The knight promised to follow his advice with all deference and

punctuality; and thereupon received orders to watch his armour in a

large court on one side of the inn; where, having gathered the several

pieces on a heap, he placed them in a cistern that belonged to the well;

then bracing on his target, and grasping his lance, he walked with

courteous demeanour backward and forward before the cistern; beginning

this knightly exercise as soon as it was dark[36]. The roguish landlord

having informed every lodger in his house of our hero’s frenzy, the

watching of his armour, and his expectation of being dubbed a knight;

they were astonished at such a peculiar strain of madness, and going out

to observe him at a distance, beheld him with silent gesture sometimes

stalking along, sometimes leaning on his spear, with his eyes fixed upon

his armour, for a considerable space of time. Though it was now night,

the moon shone with such splendour, as might even vie with the source

from which she derived her brightness; so that every motion of our

noviciate was distinctly perceived by all present. At this instant, a

carrier, who lodged in the inn, took it in his head to water his mules;

and it being necessary for this purpose to clear the cistern, he went to

lift off Don Quixote’s armour; when a loud voice accosted him in these

words: ‘O thou! whosoever thou art, bold and insolent knight! who

presumest to touch the armour of the most valiant errant that ever

girded himself with cold iron, consider what thou art about to attempt,

and touch it not, unless thou art desirous of yielding thy life as the

price of thy temerity.’

The carrier, far from regarding these threats, which, had he regarded

his own carcase, he would not have despised, laid hold on the sacred

deposit, and threw it piece-meal into the yard with all his might. Don

Quixote no sooner beheld this profanation, than lifting up his eyes to

Heaven, and addressing himself, in all likelihood, to his Mistress

Dulcinea, he said, ‘Grant me thy assistance, dear lady of my heart! in

this insult offered to thy lowly vassal, and let me not be deprived of

thy favourable protection in this my first perilous atchievement.’

Having uttered this and some other ejaculation, he quitted his target,

and raising his lance with both hands, bestowed it with such good-will

upon the carrier’s head, that he fell prostrate on the ground, so

effectually mauled, that had the blow been repeated, there would have

been no occasion to call a surgeon. This exploit being performed, he

replaced his armour, and returned to his walk, which he continued with

his former composure.

[Illustration: Don Quixote Defends His Armour.]

It was not long before another carrier, not knowing what had happened to

his companion, who still lay without sense or motion, arrived, with the

same intention of watering his mules, and went straight up to the

cistern, in order to remove the armour; when Don Quixote, without

speaking a syllable, or asking leave of any living soul, once more

quitted his target, and lifting up his lance, made another experiment of

its hardness upon the pate of the second carrier, which failed in the

application, giving way in four different places. At the noise of this

encounter, every body in the house, innkeeper, and all, came running to

the field; at sight of whom Don Quixote, snatching up his target, and

drawing his sword, pronounced aloud, ‘O lady, of transcendent beauty!

the force and vigour of my enfeebled heart; now, if ever, is the time

for thee to turn thy princely eyes on this thy caitif knight, who is on

the eve of so mighty an adventure.’ So saying, he seemed to have

acquired such courage, that had he been assaulted by all the carriers in

the universe, he would not have retreated one step.

The companions of the wounded, seeing how their friends had been

handled, began at a distance to discharge a shower of stones upon the

knight; who, as well as he could, sheltered himself under his shield,

not daring to leave the cistern, lest some mischance should happen to

his armour. The innkeeper called aloud, entreating them to leave off;

for, as he had told them before, the man being mad, would be acquitted

on account of his lunacy, even though he should put every soul of them

to death. At the same time, Don Quixote, in a voice louder still,

upbraided them as cowardly traitors, and called the constable of the

castle a worthless and base-born knight, for allowing his guest to be

treated in such an inhospitable manner; swearing, that if he had

received the honour of knighthood, he would make him repent his

discourteous behaviour. ‘But as for you,’ said he, ‘ye vile,

ill-mannered scum, ye are beneath my notice. Discharge, approach, come

forward, and annoy me as much as you can, you shall soon see what reward

you will receive for your insolent extravagance.’ These words, delivered

in a bold and resolute tone, struck terror into the hearts of the

assailants; who, partly for this menace, and partly on account of the

landlord’s persuasion, gave over their attack; while he, on his side,

allowed the wounded to retire, and returned to his watch, with his

former ease and tranquillity.

These pranks of the knight were not at all to the liking of the

landlord, who resolved to abridge the ceremony, and bestow this unlucky

order of knighthood immediately, before any other mischief should

happen. Approaching him, therefore, he disclaimed the insolence with

which his guest had been treated by those saucy plebeians, without his

knowledge or consent; and observed that they had been justly chastised

for their impudence: that, as he had told him before, there was no

chapel in the castle, nor indeed, for what was to be done, was it at all

necessary; nothing of the ceremony now remaining unperformed, except the

cuff on the neck, and the thwack on the shoulders, as they are

prescribed in the ceremonial of the order; and that this part might be

executed in the middle of a field: he assured him also, that he had

punctually complied with every thing that regarded the watching of his

armour, which might have been finished in two hours, though he had

already remained double the time on that duty. Don Quixote believing

every syllable that he spoke, said, he was ready to obey him in all

things, and besought him to conclude the matter as soon as possible:

for, in case he should be attacked again, after having been knighted, he

would not leave a soul alive in the castle, except those whom he should

spare at his request.

The constable, alarmed at this declaration, immediately brought out his

day-book, in which he kept an account of the barley and straw that was

expended for the use of the carriers, and attended by a boy with a

candle’s end in his hand, together with the two ladies before mentioned,

came to the place where Don Quixote stood; then ordering him to kneel

before him, mumbled in his manual, as if he had been putting up some

very devout petition; in the midst of which he lifted up his hand, and

gave him a hearty thump on the neck; then, with the flat of his own

sword, bestowed an handsome application across his shoulders, muttering

all the time between his teeth, as if he had been employed in some

fervent ejaculation[37]. This article being fulfilled, he commanded one

of the ladies to gird on his sword, an office she performed with great

dexterity and discretion, of which there was no small need to restrain

her laughter at each particular of this strange ceremony: but the

effects they had already seen of the knight’s disposition, kept their

mirth effectually under the rein.

When this good lady had girded on his sword, ‘Heaven preserve your

worship! adventurous knight,’ said she, ‘and make you fortunate in all

your encounters.’ Don Quixote then begged to know her name, that he

might thenceforward understand to whom he was obliged for the favour he

had received at her hands, and to whom he might ascribe some part of the

honour he should acquire by the valour of his invincible arm. She

answered with great humility, that her name was Tobosa, daughter of an

honest butcher in Toledo, who lived in one of the stalls of Sancho

Minaya: that she should always be at his service, and acknowledge him

for her lord and master. The knight professed himself extremely obliged

to her for her love; and begged she would, for the future, dignify her

name by calling herself Donna Tobosa. This request she promised

faithfully to comply with; and a dialogue of the same kind passed

between him and the other lady who buckled on his spur: when he asked

her name, she told him it was Mollinera; and that her father was an

honourable miller of Antequera. Don Quixote entreated her also to

ennoble her name with the same title of Donna, loaded her with thanks,

and made a tender of his service. These hitherto unseen ceremonies being

dispatched, as it were with post-haste, Don Quixote, impatient to see

himself on horseback, in quest of adventures, saddled and mounted

Rozinante forthwith, and embracing his host, uttered such a strange

rhapsody of thanks for his having dubbed him knight, that it is

impossible to rehearse the compliment. The landlord, in order to get rid

of him the sooner, answered in terms no less eloquent, though something

more laconick, and let him march off in a happy hour, without demanding

one farthing for his lodging.

Footnote 33:

This request was a little premature, inasmuch as the practice of

chivalry did not authorize the suppliant to ask a boon of his

godfather, until he was dubbed, and then he had a right to demand it.

Footnote 34:

Literally, the colt of Cordova, because the water gushes out of a

fountain resembling an horse’s mouth. These are places of resort

frequented by thieves and sharpers.

Footnote 35:

Here the landlord was more selfish than observant of the customs of

chivalry; for knights were actually exempted from all expence

whatever; except when damages were awarded against them in a court of

justice; and in that case they paid for their rank. This they looked

upon as a mark of their pre-eminence; in consequence of which, at the

siege of Dun le Roy, in the year 1411, each knight was ordered to

carry eight fascines, while the squire was quit for half the number.

Footnote 36:

This custom of watching armour in church or chapel, was a religious

duty imposed upon knights, who used to consume the whole night in

prayer to some saint, whom they chose as their patron; and this

exercise of devotion was performed on the night preceding the said

saint’s day. The same ceremony was observed by those who were

sentenced to the combat-proof.

Footnote 37:

The slap on the shoulders, and the box on the ear being bestowed, the

godfather pronounced, ‘In the name of God, St. Michael, and St.

George, I dub thee knight: be worthy, bold, and loyal.’

CHAP. IV.

OF WHAT BEFEL OUR KNIGHT, WHEN HE SALLIED FROM THE INN.

It was early in the morning when Don Quixote sallied from the inn, so

well satisfied, so sprightly, and so glad to see himself invested with

the order of knighthood, that the very girths of his horse vibrated with

joy: but, remembering his landlord’s advice, with regard to the

necessaries he ought to carry along with him, in particular the money

and clean shirts, he resolved to return to his own house, and furnish

himself not only with these, but also with a squire. For this office he

fixed, in his own mind, upon a poor ploughman who lived in his

neighbourhood, maintaining a family of children by his labour; a person

in all respects qualified for the lower services of chivalry. With this

view he steered his course homeward: and Rozinante, as if he had guessed

the knight’s intention, began to move with such alacrity and nimbleness,

that his hoofs scarce seemed to touch the ground.

He had not travelled far, when from the thickest part of a wood that

grew on his right-hand, his ear was saluted with shrill repeated cries,

which seemed to issue from the mouth of some creature in grievous

distress. No sooner did our hero hear this lamentation, than he

exclaimed, ‘Heaven be praised for the favour with which it now indulges

me, in giving me an opportunity so soon of fulfilling the duties of my

profession, and reaping the fruit of my laudable intention! These cries

doubtless proceed from some miserable male or female, who stands in need

of my immediate aid and protection.’ Then turning Rozinante, he rode

towards the place whence the complaint seemed to come; and having

entered the wood a few paces, he found a mare tied to one oak, and a lad

about fifteen, naked from the waist upwards, made fast to another. This

was he who screamed so piteously, and indeed not without reason; for a

sturdy peasant was employed in making applications to his carcase with a

leathern strap, accompanying each stripe with a word of reproof and

advice. Above all things, laying upon him strong injunctions, to use his

tongue less, and his eyes more: the young fellow replied, with great

fervency, ‘I will never do so again, master, so help me God! I won’t do

so any more; but for the future take more care, and use more dispatch.’

Don Quixote observing what passed, pronounced aloud with great

indignation: ‘Discourteous knight, it ill becomes thee to attack one who

cannot defend himself: mount thy steed, couch thy lance,’ (for there was

actually a lance leaning against the tree to which the mare was tied)

‘and I will make thee sensible of the cowardice of the action in which

thou art now engaged.’ The peasant seeing this strange figure, buckled

in armour, and brandishing a lance over his head, was mortally afraid,

and with great humility replied, ‘Sir knight, this lad whom I am

chastising, is my own servant hired to keep a flock of sheep, which feed

in these fields; but he is so negligent, that every day I lose one of

the number, and because I punish him for his carelessness, or knavery,

he says that I scourge him out of avarice, rather than pay him his

wages; though, upon my conscience, and as I shall answer to God, he

tells a lye.’—‘How! a lye, before me, base caitif!’ cried Don Quixote;

‘by the sun that enlightens this globe, I have a good mind to thrust

this lance through thy body! Pay the young man his wages straight,

without reply; or, by the Power that rules us, I will finish and

annihilate thee in an instant! unbind him therefore without hesitation.’

