Don Quixote remained very much comforted by this prophecy, the meaning

of which he no sooner heard than comprehended; interpreting the whole

into a promise, that he should one day see himself joined in the just

and holy hands of matrimony with his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso, from

whose fortunate womb would proceed those whelps (meaning his sons) which

would perpetuate the glory of La Mancha. In this persuasion, therefore,

and firm belief, he raised his voice, and heaving a profound sigh,

replied, ‘O thou! whosoever thou art, whose prognostication sounds so

favourably in mine ears, I beg thou wilt, in my name beseech the sage

inchanter who takes charge of my affairs, that he will not leave me to

perish in the confinement which I now suffer, until I shall have seen

the accomplishment of those joyful and incomparable promises which thou

hast uttered in my behalf. So shall I glory in the hardships of this

prison, and bear with pleasure these chains with which my limbs are

fettered; and instead of comparing the boards on which I lie, to the

rough, uncomfortable field of battle, consider them as the soothing down

of the most happy and luxurious marriage-bed. With respect to the

consolation of Sancho Panza, my squire, I confide in his virtue and

affection, which will not allow him to forsake me either in prosperity

or adversity; for should his evil fortune, or my unhappy fate, hinder me

from bestowing upon him the island, or some equivalent, according to my

promise; at least, he shall not lose his wages, specified and bequeathed

to him in my will, that is already made; a recompence which, though

proportioned to my own slender ability, comes far short of his great and

faithful services.’

Here the squire bowed in the most respectful manner, and kissed both his

hands, as he could not make his compliments to one of them apart, they

being fast bound together. Then the apparitions taking the cage upon

their shoulders, carried it to the waggon, in which it was immediately

fixed.

Footnote 114:

It were to be wished, for the honour of Spanish innkeepers, that

Cervantes had caused mine host to restore Sancho’s wallet, which he

had detained on the day of the blanketting; as such restitution would

have increased the general satisfaction.

Footnote 115:

A word of equal signification with _mentironiana_, from _mentereso_, a

lyar.

CHAP. XX.

AN ACCOUNT OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE

WAS INCHANTED—WITH OTHER REMARKABLE EVENTS.

Don Quixote seeing himself thus encaged, and placed upon a cart, could

not help saying, ‘Many very grave histories have I read, concerning

knights-errant; but never did I read, see, or hear, that inchanted

knights were transported in this manner, at such a pace as these lazy,

slow-footed animals, seem to promise; for they used always to be carried

through the air with surprizing swiftness, wrapped up in some dark and

dusky cloud, or in a fiery chariot, or mounted on a hypogriff, or some

such creature; so that, before God! I am utterly confounded at my own

fate, in being thus transported on a waggon drawn by oxen. But, perhaps,

the chivalry and inchantments of this age follow a different path from

that which was pursued of old; and as I am a new knight on the face of

the earth, and the first who revived the long-forgotten order of

errantry, perhaps they might have also newly invented other kinds of

incantation, and other methods of conveying those whom they

inchant.—What is thy opinion of the matter, son Sancho?’—‘I know not

what my opinion is,’ replied the squire, ‘because I am not so well read

in the scriptures of errantry as your worship; but, for all that, I will

venture to affirm, aye and swear to it, that these apparitions who

stroll about us, are not altogether catholick.’—‘Catholick! my

stars[116]!’ answered the knight, ‘how can they be catholick, when they

are all devils, who have assumed fantastical shapes, and come hither on

purpose to perform this deed, and leave me in my present situation? But

that thou mayest be convinced of the truth of what I alledge[117],

endeavour to touch and feel them, and thou wilt perceive that they have

no other bodies but forms of condensed air consisting of nothing but

mere semblance.’—‘’Fore God, Sir!’ cried Sancho, ‘I have made that trial

already, and that same devil who goes about so busy, is well provided

with good substantial flesh, and has another property widely different

from what is reported of evil spirits, all of whom, they say, stink of

brimstone and other bad smells; whereas, he is so well scented with

amber, that you may perceive it at the distance of half a league.’

Sancho made this remark on Don Fernando, who being a man of fashion,

probably wore scented linen. ‘Marvel not at that circumstance, friend

Sancho,’ replied the knight; ‘for thou must know that devils are a set

of very sagacious beings; and although they bring smells along with

them, they themselves being spirits, can produce no smell; or if any

odour proceeds from them, it cannot be agreeable, but rather stinking

and unwholesome, because they carry their hell about them wheresoever

they are, and their torments admit of no kind of alleviation; now, sweet

smells being agreeable and delicious, cannot possibly proceed from

beings which are productive of nought but evil; therefore, if in thy

opinion that devil smells of amber, either thy senses are perverted, or

he wants to impose upon thy understanding, by making thee believe that

he is not an inhabitant of hell.’

Don Fernando and Cardenio overhearing this dialogue between the master

and the squire, were afraid of Sancho’s stumbling upon the discovery of

their whole plot, in which he seemed already to have made great

progress, therefore determined to hasten their departure, and calling

the landlord aside, ordered him to saddle Rozinante, and put the pannel

on Sancho’s ass. This talk he performed with great dispatch, while the

curate agreed to give the troopers so much a day for attending Don

Quixote to the town where he lived. Cardenio having fastened the target

to one side of the pummel of Rozinante’s saddle, and the bason to the

other, made signs for Sancho to mount his ass, and lead his master’s

steed by the bridle, and then stationed two of the troopers with their

carbines on each side of the waggon. But before it began to move, the

landlady, her daughter, and Maritornes, came out to take leave of Don

Quixote, feigning themselves extremely affected with his misfortune;

upon which he said to them, ‘Weep not, worthy ladies; all these

disasters are incident to those who chuse my profession; and if I were

not subject to such calamities, I should not deem myself a renowned

knight-errant; for these things never happen to knights of little fame

and reputation, who are never regarded, scarce even remembered on the

face of the earth. It is quite otherwise with the valiant, whose virtue

and valour are envied by many princes and rivals, who endeavour by the

most perfidious means to destroy them; but, nevertheless, virtue is so

powerful, that of herself she will, in spite of all the necromancy

possessed by the first inventor, Zoroaster, come off conqueror in every

severe trial, and shine refulgent in the world, as the sun shines in the

heavens. Pardon me, beauteous ladies, if I have given you any disgust,

through neglect or omission; for willingly and knowingly I never

offended a living soul; and pray to God to deliver me from this prison,

in which I am confined by some malicious inchanter; for, if I regain my

liberty, the favours I have received from your courtesy in this castle,

shall never escape my remembrance, but always be acknowledged with

gratitude, service, and respect.’

While the knight made these professions to the ladies of the castle, the

curate and barber took their leave of Don Fernando and his companions,

the captain and his brother, and all the happy ladies, especially

Dorothea and Lucinda; they embraced each other, and agreed to maintain a

correspondence by letters; Don Fernando giving the curate a direction by

which he might write to him an account of the knight’s future behaviour

and fate, than which, he protested, nothing could yield him more

pleasure; and promising, for his own part, to inform the priest of every

thing which he thought would conduce to his satisfaction, relating to

his own marriage, the baptism of Zorayda, the success of Don Lewis, and

the return of Lucinda to her father’s house; the priest having assured

him that he would obey his commands with the utmost punctuality, they

embraced again, and repeated their mutual proffers of service. The

innkeeper coming to the curate, put into his hand a bundle of papers

which he said he had found in the lining of the portmanteau, along with

the novel of the Impertinent Curiosity; and since the owner had not

returned that way, he desired the priest to accept of them, for as he

himself could not read, he had no occasion for such useless furniture:

the curate thanked him for his present, which he immediately opened, and

found written in the title-page, ‘Rinconete and Cortadilla, a

novel[118];’ from hence he concluded, that since the Impertinent

Curiosity was an entertaining story, this might also have some merit, as

being probably a work of the same author; and on this supposition put it

carefully up, intending to peruse it with the first convenient

opportunity; then he and his friend the barber mounting their beasts,

with their faces still disguised, that they might not be known by Don

Quixote, jogged on behind the waggon. And the order of their march was

this: first of all proceeded the cart, conducted by the driver, and

guarded on each side by the troopers with their carbines, as we have

already observed; then followed Sancho Panza upon his ass, leading

Rozinante by the bridle; and in the rear of all came the curate and the

barber, masked, and mounted on their trusty mules, with a grave and

solemn air, marching no faster than the slow pace of the oxen would

allow; while the knight sat within his cage, his hands fettered, and his

legs outstretched, leaning against the bars, with such silence and

resignation, that he looked more like a statue of stone than a man of

flesh and blood. In this slow and silent manner had they travelled about

a couple of leagues, when they arrived in a valley, which the waggoner

thinking a convenient spot for his purpose, proposed to the curate that

they should halt to refresh themselves, and let the oxen feed; but the

barber was of opinion that they should proceed a little farther, to the

other side of a rising ground, which appeared at a small distance, where

he knew there was another valley better stored with grass, and much more

agreeable than this in which the waggoner proposed to halt. The advice

of Mr. Nicholas was approved, and they jogged on accordingly.

About this time the curate chancing to look back, perceived behind them

six or seven men well mounted, who soon overtook them, as they did not

travel at the phlegmatick pace of the oxen, but like people who rode on

ecclesiastick mules, and were desirous of spending the heat of the day

at an inn that appeared within less than a league of the waggon. These

expeditious strangers coming up with our slow travellers, saluted them

courteously; and one among them, who was actually a canon of Toledo, and

master of those who accompanied him, observing the regular procession of

the waggon, troopers, Sancho, Rozinante, the curate, and barber, and in

particular Don Quixote encaged and secured as he was, could not help

asking why and whither they were conveying that man in such a manner?

though he had already conjectured, from the badges of the troopers, that

he must be some atrocious robber or delinquent, the punishment of whom

belonged to the holy brotherhood. One of the troopers to whom the

question was put, answered, ‘Signior, the gentleman himself will tell

you the meaning of his travelling in this manner; for our parts we know

nothing at all of the matter.’ The knight, overhearing what passed, said

to the strangers, ‘Gentlemen, if you are skilled and conversant in

matters of knight-errantry, I will communicate my misfortune; otherwise

there is no reason why I should fatigue myself with the relation.’

By this time the curate and barber, having perceived the travellers in

conversation with the knight, came up in order to prevent their plot

from being discovered, just as the canon had begun to answer Don Quixote

in these words: ‘Truly, brother, I am better acquainted with books of

chivalry than with the Summaries of Villalpando; so that if there be

nothing else requisite, you may freely impart to me as much as you

please.’—‘A God’s name, then,’ said Don Quixote, ‘if that be the case,

‘you must know, Signior cavalier, that I am inchanted in this cage,

through the envy and fraud of mischievous necromancers; for virtue is

always more persecuted by the wicked than beloved by the righteous. A

knight-errant I am, though none of those whose names Fame never enrolled

in her eternal records; but of that number, whom maugre, and in despite

of Envy herself, and all the magi whom Persia ever produced, with the

brachmans of India, and gymnosophists of Ethiopia, will leave their

names engraved on the temple of immortality, as examples and patterns to

succeeding ages, by which all knights errant may see what steps they

must follow, if they wish to attain the height and honourable summit of

arms.’

Here the curate interposing, said, ‘Signior Don Quixote speaks no more

than the truth: he is inchanted in that waggon, not on account of his

own crimes or misdemeanors, but through the malice of those who are

disgusted at virtue, and offended at valour. This, Signior, is the

Knight of the Rueful Countenance, whose name perhaps you have heard, and

whose valiant exploits and mighty atchievements will be engraved on

durable brass, and carved in eternal marble, in spite of the unwearied

efforts of malice to cancel, and of envy to obscure them.’

