rate of half a real

instead of a quarter.

"Go on, Sancho, my friend, and be not disheartened," said Don Quixote;

"for I double the stakes as to price."

"In that case," said Sancho, "in God's hand be it, and let it rain

lashes." But the rogue no longer laid them on his shoulders, but laid on

to the trees, with such groans every now and then, that one would have

thought at each of them his soul was being plucked up by the roots. Don

Quixote, touched to the heart, and fearing he might make an end of

himself, and that through Sancho's imprudence he might miss his own

object, said to him, "As thou livest, my friend, let the matter rest

where it is, for the remedy seems to me a very rough one, and it will be

well to have patience; Rome was not built in a day. If I have not

reckoned wrong thou hast given thyself over a thousand lashes; that is

enough for the present."

"No, no, senor," replied Sancho; "it shall never be said of me, 'The

money paid, the arms broken'; go back a little further, your worship, and

let me give myself at any rate a thousand lashes more; for in a couple

of bouts like this we shall have finished off the lot, with even cloth

to spare."

"As thou art in such a willing mood," said Don Quixote, "may heaven aid

thee; lay on and I'll retire."

Sancho returned to his task with so much resolution that he soon had the

bark stripped off several trees, such was the severity with which he

whipped himself; and one time, raising his voice, and giving a beech a

tremendous lash, he cried out, "Here dies Samson, and all with him!"

At the sound of his piteous cry and of the stroke of the cruel lash, Don

Quixote ran to him at once, and seizing the twisted halter, said to him:

"Heaven forbid, Sancho my friend, that to please me thou shouldst lose

thy life, which is needed for the support of thy wife and children; let

Dulcinea wait for a better opportunity, and I will have patience until

thou hast gained fresh strength so as to finish off this business to the

satisfaction of everybody."

"As your worship will have it so, senor," said Sancho, "so be it; but

throw your cloak over my shoulders, for I'm sweating and I don't want to

take cold; it's a risk that novice disciplinants run."

Don Quixote obeyed, and stripping himself covered Sancho, who slept

until the sun woke him; they then resumed their journey, which for the

time being they brought to an end at a village that lay three leagues

farther on.

FOOTNOTES:

[433-1] The _olla_ is the national dish of Spain, and is a stew composed

of beef, bacon, sausage, chick-peas and cabbage, with any other meat or

vegetables which may be on hand.

[434-2] A _morion_ is a helmet without visor or beaver for protecting

the face.

[435-3] Alexander the Great was so fond of his horse Bucephalus that

when it died in India during Alexander's sojourn there, he founded a

city which he called Bucephalia, in honor of the steed.

[435-4] The Cid was the greatest of Spanish heroes.

[436-5] _Rocin_ is, in Spanish, a horse used for labor, as distinguished

from one kept for pleasure or for personal use; _ante_ means _before_.

Thus the name Rocinante meant that the horse had formerly been a hack,

or work horse.

[436-6] Amadis de Gaul was the hero of one of the most celebrated

romances of chivalry.

[438-1] When Don Quixote first set out on his quest of adventures, he

was unattended. Having been forced, however, to return to his native

town, he persuaded a peasant, Sancho Panza by name, to go with him and

serve as his squire. While Sancho was a hard-headed, practical man, he

was carried away by Don Quixote's promises of reward, and in time,

through listening constantly to the Don's conversation, he became almost

as mad as his master.

[440-2] Briareus was a famous giant of ancient mythology, who had fifty

heads and one hundred arms.

[440-3] By _sage_ is here meant an enchanter or magician.

[441-1] Don Quixote and Sancho had remained in terror through an entire

night, fancying from the noise they heard that they were near some

terrible danger. In the morning they found that this noise proceeded

from some fulling mills in the neighborhood.

[442-2] Mambrino was a Moorish king, mentioned in some of the romantic

poems which _Don Quixote_ is intended to burlesque. He possessed an

enchanted golden helmet which rendered the wearer invulnerable, and

which was naturally much sought after by all the knights. Rinaldo

finally obtained possession of it. Don Quixote, whose helmet had been

destroyed, had sworn that he would lead a life of particular hardship

until he had made himself master of the wonderful helmet.

[445-3] The _piece of eight_ is equal to about one dollar of American

money. The _maravedi_ is a small copper coin, of the value of three

mills in American money.

[446-4] The _god of smithies_ was the old Greek and Roman god Hephaestus,

or Vulcan; the _god of battles_ was Mars.

[446-5] _Martino_ is a blunder of Sancho's for _Mambrino_.

[448-1] This was a gentlemanly person whom Don Quixote had met on the

road a short time before.

[462-1] In certain rivers of Spain, floating mills, moored in

mid-stream, were common.

[467-1] This was the wicked enchanter who had caused the beards to grow.

[468-2] This was the leader of the sorrowful bearded ladies.