The countryman hung his head, and without speaking a syllable, untied

his man; who, being asked by the knight how much money was due to him,

said his master owed him for three quarters, at the rate of six rials a

month. His deliverer having cast it up, found that the whole amounted to

sixty-three rials, and ordered the peasant to disburse them instantly,

unless he had a mind to perish under his hands. The affrighted farmer

affirmed, by the grievous situation in which he was, and the oath he had

already taken, though, by the bye, he had taken no oath at all, that the

sum did not amount to so much; for that he was to discount and allow for

three pair of shoes he had received, and a rial for two bleedings while

he was sick. ‘Granting that to be true,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘the shoes

and the bleeding shall stand for the stripes you have given him without

cause; for, if he has wore out the leather of the shoes that you paid

for, you have made as free with the leather of his carcase; and if the

barber let out his blood when he was sick, you have blooded him when he

was well; he therefore stands acquitted of these debts.’—‘The

misfortune, Sir knight,’ said the peasant, ‘is this; I have not coin

about me: but if Andrew will go home to my house, I will pay him

honestly in ready-money.’—‘Go with you!’ cried the lad; ‘the devil fetch

me if I do! No, no, master, I must not think of that; were I to go home

with him alone, he would flay me like another Saint Bartholomew.’—‘He

won’t do so,’ replied the knight, ‘but shew more regard to my commands;

and if he will swear to me by the laws of that order of knighthood which

he has received, that he will pay you your wages, I will set him free,

and warrant the payment.’—‘Lord, how your worship talks!’ said the boy;

‘this master of mine is no gentleman, nor has he received any order of

knighthood, but is known by the name of rich John Haldudo, and lives in

the neighbourhood of Quintanar.’—‘No matter,’ replied Don Quixote,

‘there may be knights among the Haldudos, especially as every one is the

son of his own works.’—‘True,’ said Andrew; ‘but what works is my master

the son of, since he refuses to pay me for my labour, and the sweat of

my brows?’—‘I don’t refuse; honest Andrew,’ answered the peasant; ‘thou

wilt do me a pleasure in going home with me; and I swear by all the

honours of knighthood in the universe, that I will pay thee thy wages,

as I said before, in ready-money; nay, you shall have it perfumed into

the bargain.’—‘Thank you for your perfumes!’ said the knight; ‘pay him

in lawful coin, and I shall be satisfied: and be sure you fulfil the

oath you have taken; for, by the same obligation, I swear, that in case

you fail, I will return to chastise you, and ferret you out, even though

you should be more concealed than a lizard. If you would understand who

it is that lays such commands upon you, that you may find yourself under

a necessity of performing them with reverence and awe, know that I am

the valiant Don Quixote de La Mancha, the redresser of wrongs, and

scourge of injustice: so farewel. Remember, not to belye your promise

and oath, on pain of the penalty prescribed.’ With these words, he

clapped spurs to Rozinante, and was out of sight in a moment.

The countryman followed him with his eyes, till he saw him quite clear

of the wood; then turning to Andrew, said, ‘Come hither, child, I must

pay what I owe you, according to the order of that redresser of

wrongs.’—‘And adad,’ said Andrew, ‘you had best not neglect the orders

of that worthy knight, who (blessings on his heart!) is equally valiant

and upright; for odds bobs, if you do not pay me, he will return and be

as good as his word.’—‘In faith, I am of the same opinion,’ replied the

peasant; ‘but, out of my infinite regard for you, I am desirous of

encreasing the debt, that the payment may be doubled.’ So saying, he

laid hold of his arm, and tying him again to the tree, flogged him so

severely, that he had like to have died on the spot. ‘Now is the time,

Mr. Andrew,’ said the executioner, ‘to call upon the redresser of

grievances, who will find it difficult to redress this, which by the bye

I am loth to finish, being very much inclined to justify your fear of

being flayed alive.’ At length, however, he unbound and left him at

liberty to find out his judge, who was to execute the sentence he had

pronounced. Andrew sneaked off, not extremely well satisfied: on the

contrary, vowing to go in quest of the valiant Don Quixote de La Mancha,

and inform him punctually of every thing that had happened, an account

which would certainly induce him to pay the countryman sevenfold.

In spite of this consolation, however, he departed blubbering with pain,

while his master remained weeping with laughter. And thus was the

grievance redressed by the valiant Don Quixote, who, transported with

the success, and the happy and sublime beginning which he imagined his

chivalry had been favoured with, jogged on towards his own village, with

infinite self satisfaction, pronouncing with a low voice, ‘O Dulcinea

del Toboso, fairest among the fair! well may’st thou be counted the most

fortunate beauty upon earth, seeing it is thy fate to keep in subjection

and wholly resigned to thy will and pleasure, such a daring and renowned

knight as Don Quixote de La Mancha now is, and always will remain. He

who, as all the world knows, but yesterday received the honour of

knighthood, and has this day redressed the greatest wrong and grievance

that ever injustice hatched, and cruelty committed! To-day he wrested

the lash from the hand of the merciless enemy, who so unjustly scourged

the body of that tender infant!’ Having uttered this exclamation, he

found himself in a road that divided into four paths, and straight his

imagination suggested those cross-ways that were wont to perplex

knights-errant in their choice; in imitation of whom, he paused a

little, and after mature deliberation, threw the reins on Rozinante’s

neck, leaving the decision to him, who following his first intention,

took the path that led directly to his own stable.

Having travelled about two miles farther, Don Quixote descried a number

of people, who, as was afterwards known, were six merchants of Toledo,

going to buy silks at Mercia, and who travelled with umbrellas, attended

by four servants on horseback, and three mule-drivers on foot. Don

Quixote no sooner perceived them at a distance, than he imagined them to

be some new adventure; and, in order to imitate, as much as in him lay,

those scenes he had read in his books of chivalry, he thought this was

an occasion expressly ordained for him to execute his purposed

atchievement.

He therefore, with gallant and resolute deportment, seated himself

firmly in his stirrups, grasped his lance, braced on his target, and

posting himself in the middle of the road, waited the arrival of those

knights-errant, for such he judged them to be. When they were near

enough to hear him, he pronounced in a loud and arrogant tone: ‘Let the

whole universe cease to move, if the whole universe refuses to confess,

that there is not in the whole universe a more beautiful damsel than the

peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the high and mighty Empress of La Mancha.’

The merchants hearing this declaration, and seeing the strange figure

from which it proceeded, were alarmed at both, and halting immediately,

at a distance reconnoitred the madness of the author. Curious, however,

to know the meaning of that confession which he exacted, one of them,

who was a sort of a wag, though at the same time a man of prudence and

discretion, accosted him thus: ‘Sir Knight, as we have not the honour to

know who this worthy lady is, be so good as to produce her; and if we

find her so beautiful as you proclaim her to be, we will gladly, and

without any sort of reward, confess the truth, according to your

desire.’—‘If I produce her,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘what is the mighty

merit of your confessing such a notorious truth? The importance of my

demand consists in your believing, acknowledging, affirming upon oath,

and defending her beauty, before you have seen it. And this ye shall do,

ye insolent and uncivil race, or engage with me in battle forthwith.

Come on then, one by one, according to the laws of chivalry, or all

together, as the treacherous custom is among such wretches as you; here

I expect you with full hope and confidence in the justice of my

cause.’—‘Sir knight,’ replied the merchant, ‘I humbly beg, in the name

of all these princes here present, that your worship will not oblige us

to burden our consciences, by giving testimony to a thing that we have

neither seen nor heard, especially as it tends to the prejudice of the

queens and princesses of Alcarria and Estremadura; but, if your worship

will be pleased to shew us any sort of a picture of this lady, though it

be no bigger than a grain of wheat, so as we can judge the clue by the

thread, we will be satisfied with this sample, and you shall be obeyed

to your heart’s content; for I believe we are already so prepossessed in

her favour, that though the portrait should represent her squinting with

one eye, and distilling vermilion and brimstone with the other, we will,

notwithstanding, in compliance to your worship, say what you desire in

her favour.’—‘Her eyes, infamous wretch!’ replied Don Quixote, in a

rage, ‘distil not such productions, but teem with amber and rich

perfume; neither is there any defect in her sight, or in her body, which

is more straight than a Guadarrama spindle; but you shall suffer for the

licentious blasphemy you have uttered against the unparalleled beauty of

my sovereign mistress.’ So saying, he couched his lance, and attacked

the spokesman with such rage and fury, that had not Rozinante luckily

stumbled and fallen in the midst of his career, the merchant would have

had no cause to rejoice in his rashness; but when the unhappy steed fell

to the ground, the rider was thrown over his head, and pitched at a good

distance upon the field, where he found all his endeavours to get up

again ineffectual, so much was he encumbered with his lance, target,

helmet, and spurs, together with the weight of his ancient armour.

While he thus struggled, but in vain, to rise, he bellowed forth, ‘Fly

not, ye cowardly crew; tarry a little, ye base caitiffs: not through any

fault of my own, but of my horse, am I thus discomfited.’ One of the

mule-drivers, who seems not to have been of a very milky disposition,

could not bear this arrogant language of the poor overthrown knight,

without making a reply upon his ribs. Going up to him, therefore, he

laid hold on his lance, and breaking it, began to thresh him so

severely, that, in spite of the resistance of his armour, he was almost

beaten into mummy; and though the fellow’s master called to him to

forbear, he was so incensed, that he could not leave off the game, until

he had exhausted the whole of his choler. Gathering the other pieces of

the lance, he reduced them all to shivers, one after another, on the

miserable carcase of the Don, who, notwithstanding this storm of blows

which descended on him, never closed his mouth, but continued

threatening heaven and earth, and those banditti, for such he took the

merchants to be.

The driver was tired at length of his exercise, and his masters pursued

their journey, carrying with them sufficient food for conversation about

this poor battered knight; who no sooner found himself alone, than he

made another effort to rise; but if he found this design impracticable

when he was safe and sound, much less could he accomplish it now that he

was disabled, and as it were wrought into a paste. He did not, however,

look upon himself as unhappy, because this misfortune was in his opinion

peculiar to knights-errant; and, that he was not able to rise on account

of the innumerable bruises he had received, he ascribed entirely to the

fault of his horse.

CHAP. V.

IN WHICH THE STORY OF OUR KNIGHT’S MISFORTUNE IS CONTINUED.

Finding it therefore impossible to move, he was fain to have recourse to

his usual remedy, which was to amuse his imagination with some passages

of the books he had read; and his madness immediately recalled to his

memory that of Valdovinos and the Marquis of Mantua, when Carloto left

him wounded on the mountain; a piece of history that every body knows,

that every young man is acquainted with, and which is celebrated, nay

more, believed, by old age itself, though it be as apocryphal as the

miracles of Mahomet: nevertheless, it occurred to him as an occasion

expressly adapted to his present situation. Therefore, with marks of

extreme affliction, he began to roll about upon the ground, and with a

languid voice, exclaim, in the words of the wounded knight of the wood—

‘Where art thou, lady of my heart,

‘Regardless of my misery?

‘Thou little know’st thy lover’s smart,

‘Or faithless art and false pardie!’

In this manner he went on repeating the romance until he came to these

lines:

‘O noble prince of Mantuan plains.

‘My carnal kinsman, and my lord!’

Before he could repeat the whole couplet, a peasant who was a neighbour

of his own, and lived in the same village, chanced to pass, in his way

from the mill where he had been with a load of wheat. This honest

countryman seeing a man lying stretched upon the ground, came up, and

asked him who he was, and the reason of his lamenting so piteously. Don

Quixote doubtless believed that this was his uncle the Marquis of

Mantua, and made no other reply but the continuation of his romance, in

which he gave an account of his own misfortune, occasioned by the amour

betwixt his wife and the emperor’s son, exactly as it is related in the

book. The peasant, astonished at such a rhapsody, took off his beaver,

which had been beaten to pieces by the mule-driver, and wiping his face,

which was covered with dust, immediately knew the unfortunate knight.

‘Signior Quixada,’ said he, (for so he was called before he had lost his

senses, and was transformed from a sober country gentleman into a

knight-errant) ‘who has left your worship in such a woeful condition?’

But he, without minding the question that was put to him, proceeded, as

before, with his romance; which the honest man perceiving, went to work,

and took off his back and breast-plates, to see if he had received any

wound, but he could perceive neither blood nor scar upon his body. He

then raised him upon his legs, and with infinite difficulty mounted him

upon his own beast, which appeared to him a safer carriage than the

knight’s steed.

Having gathered up his armour, even to the splinters of the lance, he

tied them upon Rozinante, and taking hold of the reins, together with

the halter of his own ass, jogged on towards the village, not a little

concerned to hear the mad exclamations of Don Quixote, who did not find

himself extremely easy; for he was so battered and bruised, that he

could not sit upright upon the beast, but from time to time vented such

dismal groans, as obliged the peasant to ask again what was the matter

with him. Indeed, one would have thought, that the devil had assisted

his memory in supplying him with tales accommodated to the circumstances

of his own situation; for at that instant, forgetting Valdovinos, he

recollected the story of Abindar-raez the Moor, whom Rodrigo de Narvaez,

governor of Antequera, took prisoner, and carried into captivity to the

place of his residence; so that when the countryman repeated his desire

of knowing where he had been, and what was the matter with him, he

answered to the purpose, nay, indeed, in the very words, used by the

captive Abencerraje to the said Rodrigo de Narvaez, as may be seen in

the Diana of George Monte-major, which he had read, and so well-adapted

for his purpose, that the countryman hearing such a composition of

folly, wished them both at the devil.