The canon hearing such a stile proceed not only from the prisoner’s

mouth, but also from the lips of him who was free, had well-nigh crossed

himself with astonishment, and could not conceive what had befallen him,

while his whole company were seized with the same degree of amazement:

but Sancho Panza, who was near enough to hear what passed, being willing

to undeceive the strangers, said to them, ‘Gentlemen, whether what I am

going to say be ill or well taken, I must tell you the case is this: my

master Don Quixote is no more inchanted than the mother that bore me; he

enjoys his right wits, eats, drinks, and does his occasions, like other

men, and as he himself was wont to do before he was encaged; now, if

this be the truth of the matter, how can any man persuade me that he is

inchanted? since I have heard divers persons observe, that those who

were inchanted neither eat, sleep, nor speak; whereas my master, if he

is not hindered, will talk like thirty barristers.’ Then turning to the

curate, he proceeded thus: ‘Ah, Mr. Curate, Mr. Curate! you think I

don’t know you, and imagine that I cannot dive into the meaning of these

new inchantments, but you are mistaken; I know you very well for all

your masking, and can smell out your plots, disguise them as you will;

in short, as the saying is, Just are virtue’s fears, when envy

domineers, and Bounty will not stay, where niggards bear the sway. Damn

the devil! if it had not been for your reverence, my master by this time

would have been married to the Princess Micomicona, and I should have

been an earl at least; for less I could not expect, either from the

generosity of my Lord of the Rueful Countenance, or from the greatness

of my own services: but now I see the truth of what is commonly said,

That fortune turns faster than a mill-wheel; and that those who were

yesterday at top, may find themselves at bottom to-day. It grieves me on

account of my poor wife and children, who, instead of seeing their

father come home in the post of governor or viceroy of some land or

kingdom, as they had great reason to expect, will behold him returning

in the station of a common groom: all this I have observed, Mr. Curate,

for no other reason but to prevail upon your fathership to make a

conscience of the ill-treatment my master receives at your hands, and

consider that God may call you to account in the next world for this

captivity of my Lord Don Quixote, and for all the succours and benefits

that are prevented by his being thus confined.’

‘Snuff me these candles!’ cried the barber, hearing the squire’s

declaration; ‘why, sure, Sancho, you belong to your master’s fraternity;

by the Lord! I find you ought to keep him company in his cage, and

undergo the same sort of inchantment, so much are you infected with the

humour of his chivalry: in an unhappy moment were you got with child by

his promises, and in an evil hour did that island you harp so much upon

take possession of your skull.’—‘I am not with child by any person

whatever,’ answered Sancho, ‘nor will I suffer any king in Christendom

to beget a child upon my body; for though I be a poor man, I’m an old

Christian, and owe no man a farthing: if I long for an island, others

long for things that are worse, every one being the son of his own

works; the lowest mortal may come to be pope, much more governor of an

island, especially as my master may gain more than he knows well what to

do with. Mr. Barber, you had better think before you speak: there is

something else to do than shaving of beards, and one Pedro may differ

from another[119]; this I say because we know one another, and you must

not think to palm false dice upon me: with regard to the inchantment of

my master, God knows the truth, and there let it lie; for, as the saying

is, The more you stir it, the more it will—you know what.’ The barber

durst not make any reply, lest Sancho’s simplicity should discover what

he and the curate were so desirous of concealing; and the priest being

under the same apprehension, desired the canon to ride on with him a

little before the waggon, promising to disclose the mystery of the

encaged knight, with other particulars that would yield him some

diversion: the canon put on accordingly with his servants, listening

attentively to every thing the curate was pleased to communicate

concerning the rank, employment, madness, and manners, of Don Quixote;

for he briefly recounted the cause and beginning of his disorder, with

the whole progress of his adventures, until he was secured in the cage

by their contrivance, that they might carry him home to his own house,

and endeavour to find some cure for his distemper.

The canon and his servants were astonished anew at hearing the strange

story of Don Quixote; which being finished, the Toledan replied, ‘Truly,

Mr. Curate, I am firmly persuaded that those books of chivalry are very

prejudicial in the commonwealth; for though I have been induced by a

false taste and idle curiosity to read the beginning of almost every one

that hath been printed, I never could prevail upon myself to read any

one of them from the first to the last page; because, in my opinion,

they are all of the same stamp, without any essential difference. And,

indeed, that kind of composition seems to fall under that species of

writing called the Milesian Fables, which are no other than extravagant

tales calculated for mere amusement, without any tendency to

instruction; on the contrary, the scope of your apologues is to convey

instruction and delight together. Now, though the principal intention of

those books is to delight and entertain the reader, I do not see how

they can answer that end, being, as they are, stuffed with such

improbable nonsense; for the pleasure that the soul conceives, is from

the beauty and harmony of those things which are contemplated by the

view, or suggested by the imagination; so that we can receive no

pleasure from objects that are unnatural and deformed. And what beauty,

symmetry, or proportion, can be observed in a book containing the

history of a youth of seventeen, who with one back-stroke cuts through

the middle a giant like a tower, with as much ease as if he had been

made of paste; and in the description of a battle, after having observed

that there are no less than a million of combatants on the side opposite

to that which the hero of the piece espouses, we must, in despite of

common-sense, believe, that such a knight obtained the victory by the

single valour of his invincible arm. Then, how shall we account for the

confidence with which some queen, empress, or orphan heiress, throws

herself into the protection of an unknown knight-errant? What mind, if

not wholly barbarous and uncultivated, can be pleased with an account of

a huge tower full of knights sailing upon the sea like a ship before the

wind; being overnight upon the coast of Lombardy, and next morning

arrived in the dominions of Prester John in the Indies, or in some other

country which Ptolemy never discovered, nor Marcus Polus ever saw? If to

this observation it be answered, that the authors of those books do not

pretend that the stories they contain are true, and therefore they are

under no necessity of adhering to such niceties of composition; I reply,

that fiction is always the better the nearer it resembles truth, and

agreeable in proportion to the probability it bears, and the doubtful

credit which it inspires. Wherefore, all such fables ought to be suited

to the understanding of those who read them, and written so as that by

softening impossibilities, smoothing what is rough, and keeping the mind

in suspense, they may surprize, agreeably perplex, and entertain,

creating equal admiration and delight; and these never can be excited by

authors who forsake probability and imitation, in which the perfection

of writing consists. I have never as yet seen in any book of chivalry an

entire body of a fable, with all its members so proportioned, as that

the middle corresponds with the beginning, and the end is suitable to

both; on the contrary, one would think the author’s intention is

commonly to form a chimera or monster, instead of a figure well

proportioned in all its parts. Besides, their stile is usually harsh,

their atchievements incredible, their amours lascivious, their courtesy

impertinent, their battles tedious, their dialogue insipid, their

voyages extravagant, and, in short, the whole void of all ingenuity of

invention; so that they deserve to be banished as useless members from

every Christian commonwealth.’

The curate, who had listened with great attention, hearing the canon

talk so sensibly, looked upon him as a man of excellent understanding,

and assented to every thing he said; observing, that, in consequence of

his being of the same opinion, and of the grudge he bore to such books

of chivalry, he had burned a great number of those that belonged to Don

Quixote. He then gave him a detail of the scrutiny which had been made,

distinguishing such as he spared from those that he condemned to the

flames.

The traveller laughed heartily at this account of such an extraordinary

trial, saying, that notwithstanding what he had advanced to the

disadvantage of such books, there was one thing in them which he could

not but approve; namely, the subject they presented for a good genius to

display itself, opening a large and ample field in which the pen might

at leisure expatiate in the description of shipwrecks, tempests,

battles, and encounters; painting a valiant general with all his

necessary accomplishments, sage, and penetrating into the enemy’s

designs, eloquent and effectual either in persuading or dissuading his

soldiers, ripe in council, prompt in execution, and equally brave in

standing or in giving an assault. One while recounting a piteous

tragical story, at another time describing a joyful and unexpected

event; here, a most beautiful lady, endued with virtue, discretion, and

reserve; there, a Christian knight, possessed of courtesy and valour; in

the third place, an outrageous boasting barbarian; and in a fourth, a

polite, considerate, gallant prince; not forgetting to describe the

faith and loyalty of vassals, together with the grandeur and generosity

of great men. The author may also shew himself an astrologer,

geographer, musician, and well skilled in state-affairs; nay, if he be

so minded, he will sometimes have an opportunity of manifesting his

skill in necromancy and magick; he may represent the cunning of Ulysses,

the piety of Æneas, the valour of Achilles, the misfortunes of Hector,

the perfidy of Sinon, the friendship of Euryalus, the liberality of

Alexander, the ability of Cæsar, the clemency and candour of Trajan, the

fidelity of Zopyrus, the wisdom of Cato, and finally, all those

qualifications which constitute the perfection of an illustrious hero;

sometimes uniting them in one, sometimes dividing them into several

characters: and the whole being expressed in an agreeable stile and

ingenious invention, that borders as near as possible upon the truth,

will doubtless produce a web of such various and beautiful texture, as

when finished, to display that perfection which will attain the chief

end and scope of such writings; which, as I have already observed, is to

convey instruction mingled with delight. Besides, the unlimited

competition of such books gives the author opportunities of shewing his

talents in epicks, lyricks, tragedy, and comedy, and all the different

branches of the delicious and agreeable arts of poetry and rhetorick;

for epicks may be written in prose as well as verse.

Footnote 116:

In the original, _mi padre!_ my father! which I have changed for an

exclamation more frequently used in our language.

Footnote 117:

In the text, the knight is guilty of a palpable solecism, in desiring

Sancho to touch and feel that which he himself expressly observes was

subject neither to touch or feeling.

Footnote 118:

Written by Cervantes himself.

Footnote 119:

Equivalent to our saying, ‘Every Jack is not a good fellow.’

CHAP. XXI.

IN WHICH THE CANON PROSECUTES THE SUBJECT OF KNIGHT-ERRANTRY,

AND MAKES OTHER OBSERVATIONS WORTHY OF HIS GENIUS.

‘Mr. Canon,’ said the curate, ‘what you have observed, is extremely

just, and therefore those authors deserve the greater reprehension, who

have composed such books, without the least regard to good sense or the

rules of art, by which they might have conducted their plans, and

rendered themselves as famous in prose as the two princes of Greek and

Latin poetry are now in verse.’—‘I myself,’ replied the canon, ‘have

been tempted to write a book of chivalry, observing all the maxims and

precautions I have now laid down; nay, to tell you the truth, no less

than a hundred sheets of it are already written; and, in order to try if

my own opinion of it was well founded, I have communicated my

performance to a great many people who are passionately fond of that

kind of reading; not only men of learning and taste, but also ignorant

persons, who chiefly delight in extravagant adventures; and I have been

favoured with the agreeable approbation of them all: nevertheless, I

have not proceeded on the work; because, I not only thought it foreign

to my profession, but likewise concluded, that the world abounds much

more with fools than people of sense; and though an author had better be

applauded by the few that are wise, than laughed at by the many that are

foolish, I was unwilling to expose myself to the uninformed judgment of

the arrogant vulgar, whose province it principally is to read books of

this kind. But what contributed most to my laying aside the pen, and

indeed all thoughts of bringing the work to a conclusion, was a

reflection I made upon the comedies of the present age. “If,” said I to

myself, “our modern plays, not only those which are formed upon fiction,

but likewise such as are founded on the truth of history, are all, or

for the greatest part, universally known to be monstrous productions,

without either head or tail, and yet received with pleasure by the

multitude, who approve and esteem them as excellent performances, though

they are far from deserving that title; and if the authors who compose,

and the actors who represent them, affirm, that this and no other method

is to be practised, because the multitude must be pleased; that those

which bear the marks of contrivance, and produce a fable digested

according to the rules of art, serve only for entertainment to four or

five people of taste, who discern the beauties of the plan, which

utterly escape all the rest of the audience; and that it is better for

them to gain a comfortable livelihood by the many, than starve upon

reputation with the few.”—“At this rate,” said I, “if I should finish my

book, after having scorched every hair in my whiskers, in poring over

it, to preserve those rules and precepts already mentioned, I might fare

at last, like the sagacious botcher, who sewed for nothing, and found

his customers in thread[120].” I have sometimes endeavoured to persuade

the players, that they were mistaken in their maxims; and that they

would bring more company to their house, and acquire much more

reputation, by representing regular comedies, than such absurd

performances; but I always found them so obstinately bigotted to their

own fancies, that no evidence or demonstration could alter their opinion

in the least. I remember, I once said to one of these pragmatick

fellows, “Don’t you recollect, that a few years ago, three tragedies

were acted, composed by a celebrated poet of this kingdom; and that they

raised admiration, pleasure, and surprize, in all who saw them

exhibited, gentle as well as simple, ignorant as well as learned, and

brought more money to the actors than thirty of the best that have since

appeared?”—“Doubtless,” answered the player, “you mean Isabella,

Phillis, and Alexandria.”—“The very same,” said I; “and pray take

notice, whether or not they are composed according to rule, or failed to

please every body, because they were regular? Wherefore, the fault does

not lie in the multitude’s demanding absurdities, but in those who can

represent nothing else; for there is nothing absurd in the play of

Ingratitude Revenged, nor in Numantia, the Merchant Lover, the

Favourable Female Foe, nor in some others which are composed by poets of

genius, to their own reputation, and the advantage of those who

represented them.” I made use of many more arguments, by which he seemed

to be confuted, though not so much satisfied or convinced, as to retract

his erroneous opinions.’