[468-3] The duke had promised to bestow on Sancho the government of an

island.

[469-4] The name of the "Distressed One."

[472-5] This was Phaeton, whose story is told in Volume II.

[476-6] Don Quixote and Sancho Panza had been persuaded that Dulcinea

del Toboso, Don Quixote's lady, was under enchantment, from which she

could not be released until Sancho had given himself three thousand

three hundred lashes.

[478-7] The "seven she-goats" were the Pleiades.

PRONUNCIATION OF PROPER NAMES

NOTE.--The pronunciation of difficult words is indicated by respelling

them phonetically. _N_ is used to indicate the French nasal sound; _K_,

the sound of _ch_ in German; _ue_, the sound of the German _ue_, and

French _u_; _oe_, the sound of _oe_ in foreign languages.

ACTAEON, _ak tee' on_

AENEAS SYLVIUS, _ee nee' as sil' vy us_

ALLEGHANIES, _al'' le gay' niz_

AESCHYLUS, _es' ky lus_

AMADIS, _am' a dis_

BABIECA, _ba be ay' ka_

BENOIT, _ben wah'_

BOSE, _bo' zeh_

BRIAREUS, _bri a' re us_

BUCEPHALUS, _bu sef' a lus_

CASA GUIDI, _kah' sa gwee' dee_

CERVANTES, SAAVEDRA, MIGUEL DE, _sur van' teez, sah ved' ra, mee

gayl' deh_

CHINGACHGOOK, _chin gahk' gook_

CHOTEAU, _sho to'_

CHRISTIERN, _Kris' tee urn_

CLAVILENO, _klah ve lay' nyo_

DON QUIXOTE, _don kwiks' oat_, (Sp.) _don'' kee ho' tay_

DU CHAILLU, _due shay lue'_

HOTEL DES INVALIDES, _o tel' day zaN'' va'' leed'_

MAMBRINO, _mam bree' no_

MARTINO, _mar tee' no_

MICHAEL AROUT, (Fr.) _mee shel' ah roo'_

MOHICANS, _mo hee' kanz_

MONTCALM, _mont cahm'_

NGOBI, _ngo' bi_

OLAUS MAGNUS, _o lay' us mag' nus_

ORAN, _o rahn'_

ORPHEON, _or fay oN'_

PARA, _pah rah'_

PARACELSUS, _par a sel' sus_

PHAETHON, _fay' eh thon_

PLEIADES, _plee' ya deez_

POTOSI, _po to see'_

PRAIRIE DU CHIEN, _pray' ree doo sheen'_

PTOLEMY, _tol' e my_

QUASHQUAMME, _quash guah' me_

QUESADA, _kee sah' da_

ROCINANTE, _ro'' see nahn' tay_

RODERICH VICH ALPINE, _rod' rick vick al' pine_

ST. GERMAIN, _saN zher'' maN'_

SANCHO PANZA, _sang' ko pan' za_, (Sp.) _sahn' cha pahn' tha_

SIOUX, _soo_

SOUVESTRE, EMILE, _soo'' vestr', ay meel'_

TETE ROUGE, _tate roozh_

THOREAU, _tho' ro_, or _tho ro'_

VERSAILLES, _vur saylz'_

WILLAMETTE, _wil ah' met_

XENIL, _hay' neel_

Transcriber's Note

Corrections

24 Muleteeer changed to Muleteer

102 Neverthelesss changed to Nevertheless

107 hugh changed to huge

123 distiguish changed to distinguish

139 postion changed to position

191 fellow-ceatures changed to fellow-creatures

196 immeditatively changed to meditatively

219 and Tom Tolliver changed to and Tom Tulliver

267 miscroscope changed to microscope

314 acquintance changed to acquaintance

369 round, I take it. changed to round, I take it."

407 Goodnature changed to Good-nature

417 profundly changed to profoundly

420 Holden ready for the fight: changed to Holden ready for the fight."

442 out, answered changed to out," answered

468 senora changed to senora

476 of enchanters. changed to of enchanters."

482 Rosinante's saddle changed to Rocinante's saddle

485 Actaeon changed to Actaeon

485 Aeneas changed to AEneas

485 Aeschyllus changed to AEschylus

485 Buchephalus changed to Bucephalus

485 Clavileno changed to Clavileno

486 Orpheon changed to Orpheon

486 Pleiadas changed to Pleiades

486 Quashguamme changed to Quashquamme

486 Tete changed to Tete

Inconsistent hyphenation

daylight / day-light

farmhouse / farm-house

firearms / fire-arms

highborn / high-born

homemade / home-made

lopsided / lop-sided

roadside / road-side

skylark / sky-lark

tipsy cake / tipsy-cake

tomorrow / to-morrow

upstream / up-stream

waterbreaker / water-breaker

Other comments

The footnote referred to by marker number 4 on page 30 was

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