It was then he discovered that his neighbour was mad; and therefore made

all the haste he could to the village, that he might be the sooner rid

of his uneasiness at the unaccountable harangue of Don Quixote; who had

no sooner finished this exclamation, than he accosted his conductor in

these words—‘Know, then, valiant Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, that this same

beautiful Xarifa, whom I have mentioned, is no other than the fair

Dulcinea del Toboso, for whom I have performed, undertake, and will

atchieve, the most renowned exploits, that ever were, are, or will be

seen on earth.’ To this address the countryman replied with great

simplicity—‘How your worship talks! As I am a sinner, I am neither Don

Rodrigo de Narvaez, nor the Marquis of Mantua, but Pedro Alonzo, your

neighbour; nor is your worship either Valdovinos, or Abindar-raez, but

the worthy gentleman Signior Quixada.’—‘I know very well who I am,’

replied Don Quixote; ‘and that it is possible for me to be not only

those whom I have mentioned, but also the whole Twelve Peers of France,

and even the Nine Worthies, seeing that my atchievements will excel not

only those of each of them singly, but even the exploits of them all

joined together.’

Discoursing in this manner, they arrived at the village about twilight;

but the peasant staid till it was quite dark, that the poor rib-roasted

knight might not be seen in such a woeful condition. Then he conducted

Don Quixote to his own house, which was all in confusion. When he

arrived, the curate and the barber of the village, two of his best

friends and companions, were present, and his housekeeper was just

saying with a woeful countenance, ‘Mr. Licentiate Pero Perez,’ that was

the curate’s name, ‘some misfortune must certainly have happened to my

master; for six days, both he and his horse, together with the target,

lance, and armour, have been missing[38]: as I am a sinner, it is just

come into my head, and it is certainly as true as that every one is born

to die, those hellish books of knight-errantry, which he used to read

with so much pleasure, have turned his brain; for now I remember to have

heard him say to himself more than once, that he longed to be a

knight-errant, and stroll about in quest of adventures. May the devil

and Barrabas lay hold of such legends, which have perverted one of the

soundest understandings in all La Mancha!’

To this remark the niece assented, saying—‘Moreover, you must know, Mr.

Nicolas,’ this was the name of the barber, ‘my uncle would frequently,

after having been reading in these profane books of misadventures, for

two whole days and nights together, start up, throw the book upon the

ground, and drawing his sword, fence with the walls till he was quite

fatigued, then affirm that he had killed four giants as big as steeples,

and swear that the sweat of his brows, occasioned by this violent

exercise, was the blood of the wounds he had received in battle; then he

would drink of a large pitcher of cold water, and remain quiet and

refreshed, saying, that the water was a most precious beverage, with

which he was supplied by the sage Isquife, a mighty inchanter and friend

of his; but I take the whole blame to myself, for not having informed

your worship of my dear uncle’s extravagancies, that some remedy might

have been applied before they had proceeded to such excess; and that you

might have burnt all those excommunicated books, which deserve the fire

as much as if they were crammed with heresy.’

‘I am of the same opinion,’ said the curate; ‘and assure you, before

another day shall pass, they shall undergo a severe trial, and be

condemned to the flames, that they may not induce other readers to

follow the same path which I am afraid my good friend has taken.’ Every

syllable of this conversation was overheard by Don Quixote and his

guide, which last had now no longer any doubt about his neighbour’s

infirmity, and therefore pronounced with a loud voice—‘Open your gates

to the valiant Valdovinos, and the great Marquis of Mantua, who comes

home wounded from the field together with the Moor Abindar-raez, who

drags in captivity the valiant Rodrigo de Narvaez, governor of

Antequera.’

Alarmed at these words, they came all to the door, and perceiving who it

was, the barber and curate went to receive their friend, and the women

ran to embrace their master and kinsman; who, though he had not as yet

alighted, for indeed it was not in his power, proclaimed aloud—‘Let the

whole world take notice, that the wounds I have received were owing to

the fault of my horse alone; carry me therefore to bed, and send if

possible for the sage Urganda[39], to search and cure them.’—‘See now,

in an evil hour,’ cried the housekeeper, hearing these words, ‘if I did

not truly foretel of what leg my master was lame!—Your worship shall

understand, in good time, that without the assistance of that same

Urganda, we know how to cure the hurts you have received; and cursed, I

say, nay a hundred and a hundred times cursed, be those books of

chivalry, which have so disordered your honour’s brain!’ Having carried

him to his bed, they began to search for his wounds, but could find

none; and he told them that his whole body was one continued bruise,

occasioned by the fall of his horse Rozinante, during his engagement

with ten of the most insolent and outrageous giants that ever appeared

upon the face of the earth. ‘Ah, ha!’ cried the curate, ‘have we got

giants too in the dance! Now, by the faith of my function, I will reduce

them all to ashes before to-morrow night!’

A thousand questions did they ask of the knight, who made no other

answer, but desired them to bring him some food, and leave him to his

repose, which indeed was what he had most occasion for. They complied

with his request, and the curate informed himself at large of the manner

in which he had been found by the countryman, who gave him full

satisfaction in that particular, and repeated all the nonsense he had

uttered when he first found him, as well as what he afterwards spoke in

their way home. This information confirmed the licentiate in his

resolution, which was executed next day, when he brought his friend

master Nicolas the barber along with him to Don Quixote’s house.

Footnote 38:

The author seems to have committed a small oversight in this

paragraph; for the knight had not been gone above two days and one

night, which he spent in watching his armour.

Footnote 39:

The name of a good-natured inchantress in Amadis de Gaul. During the

age of knight-errantry, it was usual for ladies to study the art of

surgery, in order to dress the wounds of those knights who were their

servants. One of the heroines of Perce Forest says to Norgal, ‘Fair

nephew, methinks your arm is not at ease.’—‘In faith, dear lady,’

answered Norgal, ‘you are in the right; and I beseech you to take it

under your care.’ Then she called her daughter Helen, who entertained

her cousin with good cheer, and afterwards reduced his arm which was

dislocated.

CHAP. VI.

OF THE DIVERTING AND MINUTE SCRUTINY PERFORMED BY THE CURATE AND THE

BARBER, IN THE LIBRARY OF OUR SAGACIOUS HERO.

While the knight was asleep, his friends came and demanded of his niece

the key of the closet in which those books, the authors of his

misfortune, were kept; and she delivering it with great chearfulness,

they went into it in a body, housekeeper and all, and found upwards of a

hundred volumes, great and small, extremely well bound; which were no

sooner perceived by the governante, than she ran out with great

eagerness, and immediately returned with a porringer of holy water, and

a sprig of hyssop, saying—‘Here, Master Licentiate, pray take and

sprinkle the closet, lest some one of the many inchanters contained in

these books should exercise his art upon us, as a punishment for our

burning and banishing them from the face of the earth.’

The licentiate, smiling at the old housekeeper’s simplicity, desired the

barber to hand him the books one by one, that he might see of what

subjects they treated, because they might possibly find some that did

not deserve to be purged by fire. ‘There is not one of them,’ replied

the niece, ‘which deserves the least mercy, for they are all full of

mischief and deceit. You had better, therefore, throw them out of the

window into the court-yard, and there set fire to them in a heap: or let

them be carried into the back-yard, where the bonfire may be made, and

the smoke will offend nobody.’ The housekeeper assented to this

proposal, so eager were they both to destroy those innocents; but the

curate would by no means encourage such barbarity, without reading

first, if possible, the title-pages.

The first that Master Nicolas delivered into his hand, were the four

volumes of Amadis de Gaul. ‘There is,’ said the good man, ‘something

mysterious in this circumstance; for, as I have heard, that was the

first book of chivalry printed in Spain, from which all the rest have

derived their origin and plan; and therefore, in my opinion, we ought to

condemn him to the fire, without hesitation, as the law-giver of such a

pernicious sect.’—‘By no means,’ cried the barber; ‘for I have also

heard, that this is the best book of the kind that was ever composed;

and therefore ought to be pardoned, as an original and model in its

way.’—‘Right,’ said the curate; ‘and for that reason he shall be spared

for the present. Let us see that author who stands next to him.’—‘This,’

says the barber, ‘contains the atchievements of Esplandian, the lawful

son of Amadis de Gaul.’—‘Truly, then,’ said the curate, ‘the virtues of

the father shall not avail the son. Here, Mrs Housekeeper, open that

window, and toss him into the yard, where he shall serve as a foundation

for the bonfire we intend to make.’

This talk the housekeeper performed with infinite satisfaction; and the

worthy Esplandian took his flight into the yard, to wait in patience for

the fire with which he was threatened. ‘Proceed,’ cried the curate.

‘This that comes next,’ said the barber, ‘is Amadis of Greece; and I

believe all the authors on this shelf are of the same family.’—‘To the

yard, then, with all of them,’ replied the curate; ‘for rather than not

burn Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the shepherd Darinel with his eclogues,

together with the unintelligible and bedevilled discourses of his

author; I would even consume the father who begat me, should he appear

in the figure of a knight-errant.’—‘I am of your opinion,’ said the

barber. ‘And I,’ cried the niece. ‘Since that is the case,’ said the

housekeeper, ‘to the yard with them immediately.’ Accordingly, they

delivered a number into her hands; and she, out of tenderness for the

stair-case, sent them all out of the window.

‘Who may that tun-like author be?’ said the curate. ‘This here,’

answered the barber, ‘is Don Olivante de Laura.’—‘The very same,’

replied the curate, ‘who composed the Garden of Flowers; and truly it is

hard to determine, which of his two books is the most true, or rather

which of them is least false: all that I know is, that he shall go to

the pile for his arrogance and folly.’—‘He that follows,’ says the

barber, ‘is Florismarte of Hircania.’—‘What, Signior Florismarte?’

replied the curate: ‘in faith, then he must prepare for his fate;

notwithstanding his surprizing birth, and mighty adventures, and the

unparalleled stiffness and sterility of his stile.—Down with him,

Mistress Housekeeper! and take this other along with you also.’—‘With

all my heart, dear Sir!’ replied the governante; who executed his

commands with vast alacrity.

‘He that comes next,’ said the barber, ‘is the knight Platir.’—‘That is

an old book,’ said the clergyman; ‘but as I can find nothing in him that

deserves the least regard, he must e’en keep the rest company.’ He was

accordingly doomed to the flames, without farther question. The next

book they opened was intituled, The Knight of the Cross; which the

curate having read, ‘The ignorance of this author,’ said he, ‘might be

pardoned, on account of his holy title; but according to the proverb,

“The devil skulks behind the cross;” and therefore let him descend into

the fire.’ Master Nicolas taking up another book, found it was the

Mirror of Chivalry. ‘Oh, ho!’ cried the curate, ‘I have the honour to

know his worship. Away with Signior Rinaldo de Mont-alban, with his

friends and companions, who were greater thieves than Cacus; not

forgetting the Twelve Peers, together with Turpin, their candid

historian. Though, truly, in my opinion, their punishment ought not to

exceed perpetual banishment, because they contain some part of the

invention of the renowned Matteo Boyardo, on which was weaved the

ingenious web of the Christian poet Ludovico Ariosto; to whom, should I

find him here speaking in any other language than his own, I would pay

no regard; but, if he talks in his own idiom, I will place him on my

head, in token of respect.’—‘I have got him at home,’ said the barber,

‘in Italian, but I don’t understand that language.’—‘Nor is it necessary

you should,’ replied the curate: ‘and here let us pray Heaven to forgive

the captain, who has impoverished him so much, by translating him into

Spanish, and making him a Castilian. And, indeed, the same thing will

happen to all those who pretend to translate books of poetry into a

foreign language; for, in spite of all their care and ability, they will

find it impossible to give the translation the same energy which is

found in the original. In short, I sentence this book, and all those

which we shall find treating of French matters, to be thrown and

deposited in a dry well, until we can determine at more leisure what

fate they must undergo, except Bernardo del Carpio, and another called

Roncesvalles, which if they fall into my hands, shall pass into those of

the housekeeper, and thence into the fire, without any mitigation.’

This was approved of as an equitable decision, and accordingly confirmed

by the barber, who knew the curate to be such a good Christian, and so

much a friend to truth, that he would not be guilty of an equivocation

for the whole universe. The next volume he opened was Palmerin D’Oliva;

and hard by him stood another, called Palmerin of England; which was no

sooner perceived by the licentiate, than he cried, ‘Let that Oliva be

hewn in pieces, and burned; so as not so much as a cinder of him shall

remain; but let the English Palmerin be defended, and preferred as an

inestimable jewel, and such another casket be made for him as that which

Alexander found among the spoils of Darius, and destined as a case for

the works of Homer. That book, neighbour, is venerable for two reasons,

first, because it is in itself excellent; and, secondly, because it is

said to have been composed by an ingenious king of Portugal. All the

adventures of the castle of Miraguarda are incomparable, and contrived

with infinite art; the language perspicuous and elegant, and the

characters supported with great propriety of sentiment and decorum. I

propose, Mr. Nicolas, saving your better judgment, to exempt this book

and Amadis de Gaul from the flames, and let all the rest perish without

farther enquiry.’