‘Mr. Canon,’ said the curate, interrupting him in this place, ‘the

subject you have touched upon awakes in me an old grudge I have bore to

our modern plays, even equal to that I entertain against books of

chivalry. Comedy, according to Tully, ought to be the mirrour of life,

the exemplar of manners, and picture of truth; whereas, those that are

represented in this age, are mirrours of absurdity, exemplars of folly,

and pictures of lewdness; for sure nothing can be more absurd in a

dramatick performance, than to see the person, who in the first scene of

the first act, was produced a child in swaddling-cloaths, appear a full

grown man with a beard, in the second; or to represent an old man active

and valiant, a young soldier cowardly, a footman eloquent, a page a

counsellor, a king a porter, and a princess a scullion. Then what shall

we say concerning their management of the time and place, in which the

actions have or may be supposed to have happened? I have seen a comedy,

the first act of which was laid in Europe, the second in Asia, and the

third was finished in Africa; nay, had there been a fourth, the scene

would have shifted to America; so that the fable would have travelled

through all the four divisions of the globe. If imitation be the chief

aim of comedy, how can any ordinary understanding be satisfied with

seeing an action that passed in the time of King Pepin and Charlemagne,

ascribed to the Emperor Heraclius, who being the principal personage, is

represented, like Godfrey of Bulloign, carrying the cross into

Jerusalem, and making himself master of the holy sepulchre; an infinite

number of years having passed between the one and the other. Or, when a

comedy is founded upon fiction, to see scraps of real history

introduced, and facts misrepresented both with regard to persons and

times; not with any ingenuity of contrivance, but with the most manifest

and inexcusable errors and stupidity; and what is worst of all, there is

a set of ignorant pretenders, who call this the perfection of writing;

and that every attempt to succeed by a contrary method is no other than

a wild-goose chace[121]. Again, if we consider those plays that are

written on divine subjects, how many false miracles do they contain? how

many apocryphal events misunderstood by the author, who frequently

confounds the operations of one saint with those of another? Nay, in

prophane subjects, they have the assurance to work miracles, for no

other respect or consideration, but because they think such a miracle

will make a very decent appearance in such a place; and, as they term

it, attract the admiration of the vulgar, and bring them in crowds to

the play: but all this redounds to the prejudice of truth, the contempt

of history, and scandal of our Spanish wits; so that the authors of

other nations, who punctually observe the unities of the drama, conclude

that we are barbarous and ignorant, from our absurd and preposterous

productions. Neither is it a sufficient excuse to say, that the intent

of all well-governed commonwealths, in permitting publick plays to be

acted, is to entertain the common people with some honest recreation, in

order to divert those bad humours which idleness usually engenders; and

that, since this end is answered by any play whatever, either good or

bad, there is no occasion to cramp and limit the authors or actors to

the just laws of composition; the purpose of the legislature being, as I

have said, accomplished without any such restriction. To this suggestion

I answer, that the same end, without any sort of comparison, will be

much better answered by good than bad comedies; for, after having seen

an artful and well-digested play represented, the hearer will go away,

delighted with the comic parts, instructed by the serious, and agreeably

surprized with the incidents; collecting information from the dialogue,

precaution from the deceits of the fable, experience from the examples

exhibited, affection for virtue, and indignation for vice. All these

sensations, I say, will a good comedy excite in the spectator’s mind,

let it be never so stupid and uncultivated; for of all impossibilities,

it is the most impossible, that a comedy, thus perfect in all its parts,

should not yield more entertainment, satisfaction, and delight, than one

that is defective in each particular, as the greatest part of our modern

pieces are. Neither is this want of correctness always to be laid to the

author’s charge; for there are some poets among us who are perfectly

well acquainted with the rules of writing, and could easily avoid any

such errors of composition; but as their pieces are made for sale, they

say, and it is very true, that the players would not purchase them, if

they were of any other stamp; so that the author is fain to accommodate

himself to the demand of the actor who pays him for his work. The truth

of this observation evidently appears in a great number of comedies

which have been composed by a most happy genius of these kingdoms[122],

with so much wit, pleasantry, elegance of versification, genteel

dialogue, sententious gravity, and finally, with such elocution and

sublimity of stile, that the whole world resounds with his fame; yet in

suiting himself to the false taste of the actors, he hath not been able

to bring them all to the requisite point of perfection. Others again are

so inconsiderate in their productions, that after representation, the

players have been frequently obliged to fly and abscond for fear of

chastisement, on account of having exhibited something to the prejudice

of royal heads, or dishonour of noble families; now all these

inconveniences, with many more that I do not chuse to mention, might be

prevented, if there was at court some person of taste and learning,

appointed to examine every dramatick performance before its appearance

on the stage; and this precaution should affect not only the plays

composed in Madrid, but all pieces whatever to be represented within the

monarchy of Spain; for, without the approbation of this licencer, signed

and sealed, no magistrate should allow any production to be acted within

the bounds of his jurisdiction. In consequence of this expedient the

actors would take care to submit every play to the censure of the

examiner, that they might afterwards represent them with safety; and the

authors would employ more caution and study in their compositions,

knowing that they must pass the rigorous examination of an intelligent

judge; in this manner, good comedies would be produced, and the aim of

such writings happily accomplished, to the entertainment of the people,

and the credit of Spanish wits; while the actors would represent them

with security and advantage, and the state be exempted from the trouble

of chastising such delinquents. And if the same licencer, or any other

person, were invested with the charge of examining books of chivalry,

before they see the light, some performances of that sort would

certainly appear in all the perfection you have described, enriching our

language with the delightful and precious treasure of eloquence; while

the old romances would be entirely eclipsed by the light of the new,

that would furnish rational amusement, not only for the idle, but also

for those who are most industrious; seeing it is impossible for the bow

to continue always bent, or that feeble nature can subsist without some

innocent recreation.’

Thus far had the canon and curate proceeded in their conversation, when

the barber coming up to them, said to his townsman, ‘Mr. Licentiate,

this is the place in which I proposed to halt, that the oxen might have

fresh pasture in abundance.’ The curate approved of the hint, and

communicated their intention to the canon, who resolved to stay with

them, being invited by the situation of a delicious valley that

presented itself to his view; that he might therefore enjoy the

agreeable spot, together with the conversation of the curate, for whom

he had already conceived an affection, and be more particularly informed

of Don Quixote’s exploits, he ordered his domesticks to proceed to an

inn, which was not far off, and bring from thence victuals sufficient

for the whole company; for he was resolved to spend the afternoon where

he was. One of the servants told him that the sumpter-mule, which by

that time had reached the inn, carried provision enough, and that they

should want nothing but barley for the beasts. ‘If that be the case,’

said the canon, ‘carry the rest to the inn, and bring the sumpter-mule

hither.’

Meanwhile Sancho perceiving that he might now speak to his master,

without being overheard by the curate and barber, of whom he was

suspicious, approached the cage, and thus addressed himself to the

knight: ‘Truly, Sir, in order to disburthen my conscience, I must tell

you something concerning this same inchantment. These people, with

masks on their faces, are no other than the curate and barber of our

town, who, I verily believe, have contrived to carry you off in this

manner, out of pure envy and spite, because your worship has got the

heels of them in your famous atchievements: now, this being supposed,

it follows as plain as the nose upon my face, that you are not

inchanted, but rather fooled and bamboozled. As a proof of which, I

desire to ask you one question, which if you answer, as I do believe

you will, your worship may clap your ten fingers on the trick, and

perceive that you are not inchanted, but that your whole brain is

turned topsy-turvy.’—‘Ask what you will, son Sancho,’ replied Don

Quixote, ‘I will freely answer, and satisfy your doubts to the best of

my power; with regard to your saying, that those who attend us are our

friends and townsmen, the curate and barber, so indeed they may appear

to your eye; but that they are really and effectually so, you must by

no means believe: on the contrary, you are to conclude, that if they

resemble our friends, the inchanters, who can assume what form they

please, have taken that appearance and resemblance, to mislead your

credit, and bewilder your imagination in such a labyrinth of

perplexity, that even the clue of Theseus would not extricate your

thoughts. Besides, they may have done it with a view of confounding my

judgment, that I might not be able to guess from what quarter my

misfortune proceeds; for, if on the one hand you affirm that I am

attended by the barber and curate of our town; and on the other hand,

I find myself encaged; though I am sensible that nothing but

supernatural force could suffice to confine me thus, what would you

have me say or think, but that the manner of my inchantment exceeds

every thing I have read in all the histories that treat of inchanted

knights? Wherefore set your heart at rest, and take it for granted,

that these are as far from being the persons you have mentioned, as I

am from being a Turk. With respect to thy desire of asking me

questions, I repeat my promise of answering, even if thy interrogation

should last till to-morrow morning.’—‘God’s blessed mother!’ cried the

squire, with great vociferation, ‘is it possible that your worship can

be so thick-skulled and brainless, as not to perceive the truth of

what I alledge, and see that this imprisonment and misfortune is more

owing to malice than inchantment? But seeing it is so, I will venture

to prove, beyond all contradiction, that you are no more inchanted

than my ass. Tell me, therefore, as God shall deliver you from this

mischance, and as you hope to see yourself in the arms of my Lady

Dulcinea, when you least expect any such good luck—’ ‘Truce with thy

conjuration,’ said the knight, ‘and ask what thou wilt, I have already

promised to answer with the utmost punctuality.’—‘That is my request,’

answered Sancho, ‘and what I want to know is, that your worship will

tell me, without eking or curtailing God’s precious truth, but in

honest simplicity of heart as it ought to be, and always is told those

who, like your worship, profess the occupation of arms, under the

title of knight-errants—’ ‘I tell thee,’ cried the knight,

interrupting him, ‘I will not in the least prevaricate. Dispatch then,

Sancho, for truly I am quite tired with so many salvos, solicitations,

and preambles.’—‘I make so bold,’ replied the squire, ‘because I am

well aware of my master’s goodness and sincerity, which being as it

were to the purpose, I ask (with reverence be it spoken) whether or

not, since you have been confined, and as you suppose inchanted in

this cage, your worship hath felt any motion or desire to undam either

way, as the saying is?’—‘I do not know what you mean by undamming,’

answered Don Quixote; ‘you must be more explicit, Sancho, if you

expect an answer to the purpose.’—‘Is it possible,’ said the squire,

‘that your worship should be ignorant of the meaning of the word

undamming, which is the first thing the boys learn at school? Well,

then, you must know, I wanted to ask if you never had any inclination

to do that which nobody else can do for you?’—‘Now I understand thee,

Sancho,’ said the knight; ‘verily I have had divers calls of that

nature, one of which is at present very importunate: pray fall upon

some method to disembarrass me, for I believe all is not so sweet and

clean as it ought to be.’

Footnote 120:

A Spanish proverb, applicable to a great many modern projectors and

reformers.

Footnote 121:

_Buscar gullirias_, signifies to seek dainties.

Footnote 122:

Lopez de Vega Carpio.

CHAP. XXII.

THE SAGE CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA

AND HIS MASTER DON QUIXOTE.

‘Ha!’ cried Sancho, ‘have I caught you at last? This is what I wanted to

know with all my heart and soul: come on, Sir, there is no denying of

what is commonly said, when any person is in the dumps, I know not what

is the matter with such an one; he neither eats, drinks, nor sleeps, nor

answers to the purpose, when he is spoke to; sure the man must be

enchanted: from whence we are to conclude, that those who are inchanted

neither eat, drink, sleep, nor do their natural occasions, as I have

observed. But this is not the case with such as are disturbed with the

inclination that your worship at present feels, drinking when they can

get liquor, eating when they can lay hold on food, and giving plain

answers to every question that is asked.’—‘Thou art in the right,’

replied Don Quixote; ‘but I have already told thee, that there are

different kinds of inchantment; and time may have so entirely altered

the fashion, that those who are under the power of inchantment in this

age, may, like me, retain the use of their faculties, though it was

quite otherwise of old; so that there is no arguing or drawing

consequences against the different practice of different times. I am

sensible and certain of my being inchanted, and this is sufficient for

the quiet of my conscience, which would give me great uneasiness if I

had the least doubt about my fate, and allowed myself to be in this cage

like an idle coward, deceitfully withholding my succour from a great

number of the needy and oppressed, who at this very hour must be in the

most absolute and extreme necessity, from the want of my aid and

protection.’—‘Nevertheless,’ answered the squire, ‘for your more

abundant satisfaction, your worship, methinks, might try to escape from

this prison; for my own part, I’ll be bound not only to give my

assistance, but even to work your deliverance, and then you may

endeavour to remount your trusty Rozinante, who trudges along as

melancholy and sad as if he was inchanted also. This being performed,

let us try our fate once more in quest of adventures; and if they do not

turn out to our expectation, it will be time enough to return to the

cage, in which I promise, on the faith of a true and loyal squire, to

shut myself up with your worship, if perchance, through your ill fortune

or my folly, this that I mention should not succeed.’—‘I am content to

follow thy counsel, brother Sancho,’ replied the knight; ‘and whenever

thou shalt perceive a proper conjuncture for effecting my deliverance, I

will implicitly obey thee in every thing, but thou wilt soon find

thyself deceived in thy opinion of my mishap.’