‘Pardon me, neighbour,’ replied the barber, ‘I have here got in my hand

the renowned Don Bellianis.’—‘Even he,’ answered the priest, ‘with the

second, third, and fourth parts, stands very much in need of a little

rhubarb to purge his excessive choler, and ought to be pruned of that

whole Castle of Fame, and other more important impertinences. For which

reason, let the sentence be changed into transportation; and, according

as he reforms he shall be treated with lenity and justice. In the mean

time, friend Nicolas, keep him safe in your house, out of the reach of

every reader.’—‘With all my soul!’ answered the barber; and without

giving themselves the trouble of reading any more titles, they ordered

the housekeeper to dismiss all the large books into the yard.

This direction was not given to a person who was either doating or deaf,

but to one who was much more inclined to perform that office than to

compose the largest and finest web that ever was seen. Taking up,

therefore, seven or eight at a time, she heaved them out of the window,

with incredible dispatch. While she was thus endeavouring to lift a good

many together, one of them chanced to fall at the feet of the barber,

who being seized with an inclination of knowing the contents, found upon

examination, that it was called the History of the famous Knight Tirante

the White. ‘Heaven be praised!’ cried the curate, aloud, ‘that we have

discovered Tirante the White in this place: pray give it me, neighbour;

for in this book I reckon I have found a treasure of satisfaction, and a

rich mine of amusement. Here is the famous Godamercy[40], of Mont-alban,

and his brother Thomas of Mont-alban, and the knight Fonseca, as also an

account of the battle fought between Alano and the valiant Detriante,

together with the Witticisms of the Young Lady, Joy of my Life, with the

amorous stratagems of the Widow Quiet, and her highness the Empress who

was enamoured of her Squire Hippolito. I do assure you, upon my word,

Mr. Nicolas, that, in point of stile, this is the best book that ever

was written. Here the knights eat, sleep, and die, in their beds, after

having made their wills, with many circumstances that are wanting in

other books of the same kind. Notwithstanding, the author who composed

it certainly deserved to be sent to the gallies for life, for having

spent his time in writing so much nonsense. Take and read him at home,

and you shall find what I say to be true.’—‘Very like,’ replied the

barber: ‘what shall we do with these small books that remain?’

‘These,’ said the curate, ‘cannot be books of chivalry, but must be

poems.’ Accordingly, opening one, he found it was the Diana of George de

Monte-major, and taking it for granted that all the rest were of the

same kind, said, ‘These books do not deserve to be burnt with the rest;

for they neither are nor ever will be guilty of so much mischief, as

those of chivalry have done; being books of entertainment, and no ways

prejudicial to religion.’—‘Pray, Sir,’ said the niece, ‘be so good as to

order these to be burnt with the rest; for my uncle will no sooner be

cured of his knight-errantry, than by reading these, he will turn

shepherd, and wander about the groves and meadows, piping and singing.

Nay, what is worse, perhaps turn poet, which they say is an infectious

and incurable distemper.’—‘The young woman is in the right,’ said the

curate; ‘and therefore it won’t be amiss to remove this temptation and

stumbling block out of our friend’s way. Since we have therefore begun

with the Diana of Monte-major, I am of opinion that we should not burn

him, but only expunge what relates to the sage Felicia, and the

inchanted water, together with all the larger poems, and leave to him, a

God’s name, all the prose, and the honour of being the ring-leader of

the writers of that class.’

‘This that follows,’ said the barber, ‘is called Diana the Second of

Salmantino, and this other that bears the same name, is written by Gil

Polo.’—‘Let Salmantino,’ replied the curate, ‘increase the number of

those that are already condemned to the yard; but let Gil Polo be

preserved as carefully as if it was the production of Apollo himself.

Proceed, friend Nicolas, and let us dispatch, for it grows late.’—‘This

here book,’ said the barber, opening the next, ‘is called the ten books

of the Fortune of Love, the production of Antonio Lofrasco, a Sardinian

poet.’—‘By my holy orders,’ cried the curate, ‘since Phœbus was Apollo,

the Muses the daughters of Jove, and bards delighted in poetry, there

never was such a pleasant and comical performance composed as this,

which is the best and most original of the kind which ever saw the

light; and he who has not read it may assure himself, that he has never

read any thing of taste: reach it me, neighbour; it gives me more

pleasure to have found this, than if I had received a cassock of

Florence silk.’

Accordingly, he laid it carefully by with infinite pleasure, and the

barber proceeded in his talk, saying; ‘Those that come next are the

Shepherd of Iberia, the Nymphs of Henares, and the Undeceptions of

Jealousy.’—‘Then there is no more to do,’ said the priest, ‘but to

deliver them over to the secular arm of the housekeeper; and do not ask

me why, else we shall never have done.’—‘Here comes the Shepherd of

Filida.’—‘He is no shepherd,’ cried the curate, ‘but a very elegant

courtier, and therefore preserve him as a precious jewel.’ Then the

barber laid hold of a very large volume, which was entitled, The

Treasure of Poetry. ‘If there was not so much of him, he would be more

esteemed,’ said the licentiate, ‘that book ought to be weeded and

cleared of certain meannesses, which have crept into the midst of its

excellencies: take care of it, for the author is my friend, and deserves

regard for some other more heroick and elevated works, which he has

composed.’—‘And this,’ continued the barber, ‘is a Collection of Songs,

by Lopez Maldonado.’—‘That author is my very good friend also,’ replied

the curate; ‘and his own verses out of his own mouth are the admiration

of every body; for he chants them with so sweet a voice, that the

hearers are inchanted. His eclogues are indeed a little diffuse, but

there cannot be too much of a good thing. Let them be preserved among

the elect: but, pray what book is that next to it?’ When the barber told

him it was the Galatea of Miguel de Cervantes; ‘That same Cervantes,’

said he, ‘has been an intimate friend of mine these many years, and is

to my certain knowledge more conversant with misfortunes than poetry.

There is a good vein of invention in his book, which proposes something,

though it concludes nothing. We must wait for the second part, which he

promises, and then perhaps his amendment may deserve a full pardon,

which is now denied: until that happens, let him be close confined in

your closet.’

‘With all my heart,’ replied the barber; ‘but here come three more

together, the Araucana of Don Alonzo de Ercilla, the Austriada of Juan

Ruso Jurado de Cordova, and the Monserrato of Christoval de Virues, a

Valentian poet.’—‘These three books,’ said the curate, ‘are the best

epic poems in the Castilian language, and may be compared with the most

renowned performances of Italy. Let them be kept as the inestimable

pledges of Spanish poetry.’ The curate grew tired of examining more

books, and would have condemned all the rest, contents unknown, if the

barber had not already opened another, which was called the Tears of

Angelica. ‘I should have shed tears for my rashness,’ said the curate,

hearing the name, ‘if I had ordered that book to be burned: for its

author was one of the most celebrated poets, not only of Spain, but of

the whole world; and, in particular, extremely successful in translating

some of the Metamorphoses of Ovid.’

Footnote 40:

In the original, _Quirielyson_, from the two Greek words κύριε

ἐλέησον, signifying, Lord have mercy.

CHAP. VII.

THE SECOND SALLY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.

While they were busied in this manner, Don Quixote began to cry aloud,

‘This way, this way, ye valiant knights! now is the time to shew the

strength of your invincible arms, that the courtiers may not carry off

the honour of the tournament.’ The scrutiny of the books that remained

was deserted by the curate and barber, who hastened to the author of

this noisy exclamation, and it is believed that all were committed to

the flames, unseen, unheard, not even excepting the Carolea, and Lyon of

Spain, together with the exploits of the emperor, composed by Don Louis

D’Avila; which were, doubtless, among those committed to the fire;

though, perhaps, had the curate seen them, they would not have undergone

so severe a sentence.

When they arrived in Don Quixote’s chamber, they found him on the floor,

proceeding with his rhapsody, and fencing with the walls, as broad awake

as if he had never felt the influence of sleep. Laying hold on him, by

force they re-conveyed him to his bed; where, after having rested a

little, he returned to his ravings, and addressed himself to the curate

in these words: ‘Certainly, my Lord Archbishop Turpin, we, who are

called the Twelve Peers of France, will be greatly disgraced, if we

allow the court-knights to win the victory in this tournament, after we,

the adventurers, have gained the prize in the three preceding

days.’—‘Give yourself no trouble about that consideration, my worthy

friend,’ said the curate; ‘for Providence may turn the scale, and what

is lost to-day may be retrieved to-morrow. In the mean time, have a

reverend care of your health, for you seem to be excessively fatigued,

if not wounded grievously.’—‘I am not wounded,’ replied the knight: ‘but

that I am battered and bruised, there is no manner of doubt; for the

bastard Don Orlando has mauled me to mummy with the trunk of an oak, and

all out of mere envy, because he saw that I alone withstood his valour.

But may I no longer deserve the name of Reynaldos de Montalban, if, when

I rise from this bed, I do not repay him in his own coin, in spite of

all his inchantments! Meanwhile, bring me some food, which is what I

chiefly want at present, and let me alone to take vengeance for the

injury I have received.’

In compliance with his desire they brought him something to eat, and

left him again to his repose, not without admiration of his madness and

extravagance. That very night the housekeeper set fire to, and consumed,

not only all the books that were in the yard, but also every one she

could find in the house; and no doubt many were burned, which deserved

to have been kept as perpetual archives. But this their destiny, and the

laziness of the inquisitors, would not allow; so that in them was

fulfilled the old proverb, _a saint may sometimes suffer for a sinner_.

Another remedy which the curate and barber prescribed for the distemper

of their friend, was to alter and block up the closet where his books

had been kept; that upon his getting up, he should not find them, and

the cause being taken away, the effect might cease; and that, upon his

inquiry, they should tell him an inchanter had carried them off, closet

and all; this resolution was executed with all imaginable dispatch,

during the two days that Don Quixote kept his bed.

The first thing he did when he got up, was to go and visit his books,

and not finding the apartment where he had left it, he went from one

corner of the house to the other in quest of his study. Coming to the

place where the door stood, he endeavoured but in vain to get in, and

cast his eyes all around without uttering one syllable; but after he had

spent some time in this sort of examination, he inquired of his

housekeeper whereabouts he might find his book-closet. She being well

instructed, readily answered, ‘What closet, or what nothing is your

worship in search of? There are neither books nor closet in this house;

for the devil himself has run away with both.’—‘It was not the devil,’

cried the niece, ‘but an inchanter that conveyed himself hither in a

cloud, one night after your worship’s departure, and alighting from a

dragon on which he was mounted, entered the closet, where I know not

what he did, but having staid a very little while, he came flying

through the roof, leaving the whole house full of smoke. And when we

went to see what he had done, we could neither find books nor closet;

only the housekeeper and I can very well remember, that when the old

wicked conjuror went away, he cried in a loud voice, that for the hatred

he bore to the master of those books and closet, he had done that

mischief, which would afterwards appear: he said also, that his name was

the sage Munaton.’—‘You mean Freston,’ said Don Quixote. ‘I do not

know,’ answered the housekeeper, ‘whether it was Freston or Friton; but

this I am certain of, that his name ended in ton.’—‘The case then is

plain,’ said the knight; ‘that same sage inchanter is one of my greatest

enemies; who bears me a grudge, because he knows, by the mystery of his

art, that the time will come when I shall fight and vanquish in single

battle a certain knight, whom he favours, in spite of all he can do to

prevent my success; and for this reason, he endeavours to give me every

mortification in his power; but let me tell him he won’t find it an easy

matter to contradict or evade what Heaven has decreed.’—‘Who ever

doubted that?’ said the niece; ‘but what business have you, dear uncle,

with these quarrels? Would it not be better to live in peace at home,

than to stray up and down the world in search of superfine bread,

without considering that many a one goes out for wool, and comes home

quite shorn.’—‘My dear niece,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘you are altogether

out of your reckoning. Before I be shorn, I will pull and pluck off the

beards of all those who pretend to touch a single hair of my mustacho.’

The two women did not chuse to make any farther answer, because they

perceived that his choler was very much inflamed. After this

transaction, however, he staid at home fifteen days in great

tranquillity, without giving the least sign or inclination to repeat his

folly; during which time, many infinitely diverting conversations passed

between him and his friends, the curate and the barber; wherein he

observed, that the world was in want of nothing so much as of

knights-errant, and that in him this honourable order was revived. The

clergyman sometimes contradicted him, and sometimes assented to what he

said, because, without this artful conduct, he would have had no chance

of bringing him to reason.

About this time, too, the knight tampered with a peasant in the

neighbourhood, a very honest fellow, if a poor man may deserve that

title, but one who had a very small quantity of brains in his skull. In

short, he said so much, used so many arguments to persuade, and promised

him such mountains of wealth, that this poor simpleton determined to

follow and serve him in quality of squire. Among other things, that he

might be disposed to engage chearfully, the knight told him that an

adventure might one day happen, in which he should win some island in

the twinkling of an eye, and appoint him governor of his conquest.

Intoxicated with these and other such promises, Sancho Panza (so was the

countryman called) deserted his wife and children, and listed himself as

his neighbour’s squire.

Thus far successful, Don Quixote took measures for supplying himself

with money; and what by selling one thing, mortgaging another, and

making a great many very bad bargains, he raised a tolerable sum. At the

same time accommodating himself with a target, which he borrowed of a

friend, and patching up the remains of his vizor as well as he could, he

advertised his squire Sancho of the day and hour in which he resolved to

set out, that he might provide himself with those things which he

thought most necessary for the occasion; above all things, charging him

to purchase a wallet. Sancho promised to obey his orders; and moreover

said he was resolved to carry along with him an excellent ass which he

had, as he was not designed by nature to travel far on foot.

With regard to the ass, Don Quixote demurred a little, endeavouring to

recollect some knight-errant who had entertained a squire mounted on an

ass; but as no such instance occurred to his memory, he was nevertheless

determined to allow it on this occasion, on a supposition that he should

be able to accommodate him with a more honourable carriage, by

dismounting the first discourteous knight he should meet with. He also

laid in a store of linen, and every thing else in his power, conformable

to the advice of the innkeeper.

Every thing being thus settled and fulfilled, Panza, without taking

leave of his children and wife; and Don Quixote, without bidding adieu

to his niece and housekeeper, sallied forth from the village one night,

unperceived by any living soul, and travelled so hard, that before dawn

they found themselves secure from all search, if any such had been made:

Sancho Panza journeying upon his ass like a venerable patriarch, with

his wallet and leathern bottle, longing extremely to see himself settled

in the government of that island which was promised to him by his

master.

The knight happened to take the same route and follow the same road in

which he travelled at his first sally through the field of Montiel, over

which he now passed with much less pains than formerly, because it was

now early in the morning, the rays of the sun were more oblique,

consequently he was less disturbed by the heat. It was hereabouts that

Sancho first opened his mouth, saying to his master, ‘Sir knight-errant,

I hope your worship will not forget that same island which you have

promised me, and which I warrant myself able to govern, let it be as

great as it will.’ To this remonstrance Don Quixote replied, ‘You must

know, friend Sancho Panza, that it was an established custom among the

ancient knights-errant, to invest their squires with the government of

such islands and kingdoms as they had laid under their subjection; and I

am firmly resolved, that such a grateful practice shall never fail in

me, who, on the contrary, mean to improve it by my generosity; for they

sometimes, nay generally, waited until their squires turned grey-haired,

and then, after they were worn out with service, and had endured many

dismal days and doleful nights, bestowed upon them the title of count or

marquis, at least of some valley or province, more or less; but if

Heaven spares thy life and mine, before six days be at an end, I may

chance to acquire such a kingdom as shall have others depending upon it,

as if expressly designed for thee to be crowned sovereign in one of

them. And thou oughtest not to be surprized, that such incidents and

accidents happen to knights-errant, by means never before known or

conceived, as will enable me even to exceed my promise.’—‘In that case,’

replied Sancho Panza, ‘if I should ever become a king, by any of those

miracles which your worship mentions, my duck Juana Gutierez would also

be a queen, and each of my daughters an infanta.’—‘Certainly,’ said the

knight; ‘who doubts that?’—‘That do I,’ said the squire; ‘for certain I

am, that though it were to rain kingdoms upon the earth, not one of them

would fit seemly on the head of Mary Gutierez[41]; your worship must

know, she is not worth a farthing for a queen; she might do indeed for a

countess, with the blessing of God, and good assistance.’—‘Recommend the

matter to Providence,’ replied Don Quixote, which will bestow upon thee

what will be best adapted to thy capacity; but let not thy soul be so

far debased, as to content itself with any thing less than a

vice-royalty.’—‘That I will not,’ answered Sancho, ‘especially as I have

a powerful master in your worship, who will load me with as much

preferment as I can conveniently bear.’

Footnote 41:

How comes Juana to be so suddenly metamorphosed into Mary?

CHAP. VIII.

OF THE HAPPY SUCCESS OF THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE,

AND THE DREADFUL AND INCONCEIVABLE ADVENTURE OF THE WIND-MILLS,

WITH OTHER INCIDENTS WORTHY TO BE RECORDED

BY THE MOST ABLE HISTORIAN.

In the midst of this their conversation, they discovered thirty or forty

wind-mills all together on the plain, which the knight no sooner

perceived, than he said to his squire, ‘Chance has conducted our affairs

even better than we could either wish or hope for; look there, friend

Sancho, and behold thirty or forty outrageous giants, with whom I intend

to engage in battle, and put every soul of them to death, so that we may

begin to enrich ourselves with their spoils; for it is a meritorious

warfare, and serviceable both to God and man, to extirpate such a wicked

race from the face of the earth.’—‘What giants do you mean?’ said Sancho

Panza in amaze. ‘Those you see yonder,’ replied his master, ‘with vast

extended arms; some of which are two leagues long.’—‘I would your

worship would take notice,’ replied Sancho, ‘that those you see yonder

are no giants, but wind-mills; and what seem arms to you, are sails,

which being turned with the wind, make the mill-stone work.’—‘It seems

very plain,’ said the knight, ‘that you are but a novice in adventures;

these I affirm to be giants; and if thou art afraid, get out of the

reach of danger, and put up thy prayers for me, while I join with them

in fierce and unequal combat.’ So saying, he put spurs to his steed

Rozinante, without paying the least regard to the cries of his squire

Sancho, who assured him, that those he was going to attack were no

giants, but innocent wind-mills: but he was so much possessed with the

opinion that they were giants, that he neither heard the advice of his

squire Sancho, nor would use the intelligence of his own eyes, though he

was very near them; on the contrary, when he approached them, he called

aloud, ‘Fly not, ye base and cowardly miscreants, for he is but a single

knight who now attacks you.’ At that instant a breeze of wind springing

up, the great sails began to turn; which being perceived by Don Quixote,

‘Tho’ you wield,’ said he, ‘more arms than ever belonged to the giant

Briareus, I will make you pay for your insolence.’ So saying, and

heartily recommending himself to his Lady Dulcinea, whom he implored to

succour him in this emergency, bracing on his target, and setting his

lance in the rest, he put his Rozinante to full speed, and assaulting

the nearest wind-mill, thrust it into one of the sails, which was drove

about by the wind with so much fury, that the lance was shivered to

pieces, and both knight and steed whirled aloft, and overthrown in very

bad plight upon the plain.

Sancho Panza rode as fast as the ass could carry him to his assistance;

and when he came up, found him unable to stir, by reason of the bruises

which he and Rozinante had received. ‘Lord have mercy upon us!’ said the

squire, ‘did not I tell your worship to consider well what you were

about? Did not I assure you, they were no other than wind-mills? Indeed,

no body could mistake them for any thing else, but one who has

wind-mills in his own head!’—‘Pr’ythee, hold thy peace, friend Sancho,’

replied Don Quixote; ‘the affairs of war are more than any thing subject

to change. How much more so, as I believe, nay, am certain, that the

sage Freston, who stole my closet and books, has converted those giants

into mills, in order to rob me of the honour of their overthrow; such is

the enmity he bears me; but in the end, all his treacherous arts will

but little avail against the vigour of my sword.’—‘God’s will be done!’

replied Sancho Panza, who helped him to rise and mount Rozinante that

was almost disjointed.

While they conversed together upon what had happened, they followed the

road that leads to the pass of Lapice; for in that, which was a great

thoroughfare, as Don Quixote observed, it was impossible but they must

meet with many and divers adventures. As he jogged along, a good deal

concerned for the loss of his lance, he said to his squire, ‘I remember

to have read of a Spanish knight, called Diego Perez de Vargos, who,

having broke his sword in battle, tore off a mighty branch or bough from

an oak, with which he performed such wonders, and felled so many Moors,

that he retained the name of Machuca, or the Feller, and all his

descendants from that day forward have gone by the name of Vargos and

Machuca. This circumstance I mention to thee, because, from the first

ash or oak that I meet with, I am resolved to rend as large and stout a

bough as that, with which I expect, and intend to perform such exploits,

as thou shalt think thyself extremely happy in being thought worthy to

see, and give testimony to feats otherwise incredible.’—‘By God’s help,’

says Sancho, ‘I believe that every thing will happen as your worship

says: but pray, Sir, sit a little more upright; for you seem to lean

strangely to one side, which must proceed from the bruises you received

in your fall.’—‘Thou art in the right,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘and if I

do not complain of the pain, it is because knights-errant are not

permitted to complain of any wound they receive, even though their

bowels should come out of their bodies.’—‘If that be the case, I have

nothing to reply,’ said Sancho; ‘but God knows, I should be glad your

worship would complain when any thing gives you pain; this I know, that,

for my own part, the smallest prick in the world would make me complain,

if that law of not complaining does not reach to the squires as well as

the knights.’ Don Quixote could not help smiling at the simplicity of

his squire, to whom he gave permission to complain as much and as often

as he pleased, whether he had cause or no; for, as yet, he had read

nothing to the contrary in the history of knight-errantry.

Then Sancho observing that it was dinner-time, his master told him, that

for the present he had no occasion for food; but that he, his squire,

might go to victuals when he pleased. With this permission, Sancho

adjusted himself as well as he could upon his ass, and taking out the

provision with which he had stuffed his wallet, he dropped behind his

master a good way, and kept his jaws agoing as he jogged along, lifting

the bottle to his head, from time to time, with so much satisfaction,

that the most pampered vintner of Malaga might have envied his

situation.

While he travelled in this manner, repeating his agreeable draughts, he

never thought of the promise which his master had made to him, nor

considered it as a toil, but rather as a diversion, to go in quest of

adventures, how dangerous soever they might be: in fine, that night they

passed under a tuft of trees, from one of which Don Quixote tore a

withered branch to serve instead of a lance; and fitted to it the iron

head he had taken from that which was broken: all night long the knight

closed not an eye, but mused upon his Lady Dulcinea, in order to

accommodate himself to what he had read of those errants who had passed

many sleepless nights in woods and desarts, entertaining themselves with

the remembrance of their mistresses.

This was not the case with Sancho Panza, whose belly being well

replenished, and that not with plantane water, made but one nap of the

whole night, and even then would not have waked, unless his master had

called to him, notwithstanding the sun-beams that played upon his face,

and the singing of the birds, which in great numbers, and joyous melody,

saluted the approach of the new day. The first thing he did when he got

up, was to visit his bottle, which finding considerably more lank than

it was the night before, he was grievously afflicted, because in the

road that they pursued, he had no hopes of being able in a little time

to supply its defect. Don Quixote refusing to breakfast, because, as we

have already said, he regaled himself with the savoury remembrance of

his mistress, they pursued their journey towards the pass; which, after

three days travelling, they discovered. ‘Here,’ cried Don Quixote,

‘here, brother Sancho Panza, we shall be able to dip our hands up to our

elbows in what is called adventure; but take notice, although thou seest

me beset with the most extreme danger, thou must by no means even so

much as lay thy hand upon thy sword, with design to defend me, unless I

am assaulted by vulgar and low-born antagonists; in which case thou

mayest come to my assistance; but if they are knights, thou art by no

means permitted or licensed, by the laws of chivalry, to give me the

least succour, until thou thyself hast received the honour of

knighthood[42].’—‘As for that matter,’ replied Sancho, ‘your worship

shall be obeyed to a tittle; for I am a very peaceable man, and not at

all fond of meddling with riots and quarrels. True, indeed, in the

defence of my own person, I shall not pay much regard to the said laws,

seeing every one that is aggrieved is permitted to defend himself by all

the laws of God and man.’—‘I say nothing to the contrary,’ replied Don

Quixote; ‘but in the affair of assisting me against knights, thou must

keep thy natural impetuosity under the rein.’—‘That will I,’ answered

Sancho, ‘and keep your honour’s command as strictly as I keep the Lord’s

day.’

While they were engaged in this conversation, there appeared before them

two Benedictine monks mounted upon dromedaries, for their mules were not

much less, with their travelling spectacles and umbrellas; after them

came a coach, accompanied by four or five people on horseback, and two

mule-drivers on foot. In this carriage, it was afterwards known, a

Biscayan lady was travelling to Seville to her husband, who was bound to

the Indies with a rich cargo.