This conversation between the knight-errant and the erring squire,

lasted until they arrived at the place in which the curate, canon, and

barber, who had already alighted, waited for them. The waggoner

immediately unyoking his oxen, turned them loose in that verdant and

delicious spot, the coolness of which was extremely inviting, not only

to inchanted people like Don Quixote, but also to persons of

intelligence and discretion like his squire, who besought the curate to

let his master come out of the cage for a few minutes; because, without

such permission, the prison would not be quite so clean as the decency

of such a knight required. The curate, understanding what he meant, told

him that he would willingly grant his request, were he not under some

apprehension that his master, finding himself at liberty, would play one

of his old pranks, and be gone where men should never see his face

again. ‘I will be bound for his good behaviour,’ answered Sancho; ‘and I

also,’ said the canon, ‘especially if he will promise, on the word of a

knight, not to stir from our presence, until he shall have obtained our

consent.’

‘I will,’ cried the knight (who overheard all that passed;) ‘the more

so, as one, who, like me, is inchanted, cannot be at liberty to make use

of his own person; for the inchanter can so utterly deprive him of all

motion, that he shall not be able to stir from the place for three whole

ages; and if he should make his escape, would whisk him back through the

air in a twinkling.’ This being the case, he said they might very safely

uncage him, especially as such indulgence would redound to the benefit

of the whole company; for he protested that if they did not comply with

his present necessities, he should be obliged to incommode their sense

of smelling, unless they removed to a greater distance from the place of

his confinement.

The canon, confiding in his word and honour, took him by the hands, tied

as they were, and helped him to descend from his cage: then the knight,

being infinitely rejoiced at his momentary deliverance, stretched every

joint in his body, and going up to Rozinante, gave him a slap on the

buttocks, saying, ‘I still hope in God and his blessed mother, thou

flower and mirrour of steeds! that in a short time we shall both obtain

our heart’s desire; thou prancing under the agreeable pressure of thy

lord, and I mounted upon thy trusty back, exercising the employment for

which Heaven sent me into the world.’ Having pronounced this apostrophe,

he retired with Sancho to a remote place, from whence he returned much

eased and comforted, and more desirous than ever of executing the

project of his squire. The canon could not help gazing upon him, being

struck with admiration at the strange unaccountable symptoms of his

disorder; for in all his conversation and replies, he gave evident

proofs of an excellent understanding, and never lost himself[123] except

on the subject of chivalry, as we have formerly observed: he was

therefore touched with compassion for his infirmity, and when the whole

company were seated on the grass, waiting for the return of the

sumpter-mule, addressed himself to the knight in this manner:

‘Is it possible, good Sir, that the idle and unlucky reading of books of

chivalry can have so far impaired your judgment, as that you should now

believe yourself inchanted, and give credit to other illusions of the

same kind, which are as far from being true as truth is distant from

falshood? Is it possible that the human understanding can suppose that

ever this world produced that infinite number of Amadis’s, with the

whole crowd of famous knights, so many emperors of Trebisond,

Fleximarte’s of Hyrcania, palfreys, damsels, serpents, dragons, and

giants; so many incredible adventures, inchantments of different kinds,

battles, dreadful encounters, magnificence of apparel, enamoured

princesses, squires created earls, witty dwarfs, billets, amorous

expressions, valiant ladies, and finally, such extravagant events as are

contained in books of knight-errantry? For my own part, when I read a

performance of that sort, without reflecting that it is a legend of

vanity and lyes, my imagination is a little amused; but as soon as I

begin to consider it in the right point of view, I dash the volume

against the wall, and would even commit it to the flames, (if I should

chance to be near a fire) as a criminal richly deserving such punishment

on account of its falshood and imposture, so contrary to nature, and

bewildered from the track of common-sense, and as an inventor of new

sects and preposterous ways of life, misleading and inducing the

ignorant vulgar to believe the absurdities which it contains; nay, so

presumptuous are such productions, as to disturb the minds of gentlemen

of birth and education, as may be too plainly perceived by their effects

upon you, Signior, whom they have reduced to such a pass as to make it

necessary that you should be cooped up in a cage, and transported from

place to place on a waggon, like a lion or tyger exhibited as a shew for

money. Go to, Signior Don Quixote! have pity upon yourself, return into

the bosom of discretion, and put those happy talents which Heaven hath

been pleased to bestow upon you to a better use, employing your genius

in other studies, which may redound to the increase of your honour, as

well as to the good of your soul; or, if swayed by your natural

inclination, you are still desirous of reading the histories of exploits

and atchievements, you may have recourse to the book of Judges in the

Holy Scripture, and there you will find real miracles of might, and

actions equally valiant and true, Portugal produced a Viriatus, Rome a

Cæsar, Carthage an Hannibal, Greece an Alexander, Castile a count Fernan

Gonçales, Valencia a Cid, Andalousia a Gonzalo Fernandez, Estremadura a

Diego Garcia de Paredes, Xerez a Garcia Perez de Vargas, Toledo a

Garcilasso, Seville a Don Manuel de Leon; the history of their valiant

exploits will afford entertainment, instruction, surprize, and delight,

to readers of the most sublime conception. Such study as this would be

worthy of the good sense of Signior Don Quixote, who would thus become

learned in history, enamoured of virtue, improved in worth, bettered in

morals, brave without rashness, cautious without cowardice; while the

whole would redound to the honour of God, his own particular emolument,

and the renown of La Mancha, from whence I understand his family and

origin is derived.’

Don Quixote listened with infinite attention to his harangue; and even

after he perceived it was finished, looked stedfastly at the canon for

some time, before he answered in these words: ‘Signior Hidalgo, if I am

not mistaken, the scope of your discourse was to convince me that there

never were knights-errant in this world; that all the books of chivalry

are false, deceitful, unprofitable, nay mischievous, in a commonwealth;

that I have been much to blame in reading, more so in believing, and

most of all in imitating, the characters they describe, by following the

most painful profession of knight-errantry; and, lastly, you deny that

ever there was an Amadis, either of Gaul or Greece, or that any one of

that vast number of knights recorded in those writings had any real

existence.’—‘You have exactly summed up my allegations,’ said the canon.

‘You were likewise pleased to add,’ resumed the knight, ‘that such books

had done me infinite prejudice, impaired my judgment, and reduced me to

the necessity of being confined in a cage; and that I would do well to

amend and alter my course of studies, and to use performances which

contain more truth, instruction, and delight.’—‘That,’ said the canon,

‘was my precise meaning.’—‘Why, then,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘in my opinion

the person impaired in his judgment, and inchanted, is no other than

your worship, who have presumed to utter such blasphemies against an

order so well received in the world, and established as truth, that he

who like you denies it deserves the same punishment you inflicted upon

those books that gave you disgust; for, to say that there never was such

a person as Amadis, or any other of those adventurous knights with whom

history abounds, is like an endeavour to persuade people that frost is

not cold, that the sun yields no light, and the earth no sustenance.

Will any earthly eloquence make a man believe, that the story of the

infanta Floripes, and Guy of Burgundy, is false; or that of Fierabras,

with the bridge of Mantible, which happened in the time of Charlemagne,

and I vow to God is as true as that the sun shines at noon-day? If this

be a lye, you may also affirm that there never was such an event as the

Trojan war, nor such persons as Hector and Achilles, or the Twelve Peers

of France, or Arthur King of England, who to this day survives in the

likeness of a raven, and is every moment expected to reascend his

throne. People may as well venture to say, that the history of Guarino

Mesquino, and the suit of St. Grial, are pure fiction; and look upon the

amours of Don Tristan and Queen Iseo, with those of Ginebra and

Lancelot, as altogether apocryphal; though there are people who almost

remember to have seen the Duenna Quintanona, who was the best

wine-skinker in Great Britain: this is so true, that I myself have heard

my grandmother by the father’s side often say, when she happened to see

a Duenna with a reverend biggen[124], “Grandson, there is a person very

like the Duenna Quintanona.” From whence I conclude, that she must

either have known her personally, or at least seen some picture of that

venerable matron. Then, who can deny the history of Peter of Provence

and the fair Magalona, since, to this day, may be seen in the royal

armoury the very peg that turned the wooden horse upon which the valiant

Peter travelled through the air; by the same token, that it is something

larger than the pole of a coach, and stands near the saddle of Babieca.

Nay, at Roncevalles you may see Orlando’s horn, as big as a weaver’s

beam. From all which circumstances we may justly infer, that the Twelve

Peers, the Peters, the Cids, with all those who were called

knights-errant, actually existed, according to the records of their

fame; otherwise they may as well deny that the valiant Portuguese, Juan

de Merlo, was a knight-errant; though it is well known, that he went to

Burgundy and fought in the city of Ras, with the famous lord of Charne,

called Monseigneur Pierre, and afterwards in the city of Basil, with

Monseigneur Henrique de Remestan; gaining the victory in each of these

combats, with abundance of honourable fame. Neither, I suppose, will

they credit the defiance and adventures that were also atchieved in

Burgundy, by those valiant Spaniards, Pedro Barba and Guttierre Quixada,

(from whom I am lineally descended on the father’s side) who conquered

the sons of the Count de St. Paul: nay, let them likewise refuse to own

that Don Fernando de Guevara went in quest of adventures into Germany,

where he fought with Messire George, a knight of the houshold to the

Duke of Austria; and say that the justs and tournaments at Suero de

Quinones, and the pass, were mere illusion, as well as the enterprizes

of Monseigneur Lewis de Falses, against Don Gonçalo de Guzman, a

Castilian knight, together with many other exploits performed by

Christian warriors belonging to these and other foreign realms, so

authentick and true, that (I repeat my asseveration) he who denies them

is void of all reason and common sense.’

The canon was struck with admiration, when he heard Don Quixote utter

such a medley of fiction and truth; and perceiving that he was

intimately acquainted with every circumstance regarding and concerning

the atchievements of knight-errantry, answered him in these words:

‘Signior Don Quixote, I cannot deny but what you have said is partly

true, particularly that which regards the Spanish knights; I grant also

that there was an order called the Twelve Peers of France, but cannot

believe that they performed all those exploits recounted by archbishop

Turpin; for the truth is, they were a set of knights chosen by the kings

of France, under the title of the Twelve Peers, because they were all

equal in point of virtue, rank, and valour; at least, if they were not,

they ought to have been possessed of this parity of qualifications; for

it was an association resembling the modern orders of St. Jago and

Calatrava, which suppose, that every member is valiant, virtuous, and

noble; and as we now say a knight of St. Juan or Alcantara, in those

days they said a knight of the Twelve Peers; because those who professed

that military order were equal in all respects, and twelve in number;

that there were such persons as the Cid and Bernardo del Carpio, I make

no question; but whether or not they performed all those exploits which

are ascribed to them, is, I believe, extremely doubtful; with respect to

the peg of Count Peter, which you say stands by the saddle of Babieca in

the royal armoury, to my shame be it spoken, I am either so ignorant or

short-sighted, that although I have seen the saddle, I could never

observe the peg, large as you have been pleased to describe it.’—‘But

there it certainly is,’ replied the knight; ‘and what makes it the more

remarkable, it is said to be kept in a case of calves leather, that it

may not rust.’—‘It may be so,’ said the canon; ‘but, by my holy orders!

I do not remember to have seen any such thing; yet, granting it to be in

that place, I am not therefore bound to believe the stories that are

recounted of so many Amadis’s, and such a rabble of knights; nor is it

reasonable, that a person of honour, like you, endowed with so many

happy talents, should give credit to such extravagant rhodomontades as

are related in the lying legends of knight-errantry.’

Footnote 123:

Literally, ‘Never lost the stirrup.’