Don Quixote no sooner perceived the friars, (who though they travelled

the same road, were not of her company) than he said to his squire, ‘If

I am not very much mistaken, that will be the most famous adventure that

ever was known, for those black apparitions on the road must doubtless

be inchanters, who are carrying off in that coach some princess they

have stolen; and there is a necessity for my exerting my whole power in

redressing her wrongs.’—‘This will be worse than the wind-mills,’ cried

Sancho: ‘for the love of God! Sir, consider that these are Benedictine

friars; and those who are in the coach can be no other than common

travellers. Mind what I say, and consider what you do, and let not the

devil deceive you.’—‘I have told thee already, Sancho,’ replied Don

Quixote, ‘that with regard to adventures, thou art utterly ignorant:

what I say is true, and in a moment thou shalt be convinced.’

So saying, he rode forward, and placed himself in the middle of the

highway through which the friars were to pass; and when he thought them

near enough to hear what he said, he pronounced, in a loud voice,

‘Monstrous and diabolical race! surrender, this instant, those high-born

princesses, whom you carry captives in that coach; or prepare to receive

immediate death, as a just punishment for your misdeeds.’ The friars

immediately stopped short, astonished as much at the figure as at the

discourse of Don Quixote: to which they replied, ‘Sir knight, we are

neither diabolical nor monstrous, but innocent monks of the order of St.

Benedict, who are going this way about our own affairs; neither do we

know of any princesses that are carried captives in that coach.’—‘These

fawning speeches,’ said Don Quixote, ‘shall not impose upon me, who know

too well what a treacherous pack ye are.’ And without waiting for any

other reply, he put spurs to Rozinante; and couching his lance, attacked

the first friar with such fury and resolution, that if he had not thrown

himself from his mule, he would have come to the ground extremely

ill-handled, not without some desperate wound, nay, perhaps stone dead.

The second monk, who saw how his companion had been treated, clapped

spurs to the flanks of his trusty mule, and flew through the field even

swifter than the wind.

Sancho Panza seeing the friar on the ground, leaped from his ass with

great agility, and beginning to uncase him with the utmost dexterity,

two of their servants came up, and asked for what reason he stripped

their master. The squire replied, that the cloaths belonged to him, as

the spoils that Don Quixote, his lord, had won in battle: but the

others, who did not understand raillery, nor knew any thing of spoils

and battles, seeing Don Quixote at a good distance, talking with the

ladies in the coach, went to loggerheads with Sancho, whom they soon

overthrew; and, without leaving one hair of his beard, mauled him so

unmercifully, that he lay stretched upon the ground, without sense or

motion. Then, with the utmost dispatch, the friar mounted, as pale as a

sheet, and almost frightened to death; and no sooner found himself on

horseback, than he galloped towards his companion, who tarried at a good

distance, to see the issue of this strange adventure. However, being

joined again, without waiting for the conclusion of it, they pursued

their journey; making as many crosses as if the devil had been at their

backs.

Don Quixote, in the mean time, as we have already observed, was engaged

in conversation with the lady in the coach, to whom he expressed himself

in this manner; ‘Beautiful lady, you may now dispose of your own person

according to your pleasure; for the pride of your ravishers lies level

with the ground, being overthrown by this my invincible arm; and that

you may be at no difficulty in understanding the same of your deliverer,

know that I am Don Quixote de la Mancha, knight-errant, adventurer and

captive of the unparalleled and beautiful Donna Dulcinea del Toboso: and

the only acknowledgment I expect for the benefit you have received is,

that you return to that place, and presenting yourself before my

mistress, tell her what I have performed in behalf of your liberty.’

This whole address of the knight was overheard by a Biscayan squire, who

accompanied the coach, and who, seeing that he would not allow the

carriage to pass forward, but insisted upon their immediate returning to

Toboso, rode up to Don Quixote, and laying hold of his lance, spoke to

him thus in bad Castilian, and worse Biscayan: ‘Get thee gone, cavalier!

go to the devil, I zay! vor, by the God that made her, if thou wilt not

let the coach alone, che will kill thee dead, as zure as che was a

Biscayan.’ The knight, understanding very well what he said, replied

with great composure; ‘If thou wast a gentleman, as thou art not, I

would chastise thy insolence and rashness, wretched creature.’—‘I not a

gentleman!’ replied the Biscayan in great choler; ‘by God in heaven,

thou lyest, as I am a Christian! if thou wilt throw away thy lance, and

draw thy sword, che will soon zee which be the better man[43]. Biscayan

by land, gentleman by zea, gentleman by devil; and thou liest, look ye,

in thy throat, if thou zayest otherwise.’—‘Thou shalt see that

presently, as Agragis said,’ replied Don Quixote; who, throwing his

lance upon the ground, unsheathing his sword, and bracing on his target,

attacked the Biscayan with full resolution to put him to death[44].

His antagonist, who saw him approach, fain would have alighted from his

mule, (which being one of the worst that ever was let out for hire,

could not much be depended upon;) but he scarce had time to draw his

sword; however, being luckily near the coach, he snatched out of it a

cushion, which served him as a shield, and then they flew upon each

other as two mortal enemies. The rest of the people who were present

endeavoured, but in vain, to appease them; for the Biscayan swore, in

his uncouth expressions, that if they did not leave him to fight the

battle, he would certainly murder his mistress, and every body who

should pretend to oppose it. The lady in the coach, surprized and

frightened at what she saw, ordered the coachman to drive a little out

of the road, to a place from whence she should see at a distance this

rigorous engagement. In the course of which, the Biscayan bellowed such

a huge stroke upon the shoulder of Don Quixote, that if it had not been

for the defence of his buckler, he would have been cleft down to his

girdle. The knight feeling the shock of such an unconscionable blow,

exclaimed aloud, ‘O Dulcinea! lady of my soul, thou rose of beauty,

succour thy knight, who, for the satisfaction of thy excessive goodness,

is now involved in this dreadful emergency.’ To pronounce these words,

to raise his sword, to secure himself with his target, and attack the

Biscayan, was the work of one instant; for he was determined to risk his

all upon a single stroke. His antagonist, who saw him advance, and by

this time was convinced of his courage by his resolution, determined to

follow his example; and covering himself with his cushion, waited his

assault, without being able to turn his mule either on one side or the

other; for she was already so jaded, and so little accustomed to such

pastime, that she would not move one step out of the way.

Don Quixote, then, as we have said, advanced against the cautious

Biscayan, his sword lifted up with an intention to cleave him through

the middle; the Biscayan waited his attack in the same posture, being

shielded with his cushion. The frightened bye-standers stood aloof,

intent upon the success of those mighty strokes that threatened each of

the combatants; and the lady in the coach, with the rest of her

attendants, put up a thousand prayers to Heaven, and vowed an offering

to every image, and house of devotion in Spain, provided God would

deliver the squire and them from the imminent danger in which they were:

but the misfortune is, that in this very critical instant, the author of

the history has left this battle in suspence, excusing himself, that he

could find no other account of Don Quixote’s exploits, but what has

already been related. True it is, that this second author of this work

could not believe that such a curious history was consigned to oblivion;

nor, that there could be such a scarcity of curious virtuosi in La

Mancha, but that some papers relating to this famous knight should be

found in their archives or cabinets: and therefore, possessed of this

opinion, he did not despair of finding the conclusion of this delightful

history, which indeed he very providentially lighted upon, in the manner

which will be related in the second book.

Footnote 42:

Here Don Quixote seems to have been too scrupulous: for though no

squire was permitted to engage with a knight on horseback, yet they

were allowed, and even enjoined, to assist their masters when they

were unhorsed or in danger, by mounting them on fresh steeds,

supplying them with arms, and warding off the blows that were aimed at

them; Davy Gam, at the battle of Agincourt, lost his life in defending

Henry V. of England, and Saint Severin met with the same fate in

warding off the blows that were aimed at Francis I. of France, in the

battle of Pavia.

Footnote 43:

The literal meaning of the Spanish is, ‘Thou shalt soon see who is to

carry the cat to the water:’ or rather, in the corrupted Biscayan

phrase, ‘The water how soon thou wilt see, that thou carriest to the

cat.’

Footnote 44:

The behaviour of Don Quixote was exactly conformable to the rules of

chivalry; which, though they hindered a knight from fighting in armour

with a squire, did not prevent him from giving satisfaction to an

inferior, at sword and target; and every squire who was aggrieved had

a right to demand it.

BOOK II.

CHAP. I.

THE CONCLUSION AND CONSEQUENCE OF THE STUPENDOUS COMBAT BETWEEN THE

GALLANT BISCAYAN, AND THE VALIANT KNIGHT OF LA MANCHA.

In the first book of this history we left the valiant Biscayan and

renowned Don Quixote with their gleaming swords brandished aloft, about

to discharge two such furious strokes, as must (if they had cut sheer)

have cleft them both asunder from top to toe, like a couple of

pomegranates; and in this dubious and critical conjuncture, the

delicious history abruptly breaks off, without our being informed by the

author where or how that which is wanting may be found.

I was not a little concerned at this disappointment; for the pleasure I

enjoyed in the little I had read, was changed into disgust, when I

reflected on the small prospect I had of finding the greater part of

this relishing story, which in my opinion was lost: and yet it seemed

impossible, and contrary to every laudable custom, that such an

excellent knight should be unprovided with some sage to undertake the

history of his unheard of exploits; a convenience which none of those

knights-errant, who went in quest of adventures, ever wanted, each of

them having been accommodated with one or two necromancers, on purpose

to record not only his atchievements, but even his most hidden thoughts

and amusements. Surely, then, such a compleat errant could not be so

unlucky as to want that, which even Platil, and other such second-rate

warriors, enjoyed.

I could not therefore prevail upon myself to believe that such a

spirited history was left so lame and unfinished, but laid the whole

blame on the malignity of time, which wastes and devours all things, and

by which, no doubt, this was either consumed or concealed: on the other

hand, I considered, that as some books had been found in his library so

modern as the Undeceptions of Jealousy, together with the Nymphs and

Shepherds of Henares; his own history must also be of a modern date, and

the circumstances, though not committed to writing, still fresh in the

memory of his neighbours and townsmen. This consideration perplexed and

inflamed me with the desire of knowing the true and genuine account of

the life and wonderful exploits of our Spanish worthy Don Quixote de La

Mancha, the sun and mirror of Manchegan chivalry; the first who, in this

our age, and these degenerate times, undertook the toil and exercise of

errantry and arms, to redress grievances, support the widow, and protect

those damsels who stroll about with whip and palfrey, from hill to hill,

and from dale to dale, on the strength of their virginity alone: for in

times past, unless some libidinous clown with hatchet and morrion, or

monstrous giant, forced her to his brutal wishes, a damsel might have

lived fourscore years without ever lying under any other cover than that

of heaven, and then gone to her grave as good a maiden as the mother

that bore her. I say, therefore, that for these and many other

considerations, our gallant Don Quixote merits incessant and immortal

praise; and even I myself may claim some share, for my labour and

diligence in finding the conclusion of this agreeable history; though I

am well aware, that if I had not been favoured by fortune, chance, or

Providence, the world would have been deprived of that pleasure and

satisfaction which the attentive reader may enjoy for an hour or two, in

perusing what follows: the manner of my finding it I will now recount.

While I was walking one day on the exchange of Toledo, a boy coming up

to a certain mercer, offered to sell him a bundle of old papers he had

in his hand: now, as I have always a strong propensity to read even

those scraps that sometimes fly about the streets, I was led by this my

natural curiosity, to turn over some of the leaves; I found them written

in Arabick, which not being able to read, though I knew the characters,

I looked about for some Portuguese Moor who should understand it; and,

indeed, though the language had been both more elegant and ancient, I

might easily have found an interpreter. In short, I lighted upon one, to

whom expressing my desire, and putting the pamphlet into his hands, he

opened it in the middle, and after having read a few lines, began to

laugh; when I asked the cause of his laughter, he said it was occasioned

by a whimsical annotation in the margin of the book. I begged he would

tell me what it was, and he answered, still laughing, ‘What I find

written in the margin, is to this purpose: “this same Dulcinea, so often

mentioned in the history, is said to have had the best hand at salting

pork of any woman in La Mancha.”’

Not a little surprized at hearing Dulcinea del Toboso mentioned, I

immediately conjectured that the bundle actually contained the history

of Don Quixote. Possessed with this notion, I bade him, with great

eagerness, read the title-page, which having perused, he translated it

extempore from Arabic to Spanish, in these words: ‘The History of Don

Quixote de La Mancha, written by Cid Hamet Benengeli, an Arabian

author.’ No small discretion was requisite to dissemble the satisfaction

I felt, when my ears were saluted with the title of these papers, which,

snatching from the master, I immediately bought in the lump for half a

rial; though, if the owner had been cunning enough to discover my

eagerness to possess them, he might have laid his account with getting

twelve times the sum by the bargain.

I then retired with my Moor through the cloisters of the cathedral, and

desired him to translate all those papers that related to Don Quixote

into the Castilian tongue, without addition or diminution, offering to

pay any thing he should charge for his labour: his demand was limited to

two quarters of raisins, and as many bushels of wheat, for which he

promised to translate them with great care, conciseness, and fidelity:

but I, the more to facilitate the business without parting with such a

rich prize, conducted him to my own house, where, in little less than

six weeks, he translated the whole, in the same manner as shall here be

related.

In the first sheet was painted to the life the battle betwixt Don

Quixote and the Biscayan, who were represented in the same posture as

the history has already described, their swords brandished aloft, one of

the antagonists covered with his shield, the other with his cushion, and

the Biscayan’s mule so naturally set forth, that you might have known

her to have been an hireling, at the distance of a bow-shot. Under the

feet of her rider was a label containing these words, ‘Don Sancho de

Azpetia,’ which was doubtless his name; and beneath our knight was

another, with the title of ‘Don Quixote.’ Rozinante was most wonderfully

delineated, so long and raw-boned, so lank and meagre, so sharp in the

back, and consumptive, that one might easily perceive, with what

propriety and penetration the name of Rozinante had been bestowed upon

him. Hard by the steed was Sancho Panza, holding his ass by the halter,

at whose feet was a third label, inscribed ‘Sancho Zancas,’ who, in the

picture, was represented as a person of a short stature, swag belly, and

long spindle-shanks: for this reason he ought to be called

indiscriminately by the names of Panza[45] and Zanchas; for by both

these surnames is he sometimes mentioned in history.

There were divers other minute circumstances to be observed, but all of

them of small importance and concern to the truth of the history,

though, indeed, nothing that is true can be impertinent: however, if any

objection can be started to the truth of this, it can be no other, but

that the author was an Arabian, of a nation but too much addicted to

falshood, though, as they are at present our enemies, it may be

supposed, that he has rather failed than exceeded in the representation

of our hero’s exploits; for, in my opinion, when he had frequently

opportunities and calls to exercise his pen in the praise of such an

illustrious knight, he seems to be industriously silent on the subject;

a circumstance very little to his commendation, for all historians ought

to be punctual, candid, and dispassionate, that neither interest,

rancour, fear, or affection, may mislead them from the road of Truth,

whose mother is History, that rival of Time, that repository of great

actions, witness of the past, example and pattern of the present, and

oracle of future ages. In this, I know, will be found whatsoever can be

expected in the most pleasant performance; and if any thing seems

imperfect, I affirm it must be owing to the fault of the infidel its

author, rather than to any failure of the subject itself: in short, the

second book in the translation begins thus—

The flaming swords of the two valiant and incensed combatants,

brandished in the air, seemed to threaten heaven, earth, and hell, such

was the rage and resolution of those that wielded them; but the first

blow was discharged by the cholerick Biscayan, who struck with such

force and fury, that if the blade had not turned by the way, that single

stroke would have been sufficient to have put an end to this dreadful

conflict, and all the other adventures of our knight; but his good

genius, which preserved him for mightier things, turned the sword of his

antagonist aside, so that though it fell upon his left shoulder, it did

no other damage than disarm that whole side, slicing off in its passage,

the greatest part of his helmet, with half of his ear, which fell to the

ground with hideous ruin, leaving him in a very uncomfortable situation.

Good Heavens! where is the man who can worthily express the rage and

indignation which entered into the heart of our Manchegan, when he saw

himself handled in this manner! I shall only say, his fury was such,

that raising himself again in his stirrups, and grasping his sword with

both hands, he discharged it so full upon the cushion and head of the

Biscayan, which it but ill-defended, that, as if a mountain had fallen

upon him, he began to spout blood from his nostrils, mouth, and ears,

and seemed ready to fall from his mule, which would certainly have been

the case, if he had not laid hold of the mane: yet notwithstanding this

effort, his feet falling out of the stirrups, and his arms quitting

their hold, the mule, which was frightened at the terrible stroke, began

to run across the field, and after a few plunges came with her master to

the ground. Don Quixote, who sat observing him with great tranquillity,

no sooner perceived him fall, than leaping from his horse, he ran up to

him with great agility, and setting the point of his sword to his

throat, bade him surrender on pain of having his head cut off. The

Biscayan was so confounded by the blow and fall he had sustained, that

he could not answer one syllable; and as Don Quixote was blinded by his

rage, he would have fared very ill, if the ladies of the coach, who had

hitherto, in great consternation, been spectators of the battle, had not

run to the place where he was, and requested, with the most fervent

entreaties, that his worship would grant them the favour to spare the

life of their squire.

To this petition the knight replied, with great stateliness and gravity,

‘Assuredly, most beautiful ladies, I am very ready to do what you

desire, but it shall be upon condition and proviso, that this cavalier

promise to go straight to Toboso, and present himself in my behalf,

before the unparalleled Donna Dulcinea, that she may use him according

to her good pleasure.’ The timorous and disconsolate ladies, without

entering into the detail of what Don Quixote desired, or enquiring who

this Dulcinea was, promised that the squire should obey the knight’s

commands in every thing. ‘Upon the faith of your word, then,’ said Don

Quixote, ‘I will do him no farther damage, though he has richly deserved

it at my hand.’

Footnote 45:

Panza, in Castilian, signifies Paunch; and Zancas, Spindle-shanks.

CHAP. II.

OF WHAT FARTHER HAPPENED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND THE BISCAYAN.

All this time, Sancho Panza having got up, though very roughly handled

by the lacquies of the friars, stood very attentively beholding the

battle of his master Don Quixote, and put up ejaculatory petitions to

heaven, that it would please to grant him the victory, and that he might

gain by it some island, of which he himself might be made governor, in

consequence of the knight’s promise. Seeing therefore the battle ended,

and his master returning to mount Rozinante, he went to hold his

stirrup, and before he got up, fell on his knees before him; then laying

hold of his hand, and kissing it, pronounced with great fervency, ‘Sir

Don Quixote, will your worship be pleased to bestow on me the government

of that island which you have won in this dreadful combat; for let it be

ever so great, I find I have strength enough to govern it, as well as

any he who governs an island in this world.’ To this request Don Quixote

replied, ‘You must know, Brother Sancho, that such as these are not

adventures of islands, but frays that happen in bye-roads, in which

there is nothing to be got but a broken head, with the loss of an ear;

have a little patience, and we shall meet with adventures, which will

enable me to make you not only a governor, but something more.’ Sancho

made him many hearty acknowledgments for his promise, then kissing his

hand again, and his coat of mail, helped him to mount Rozinante; and he

himself getting upon his ass, followed his master, who set off at a

round pace, and without bidding adieu, or speaking one syllable to those

in the coach, entered a wood that was in the neighbourhood.

Sancho followed him as hard as his beast would trot; but Rozinante

exerted such speed, that seeing himself left behind, he was obliged to

call to his master to wait for him. The knight complied with his

request, and checked his horse, until he was overtaken by his weary

squire; who, when he approached him, ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘methinks it would

be the wisest course for us to retreat to some church; for as he with

whom you fought remains but in a sorry condition, it is odds but they

inform the holy brotherhood of the affair[46], and have us apprehended;

and verily, if they do, before we get out of prison we may chance to

sweat for it.’—‘Peace, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘where didst thou ever

see or hear, that a knight-errant was brought to justice for the

greatest homicides he had committed?’—‘I know nothing of your

honey-seeds,’ answered Sancho, ‘nor in my life did I ever see one of

them; this only I know, that the holy brotherhood commonly looks after

those who quarrel and fight up and down the country; and as to the other

affair, I have no business to intermeddle in it.’

‘Set your heart at ease then, friend Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘for

I will deliver you from the hands of the Philistines, much more from the

clutches of the brotherhood; but tell me, on thy life, hast thou ever

seen a more valiant knight than me in any country of the known world?

Hast thou ever read in story of any other who possesses, or has

possessed, more courage in attacking, more breath in persevering, more

dexterity in wounding, and more agility in overthrowing his

antagonist?’—‘The truth is,’ answered Sancho, ‘I never read a history

since I was born; for indeed I can neither read nor write; but what I

will make bold to wager upon is, that a more daring master than your

worship I never served in the days of my life; and I wish to God, that

your courage may not meet with that reward I have already mentioned.

What I beg of your worship at present is, that you would allow me to

dress that ear, which bleeds very much, for I have got some lint, and a

little white ointment in my wallet.’—‘These would have been altogether

needless,’ answered the knight, ‘if I had remembered to make a phial of

the balsam of Fierabras, one single drop of which would save abundance

of time and trouble.’—‘What sort of a phial and balsam is that?’ said

Sancho Panza. ‘It is a balsam,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘the receipt of

which I retain in my memory, and he that possesses the valuable

composition needs be in no fear of death, nor think of perishing by any

wound whatsoever: and therefore, when I shall have made it, and

delivered it into thy keeping, thou hast no more to do when thou seest

me in any combat cut through the middle, a circumstance that very often

happens, but to snatch up that part of the body which falls to the

ground, and before the blood shall congeal, set it upon the other half

that remains in the saddle, taking care to join them with the utmost

nicety and exactness; then making me swallow a couple of draughts of the

aforesaid balsam, thou wilt see me in a twinkling, as whole and as sound

as an apple.’

‘If that be the case,’ said Sancho Panza, ‘I henceforth renounce the

government of that island you promised me, and desire no other reward

for my long and faithful service, but that your worship will give me the

receipt of that same most exceeding liquor; for I imagine, that it will

sell for two rials an ounce at least, and that will be sufficient to

make me spend the rest of my days in credit and ease: but it will be

necessary to know if the composition be costly.’—‘I can make a gallon of

it for less than three rials,’ replied the knight. ‘Sinner that I am!’

cried Sancho, ‘what hinders your worship from teaching me to make it

this moment?’—‘Hold thy tongue, friend,’ said the knight. ‘I intend to

teach thee greater secrets, and bestow upon thee more considerable

rewards than that; but, in the mean time, let us dress my ear, which

pains me more than I could wish.’

The squire accordingly took out his lint and ointment: but when his

master found that his helmet was quite demolished, he had almost run

stark mad: he laid his hand upon his sword, and lifting up his hands to

heaven, pronounced aloud, ‘I swear by the Creator of all things, and by

all that is written in the four holy evangelists! to lead the life which

the great Marquis of Mantua led, when he swore to revenge the death of

his cousin Valdovinos; neither to eat food upon a table, nor enjoy his

wife, with many other things, which, though I do not remember, I here

consider as expressed, until I shall have taken full vengeance upon him

who has done me this injury[47].’ Sancho hearing this invocation, ‘Sir

Don Quixote,’ said he, ‘I hope your worship will consider, that if the

knight shall accomplish what he was ordered to do, namely, to present

himself before my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he will have done his duty,

and certainly deserves no other punishment, unless he commits a new

crime.’—‘Thou hast spoke very much to the purpose, and hit the nail on

the head,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘therefore I annul my oath, so far as it

regards my revenge, but I make and confirm it anew, to lead the life I

have mentioned, until such time as I can take by force as good a helmet

as this from some other knight; and thou must not think, Sancho, that I

am now making a smoke of straw; for I know very well whom I imitate in

this affair; the same thing having literally happened about the helmet

of Mambrino, which cost Sacripante so dear.[48]’

‘Sir, Sir,’ replied Sancho, with some heat, ‘I wish your worship would

send to the devil all such oaths, which are so mischievous to the health

and prejudicial to the conscience; for, tell me now, if we should not

find in many days, a man armed with a helmet, what must we do? must we

perform this vow, in spite of all the rubs and inconveniences in the

way; such as to lie in one’s cloaths, and not to sleep in an inhabited

place, with a thousand other penances contained in the oath of that old

mad Marquis of Mantua, which your worship now wants to renew? Pray, Sir,

consider that there are no armed people in these roads, none but

carriers and carters, which far from wearing helmets themselves, perhaps

never heard of any such thing during the whole course of their

lives.’—‘There thou art egregiously mistaken,’ replied Don Quixote;

‘for, before we are two hours in the cross-ways, we shall see armed men

more numerous than those that came to Albraca, in order to win Angelica

the fair.’—‘On then, and be it so,’ said Sancho, ‘and pray God we may

succeed, and that the time may come when we shall gain that island which

has cost me so dear, and then I care not how soon I die.’—‘I have

already advised thee, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘to give thyself no

trouble about that affair; for, should we be disappointed in the

expectation of an island, there is the kingdom of Denmark; or that of

Sobrediza, which will suit thee as well as ever a ring fitted a finger,

and ought to give thee more joy, because it is situated on Terra Firma;

but let us leave these things to the determination of time, and see if

thou hast got any thing in thy wallet; for we must go presently in quest

of some castle, where we may procure a night’s lodging, and ingredients

to make that same balsam I mentioned; for, I vow to God! my ear gives me

infinite pain.’