Footnote 124:

_Toca_, which is the original word, signifies a woman’s coif, veil, or

handkerchief.

CHAP. XXIII.

OF THE SAGE CONTEST BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE

AND THE CANON—WITH OTHER EVENTS.

‘A good jest, truly,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that books printed with the

licence of kings, and approbation of those who are appointed to examine

them, read with universal delight, celebrated by great and small, rich

and poor, knights and plebeians, the learned and illiterate; finally, by

persons of all ranks and degrees whatever; should contain nothing but

lyes; notwithstanding the appearance of truth which they maintain, in

mentioning the father, mother, country, relations, condition,

birth-place; and in giving an exact journal of the exploits peculiar to

every individual knight; cease, therefore, good Sir, to vent such

blasphemy, and believe that in this particular, I advise you to act

according to the dictates of good sense: read them again, and you will

see what pleasure you will reap for your pains; for what can be more

entertaining than to see, as it were, before our eyes, a vast lake of

boiling pitch, through which an infinite number of serpents, snakes, and

alligators, with many other kinds of fierce and terrible creatures, are

continually winding and writhing along; then to hear a most dismal voice

that seems to issue from the middle of this pitchy pool, pronounce, “O

knight, whosoever thou art, that now standest gazing at the dreadful

lake, if thou wouldst enjoy the bliss that is concealed beneath these

sable waves, display the valour of thy dauntless breast, and dart

thyself amidst these black and burning billows; otherwise, thou art not

worthy to behold the mighty wonders deposited and contained within the

seven castles of the seven nymphs, that dwell below this sullen flood.”

Scarce hath the sound of this dismal voice ceased to vibrate on his ear,

when the knight, without the least hesitation, or reflecting upon the

danger he incurs, nay, without putting off his heavy armour, but

recommending himself to God and his mistress, plunges at once into the

burning lake; and when he neither cares nor knows what will be his fate,

finds himself in the midst of a delightful plain, by which the Elysian

fields are infinitely excelled: there the heaven seems more transparent,

and the sun shines with new lustre; the eye is entertained with an

agreeable forest of tall and leafy trees, whose verdure delights the

view; while the ear is regaled with the sweet and artless notes of an

infinite number of little painted warblers that hop from bough to bough;

here he perceives a brook, whose refreshing waters, clear as liquid

chrystal, run murmuring on the yellow sand, and glistening pebbles, that

emulate the purest pearls, and heaps of sifted gold.

‘In one place springs an artificial fountain adorned with variegated

jasper and polished marble; in another rises a rustick grotto, in which

the small shells of the mussel, and the white and yellow twisted domes

of the snail, placed in beauteous disorder, and mixed with bits of

shining chrystal and counterfeit emeralds, compose such an agreeable

variety, that nature seems to be excelled by imitative art. In a third

place, all of a sudden, appears a strong castle or magnificent palace,

the walls of massy gold, the battlements of diamond, the gates of

hyacinth, and, finally, the workmanship so admirable, as infinitely to

excel the materials, which are no less than adamant, carbuncles, rubies,

pearls, emeralds, and gold. Nay, after having thus feasted his eyes,

there still remains for him to see a fair bevy of damsels coming out at

the castle gate, dressed in such gay and splendid attire, that were I to

describe it minutely, as it is represented in the history, I should

never have done. Then she who appears the principal, takes by the hand

the undaunted knight, who threw himself into the boiling-lake, and

silently leading him into the rich castle or palace, strips him as naked

as he was when his mother bore him, and bathes him in water of an

agreeable temperature, then anoints his whole body with aromatick

essences, and puts upon him a shirt of the finest lawn, all scented and

perfumed; then comes another damsel, and throws over his shoulders a

mantle, which, at least, is usually valued at the price of a whole city,

or more. After all this ceremony, what a sight it is, when, as they

relate, he is conducted into another hall, in which a table is furnished

with such elegance as to excite his admiration and suspense! when they

sprinkle upon his hands water distilled from amber and odoriferous

flowers! when he is seated upon a chair of ivory, and attended by all

those damsels, who serve him in amazing silence! when he is allured by

such a variety of dishes, and so savourily cooked, that the appetite is

confounded in its choice! Then to hear musick during his repast, without

seeing the minstrel, or knowing from whence the sounds proceeds; and,

after he has refreshed himself, and the table is uncovered, while he

lolls at ease upon his chair, perhaps picking his teeth, according to

custom, he is surprized with the sight of another young lady, much more

beautiful than any of the former, who enters the hall, and sitting down

by the knight, begins to tell him whose castle that is, and how she is

inchanted within it, relating other circumstances which create wonder in

him, and raise the admiration of those who read the story. I need not

farther expatiate on this subject, since, from what hath been said, it

plainly appears, that any part whatever of the history of any

knight-errant whatever, must yield pleasure and surprize to any reader

whatsoever. Believe me, therefore, good Sir, and as I have already

hinted, take the trouble of reading those books, and you will see what

effectual antidotes they are against melancholy, and how they improve

the disposition, when it is bad. For my own part I can safely aver, that

since I professed the order of knight errantry, I have been valiant,

courteous, liberal, well-bred, generous, civil, daring, good-humoured,

and a patient endurer of toils, captivities, and inchantment; and though

I so lately found myself shut up in a cage like a madman, I hope, by the

valour of this my arm, provided Heaven shall favour, and fortune cease

to oppose me, in a few days to see myself sovereign of some kingdom,

when I shall be enabled to demonstrate the gratitude and generosity

which reside within my breast; for, truly, Signior, a poor man is

incapable of exerting the virtue of liberality, let him possess it in

never so eminent a degree; and that gratitude which is restrained to

good-will alone, is like faith without works, no more than the ghost of

virtue. Wherefore I wish fortune would speedily furnish me with an

opportunity of making myself an emperor, that I may exercise the virtues

of my heart, in bestowing benefits on my friends, especially on my poor

squire Sancho Panza, one of the best men in the world, whom I intend to

create an earl, in consequence of a promise which he obtained from me

long ago, though I fear he wants capacity to manage his estate.’

These last words being overheard by Sancho, he said to his master,

‘Signior Don Quixote, I wish you would take the trouble to give me that

same earldom, which is as firmly promised by your worship as expected by

me, and I will undertake to find ability to manage it; or, if I should

find myself at a loss, I have heard it often said, that there are

certain persons who farm the estates of great noblemen at so much a

year, and take charge of the whole, while the owner lolls at his ease,

enjoying his income, without troubling his noddle about any other

affairs. Now, I would live in the very same manner, minding the cares of

this world as little as possible; but leaving off all sorts of business,

enjoying my rents, like any duke, and let the world wag.’—‘Brother

Sancho,’ said the canon, ‘that is to be understood only of the spending

your income; but the lord of a great estate must have regard to the

administration of justice, which requires ability, sound judgment, and

principally an upright intention; for if this be wanting in the

beginning, the middle and end will always be involved in error; and

therefore Heaven usually assists the righteous intent of the simple,

while it confounds the wicked aims of the cunning.’—‘I know nothing of

these philosophies,’ answered the squire; ‘but this I know, that I wish

to God I had this earldom, as soon as I should find understanding to

manage it; for I have as big a soul as my neighbours, and as much body

as he that has more; and would be as much a king in my own estate, as

any he that wears a head: and so being, I would do what I pleased; and

doing what I pleased, I should please myself; and pleasing myself, I

should be satisfied; and in being satisfied, I should have nothing more

to desire; and having nothing more to desire, there would be an end; so

let the earldom come a God’s name! I wish we could see it, as one blind

man said to another.’—‘These are no bad philosophies, as you call them,

Sancho,’ said the canon; ‘but, for all that, there is much to be said on

the subject of earldoms.’—‘I know not what more can be said,’ replied

Don Quixote; ‘for my own part, I do no more than follow the example

transmitted to me by the great Amadis de Gaul, who created his squire

earl of the Firm Island; and therefore I may, without scruple of

conscience, bestow the same honour on Sancho Panza, who is one of the

best squires that ever served knight-errant.’

The canon was amazed at the methodical madness of Don Quixote,

manifested in his description of the Knight of the Lake; and in the

impression which the false adventures of chivalry had made upon his

imagination; neither was his wonder diminished, when he considered the

folly of Sancho, who so ardently desired the possession of that island

which his master had promised to give him, as the reward of his

services.

By this time the canon’s servants had returned from the inn, with the

sumpter-mule; and, instead of a table, spread a carpet on the green

grass, under the shade of some trees, where the company seating

themselves all round, went to dinner, that the waggoner might not lose

the opportunity of such a convenient situation as we have already

observed. While they thus enjoyed themselves, their ears were struck

with a sudden noise, and the sound of a bell, issuing from the midst of

some briars and thickets that surrounded the place where they sat; and

immediately appeared a beautiful she-goat, her skin speckled with spots

of white, black, and grey, followed by the goatherd; who, in his rustick

dialect, called to her to stop and return to the fold. The fugitive goat

trembling with affright, came towards the company, and there stopped, as

if to implore their protection; while her keeper, seizing her by the

horns, accosted her in these words, as if she had been possessed of

sense and understanding; ‘Ah! you spotted wanton, what a rambler you

have become of late; the wolves will feast upon you one day; what is the

matter with you, my pretty child? Yet what else can it be but that you

are a female, and consequently inconstant! a plague upon your

disposition, and all those you resemble: return, return, my darling; and

if you are not so happy, at least you will be more secure, in the fold

among your companions! for if you, who ought to watch over and guide the

rest, stray about in this imprudent manner, what must become of them?’

These words of the goatherd diverted those who heard them, especially

the canon, who said to him, ‘I beseech you, brother, to pacify yourself,

and be not in such a hurry to drive back your goat, which being a

female, as you observe, will follow her natural disposition, in spite of

all you can do to oppose it. Take this morsel, and assuage your choler

with a cup of wine, and in the mean time the goat will repose herself.’

So saying, he presented to him, on the point of a fork, the hind-quarter

of a cold rabbit, which was thankfully accepted by the goatherd; who

having taken a long draught, and composed himself, said to the company,

‘Gentlemen, you must not take me for a simpleton, because I talk to this

animal as if it were a rational creature; for really there is a mystery

concealed beneath the words I have uttered. I am a peasant, ’tis true,

yet not so rustick but that I know how to converse with men as well as

beasts.’—‘I firmly believe what you say,’ replied the curate; ‘for I

myself have experienced that the mountains produce learned men, and that

philosophers are to be found within the shepherd’s cot.’—‘At least,’

resumed the goatherd, ‘the cottage may contain those who are warned by

woeful experience; and to convince you feelingly that what I alledge is

true, I, though undesired, and self-invited, saving the good pleasure of

this good company, entreat a moment’s hearing, while I recount a true

story, which will confirm what that gentleman,’ pointing to the curate,

‘and myself have observed.’

To this proposal Don Quixote replied, ‘As this affair seems to bear

something of the shadow of an adventure, I for my part will gladly give

you the hearing, brother, and so will all those gentlemen who are

persons of taste, and lovers of curious novels, that surprize, delight,

and entertain the sensible hearer, for I hope your story will certainly

produce these agreeable effects: begin then, friend, we are all

attention.’—‘By your leave,’ cried Sancho, ‘I will e’en betake myself

with this piece of pasty to yonder brook, and lay in store for three

days; for I have heard my master Don Quixote observe, that the squire of

a knight-errant ought to eat as often and as much as he can; because

they are frequently so bewildered in woods and forests, that it will

take them six whole days to disengage themselves; and if a man’s belly

or his bags be not well lined with provision, there he may stay, as he

often does, till he withers into perfect mummy.’—‘You are in the right,

Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘go where you will, and eat as much as you

please; for my own part, my grosser appetite is satisfied, and now I

want refreshment for the mind, which I shall enjoy in listening to this

honest countryman’s story.’—‘We shall all share in the repast,’ replied

the canon, who intreated the peasant to perform his promise.

Then the goatherd gave the goat, which he held by the horns, two slaps

on the buttocks, saying, ‘Lie down by my side, you speckled Nanny; we

shall have time enough to return to the fold.’ The creature seemed to

understand his meaning, for he was no sooner set than she lay down very

quietly, and looking in his face, gave him to understand that she was

attentive to what he was going to say; upon which he began his story in

these words.

CHAP. XXIV.

THE STORY WHICH THE GOATHERD RECOUNTED

TO THE CONDUCTORS OF DON QUIXOTE.