‘I have got here in my bags,’ said Sancho, ‘an onion, a slice of cheese,

and a few crusts of bread; but these are eatables which do not suit the

palate of such a valiant knight-errant as your worship.’—‘How little you

understand of the matter!’ answered Don Quixote. ‘Thou must know,

Sancho, that it is for the honour of knights-errant, to abstain whole

months together from food, and when they do eat, to be contented with

what is next at hand; this thou wouldst not have been ignorant of, hadst

thou read so many histories as I have perused, in which, numerous as

they are, I have never found any account of knights-errant eating,

except occasionally, at some sumptuous banquet made on purpose for them;

at other times, living upon air; and though it must be taken for

granted, that they could not altogether live without eating, or

complying with the other necessities of nature, being in effect men as

we are; yet we are likewise to consider, that as the greatest part of

their lives was spent in travelling through woods and desarts, without

any cook or caterer, their ordinary diet was no other than such rustick

food as thou hast now got for our present occasions[49]; therefore,

friend Sancho, give thyself no uneasiness, because thou hast got nothing

to gratify the palate, nor seek to unhinge or alter the constitution of

things.’

‘I beg your worship’s pardon,’ said Sancho, ‘for as I can neither read

nor write, as I have already observed, I may have mistaken the rules of

your knightly profession; but from henceforward I will store my budget

with all sorts of dry fruits for your worship, who are a knight; and for

myself, who am none, I will provide other more volatile and substantial

food[50].’—‘I do not say, Sancho, that knights-errant are obliged to eat

nothing except these fruits, but only that their most ordinary

sustenance is composed of them and some certain herbs, which they know

how to gather in the fields; a species of knowledge which I myself am no

stranger to.’—‘Surely,’ answered Sancho, ‘it is a great comfort to know

these same herbs; for it comes into my head, we shall one day or another

have occasion to make use of the knowledge:’ and taking out the contents

of his wallet, they eat together with great harmony and satisfaction;

but, being desirous of finding some place for their night’s lodging,

they finished their humble repast in a hurry, and mounting their beasts,

put on at a good rate, in order to reach some village before it should

be dark; but the hope of gratifying that desire failed them with

day-light, just when they happened to be near a goatherd’s hut, in which

they resolved to pass the night; and in the same proportion that Sancho

was disgusted at not being able to reach some village, his master was

rejoiced at an opportunity of sleeping under the cope of heaven, because

he looked upon every occasion of this kind as an act of possession that

strengthened the proof of his knight-errantry.

Footnote 46:

Santa Hermandad was a brotherhood or society instituted in Spain in

times of confusion, to suppress robbery, and render travelling safe.

Footnote 47:

These ridiculous oaths or vows are not confined to romances. Philip,

the good Duke of Burgundy, at a publick banquet, vowed to God, the

holy virgin, the peacock, and the ladies, that he would declare war

against the infidels; and a great number of persons who were present,

listed themselves under the same vow, and incurred voluntary penance

until it should be accomplished. Some swore they would never lie upon

a bed, others renounced the use of a table-cloth, a third set obliged

themselves to fast one particular day in the week, a fourth went

without one particular piece of armour, a fifth wore his armour night

and day, and many confined themselves to shirts of sackcloth and hair.

Footnote 48:

Geoffroi de Rançon, having been injured by the Count de La Marche,

swore by the saints that he would wear his buskin like a woman, and

never suffer himself to be shaved in the manner of chivalry, until he

should be revenged. This oath he scrupulously observed, until he saw

his adversary, with his wife and children, kneeling in distress before

the king, and imploring his forgiveness; then he called for a stool,

adjusted his buskin, and was shaved in presence of his majesty and the

court.

The knight’s forehead was commonly shaved, that in case he should lose

his helmet in combat, his antagonist should have no hold by which he

might be pulled off his horse.

Footnote 49:

We read in Perce Forest, that there were flat stones placed at certain

distances in uninhabited parts of the country, for the use of

knights-errant; who, having killed a roe-buck, pressed the blood out

of it upon one of these tables by the help of another smooth stone,

and then eat it with some salt and spices, which they carried along

with them for that purpose. This diet is called in the French

romances, _Chevraux de presse, nourreture des heraux_.

Footnote 50:

Volatile, in the original, signifies any things that fly; and

therefore Sancho may be supposed to mean, he would provide himself

with game or poultry; but the blunder which we have made him commit

seems to be more in character.

CHAP. III.

OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE

WHILE HE REMAINED WITH THE GOATHERDS.

He received a very hearty welcome from the goatherds; and Sancho having,

as well as he could, accommodated Rozinante and his ass, was attracted

by the odour that issued from some pieces of goat’s flesh that were

boiling in a kettle; but though he longed very much at that instant to

see if it was time to transfer them from the kettle to the belly, he

checked his curiosity, because the landlord took them from the fire, and

spreading some sheep-skins upon the ground, let out their rustick table

without loss of time; inviting their two guests to a share of their

mess, with many expressions of good-will and hospitality. Then those who

belonged to the cot, being six in number, seated themselves round the

skins, having first, with their boorish ceremony, desired Don Quixote to

sit down on a trough, which they had overturned for that purpose.

The knight accepted their offer, and Sancho remained standing, to

administer the cup, which was made of horn; but his master perceiving

him in this attitude, ‘That thou may’st see, Sancho,’ said he, ‘the

benefit which is concentered in knight-errantry; and how near all those

who exercise themselves in any sort of ministry belonging to it, are to

preferment and esteem of the world, I desire thee to sit down here by my

side, in company with these worthy people; and that thou may’st be on an

equal footing with me, thy natural lord and master, eating in the same

dish, and drinking out of the same cup that I use; for what is said of

love may be observed of knight-errantry, that it puts all things upon a

level.’

‘I give you a thousand thanks,’ said Sancho; ‘but I must tell your

worship that, provided I have plenty, I can eat as much, nay more to my

satisfaction, standing on my legs, and in my own company, than if I was

to sit by the side of an emperor; and, if all the truth must be told, I

had much rather dine by myself in a corner, though it should be upon a

bit of bread and an onion, without all your niceties and ceremonies,

than eat turkey-cocks at another man’s table, where I am obliged to chew

softly, to drink sparingly, to wipe my mouth every minute, to abstain

from sneezing or coughing, though I should be never so much inclined to

either, and from a great many other things, which I can freely do when

alone; therefore, Sir master of mine, I hope these honours which your

worship would put upon me, as being the servant and abettor of knight

errantry, which to be sure I am, while I remain in quality of your

squire, may be converted into other things of more ease and advantage to

me, than those which, though I hold them as received in full, I renounce

from henceforth for ever, amen.’—‘Thou must nevertheless sit thee down,’

said his master; ‘for him that is humble, God will exalt;’ and, seizing

him by the arm, he pulled him down to the seat on which he himself sat.

The goatherds, who understood not a word of all this jargon of squire

and knights-errant, did nothing but eat in silence, and gaze upon their

guests; who, with keen appetite, and infinite relish, solaced their

stomachs, by swallowing pieces as large as their fists. This service of

meat being finished, they spread upon their skins great quantities of

acorns, and half a cheese, harder than plaister of Paris: all this time

the horn was not idle, but went round so fast, sometimes full, sometimes

empty, like the buckets of a well, that they soon voided one of the two

skins of wine that hung in view.

Don Quixote having satisfied his appetite, took up an handful of the

acorns, and after looking at them attentively, delivered himself to this

purpose: ‘Happy age, and happy days were those, to which the ancients

gave the name of golden; not that gold, which in these our iron times is

so much esteemed, was to be acquired without trouble, in that fortunate

period; but because people were then ignorant of those two words MINE

and THINE: in that sacred age, all things were in common; no man was

necessitated, in search of his daily food, to undergo any other trouble

than that of reaching out his hand, and receiving it from the sturdy

oak, that liberally invited him to pull his sweet and salutary fruit.

The limpid fountains and murmuring rills afforded him their savoury and

transparent waters in magnificent abundance. In clefts of rocks and

hollow trees, the prudent and industrious bees formed their

commonwealths, offering without interest to every hand the fruitful

harvest of their delicious toil. The stately cork-trees voluntarily

stripped themselves of their light extended bark, with which men began

to cover their rural cottages, supported upon rustick poles, with a view

only to defend themselves from the inclemencies of the weather. All was

then peace, all was harmony, and all was friendship. As yet the

ponderous coulter of the crooked plough had not presumed to open, or

visit the pious entrails of our first mother, who, without compulsion,

presented on every part of her wide and fertile bosom, every thing that

could satisfy, sustain, and delight her sons, who then possessed her.

Then did the simple and beautiful shepherdesses rove from hill to hill,

and dale to dale, bare-headed, in their braided locks, without any other

cloaths than what were necessary to cover modestly that which modesty

commands, and always has commanded to be covered. Neither were their

ornaments such as are used now-a-days, enhanced in value by the Tyrian

purple, and the many-ways martyred silk, but composed of verdant

dock-leaves, and ivy interwove together; with which they appeared,

perhaps, with as great pomp and contrivance as the court ladies of our

days, dressed in all the rare and foreign fashions which idle curiosity

has invented. Then were the amorous dictates of the soul expressed in

sensible simplicity, just as they were conceived, undisguised by the

artificial cloak of specious words. There was no fraud, no deceit, no

malice intermixed with plain dealing truth; justice then kept within her

proper bounds, undisturbed and unbiased by interest and favour, which

now impair, confound, and persecute, her so much; law was not then

centered in the arbitrary bosom of the judge, for, at that time, there

was neither cause nor contest. Damsels and decency, as I have already

laid, went about single, and without fear of being injured by insolence

or lust; and their ruin, when it happened, was the fruit of their own

will and pleasure. But, now-a-days, in this detestable age, no maid is

secure, though she was concealed and shut up in such another labyrinth

as was that of Crete; for, even there, the amorous pestilence, with the

zeal of mischievous importunity, would enter either by the help of

wings, or by gliding through some chink or other, and all her

barricadoed chastity would go to wreck. For the security of this virtue,

in process of time, when mischief grew to a greater head, the order of

knight-errantry was first instituted to defend damsels, protect widows,

and succour the needy and the fatherless. This order, brother goatherds,

I profess; and thank you for this kind entertainment and reception,

which I and my squire have received at your hands; for though, by the

law of nature, all mankind are obliged to favour and assist

knights-errant, during the whole course of their lives; yet, as you have

received and regaled me, before you knew yourselves to be under that

obligation, I think it my duty to return my most sincere acknowledgment

for your hospitality.’

The whole of this tedious harangue, which might very well have been

spared, was pronounced by our knight, because the acorns they presented

recalled to his memory the golden age: therefore he took it in his head

to make these useless reflections to the goatherds; who, without

answering one syllable, listened with suspence and astonishment. Sancho

was also silent, but kept his teeth employed upon the acorns, and paid

many a visit to the second wine-bag; which, that the contents might be

the cooler, was hung upon a cork-tree. Don Quixote was less tedious in

his discourse than at his meal, which being ended, one of the goatherds

said, ‘That your worship, knight-errant, may be convinced of our

readiness and good-will to give you all the entertainment in our power,

you shall have the pleasure and satisfaction of hearing a song from one

of our companions, who will soon be here. He is an understanding young

fellow, very much in love, who, moreover, can read and write, and play

upon the rebeck[51], that it will delight you to hear him.’ Scarce had

the goatherd pronounced these words, when their ears were saluted with a

sound of this instrument; and presently after appeared the musician, who

was a young fellow of about twenty, or twenty two years of age, and of a

very graceful appearance. His companions asked him if he had supped, and

he answering in the affirmative, one of them, who made the offer to the

knight, said to him, ‘If that be the case, Antonio, you will do us the

pleasure to sing a song, that this gentleman, our guest, may see there

are some, even among these woods and mountains, who understand musick.

We have already informed him of thy uncommon talents, and we desire thou

wouldst shew them, in order to justify what we have said in thy praise;

I therefore earnestly beseech thee to sit down and sing the ballad of

thy love, composed by thy uncle the curate, which is so much commended

in our village.’—‘With all my heart,’ replied the young man; who,

without farther entreaty, sat down upon the trunk of an ancient oak, and

tuning his instrument, began in a very graceful manner to sing and

accompany the following song.

I.

You love, Olalla, nay, adore me;

In spite of all your art I know it,

Although you never smile before me,

And neither tongue nor eyes avow it.