‘Three leagues from this valley stands a village, which though small, is

one of the richest in all this country; and therein dwelt a farmer in

great repute: and albeit respect follows worldly wealth, he was more

beloved for his virtue than respected for his riches; but what he

regarded as the best part of his good fortune, (as he himself was wont

to say) was a daughter he had, of such exceeding beauty, rare

discretion, modesty, and grace, that every one who saw and knew her,

marvelled at the happy talents with which Heaven and nature had enriched

her body and her soul. In the cradle she was handsome, and continually

increased in beauty, till at the age of sixteen she was a most

inchanting creature: the fame of her charms began to spread over all the

neighbouring villages; but what need I say the neighbouring villages! it

extended to distant cities, and even made its way into the king’s court,

filling the ears of all sorts of people, who came from all parts to see

her, as if she had been some great curiosity, or miracle-working image.

Her father watched over her with great care, and she took great care of

herself; for, truly, a maiden’s own prudent reserve is a better guard

upon her conduct than all the bolts and spies, and padlocks upon earth.

The father’s wealth, and the daughter’s beauty, moved a great many

people, both of town and country, to demand her in marriage; but he,

like one who has the disposal of a rich jewel, was perplexed in his

mind, and could not determine in favour of any one of the infinite

number that solicited his consent. Among the crowd of her suitors, I was

one who conceived great and flattering hopes of success, because her

father knew me to be his townsman, of an honest family, in the flower of

my age, rich in wealth, and in point of understanding not very poor. She

was also courted by another young man of our town, who was in every

respect my equal; so that her father was perplexed, and wavered in his

choice, because he thought his daughter would be well bestowed upon

either of us; wherefore, in order to deliver himself from this suspence,

he resolved to communicate our demands to Leandra, (for that is the name

of this wealthy maiden, who hath made me miserable) and since we were

equal in all qualifications, to refer the whole affair to the choice and

decision of his beloved daughter. An example worthy to be followed by

every father in the settlement of his children: not that I would have

parents leave them to their own choice, in things that are manifestly

wicked and base; but first propose a number of prudent schemes, out of

which they may be allowed to fix upon that which is most to their

liking. I know not to which of us Leandra gave the preference; this only

I know, that her father put us off, on pretence of his daughter’s tender

years, in general terms, which neither laid him under any obligation nor

gave us any cause of complaint. I think proper to tell you, that I am

called Eugenio, and my rival Anselmo, that you may be acquainted with

the names of the persons principally concerned in this tragedy, which is

still depending; though one may easily foresee, that it must have a

melancholy end.

‘But, to return to my story: just about that time, there came to our

town one Vincent de La Rosa, the son of a poor labouring man that lived

in the village: this Vincent, who was just returned from being a soldier

in Italy, and other foreign parts, had been carried away, when he was a

boy about twelve years of age, by a captain that chanced to march

through the town with his company; and now, after an absence of another

dozen of years, he returned, in the garb of a soldier, pinked up in a

thousand colours, and bedecked with a power of glass toys and

slender-chains of steel. To-day he dressed himself out in one gay suit,

to-morrow in another: but all his finery and gewgaws were of little

weight or value. The labouring people, who are naturally malicious, nay,

when idleness gives them opportunity, downright malice itself, observed

and took an exact account of all his ornaments and fine apparel, and

found that he had no more than three suits of different colours, with

garters and hose; but he found means to disguise them by such

inventions, that one who had not been at the pains to detect him, would

have sworn that he had appeared in more than ten different dresses, and

in upwards of twenty plumes of feathers; and you must not think it

impertinent or foolish in me to give you this account of his cloaths,

because they bear a considerable share in the story. He used to seat

himself upon a stone, under a tall poplar that grew in our market-place,

and there keep us all gaping around him at the exploits which he

recounted; if you would take his word for it, there was not a country on

the face of the earth, which he had not seen, nor a battle in which he

had not served: he had killed a greater number of Moors than ever Tunis

or Morocco produced; and, by his own account, fought more single combats

than were ever maintained by Gante, Luna, Diego Garcia de Paredez, and a

thousand more whom he named, gaining the victory in each, without losing

one single drop of his blood; then he would shew the marks of wounds,

which though not to be distinguished, he gave us to understand were the

effects of musket-shot he had received in different actions and

encounters; finally, with incredible arrogance, he used to _thou_ his

own equals, even those who knew his extraction, and say that his own arm

was his father, his family the work of his own hands, and being a

soldier, he owed nothing even to the king himself: with all his

boasting, he knew something of musick, and could thrum upon the guittar

so as that some people said he made it speak. But his talents did not

end here; for he was also a piece of a poet, and wrote ballads a league

and a half long, upon every silly trifle that happened in the village.

Well, then, this soldier whom I have described, this Vincent de La Rosa,

this braggadocio, this gallant, this musician, and poet, was often seen

and observed by Leandra from the window of her apartment, that looked

towards the market-place. She was captivated by the tinsel of his gaudy

cloaths, and inchanted by his ballads; for he gave away twenty copies of

each that he composed; the feats he related of himself, reached her

ears: in short, (as the devil himself must certainly have ordained) she

fell in love with him, even before he had the presumption to make any

attempt upon her heart; and, as in the affairs of love every thing is

easily accomplished by the man who is already in possession of the

woman’s affection, Leandra and Vincent soon came to a right

understanding; and before any one of her numerous admirers had the least

inkling of her inclination, she had already gratified it, by leaving the

house of her loving and indulgent father, (mother she had none) and

running away with the soldier, who triumphed in that enterprise, and

more effectually than in any one he had ever undertaken.

‘This event filled not only the whole village, but likewise all who

heard of it, with admiration: I, for my part, was amazed, Anselmo

astonished, the father overwhelmed with sorrow, and the relations with

shame. Justice, however, being solicited, the troopers immediately took

the road, examined every copse and thicket thereabouts, and after a

search of three days, found the giddy Leandra in the cave of a mountain,

naked to the smock, and stripped of a great quantity of money and

precious jewels, which she had carried off when she made her escape.

When she was brought back to the presence of her afflicted father, and

questioned about her misfortune, she frankly owned that Vincent de La

Rosa had imposed upon her; that under promise of marriage, he had

persuaded her to forsake her father’s house, promising to conduct her to

Naples, which he said, was the most beautiful and flourishing city in

the whole world; that she inadvertently and fondly believed his false

professions, and robbing her father, put herself under his protection

that same night she was missed, when he carried her to a rocky mountain,

and confined her in the cave where she was found: she likewise affirmed

that the soldier, without making any attempt upon her virtue, had

stripped her of all she had, and left her in that forlorn condition; a

circumstance that surprized all who heard it, the soldier’s continence

being so incredible; but she insisted upon it with such earnest

asseverations, that the disconsolate father was in some sort comforted,

making little account of the money he had lost, since his daughter was

allowed to keep the jewel which when once lost there is no hope of

retrieving.

‘The same day that Leandra appeared, her father removed her from our

eyes, and shut her up in a monastery of a neighbouring town, hoping that

time would efface some part of the bad opinion his daughter had

incurred. The tender years of Leandra served as an excuse for her

misconduct, especially with those who are not concerned in the affair;

but those who know her discretion and good sense, do not ascribe her

fault to ignorance, but to mere levity, and the natural disposition of

women, which is always injudicious and imperfect. Leandra being thus

secured, Anselmo’s eyes were blind to every thing that could yield him

pleasure; and mine remained in darkness, without the least glimpse of

light to direct them to any agreeable object: the absence of Leandra

increased our affliction, and exhausted our patience; we cursed the

soldier’s finery, and exclaimed against her father’s want of care. At

length we agreed to quit the village, and repair to this valley, where

he feeding a vast flock of sheep, which are his own property, and I

tending a numerous fold of goats, which are also mine, we spend our

lives under the cool shade of lofty trees, and give vent to our passion,

either by singing, in concert, the praise or dispraise of the beautiful

Leandra, or each by himself singing in the lonely grove, and ejaculating

his complaint to Heaven. In imitation of us, many more of Leandra’s

lovers have betaken themselves to these rugged mountains, and the

exercise of the same employment; so that this spot seems to be

transformed into a pastoral Arcadia, every field being crouded with

shepherds and folds, and every corner resounding with the name of the

fair Leandra. One curses and calls her fickle, inconstant, and immodest;

a second condemns her credulity and lightness of behaviour; a third

acquits and forgives her, while she is arraigned and reproached by a

fourth; some celebrate her beauty; others find fault with her

disposition: in short, she is censured and adored by them all; nay, to

such a pitch hath their extravagance risen, that some of them complain

of her disdain, though they never spoke to her; and others, in their

lamentations, pretend to feel the rage of jealousy, which is a passion

she never inspired; for, as I have already mentioned, her fault was

known before her inclination was suspected: there is not the hollow of a

rock, the margin of a rill, nor the shade of a tree, that is not

occupied by some shepherd, recounting his misfortune to the winds;

wherever an echo can be formed, it repeats the name of Leandra; the

hills resound with Leandra; the rivulets murmur Leandra; in short,

Leandra keeps us all inchanted and perplexed, hoping we know not how,

and dreading we know not what. Among the wrong-headed society, he that

shews the least, though he has the greatest share of judgment, is my

rival Anselmo; who, notwithstanding all the cause he has to be

dissatisfied, complains of absence only, turning his lamentation to the

sound of the rebeck, which he touches with admirable skill, in verses

that shew the excellence of his genius. I follow a more easy, and in my

opinion, a wiser course, namely, to inveigh against the levity of the

female sex; their fickleness, their double dealing, their rotten

promises, their broken faith; and finally, their want of judgment in

bestowing their affections. These, gentlemen, are my reasons for the

discourse you heard me address to my goat, whom (because she is a

female) I despise, although she be the best of the fold. This is the

story I promised to recount, and if I have been prolix in the narration,

I shall not be brief in what service you shall please to command. Hard

by is my cottage, in which I have plenty of new milk, and most savoury

cheese, with abundance of the fruit in season, no less agreeable to the

taste than to the view.’

CHAP. XXV.

OF THE QUARREL THAT HAPPENED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND THE GOATHERD,

WITH THE CURIOUS ADVENTURE OF THE DISCIPLINANTS, WHICH THE KNIGHT

HAPPILY ATCHIEVED WITH THE SWEAT OF HIS BROW.

This story of the goatherd gave infinite pleasure to all that heard it,

especially to the canon, who observed, with admiration, his manner of

relating it, as distant from the rustick phrase of a peasant as near

approaching to the polite stile of a courtier; and therefore he said,

the curate had justly observed that the mountains sometimes produced

learned men. Every body made proffers of service to Eugenio, but he that

shewed himself most liberal in compliment was Don Quixote, who said to

him, ‘Truly, brother goatherd, were it possible for me to undertake any

new adventure, I would forthwith set forward in your behalf, and deliver

Leandra from that monastery, in which she is, doubtless, detained

against her will, in spite of the abbess and all that should oppose my

design; and would put her into your hands to be treated according to

your good will and pleasure, so far as is consistent with the laws of

chivalry, by which all damsels are protected from wrongs: though I hope

in God, that a malicious inchanter shall not so far prevail, but that he

may be excelled in power, by another of a more righteous disposition;

and then you may depend upon my favour and assistance, according to the

duty of my profession, which is no other than to succour the wretched

and the weak.’

The goatherd stared at Don Quixote, and being struck with admiration at

his rueful aspect and dishevelled locks, said to the barber, who sat

near him, ‘Signior, pray, who is that man who looks and talks so

wildly?’—‘Who should it be,’ answered the barber, ‘but the renowned Don

Quixote de La Mancha! the redresser of grievances, the righter of

wrongs, the protector of damsels, the terror of giants, and thunder-bolt

of war?’—‘That discourse,’ replied the peasant, ‘puts me in mind of

those books which treat of knights errant, who were commonly

distinguished by such titles as you bestow on that man: but, I suppose,

you are pleased to be merry, or else the apartments of this poor

gentleman’s skull are but indifferent-furnished.’

‘You are a most impudent rascal!’ (cried the knight, over-hearing what

he said) ‘it is your skull that is unfurnished and unsound; but mine is

more pregnant than the abominable whore that brought you forth.’ So

saying, he snatched up a loaf, and flung it at the goatherd with such

fury, that he levelled his nose with his face.

Eugenio, who did not understand raillery, finding himself maltreated in

earnest, without any respect for the carpet, table-cloth, or company,

leaped upon the knight, and laying hold of his collar, with both hands,

would certainly have strangled him, if Sancho Panza had not at that

instant sprung to his master’s assistance, and pulling his antagonist

backwards, tumbled him over upon the table, where plates, cups,

victuals, wine, and all went to wreck. Don Quixote finding himself

disengaged, arose, and in his turn, got upon the goatherd, who being

battered by the master, and kicked by the man, was creeping about on all

fours in quest of a table-knife, with which he intended to take some

bloody revenge, but was prevented by the canon and curate; the goatherd,

however, managed matters so as that he got the knight under him, when he

rained such a shower of kicks and cuffs upon his carcase, that our

hero’s countenance was as much overflowed with blood as his own; the

curate and canon were ready to burst with laughing, the troopers capered

about with joy, and the whole company hallooed, according to the

practice of the spectators when two dogs are engaged: Sancho Panza alone

was distracted, because he could not get out of the clutches of one of

the canon’s servants, who hindered him from assisting his master. In

fine, when every body was thus regaled and rejoiced, except the

combatants, who worried each other, they heard a trumpet utter such a

melancholy note, that they could not help turning their heads, and

looking towards the place from whence the sound seemed to come: but he

on whom it made the greatest impression was Don Quixote; who, though

lying under his antagonist, very much against his inclination, and more

than sufficiently pummelled, said to the goatherd, ‘Brother devil, (for

sure thou canst be nothing else, who hast strength and valour sufficient

to overcome my efforts) I beg a truce for one hour only; because the

doleful sound of that trumpet which salutes our ears, seems to summon me

to some new adventure.’

The goatherd being by this time heartily tired of drubbing, as well as

of being drubbed, immediately complied with his request; and Don Quixote

starting up, directed his view towards the place whence the sound seemed

to issue, where he descried a great number of people dressed in white

like disciplinants, coming down the side of a neighbouring hill. That

year the heavens had withheld refreshing showers from the earth; and

through all the villages of that district the people instituted

processions, disciplines, and prayers, beseeching God to open the

fountains of his mercy, and favour them with rain: for this purpose, the

inhabitants of a neighbouring village were then going in procession to a

holy hermitage built on an eminence that skirted the valley; and Don

Quixote seeing the strange dress of the disciplinants[125], without

recollecting that he had frequently seen such habits before, concluded

the whole to be an adventure, which it was the province of him as a

knight-errant to atchieve: what served to confirm him in this notion,

was an image cloathed in black, which was carried before them, and which

he supposed to be some princess whom those discourteous robbers were

carrying off by force.

This whim no sooner entered his brain, than he ran with great agility to

Rozinante, who was feeding very quietly, and taking the bridle and

shield, which hung upon the pummel of the saddle, clapped the bit in his

mouth in a twinkling, and demanding his sword from Sancho, mounted his

steed, and braced his target, calling aloud to the company, ‘Now,

honourable gentlemen, ye shall perceive the importance of those who

profess the order of knight-errantry! now, I say, ye shall, in the

deliverance of that excellent lady, who is at present a captive, behold

how much knights-errant ought to be esteemed.’

So saying, he clapped heels to Rozinante, (spurs he had none) and at a

hand-gallop (for we do not find in this true history that ever Rozinante

went full-speed) rode up to attack the disciplinants. Though the canon,

curate and barber, made efforts to detain him, they found it

impracticable; he was even deaf to the cries of Sancho, who bawled with

great vociferation: ‘Where are you going, Signior Don Quixote? what

devil possesses and provokes you to act against our Catholick faith!

take notice—a plague upon me!—take notice that this is no other than a

procession of disciplinants, and that lady carried on the bier the

blessed image of the immaculate Virgin! Consider, Signior, what you are

about, for sure I am you do not know!’

In vain did Sancho strain his lungs: his master was so intent upon

overtaking the apparitions, and setting the lady in black at liberty,

that he heard not one syllable; nor if he had, would he have returned,

even if the king had commanded him so to do. When he approached the

procession, he stopped Rozinante, who was already out of breath, and

with a hoarse disordered voice, pronounced, ‘You there, who perhaps

disguise yourselves for no good, stop, and give ear to what I am going

to say.’

Those who carried the image were the first that halted, and one of the

four priests who sung the litanies, observing the strange aspect of Don

Quixote, the leanness of Rozinante, with other ridiculous circumstances

belonging to both, answered in these words: ‘Friend, if you have any

thing to say, speak quickly; for these our brethren are all this while

scourging their own flesh; and we cannot, nor is it reasonable we should

tarry to hear any thing that cannot be comprehended in two words.’—‘I

will comprehend what I have to say in one,’ replied the knight; ‘and it

is this: I command you instantly to set free that beautiful lady, whose

tears and melancholy deportment clearly demonstrate that you are

carrying her off, contrary to her inclination, after having done her

some notorious wrong; and I, who was born to redress such grievances,

will not suffer you to proceed one step farther, until she shall have

obtained that liberty she deserves.’

From these words, concluding that he must be some madman, all of them

began to laugh very heartily; and their mirth acting as a train of

gunpowder to the knight’s choler, he drew his sword, and without

uttering another word, attacked the bearers; one of whom, leaving his

share of the load to his companions, opposed himself to this aggressor,

brandishing a fork or pole, on which (when they were wearied) they

supported the bier. Don Quixote, with a furious back-stroke, cut this

implement in two; but with the piece which remained in the hand of the

defendant, received such a thwack upon the shoulder above his sword-arm,

that his buckler was unable to sustain the shock of such a rude assault,

and down came the poor knight in a most lamentable condition.

Sancho Panza, who came puffing after his master, seeing him fall, called

aloud to his antagonist to forbear; for he was a poor inchanted knight,

who had never done the least harm to man, woman, or child; but the

peasant’s forbearance was not owing to this exclamation of the squire,

so much as to the situation of Don Quixote, who neither moved hand nor

foot; so that believing he had done his business, he hastily gathered up

his frock, and fled through the field as nimble as a buck. By this time

the whole company were come up to the place where Don Quixote lay; and

those belonging to the procession seeing so many people running towards

them, accompanied by the troopers with their cross-bows, began to be in

dread of some mischievous event, and formed themselves into a circle

around the image: then the disciplinants lifting up their hoods, and

wielding their scourges, and the priests their long tapers, waited the

assault, with full determination to defend themselves, and, if possible,

act offensively against all who should attack them. But fortune disposed

of things more favourably than they expected; for all that Sancho did,

was to throw himself upon the body of his master, who he believed was

actually dead, and utter the most doleful and ludicrous lamentation that

ever was heard. The curate was immediately known by a brother of the

cloth, who belonged to the procession, and this acquaintance dispelled

the apprehension which both squadrons had began to conceive. Our

licentiate told his friend in a few words who Don Quixote was, upon

which he and the whole crowd of disciplinants went to see whether or not

the poor knight was dead, and heard Sancho Panza, with tears in his

eyes, lamenting in these words: ‘O flower of chivalry, who by the single

stroke of a cudgel, hast finished the career of thy well-spent life! O

thou honour of thy family, thou glory of La Mancha! aye, and of the

whole world, which being deprived of thee, will soon be filled with

evil-doers, who will prosper without fear of chastisement for their

wicked deeds! Oh, thou wast more liberal than all the Alexanders that

ever lived! for thou gavest me, for eight months service only, the best

island that ever the sea surrounded. Oh! thou wast humble with the

haughty, and haughty with the humble, tempting dangers, enduring

disgraces, in love without cause, imitating the good, scourging the

wicked, a professed enemy to every thing that was base; in short, a

knight-errant, and that is every thing in one word!’

The cries and groans of Sancho revived his master, and the first words

he pronounced were these: ‘He who is condemned to live absent from thee,

most amiable Dulcinea! is subjected to much greater hardships than

these. Friend Sancho, help to lay me on the inchanted car; for I am

incapable of pressing Rozinante’s saddle, this whole shoulder being

crushed to pieces.’—‘That I’ll do very willingly, dear master,’ replied

the squire; ‘and let us return to our own habitation, in company of

these gentlemen, who wish you well; and there we will lay a scheme for

another sally, which I hope will be more fortunate and creditable.’—‘You

are in the right, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘and it will be very

prudent in us to let the malign influence of the stars pass over.’

The canon, curate, and barber, approved of his intention, and being

extremely diverted with the squire’s simplicity, conveyed the knight to

his former situation in the waggon. The procession was formed anew, and

set forwards accordingly: the goatherd took his leave of the company;

the troopers, being unwilling to go farther, were paid by the curate for

their trouble; the canon having intreated the priest to inform him by

letter of Don Quixote’s fate, with regard to the continuation or cure of

his extravagance, bade him farewel, and proceeded on his journey; in

short, there was a general separation, till at length the curate,

barber, Don Quixote, and Panza, were left by themselves, with the trusty

Rozinante, who, with the patience of his master, bore and beheld every

thing that passed.

The waggoner yoking his oxen, accommodated the knight with a truss of

hay, and with his usual phlegm jogged on according to the priest’s

directions, till, at the end of six days, they arrived at their own

village, which they entered about noon; and it chancing to be Sunday,

the market-place through which they were obliged to pass was crouded

with people, who running to see what was in the cage, recognized their

townsman, and were struck with astonishment. A boy ran immediately to

his housekeeper and niece, whom when he informed of their master’s

arrival, in a most meagre, withered condition, stretched upon a truss of

hay, in a waggon; it was a piteous thing to hear the cries that were

uttered by these worthy ladies, who buffetted themselves through

vexation, and vented bitter curses against the wicked books of chivalry;

which lamentations, buffettings, and curses, were repeated with greater

violence than ever, when they saw the knight enter his own gate.

Sancho Panza’s wife, who had got intimation that he was gone with Don

Quixote in quality of his squire, hearing of his return, ran straight to

her husband, and the first question she asked was, whether or not the

ass was in good health? when the squire answered, that the ass was in

better health than his master, ‘Thanks be to God,’ cried she, ‘for that

and all his other mercies. But, now tell me, friend, what good you have

got by your squireship? Have you brought home a new petticoat for me, or

shoes for your children?’—‘I have brought no such matters, my dear,’

replied Sancho, ‘but things of greater consideration and importance.’—‘I

am glad of that, with all my heart!’ said the wife; ‘pray shew me these

things of greater consideration and importance, that the sight of them

may rejoice my heart, which hath been so sad and discontented all the

weary time of your being away.’—‘You shall see them at home,’ answered

Sancho; ‘and heark’ee, wife, make yourself easy for the present; for, an

it please God that we set out again in quest of adventures, you shall

speedily behold your husband an earl, or governor of an island; I don’t

mean your common islands, but one of the best that ever was seen.’—‘The

Lord in heaven grant it, husband; for I am sure we have need enough of

such windfalls: but tell me, what is an island; for, truly, I know not

the meaning of the word?’—‘Honey was not made for the mouth of an ass,’

said the squire; ‘you shall see what it is, all in good time, my dear;

aye, and admire to hear all your vassals call you, my lady.’—‘What is

that you say, Sancho, of ladies, islands, and vassals?’ cried Joan

Panza; for that was the name of the squire’s wife, though she was not

related to Sancho before marriage; but it is the custom in La Mancha for

the women to take the names of their husbands. ‘Don’t be in such a hurry

to know every thing, Joan,’ replied the squire; ‘it is sufficient that I

tell thee nothing but truth; let this, therefore, stop that mouth of

thine. Mean time, however, I care not if I tell thee, that it is one of

the most pleasant occupations in the world for an honourable person,

like me, to be squire to a knight-errant, when he is in quest of

adventures. True it is, the greatest part of them do not fall out quite

so much to one’s liking as one could wish; for, out of a hundred in

which we are engaged, ninety-nine are generally cross and unfortunate.

That I know by experience, having been sometimes threshed, and sometimes

blanketted; but howsomever, it is a curious pastime to be always in

expectation of adventures, crossing huge mountains, searching woods,

climbing rocks, visiting castles, lodging at inns, where we live at rack

and manger, and the devil a farthing to pay.’

While this conversation passed between Sancho and his wife, the

housekeeper and niece received Don Quixote, whom they undressed and put

to bed in his old chamber, while he eyed them askance, without being

able to comprehend where he was. The curate laid his injunctions on the

niece to cherish her uncle with great tenderness, and charged them both

to take especial care that he might not escape again, giving them an

account of the trouble he had been at in bringing him back to his own

house. Here they raised their voices again in concert, renewing their

curses upon the books of chivalry, and beseeching Heaven to confound the

authors of such madness and lyes to the lowest pit of hell; in short

they were half distracted with the apprehension of losing him again, as

soon as his health should be re-established; and this was actually the

case.

But the author of this history, although he inquired with the utmost

curiosity and diligence, concerning the actions of Don Quixote in his

third sally, could never find any satisfactory and authentick account of

them; only, fame hath preserved some memoirs in La Mancha, by which it

appears that Don Quixote, when he set out the third time, went to

Saragossa, where he was present at a most celebrated tournament, in

which many things happened to him worthy of his genius and valour: but

with regard to his death and burial, he could obtain no information; and

must have remained entirely ignorant of that event, had he not luckily

met with an old physician, who had in his custody a leaden box, which he

said he found under the foundation of an ancient hermitage that was

repairing. This box contained some skins of parchment, on which were

written in Gothick characters and Castilian verse, many of our knight’s

exploits, with a description of Dulcinea’s beauty, Rozinante’s figure,

Sancho’s fidelity, and Don Quixote’s own funeral, celebrated by divers

epitaphs, and panegyricks on his life and morals. All that could be

read, and fairly copied, are those which are here inserted by the

faithful author of this new and surprizing history, who, in recompence

for the immense trouble he has undergone in his enquiries, and in

examining the archives of La Mancha, that he might publish it with more

certainty, desires the reader to favour him with the same credit which

intelligent persons give to those books of chivalry that pass so

currently in the world; and herewith he will rest fully satisfied; and

perhaps be animated to search after, and find out other histories, if

not as authentick, at least as full of invention and entertainment.

The verses which were written in the first skin of parchment found in

the leaden box were these—

THE ACADEMICIANS OF ARGAMASILLA, A TOWN OF LA MANCHA, ON THE LIFE AND

DEATH OF THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA, HOC SCRIPSERUNT.

MONICONGO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, ON THE SEPULTURE OF DON QUIXOTE.

EPITAPH.

The bully that La Mancha deck’d

With spoils that shame the Cretan Jason,

Whose judgment ripe, and wit uncheck’d,

The trumpet of renown shall blazon;

That arm, whose valour did extend

To Gæta, from remote Cathay;

That muse which did the welkin rend

With verse which brazen plates display;

Who Amadis left far behind,

And deem’d Galaor a mere baby,

Whose valour with such lustre shin’d,

As shew’d ev’n Belianis shabby;

He that on Rozinante rode,

Now mingles with this clay-cold clod!

PANIGUADO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, IN PRAISE OF DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO.

SONG.

The maid, you see, with cheeks so blouzy,

High-chested, vigorous, and frouzy,

Dulcinea, fam’d Toboso’s princess,

Don Quixote’s gen’rous flame evinces:

For her, on foot, he did explore

The sable mountain o’er and o’er,

Through many a weary field did halt,

And all through Rozinante’s fault.

Hard fate! that such a dame should die

In spite of him and chivalry;

That he whose deeds e’en stones proclaim,

Should mourn a disappointed flame!

CAPRICHOSO, A MOST INGENIOUS ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, IN PRAISE OF

ROZINANTE, THE RENOWNED STEED OF DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.

On a proud trunk of Adamant,

Whose bloody branches smell’d of war,

La Mancha’s frantick wight did plant

His standard glitt’ring from afar.

There hung his arms; there gleam’d his sword,

That wont to level, hack, and hew;

Yet shall the wond’ring muse afford

For new exploits, a stile that’s new.

Let Gaul of Amadis be proud,

Greece boast the champions she hath bore;

Don Quixote triumphs o’er the crowd

Of all the warlike knights of yore:

For neither Gaul nor Greece can vie

With fam’d La Mancha’s chivalry.

Ev’n Rozinante wears the bay;

Let Brilladore and Bayard bray[126].

BURLADOR, AN ARGAMASILLAN ACADEMICIAN, ON SANCHO PANZA.

SONG.

Here Sancho view of body small,

But great in worth, in action clear,

The best and simplest squire of all

The world e’er saw, I vow and swear.

And earl he surely might have been,

Had not this knavish age of brass,

With insolence and envious spleen,

Conspir’d against him and his ass;

That ass, on which he gently trotted

At gentle Rozinante’s tail;

Vain man, with flatt’ring hope besotted,

How, in a dream, thy prospects fail!

CACHIDIABLO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, ON THE SEPULTURE OF DON

QUIXOTE.

EPITAPH.

On Rozinante’s back

The knight that whilome travell’d

Thro’ highway, path, and track,

Is here bemir’d and gravell’d:

And eke as stiff as he,

The block of Sancho Panza,

A trusty squire, perdie!

As ever mortal man saw.

TIQUITOCK, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA, ON THE SEPULTURE OF DULCINEA DEL

TOBOSO.

Here lies Dulcinea, once so plump,

But now her fat all melts away;

For death, with an inhuman thump,

Has turn’d her into dust and clay.

Of a true breed she surely sprung,

And wanted not external grace;

Quixote’s heart with love she stung,

And shone the glory of her race.

These were all the verses which could be read; the rest being

worm-eaten, were delivered to an academician, that he might attempt to

unravel their meaning by conjecture. This task we understand, he has

performed with infinite pains and study, intending to publish them to

the world, in expectation of the third sally of Don Quixote.

‘_Forse altri canterà con miglior plettro._’

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

Footnote 125:

Persons hired to whip themselves on such occasions.

Footnote 126:

The horse of Orlando Furioso was called Brigliadoro; as Bayardo was

the name of the steed belonging to Ruggiero, the second, if not the

first hero in Ariosto’s incomparable poem.

VOLUME THE THIRD.

PART II.

PREFACE.

Heavens! with what eagerness must thou be waiting for this prologue,

courteous reader, whosoever thou art, gentle or simple, in hopes of

finding it replete with resentment, reproaches, and revenge, against the

author of the Second Don Quixote; him, I mean, who, it is reported, was

engendered at Tordesillas, and brought forth in Tarragona. But, truly, I

have no intention to give thee that satisfaction: for, although injuries

may awaken indignation in vulgar breasts; mine, I hope, will always be

an exception to that rule. Thou wouldst be glad, perhaps, to find me

bellowing upon him the epithets of ass, blockhead, and insolent coxcomb;

but such low revenge never once entered my imagination: his own

conscience will sufficiently chastise him; let him therefore chew the

cud of remorse, and digest it if he can. I own, I cannot help feeling

the unjust reproach when he taxes me with lameness and old age, as if it

had been in my power to retard the lapse of time; or that I had been

maimed in some tavern-brawl, and not on the most glorious occasion that

ever the past or present age beheld, or posterity can ever hope to see.

If my wounds do not brighten in the eyes of every spectator, they are at

least esteemed by those who know where they were acquired[127]; and who

thinks that a soldier who falls in battle makes a much more noble

appearance than he who saves himself by flight. This opinion is so

rooted within my own breast, that, were such an impossibility proposed

and effected, I would rather be lame as I am, with the share I had in

that stupendous action, than sound of body, without the honour of having

been there. The wounds that appear in a soldier’s countenance and bosom,

are so many stars to guide the rest of mankind to the haven of honour,

and the desire of honest praise; and it ought to be observed, that an

author does not write with his grey hairs, but according to the dictates

of his understanding, which is usually improved by years and experience.

I perceive also, that he calls me envious; and, as if I were utterly

ignorant, is at the pains to describe the nature of envy; though I

protest of the two kinds, I only harbour that which is pure, virtuous,

and noble. This being the case, as it undoubtedly is, I have not the

least inclination to inveigh against any priest, especially one who

bears the office of familiar to the holy inquisition; and if what he

says be advanced in behalf of him whose cause he seems to espouse, he is

altogether mistaken, in my opinion, of that person, whose genius I

adore: I admire his works, together with his continual occupation in the

practice of virtues; but I am actually obliged to this honourable

author, for saying that my novels[128] are more satirical than

exemplary, though he owns they are good of their kind; for, without

being exemplary, they cannot possibly be good.

I suppose, gentle reader, thou art by this time of opinion, that I walk

with great circumspection, and scrupulously confine myself within the

bounds of modesty, conscious that it is inhuman to heap affliction on

the afflicted; and that this gentleman’s must needs be very great, since

he dares not appear in the open field, and in the face of Heaven, but

conceals his name, and dissembles his country, as if he had been guilty

of high treason: tell him, therefore, in my name, if ever thou shouldst

chance to find him out, that I do not at all think myself injured by

what he has done, for well do I know, what temptations the devil spreads

before us; and that one of his most effectual snares, is to make a man

believe that he has capacity to write a book, by which he shall obtain

an equal share of money and reputation. In confirmation of what I say, I

will beg the favour of you to tell him a short story.

There was in Seville, a certain madman seized with the most diverting

whim that ever entered the brain of a lunatick. He used to walk with a

hollow cane, pointed at one end; and whenever he met with a dog in the

street, or in any other place, he clapped his foot on one of the

creature’s hind-legs, pulled up the other with his hand, and applying,

as well as he could, the pipe to his posteriors, instantly blew him up

as round as a ball. This operation being performed, he clapped him twice

on the belly, and dismissed the patient, saying, very gravely, to the

mob that never failed to gather round him, ‘Gentlemen, I suppose, now,

you think it is an easy matter to blow up a dog!’ In like manner, I say,

‘I suppose your worship thinks it an easy matter to write a book.’ If

this story should not be to his liking, be so good, friendly reader, as

to tell this other, which also relates to a dog and a madman.

There was another ideot in Cordova, who had a trick of carrying upon his

head a piece of marble, or heavy stone; and, as often as he perceived

any dog off his guard, he would approach him slily, and let it fall

plump upon his head. This was no joke to the poor dog, who used to run

barking and howling the length of three whole streets, before he

ventured to look behind. But, among others, he one day happened to

discharge his burden on a cap-maker’s favourite dog; down went the stone

upon his head, and the injured beast set up the howl: the master seeing

what passed, was filled with indignation, snatched up his measure, and

sallying out upon the lunatick, did not leave a whole bone in his skin;

saying, at every blow he bestowed, ‘Dog! rascal! use my spaniel in this

manner! Did not you see, barbarous villain, that my dog was a spaniel!’

Thus repeating the word spaniel a great many times, he beat the

aggressor into jelly.

The madman being documented, sneaked off, and kept his chamber a whole

month; at the end of which, he returned to his former pastime, with a

greater stone than ever, and coming up to a dog that lay asleep,

considered him with great attention, but was afraid of discharging the

stone, saying, ‘’Ware spaniel!’ In short, all the dogs he afterwards met

with, whether curs or mastiffs, were in his opinion spaniels; so that he

never ventured to repeat his experiment.——Now this may be the fate of

our historian, who will not chuse to open the flood-gates of his wit

again, in composing books, which, if bad, are harder than stone.

Tell him, likewise, that I value not his threats a farthing, when he

says that his performance will deprive me of bread; but answer him with

a quotation from the famous interlude of the Perendenga: ‘To four and

twenty, live, my lord, and Christ be with us all.’ Long live the great

Count de Lemos, whose well-known Christian generosity supports me

against all the strokes of adverse fortune; and long life to the

transcendent charity of the most illustrious archbishop of Toledo, Don

Bernardo de Sandoval y Rojas; if there was not one printing-press in the

whole world, or if more books were published against me than there are

letters in the couplets of Mingo Rebulgo; these two princes, unsolicited

by any adulation or other kind of praise on my part, but purely out of

their own benevolence, have been pleased to honour me with their

countenance and favour, in which I think myself infinitely more happy

and rich, than if I had been conducted to the highest pinnacle of

fortune, in the ordinary way. Honour may be enjoyed by a poor, but never

by a vicious man; nobility may be clouded by indigence, but never

altogether obscured; for virtue, shining by its own internal light, even

through the inconveniencies and crannies of poverty, will recommend

itself to the esteem of high and princely minds, and of consequence

obtain their favour and protection. Thou needest say no more to him; nor

will I give thee any farther trouble, except to observe, that thou art

to consider this second part of Don Quixote as a work of the same

artificer, and composed of the same materials with the first, in which I

present the knight at full length; and, in short, exhibit him dead and

buried; that no man, for the future, may presume to raise fresh evidence

against him; those already examined being sufficient for the purpose.

The more so, as a man of honour has already given an account of his

ingenious follies, without any intention to resume the subject; for

there may be too much even of a good thing; and the scarcity of those

things which are in themselves indifferent, often brings them into some

degree of estimation. I had almost forgot to tell thee, that thou mayest

expect the Persiles, which I am now finishing, together with the second

part of Galatea.

Footnote 127:

The battle of Lepanto.

Footnote 128: