Novales Exemplares.

APPROBATION.

By order of Signior Doctor Gutierrez de Cetina, vicar-general of the

city of Madrid, where his majesty keeps his court, I have perused the

second part of the sage knight, Don Quixote de La Mancha, written by

Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra; in which I can find nothing unworthy of a

zealous Christian, or deviating from that respect which is justly due to

good example and moral virtue. On the contrary, the performance contains

much erudition and profitable amusement; not only in the well-supported

sequel of his design, to extirpate those vain and lying books of

chivalry, which had already too far spread their infection; but also in

the purity of his Castilian language, unadulterated with insipid

affectation, which every man of sense abhors; and in his manner of

correcting the vicious, who generally feel the point of his satire. Yet

he so wisely observes the laws of Christian rebuke, that the patient

labouring under the infirmity which he intends to cure, may, in such

sweet and palatable medicine, even without his own knowledge, or the

least hindrance and loathing, swallow down an effectual detestation for

vice; so that he will find himself at once delighted and reformed, in

consequence of an art which is known to few. There are many authors, who

not knowing how to blend and mix instruction with delight, have seen all

their tedious labours miscarry; because, not being able to imitate

Diogenes, as a learned philosopher, they have presumed licentiously, not

to say obscurely, to mimick him as a cynic, giving ear to slander, and

inventing things that never happened, by which means they enlarge the

vicious capacity of those whom their harsh reproofs stigmatize; and,

perhaps, strike out new paths of lewdness hitherto unknown; so that

instead of reformers, they become teachers and abettors of vice. In this

manner they grow hateful to men of sense, and lose all their credit, if

they had any, with the people, who refuse to encourage their writings;

while the vicious are rather hardened than amended by their rash and

imprudent corruption; for the knife and caustick are not proper for all

kinds of tumours, some of which are more successfully treated by soft

and gentle remedies, by the application of which, the experienced and

learned physician often attains his end of discussing them; a period

much more eligible than that which is obtained by the barbarity of

steel.

The writings of Miguel de Cervantes have met with a very different

reception, not only from our nation, but likewise from strangers; who,

as if he was something miraculous, are inflamed with the desire of

seeing the author of those books which have met with such general

applause, on account of the decency and decorum, as well as the

agreeable sweetness of his stile, in Spain, France, Italy, Germany, and

Flanders. This I can with great truth affirm, that on the twentieth and

fifth day of February, in this year of God, one thousand six hundred and

fifteen, I attended my master, his grace Don Bernardo de Sandoval y

Rojas, cardinal archbishop of Toledo, when he returned the visit of the

French ambassador, who came to treat about a double match betwixt the

princes and princesses of France and Spain; and several gentlemen of

that country, belonging to the embassy, who were equally sensible and

well-bred, as well as lovers of the Belles Lettres, in their

conversation with me and the other chaplains of the cardinal, desired to

know what books of genius were in highest esteem among us; I chanced to

mention this performance, which was then under my examination: but no

sooner did they hear the name of Miguel de Cervantes, than they began to

expatiate upon the high esteem in which France and the neighbouring

kingdoms held his productions; namely, the Galatea, which one of them

could almost repeat, with the novels, and the first part of Don Quixote.

Such were the commendations they bestowed upon them, that I offered to

introduce them to the author, whom they honoured with a thousand

demonstrations of regard. They were curious to know his age, profession,

quality, and fortune; and when I found myself obliged to tell them he

was a soldier and a gentleman, oppressed with poverty and old age; one

of them replied in these very words: ‘What! does not Spain load such a

man with riches, and maintain him out of the publick treasury?’——Another

of those gentlemen, hearing this observation, interposed, saying, with

great vivacity, ‘If necessity compels him to write, God grant that he

may never enjoy affluence; but, in being poor, enrich the world with his

works.’

I believe this will be thought rather too much for a certificate; and

some will say, that I have even encroached upon the bounds of flattery;

but the truth of my allegation disproves that suspicion, and acquits me

of the charge; besides, in this age, adulation is bestowed upon none but

those who are in a capacity of greasing the fist of the flatterer; who,

though he praises in fulsome fiction, experts to be rewarded in

substantial truth.

Madrid, Feb. 27, 1615. THE LICENTIATE MARQUES TORRES.

THE ORDINARY LICENCE.

By order and command of the lords of council, I have caused to be

examined, the book specified in this petition: which book contains

nothing to the prejudice of religion or morals; but, on the contrary, is

fraught with much lawful amusement, blended with moral philosophy;

wherefore it may be allowed to be printed.

Madrid, Nov. 5, 1615. DOCTOR GUTIERREZ DE CETINA.

APPROBATION.

By order and command of the lords of council, I have perused the second

part of Don Quixote de La Mancha, written by Miguel de Cervantes; a book

that contains nothing to the prejudice of our holy catholick faith, or

sound morals; on the contrary, much honest recreation, and agreeable

amusement, such as the ancients judged not only allowable, but

convenient for the commonwealth: even the severe Lacedemonians erected a

statue to the goddess of laughter; and the Thessalians instituted

festivals to the same power, according to Pausanias, quoted by Vossius,

lib. ii. _De signis eccles._ cap. 10. for exhilarating the melancholy,

and raising the dejected spirits; as observed by Tully in his first

book, _De Legibus_; and by the poet, who says, ‘_Interpone tuis interdum

gaudia curis._’ Which maxim hath been the guide of this author, who has

mingled fiction with truth, delight with instruction, and morals with

pleasantry; disguising the hook of reproof with the bait of sprightly

entertainment, and fulfilling the sequel of his well-executed scheme, to

depreciate and expel the books of chivalry, from the mischievous

contagion of which he hath purged these kingdoms, with admirable

diligence and dexterity. In short, it is a work worthy of that great

genius, which is the honour and ornament of our nation, and the envy and

admiration of strangers. This is my opinion, with submission, &c.

Madrid, March 17, 1615. JOSEPH DE VALDIVIELSO.

BOOK I.

CHAP. I.

OF THE BEHAVIOUR OF THE CURATE AND BARBER,

WITH REGARD TO DON QUIXOTE’S INFIRMITY.

Cid Hamet Benengeli, in the second part of this history, containing the

third sally of Don Quixote, relates that the curate and barber forbore

to visit him for a whole month, that they might not revive and recal to

his imagination the remembrance of things past; but, during all that

time, they frequently went to see the housekeeper and niece, on whom

they laid strong injunctions to cherish the knight with great care and

tenderness, and treat him with such comfortable food as should be most

agreeable to his stomach and brain, in which they reasonably supposed

that his whole disorder lay. The ladies assured them it was their chief

study, which they would prosecute with all imaginable care and

satisfaction; for they began to perceive that their master, at certain

intervals, gave tokens of being in his right wits. This information

afforded great pleasure to the two friends, who now concluded they had

acted wisely in bringing him home on the inchanted waggon, as hath been

recounted in the last chapter of the first part of this sublime and

punctual history; and determined to pay him a visit, that they might be

convinced of his amendment, which they deemed almost impossible; though

they agreed to avoid, with great care, the subject of chivalry, that

they might run no risk of ripping up the wound so lately closed.

In short, they entered his chamber, and found him sitting upon his bed,

in a waistcoat of green baize, and a red Toledan night-cap, so meagre,

shrunk, and withered, that he looked like an Egyptian mummy; he received

them very courteously, and when they enquired into the state of his

health, spoke of his indisposition and himself with great judgment and

elocution. The conversation happening to turn on what is called reasons

of state, and modes of administration, they amended certain abuses, and

condemned others, reforming one custom, and banishing another; as if

each of the three had been a new legislator, a modern Lycurgus, or

regenerated Solon; and in such a manner did they furbish up the

common-wealth, that one would have imagined they had committed it to a

forge, and brought out another quite different from that which they put

in. Don Quixote spoke on every subject that was handled, with such

discretion, as actually convinced the two examiners, that he was quite

sound, and had recovered the right exercise of his judgment; while the

niece and housekeeper, who were present all the time, thought they could

never be thankful enough to God, when they heard their master talk so

sensibly. But the curate altering his first resolution, which was to

avoid the subject of chivalry, now determined to make an experiment, by

which he should be thoroughly satisfied, whether the knight’s cure was

real or imaginary; with this view, he from one thing to another came to

mention some news from court; and among other pieces of intelligence,

said he was certainly informed that the Turk had taken the sea, with a

powerful armament, though his design was not known, nor could it be

guessed where the expected storm would burst; but that these

preparations, which keep us almost constantly in arms, had alarmed all

Christendom; and that his majesty had ordered the coasts of Naples and

Sicily, with the island of Malta, to be provided against all attempts.

To this intimation Don Quixote replied, ‘His majesty has acted like a

most prudent warrior, in providing for the safety of his dominions, that

the enemy may not find them unprepared; but, if he would take my advice,

I would furnish him with an expedient, which I believe our sovereign at

present little thinks of.’

The curate no sooner heard these words, than he said within himself,

‘Lord have mercy upon thee, poor Don Quixote! if I am not mistaken, thou

art just going to cast thyself headlong from the highest pinnacle of

madness, into the profound abyss of thy folly.’ But the barber, who

immediately adopted the same suspicion, asked the knight what that

expedient was, which he thought should be put in practice by way of

prevention; observing, that it was, perhaps, such a scheme as deserved

to be inserted in the list of those impertinent advices usually offered

to crowned heads. ‘Mine, Mr. Shaver,’ said Don Quixote, ‘will be

pertinent, not impertinent.’—‘I don’t say otherwise,’ replied the

barber; ‘I only made that observation, because experience hath shewn

that all, or the greatest part of those projects which have been offered

to his majesty, are either impossible, extravagant, or prejudicial to

the state.’—‘My scheme,’ answered the knight, ‘is neither impossible nor

extravagant; but, on the contrary, the most easy, just, brief, and

expeditious, that ever projector conceived.’—‘Methinks your worship is

very slow in delivering it, Signior Don Quixote,’ said the priest. ‘I

should not chuse,’ answered the knight, ‘to have what I say here carried

by to-morrow morning, to the ears of the lords of the council; by which

means, another may reap the credit and reward of my labour.’—‘For my own

part,’ cried the barber, ‘I here give my word, before God! never to

disclose what your worship shall impart, either to king or knave, or any

mortal man; an oath I learned in the romance of the Curate, who, in the

preface, gives the king notice of the robber that stole his hundred

ducats, and ambling mule.’—‘I am not acquainted with the story,’ said

Don Quixote, ‘but the oath is a good oath, because I am convinced that

Mr. Nicholas is an honest man.’—‘Be that as it will,’ replied the

curate, ‘I will be bound for him, and undertake, that with regard to

this affair, he shall speak no more than if he was actually dumb, on

pain of whatever penalty you shall think proper to inflict.’—‘And who

will be security for you, Mr. Curate?’ said the knight. ‘My profession,’

answered the priest, ‘by which I am bound to keep secrets.’—‘Body of

me!’ cried Don Quixote, ‘his majesty has nothing to do, but to issue a

proclamation, commanding all the knights-errant in Spain to assemble at

his court, by such a day; and although not more than half a dozen should

come, among these one may be found, who is alone sufficient to overthrow

the whole Turkish power. Pray, gentlemen, give attention, and take me

along with you; is it such a new thing, for a single knight to cut in

pieces a whole army of two hundred thousand men, as if they had but one

common throat, or were made of ginger-bread? How many histories are

there, think you, filled with such marvellous exploits? Unfortunate it

is for me, (I will not say, for any other) that the renowned Don

Belianis is not now alive, or some knight of the innumerable race of

Amadis de Gaul; for if any one of them was now living, to confront the

Turks, in good sooth, I should not chuse to farm their conquests; but

God will provide for his own people, and produce some champion, who, if

not equal in valour to former knights-errant, at least will be inferior

to none of them in point of courage[129]; Heaven knows my meaning; I

will say no more.’—‘Lack-a-day!’ cried the niece, when she heard this

insinuation, ‘I’ll be hanged, if my uncle is not resolved to turn knight

errant again.’—‘A knight-errant,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘I will live and

die; and the Turks may make their descents or ascents, when they will,

with all the power they are masters of. I say again, Heaven knows my

meaning.’ Here the barber interposing, ‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I beg you

will give me leave to tell a short story of what happened at Seville; it

comes so pat to the purpose, that I have a strong inclination to relate

it.’ Don Quixote and the curate granted his request, and the rest

yielded him attention, when he began in these words.

‘There was in the mad-house at Seville, a certain lunatick, whom his

relations had sent thither on account of the defect in his judgment; he

had taken his degrees in the canon law, at Ossuna; and many were of

opinion, that if he had acquired them at Salamanca, he would not have

been a bit the wiser; this graduate, having been confined some years,

took it in his head, that he was quite well, and restored to his right

wits; and in this imagination, wrote to the archbishop, earnestly

entreating him, with many sensible arguments, to give order that he

should be extricated from the misery in which he lived; since, through

the mercy of God, he had recovered his lost judgment, though his

relations kept him still in confinement, that they might enjoy his

estate, and, in despite of truth, were resolved that he should be mad to

the day of his death. The archbishop, persuaded by the many sensible and

pathetick letters he received, ordered one of his chaplains to go to the

rector of the mad-house, and enquire into the truth of what the

licentiate alledged, and even to talk with himself, that, if he should

find him quite recovered, he might bring him away, and set him at

liberty. The chaplain obeyed the command of his grace, and the rector

assured him that the man was still mad; for although he would very often

talk like a person of excellent understanding, at the long run he

commonly broke out into folly and nonsense, as absurd as the first part

of his discourse was rational and discreet; however, he himself might

make the experiment, by conversing with the licentiate. The chaplain

accordingly went to his apartment, and talked with him a whole hour and

more, during which time the lunatick did not utter one vague or

incoherent sentence; but, on the contrary, spoke so judiciously, that

the chaplain could not help believing him quite sound of intellect;

among other things, he told him the rector was his enemy, and pronounced

him still distracted, though with lucid intervals, that he might not

lose the presents which he received from his relations; so that the

greatest cause of his misfortune was no other than his own affluent

estate, which to enjoy, his adversaries craftily pretended to doubt of

the mercy which the Lord had vouchsafed him, in re-converting him from a

beast into a man; in short, he talked so effectually as to render the

rector suspected, to prove his relations covetous and unnatural, and

himself so discreet, that the chaplain determined to carry him forthwith

to the archbishop, that his grace might be personally satisfied of the

truth. With this laudable intention, he desired the rector to order the

licentiate to be dressed with the cloaths in which he entered the house:

the rector again advised him to consider what he was about; for the

licentiate was, without all question, still distracted. But these

cautions and counsels had no effect in dissuading the chaplain from

carrying him off, and the rector seeing the archbishop’s order, was

obliged to obey; so that the licentiate received his own cloaths, which

were decent and new. Seeing himself thus diverted of the badge of his

disorder, and habited again like a person of sound intellects, he

besought the chaplain, that he would be so charitable as to allow him to

go and take leave of his companions in affliction; the other granted his

request, and said he would accompany him, in order to see the patients;

upon which they went up stairs, followed by several persons who chanced

to be then present. The licentiate, going to the gate of a cell, in

which there was a furious madman, though at that time he was calm and

quiet, said to him, “Brother, have you any commands for me? I am going

to my own house, for God of his infinite goodness and mercy, without any

desert of mine, hath been pleased to restore unto me the use of my

reason, and I am now perfectly recovered; so that there is nothing

impossible to the power of the Almighty; put, therefore, your hope and

trust in him, who, as he hath restored me to my former state, will grant

the same indulgence to you, if you confide in his protection. I will

take care to send you some cordial food, and be sure, at all events, to

eat it; for, you must know, I conclude from experience, that all our

disorder proceeds from an empty stomach, and the brain’s being filled

with wind. Take heart, brother, take heart; for despondence under

misfortune consumes the constitution, and hastens the stroke of death.”

This discourse being overheard by another lunatick, who was confined in

a cell opposite to that of the furious patient, he started up stark

naked from an old mat on which he lay, and roared aloud, “Who is that

going away so sober and so sound?” The licentiate replied, “’Tis I,

brother, who am going home, being under no necessity of tarrying longer

in this place; thanks be to Heaven for the signal favour I have

received!”—“Take care what you say, Mr. Licentiate, and let not the

devil deceive you,” answered the madman: “halt a little, stay where you

are, and spare yourself the trouble of being brought back.”—“I know that

I am perfectly recovered,” said the licentiate, “and shall, have no

farther occasion to visit the Stations[130].”—“You recovered!” cried the

other, “good! we shall see—adieu—but, I swear by Jupiter, whose majesty

I represent on earth, that, for the transgression this day committed in

Seville, by discharging you from the house, as a person of sound

judgment, I will take such vengeance as shall be a monument of wrath for

ever and ever, amen. Do’st thou not know, pitiful licentiate, that all

this is in my power, being, as I have already observed, Jove the

thunderer, who wield the flaming bolts, with which I use to threaten,

and can destroy the universe? But with one evil only will I chastise

this ignorant people; I will not suffer one drop of rain to fall upon

the city, nor its confines, nor indeed in any part of this district, for

the space of three whole years, reckoning from the day and minute in

which this dreadful menace is made. Thou free! thou sound! thou

recovered! and I mad! I distracted and confined! I will sooner hang

myself than rain one spoonful.” The by-standers were very attentive to

the vociferous exclamations of this madman, when our licentiate turning

to the chaplain, and taking him by the hand, said, “Dear Sir, give

yourself no uneasiness or concern about what he says; for if he who is

Jupiter, witholds refreshing showers from the earth, I who am Neptune,

the father and god of waters, will rain as often as I please, should

there be occasion for it, in consequence of the privilege I possess.” To

this promise the chaplain replied, “Nevertheless, Signior Neptune, it

will not be politick to incense Signior Jupiter; therefore, your worship

will be so good as to stay where you are, till some other day, when we

may have more leisure and convenience to remove you.” The rector and the

rest of the company could not help laughing, the chaplain was out of

countenance, the licentiate was stripped, and sent back to his cell; and

so ends my story.’

‘And this is the story, Mr. Barber,’ said Don Quixote, ‘which came so

pat to the purpose, that you could not help relating it? Ah, Mr. Shaver!

Mr. Shaver! he must be blind indeed, that cannot see through the bottom

of a sieve. Is it possible your worship does not know that comparisons

in point of genius, virtue, beauty, and descent, are always odious and

ill received? I, Mr. Barber, am not Neptune, god of waters; neither do I

set up for being thought a wise man, knowing that I am not so: the sole

end of my labours is to convince the world of its error, in not seeking

to renew those most happy times when the order of knight-errantry

exerted itself in full perfection; but this depraved age of ours is

unworthy of tasting that felicity which was enjoyed by those ages, when

knights-errant undertook the charge, and burdened their shoulders with

the defence of kingdoms, the protection of damsels, the relief of wards

and orphans, the chastisement of the proud, and the promotion of the

humble. The greatest part of your modern knights rustle in damasks,

brocades, and other rich and splendid attire, instead of rattling in

coats of mail; no knight now sleeps in the open field, exposed to the

inclemency of the weather, armed at all points cap-a-pee; no warrior, in

this degenerate age, sits on horseback, and without disengaging his feet

from the stirrups, but leaning upon his lance, endeavours to take as it

were a snatch of sleep, after the example of former knights-errant; no

champion, now-a-days, coming out of some dreary wood, immediately enters

another rocky wilderness, through which he reaches the barren and

deserted coast of the rough and stormy sea, where, finding in some

creek, a crazy boat without oars, sails, mast, or tackle, he intrepidly

throws himself into it, and launches out upon the implacable billows

that whirl him aloft to heaven, and then sink him to the profound abyss,

while his unshaken soul defies the storm; then, when he dreams of no

such matter, he finds himself three thousand leagues and more from the

place where he embarked, and leaping ashore on some remote and unknown

country, achieves adventures worthy to be written, not on parchment, but

on brass. But now sloth triumphs over activity, idleness over toil, vice

over virtue, arrogance over valour, and the theory over the practice of

arms, which obtained and shone resplendent in those golden ages that

produced knights-errant. Pray, tell me, who could be more honourable and

valiant than the famous Amadis de Gaul? who more discreet than Palmerin

of England? who more insinuating and pliant than Tirante the White? who

more gallant than Lifuarte of Greece? who more hacked and hacking than

Don Belianis? who more intrepid than Perion of Gaul? or, who more daring

than Felixmarte of Hircania? who more sincere than Esplandian? who more

desperate than Cirongilio of Thrace? who more brave than Rodamont? who

more prudent than King Sobrino? who more bold than Reynaldo? who more

invincible than Roldan? and who more gallant and courteous than Rugero?

from whom (according to Turpin, in his Cosmographia) the present Dukes

of Ferrara are descended. All these, with many more which I could name,

Mr. Curate, were knights-errant, and the very light and glory of

chivalry; these, or such as these, are the champions proposed by my

scheme, which, should it take place, would effectually serve his

majesty’s purpose, spare an infinite expence, and the Turk would even

tear his own beard in despair; in that case I would tarry where I am,

since the chaplain would not think fit to enlarge me; and if Jupiter, as

the barber said, would not rain, here am I ready to frustrate his

intent; this I mention, that Mr. Bason, there, may know I understand his

meaning.’—‘Verily, Signior Don Quixote,’ said Mr. Nicholas, ‘I meant no

harm, so help me God! my intention was good, and therefore your worship

ought not to be displeased.’—‘Whether I am displeased or not,’ replied

the knight, ‘I myself know best.’

Here the curate interposing, said, ‘Though I have hitherto scarce opened

my mouth, I cannot be easy under a scruple which tears and gnaws my

conscience, and which arose from what Signior Don Quixote hath just now

asserted.’—‘In greater matters, Mr. Curate may command me,’ answered the

knight; ‘out with your scruple, then; for scruples of conscience are

very uncomfortable companions.’—‘With your good permission,’ replied the

priest, ‘this it is: I can by no means persuade myself that the whole

tribe of knights-errant, whom your worship have named, were really and

truly earthly persons of flesh and blood; on the contrary, I imagine all

these things are fictions, fables, and lying dreams, recounted by men

who are awake, or rather by those who are half asleep.’—‘That,’ said Don

Quixote, ‘is another error incident to many people, who do not believe

that any such knights ever existed; and I have, on divers and sundry

occasions, endeavoured to dissipate that almost general mistake by the

light of truth. Sometimes, indeed, I have not succeeded in my attempts;

however, I have frequently gained my point, by supporting it on the

shoulders of demonstration; and truly the case is so clear, that I could

almost affirm I have with my own eyes beheld Amadis de Gaul, who was a

tall man, of a fair complexion, well furnished with a black beard, his

aspect something between mild and severe, concise of speech, slow to

anger, and soon appeased. In the same manner, methinks, I could

delineate and paint all the knights-errant that ever were recorded in

history; for, according to the ideas formed by reading these histories,

and by comparing their exploits and dispositions, sound philosophy may

discover their lineaments, statures, and complexions.’—‘Signior Don

Quixote,’ said the barber, ‘how large do you think the giant Morgante

must have been?’—‘As to the affair of giants,’ answered the knight,

‘there are different opinions; some affirming, and others denying, the

existence of any such beings: but the Holy Scriptures, which surely

cannot fail one atom in point of truth, put that affair beyond all

dispute, in relating the story of that Philistine Goliath, who was seven

cubits and an half in height; a most amazing stature! Besides, in the

island of Sicily, several thigh and shoulder-bones have been dug up, so

large as to manifest, that the persons to whom they belonged must have

been huge giants, as tall as high towers; and this can be proved by

mathematical demonstration; but, nevertheless, I will not pretend to

ascertain the size of Morgante; though I believe he was not very tall,

because I find in the history which gives a particular account of his

exploits, that he often slept under a roof: now, if there was any house

capacious enough to receive him, his magnitude could not be very

extraordinary.’—‘No, surely,’ said the curate: who, being diverted with

his extravagant assertions, asked his opinion concerning the looks and

persons of Reynaldo de Montalban, Don Orlando, and the rest of the

Twelve Peers of France, who were all knights-errant. ‘With regard to

Reynaldo,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘I will venture to say, he was broad

visaged, and of a ruddy complexion, with large rolling eyes, full of

punctilio, excessively cholerick, and a friend to robbers and vagabonds.

As for Roldan, or Rotolando, or Orlando, (for he is mentioned in history

by all these names) it is my opinion, and I affirm, that he was of a

middling stature, broad-shouldered, somewhat bandy-legged, of a dark

complexion and carrotty beard, hairy all over, with a frowning aspect,

sparing of speech, though very affable and well bred.’—‘If Roldan was

not more comely than you have represented him,’ replied the curate, ‘I

do not wonder that Angelica the Fair disdained and deserted him, for the

gallantry, mirth, and pleasantry of the little smock-faced Moor, to

whose embraces she yielded; and, surely, she was in the right, to prefer

the smoothness of Medoro to the roughness of Roldan.’—‘That same

Angelica, Mr. Curate,’ said the knight, ‘was an unsettled rambling young

woman, that longed after novelties, and left the world as full of her

impertinent actions as of the fame of her beauty. She undervalued a

thousand noblemen, a thousand valiant and discreet admirers, and

contented herself with a yellow haired page, who had neither fortune nor

reputation, but that of being grateful to his friend. The renowned

Ariosto, who sung the praises of her beauty, either not daring or not

designing to rehearse what happened to her after her base intrigue,

because he deemed it a theme not extremely honourable for his muse,

dropped her at these lines:

‘“Another bard may sing, in loftier lay,

How he obtain’d the sceptre of Cathay.”

‘And truly this was a sort of prophecy, for the poets are also called

_vates_, which in Latin signifies _diviners_, and it was plainly

verified in the event, an Andalusian bard having since that time sung in

verse her tears and lamentation, as the most famous and sublime genius

of Castile hath celebrated her beauty.’

‘Pray tell me, Signior Don Quixote,’ said the barber, ‘among all those

authors who have written in her praise, hath not some one or other

composed a satire against my Lady Angelica?’—‘I firmly believe,’ replied

the knight, ‘that if Sacripante or Roldan had been bards, they would

have made the damsel smart severely, it being natural and peculiar to

poets, who are disdained and rejected by their false mistresses, whether

real or imaginary, to revenge themselves by satires and lampoons; a

resentment altogether unworthy of generous breasts; but hitherto I have

not met with any such defamatory verses against the Lady Angelica,

though she made strange confusion in the world.’—‘That is a wonder,

indeed!’ said the curate.—When hearing the housekeeper and niece, who

had some time before quitted the company, bawling aloud in the yard,

they ran out to see what was the occasion of such noise.

Footnote 129:

Ridiculous as this scheme may seem to be, such an expedient has

actually succeeded in practice. During the captivity of John King of

France, his dominions were ravaged by above one hundred thousand

peasants, who, under the name of Jacquieers, assembled in arms to

exterminate the noblesse; and among other horrid outrages, murdered

every gentleman that fell in their way. The Duchess of Normandy and

Orleans, together with three hundred ladies of rank, retired for

protection to Meaux, where they were surrounded, and would have

actually perished by the swords of these banditti, had they not been

rescued by the Count de Foix, and the captal of Buch; who, hearing of

their distress, hastened to their relief with no more than sixty

knights; and, without hesitation, attacked that furious multitude with

such bravery and vigour, that they were soon routed and dispersed.

Footnote 130:

A certain number of churches through which they made circuits,

uttering an appointed prayer at each.

CHAP. II.

THE NOTABLE FRAY THAT HAPPENED

BETWEEN SANCHO AND DON QUIXOTE’S NIECE AND HOUSEKEEPER—WITH OTHER

DIVERTING INCIDENTS.

The history relates, that the noise which Don Quixote, the curate, and

barber heard, was occasioned by the niece and housekeeper scolding at

Sancho, who struggled to get in and see his master, while they defended

the door. ‘What does the swag-bellied lurcher want in this house?’ said

the housekeeper: ‘get you home, brother; it was you, and none but you,

that turned my poor master’s brain, enticing him from his own home, to

stroll about the highways.’ To this apostrophe Sancho replied,

‘Housekeeper of Satan! ’tis my brain that’s turned; ’twas I that was

enticed to stroll about the highways, and not thy master, for he carried

me a rambling; so that you have reckoned without your host. ’Twas he

that wheedled me from my own house, with the promise of an island, which

I expect to this good hour.’—‘Devil choak thee with islands, thou cursed

cormorant!’ cried the niece: ‘and pray what is an island; is it any

thing to eat, thou gorbellied glutton, ha?’—‘No, not to eat, but to

govern,’ answered Sancho, ‘and a fat government it is. Better than four

cities, or the places of any four of the king’s alcades.’—‘Be that as it

will,’ said the housekeeper, ‘thou shan’t set foot in this house, thou

bag of mischief, and bundle of malice! go and look after thy own family,

fatten thy hogs, and let us hear no more of these islands or oil-lands.’

The curate and barber were highly entertained with this dialogue; but

Don Quixote fearing that Sancho would open his budget, and disburden

himself of some mischievous load of folly, by blabbing things not much

to his credit, called him in, bidding the women hold their tongues, and

give him entrance. Sancho being accordingly admitted, the curate and

barber took their leave of Don Quixote, whose recovery they despaired

of, seeing him so unalterably fixed in his folly, and so wholly

possessed with the frantick spirit of knight-errantry. ‘You shall see,

neighbour,’ said the curate to the barber, ‘that when we least think of

it, this poor gentleman will make another sally.’—‘That I make no doubt

of,’ answered the barber, ‘but I don’t wonder so much at the madness of

the knight, as at the simplicity of the squire, who believes so devoutly

in this island, that I think all the invention of man could not extract

it from his skull.’—‘God mend them!’ replied the curate: ‘meanwhile, let

us keep a strict eye over their behaviour, and observe the operation of

their joint extravagance; for the madness of the master seems to have

been cast in the same mould with the foolishness of the man, and in my

opinion, the one without the other would not be worth a

farthing.’—‘True,’ said the barber; ‘and I should be glad to know what

they are now talking of.’—‘I dare say,’ replied the curate, ‘the niece

and house-keeper will give us a good account of their conversation; for

they are none of those who can resist the opportunity of listening.’

In the mean time, Don Quixote having shut himself up in his apartment

with Sancho, said, ‘It gives me much concern, Sancho, to hear thee say,

as thou dost, that I enticed thee from thy cottage, when thou knowest

that I, at the same time, quitted my own house; together we set out,

lived and travelled together; sharing the same fortune and the same

fate. If thou hast been once tossed in a blanket, I have been bruised an

hundred times; and this is the only pre-eminence I enjoyed.’—‘And that’s

but reasonable,’ replied Sancho, ‘according to your worship’s own

remark, that misfortune belongs more to knights-errant than to their

squires.’—‘There you are mistaken, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for the

Latin adage says, _Quando caput dolet, &c._’—‘Nay,’ quoth Sancho, ‘I

understand no lingo but my mother-tongue.’—‘The meaning,’ said the

master, ‘is, When the head aches, all the members are affected. I,

therefore, as thy lord and master, am thy head, and thou, as my servant,

are a part of me; so that whatever mischief has happened, or may happen

to me, ought to extend to thee likewise, in the same manner as I bear a

share in all thy sufferings.’—‘So it ought to be,’ said Sancho, ‘but

when I, as a member, was tossed in a blanket, my head sat peaceably on

the other side of the wall, and beheld me vaulting in the air, without

feeling the least uneasiness; and since the members are obliged to ache

with the head, I think it is but just that the head should ache with the

members.’—‘How canst thou affirm, Sancho,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘that I

felt no pain while thou was tossed in the blanket? Say, or think so no

more; for I was, at that time, more afflicted in mind than thou in body.

‘But let us wave this subject for the present, and time will, no doubt,

offer an opportunity of considering it more maturely, and of setting

every thing to rights: and tell me, friend Sancho, how I am spoke of in

this place? What say the vulgar? What character do I bear among the

gentry? and how am I treated by the knights? What is their opinion of my

valour, exploits, and courteous behaviour? and how do they relish the

design I have undertaken of raising and restoring to the world the

long-forgotten order of knight-errantry? In short, Sancho, I desire that

thou wilt inform me of every thing thou hast heard on this subject,

without adding to the good, or subtracting from the evil; it being the

duty of faithful servants to represent the truth to their masters in its

own native form, neither exaggerated by adulation, nor diminished by any

other vain respect: and let me tell thee, Sancho, if the naked truth was

always conveyed to the ears of princes, undisguised by flattery, we

should see better days, and other æras would deserve the name of the

iron age more than the present, which would be justly looked upon as the

age of gold. Remember this advice, Sancho, and inform me with honesty

and discretion, of all that thou knowest in regard to what I have

asked.’—‘That I will with all my heart, Sir,’ answered Sancho, ‘on

condition that your worship won’t be offended with the truth, since you

desire to see it in its nakedness, just as it came to my knowledge.’—‘I

shall not be offended in the least,’ replied Don Quixote: ‘speak

therefore freely, without going about the bush.’

‘Well, then,’ said the squire, ‘in the first place, you must know that

the common people think your worship a stark-staring madman, and me a

most notorious fool: the better sort say, that, scorning the rank of a

private gentleman, you have put Don before your name, and dubbed

yourself knight, with a small garden, a few acres of land, and a doublet

clouted on both sides. The knights, forsooth, are affronted that your

small gentry should pretend to vie with them, especially those needy

squires who sole their own shoes, and darn their black hose with green

silk.’—‘That observation,’ said Don Quixote, ‘cannot affect me; for I

always wear good cloaths, and never appear patched. My doublet may,

indeed, be torn, but then it is by my armour, not by time.’—‘Touching

the valour, courtesy, adventures, and design of your worship,’ said

Sancho, ‘there are different opinions. Some say, he is mad, but a

diverting madman; others allow that he is valiant, but unlucky; a third

set observe that he is courteous, but impertinent; and in this manner we

are handled so severely, that neither your worship nor I have a whole

bone left.’—‘You see, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that whenever virtue

shines in an eminent degree, she always meets with persecution. Few or

none of the celebrated heroes of antiquity could escape the calumnies of

malice: Julius Cæsar, a most daring, wise, and valiant general, was

accused of being ambitious, and not over-cleanly in his customs or

apparel; Alexander, who by his atchievements acquired the name of Great,

was said to be a drunkard; and Hercules, renowned for his labours,

reported to have been lewd and effeminate; Don Galaor, brother of Amadis

de Gaul, was grumbled at for being excessively quarrelsome; and Amadis

himself ridiculed as an arrant whiner. Therefore, son Sancho, among so

many aspersions thrown upon such great men, I may well overlook what is

said against me; since it is no worse than what thou hast

repeated.’—‘That’s the very thing, body of my father!’ replied Sancho.

‘What, is there any thing more!’ said his master. ‘More!’ cried the

squire, ‘the tail is yet unfleaed. What you have heard is but cakes and

gingerbread; but, if your worship would know all the backbitings we

suffer, I will this moment bring hither one who can inform you of every

circumstance, without losing a crumb; for, last night, the son of

Bartholomew Carrasco arrived from Salamanca, where he has been at his

studies, and got a batchelor’s degree; and when I went to welcome him

home, he told me there was a printed book of your worship’s history, in

which you go by the name of The Ingenious Squire Don Quixote de La

Mancha; and that I am mentioned in it by my own name of Sancho Panza, as

well as my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, with other things that passed

between you and me only; at hearing of which I crossed myself through

fear, wondering how they should come to the knowledge of the

historian.’—‘You may depend upon it, Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘the

author of our history must be some sage inchanter; for nothing is hid

from writers of that class.’—‘How can he be a sage inchanter,’ said

Sancho, ‘when batchelor Sampson Carrasco (for that’s the name of him who

told me) says the author of our history is called Cid Hamet

Bean-and-jelly?’—‘That name is Moorish,’ replied Don Quixote. ‘Very

like,’ said the squire; ‘for I have often heard, that the Moors are very

fond of beans and jellies.’—‘Thou must certainly be mistaken, Sancho,’

said Don Quixote, ‘in the surname of that Cid, which, in Arabick,

signifies Signior.’—‘Very possible,’ answered the squire; ‘but if your

worship desires to see the batchelor, I will bring him hither in a

twinkling.’—‘Thou wilt oblige me very much, my friend,’ said Don

Quixote; ‘for what thou hast told me has bred such doubts and suspense

within me, that I cannot eat a morsel with any satisfaction, until I am

informed of the whole affair.’—‘Then I’ll go seek him,’ replied Sancho:

who, leaving his master, went in quest of the batchelor, with whom he

returned in a little time, and a most pleasant dialogue ensued.

CHAP. III.

THE LUDICROUS CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE, SANCHO

PANZA, AND THE BATCHELOR SAMPSON CARRASCO.

Don Quixote remained extremely pensive, in expectation of the Batchelor

Sampson Carrasco, from whom he hoped to hear news of himself, in print,

according to Sancho’s information; though he could hardly persuade

himself that there could be such a history extant; the blood of his

enemies whom he had slain, being scarce, as yet, dry upon the blade of

his sword, and yet they would have his high atchievements already

recorded in printed books. He therefore imagined that some sage, either

friend or foe, had cast them off, by the power of inchantment: if a

friend, in order to aggrandize and extol them above the most

distinguished exploits of knight-errantry; if an enemy, to annihilate

and depress them beneath the meanest actions that ever were recorded of

any squire. ‘Although,’ said he, within himself, ‘the deeds of squires

are never committed to writing; and if my history actually exists,

seeing it treats of a knight-errant, it must, of necessity, be pompous,

sublime, surprizing, magnificent, and true.’ This reflection consoled

him a little; but he became uneasy again, when he recollected that his

author was a Moor, as appeared by the name of Cid; and that no truth was

to be expected from that people, who are all false, deceitful, and

chimerical. He was afraid that his amours were treated with some

indecency, that might impair and prejudice the honour of his Lady

Dulcinea del Toboso, wishing for nothing more than a true representation

of his fidelity, and the decorum he always preserved, in refusing

queens, empresses, and damsels of all ranks, thus keeping the impulse of

his passions under the rein. Tossed, therefore, and fluctuating on these

and many other fancies, he was found by Sancho and Carrasco, whom the

knight received with great courtesy.

The batchelor, though his name was Sampson, was not very big, but a

great wag, of a pale complexion and excellent understanding; he was

about the age of four and twenty; had a round visage, flat nose, and

capacious mouth, all symptoms of a mischievous disposition, addicted to

jokes and raillery; as appeared when he approached Don Quixote, before

whom he fell upon his knees, saying, ‘Permit me to kiss your most

puissant hand, Signior Don Quixote de La Mancha; for by the habit of St.

Peter, which I wear, though I have received no other orders than the

first four, your worship is one of the most famous knights-errant that

ever were, or ever will be, within the circumference of the globe!

Blessed be Cid Hamet Benengeli, who wrote the history of your greatness!

and thrice blessed that curious person who took care to have it

translated from the Arabick into our mother-tongue, for the

entertainment of mankind!’ Don Quixote, raising him up, said, ‘’Tis

true, then, that there is a history of me, and that the sage who

composed it is a Moor.’—‘So true, Signior,’ said Sampson, ‘that, to my

certain knowledge, there are twelve thousand volumes of it this day in

print; let Portugal, Barcelona, and Valencia, where they were printed,

contradict me if they can. It is even reported to be now in the press at

Antwerp; and I can easily perceive, that there is scarce a nation or

language into which it will not be translated.’—‘One of the things,’

said Don Quixote on this occasion, ‘which ought to afford the greatest

satisfaction to a virtuous and eminent man, is to live and see himself

celebrated in different languages, and his actions recorded in print,

with universal approbation; I say, with approbation; because, to be

represented otherwise, is worse than the worst of deaths.’—‘In point of

reputation and renown,’ said the batchelor, ‘your worship alone bears

away the palm from all other knights-errant; for the Moor in Arabick,

and the Christian in his language, have been careful in painting the

gallantry of your worship to the life; your vast courage in encountering

dangers, your patience in adversity, your fortitude in the midst of

wounds and mischance, together with the honour and chastity of your

platonick love for my Lady Donna Dulcinea del Toboso.’

Here Sancho interposing, said, ‘I never heard my lady called Donna

Dulcinea, but simply the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso; so that there the

history is wrong.’—‘That is no material objection,’ answered Carrasco.

‘No, sure,’ replied the knight. ‘But tell me, Mr. Batchelor, which of my

exploits is most esteemed in this history.’—‘As to that particular,’

said the batchelor, ‘there are as many different opinions as there are

different tastes. Some stick to the adventure of the wind-mills, which

to your worship appeared monstrous giants; others, to that of the

fulling-mills; this reader, to the description of the two armies, which

were afterwards metamorphosed into flocks of sheep; while another

magnifies that of the dead body, which was carrying to the place of

interment at Segovia: one says, that the deliverance of the

galley-slaves excels all the rest; and a second affirms, that none of

them equals the adventure of the Benedictine giants, and your battle

with the valiant Biscayner.’

Here Sancho interrupting him again, said, ‘Tell me, Mr. Batchelor, is

the adventure of the Yanguesians mentioned, when our modest Rozinante

longed for green peas in December[131].’—‘Nothing,’ replied Sampson,

‘has escaped the pen of the sage author, who relates every thing most

minutely, even to the capers which honest Sancho cut in the blanket.’—‘I

cut no capers in the blanket,’ answered Sancho; ‘but in the air, I grant

you, I performed more than I desired.’—‘In my opinion,’ said Don

Quixote, ‘there is no human history that does not contain reverses of

fortune, especially those that treat of chivalry, which cannot always be

attended with success.’—‘Nevertheless,’ resumed the batchelor, ‘some who

have read your history, say they should not have been sorry, had the

author forgot a few of those infinite drubbings which, in different

encounters, were bestowed on the great Don Quixote.’—‘But in this

consists the truth of history,’ said the squire.

Don Quixote observed, that they might as well have omitted them; for

those incidents, which neither change nor affect the truth of the story,

ought to be left out, if they tend to depreciate the chief character.

‘Take my word for it,’ said he, ‘Æneas was not so pious as Virgil

represents him, nor Ulysses so prudent as he is exhibited by

Homer,’—‘True,’ said Sampson; ‘but it is one thing to compose as a poet,

and another to record as an historian: the poet may relate or rehearse

things, not as they were, but as they ought to have been; whereas an

historian must transmit them, not as they ought to have been, but

exactly as they were; without adding to, or subtracting the least tittle

from the truth.’—‘Since this Moorish gentleman has told all the truth,’

said Sancho, ‘I don’t doubt that, among the drubbings of my master, he

has mentioned mine also; for they never took the measure of his

shoulders, without crossing my whole body: but at this I ought not to

wonder, since, as he observes, when the head aches, the members ought to

have their share of the pain.’—‘You are a sly rogue, Sancho,’ replied

Don Quixote; ‘and I find you don’t want memory, when you think proper to

use it.’—‘If I had all the mind in the world,’ said Sancho, ‘to forget

the blows I have received, the marks, which are still fresh upon my

carcase, would by no means allow me.’

‘Hold your peace, Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘and don’t interrupt Mr.

Batchelor, whom I intreat to proceed; and let me know what more is said

of me in this same history.’—‘Aye, and of me too,’ cried Sancho; ‘who,

they say, am one of the principal personages of it.’—‘You mean persons,

and not personages, friend Sancho,’ said Sampson. ‘What! have we got

another reprimander of words?’ said the squire; ‘since it is come to

this, we shall never have done.’—‘Plague light on me! Sancho!’ replied

the batchelor, ‘if you are not the second person of the history; and

there are many who would rather hear you speak than the first character

in the book; though some there be also, who say you are excessively

credulous, in believing there could be any foundation for the government

of that island, which was promised to you by Signior Don Quixote, here

present.’—‘There is no time lost[132],’ said Don Quixote; ‘while thou

art advancing in years, Sancho, age will bring experience; and then thou

wilt be more qualified and fit to govern than thou art at

present.’—‘’Fore God! Sir,’ said Sancho, ‘the island which I cannot

govern with these years, I shall never govern, were I as old as

Methusalem: the mischief is, that this same island is delayed I don’t

know how; not that I want noddle to govern it.’—‘Recommend it, Sancho,’

said Don Quixote, ‘to the direction of Heaven, which does all for the

best, and may, perhaps, exceed your expectation; for not a leaf can move

upon a tree, without the permission of God.’—‘True,’ said Sampson, ‘if

it be the will of God, Sancho shall not want a thousand islands, much

less one, to govern.’—‘I have seen governors in my time,’ quoth Sancho,

‘who, to my thinking, did not come up to the sole of my shoe, and yet

they were called your lordship, and served in plate.’—‘Those were not

governors of islands,’ replied Sampson, ‘but of other governments more

easily managed; for such as govern islands ought at least to have some

grammatical knowledge.’—‘I know very well how to cram[133],’ said

Sancho; ‘but as to the matted cawl, I will neither meddle nor make,

because I don’t understand it; but leaving this government in the hands

of God, who will dispose of me the best for his own service, I am, Mr.

Batchelor, Sampson Carrasco, infinitely pleased and rejoiced that the

author of our history has spoke of me in such a manner as not to give

offence; for, by the faith of a good squire! if he had said any thing of

me, that did not become an old Christian, as I am, the deaf should have

heard of it.’—‘That were a miracle, indeed!’ answered Sampson. ‘Miracle

or no miracle,’ said Sancho, ‘let every man take care how he speaks or

writes of honest people, and not set down at a venture the first thing

that comes into his jolter-head.’

‘One of the faults that are found with the history,’ added the

batchelor, ‘is, that the author has inserted in it a novel, intitled,

The Impertinent Curiosity. Not that the thing itself is bad, or poorly

executed, but because it is unseasonable, and has nothing to do with the

story of his worship Signior Don Quixote.’—‘I’ll lay a wager,’ cried

Sancho, ‘that this son of a cur has made a strange hodge-podge of the

whole.’—‘Now I find,’ said the knight, ‘that the author of my history is

no sage, but some ignorant prater, who, without either judgment or

premeditation, has undertaken to write it at random, like Orbaneja the

painter of Ubeda, who being asked what he painted, answered, “Just as it

happens;” and when he would sometimes scrawl out a misshapen cock, was

fain to write under it in Gothick letters, “This is a cock;” and my

history being of the same kind, will need a commentary to make it

intelligible.’—‘Not at all,’ answered Sampson, ‘it is already so plain,

that there is not the least ambiguity in it; the very children handle

it, boys read it, men understand, and old people applaud it: in short,

it is so thumbed, so read, so well known by every body, that no sooner a

meagre horse appears, than they say, “There goes Rozinante!”, but those

who peruse it most, are your pages; you cannot go into a nobleman’s

antichamber where you won’t find a Don Quixote, which is no sooner laid

down by one, than another takes it up, some struggling, and some

intreating for a sight of it; in fine, this history is the most

delightful and least prejudicial entertainment that ever was seen; for

in the whole book there is not the least shadow of a dishonourable word,

nor one thought unworthy of a good Catholick.’—‘To write otherwise,’

said Don Quixote, ‘were not to publish truth, but to propagate lyes; and

those historians who deal in such, ought to be burnt like coiners of

false money; but I cannot imagine what induced the author to avail

himself of novels and stories that did not belong to the subject, when

he had such a fund of my adventures to relate: he, doubtless, stuck to

the proverb, So the gizzard is crammed, it matters not how[134]; for

truly, had he confined himself to the manifestation of my reveries, my

sighs, my tears, my benevolence, and undertakings, he might have

compiled a volume larger, or as large, as all the works of Tostatus

bound together[135]. Really, Mr. Batchelor, according to my

comprehension, it requires great judgment, and a ripe understanding, to

compose histories, or indeed any books whatever; for to write with

elegance and wit, is the province of great geniuses only. The wittiest

person in the comedy is he that plays the fool; for he must be no

simpleton who can exhibit a diverting representation of folly. History

is a sacred subject, because the soul of it is truth; and where truth

is, there the divinity will reside: yet there are some who compose and

cast off books, as if they were tossing up a dish of pancakes.’

‘There is no book so bad,’ said the batchelor, ‘but you may find

something good in it.’—‘Doubtless,’ replied the knight; ‘but it

frequently happens, that those who have deservedly purchased and

acquired great reputation by their writings, lose it all, or at least

forfeit a part of it, in printing them.’—‘The reason,’ said Sampson,

‘is, that printed works are perused with leisure, consequently their

faults easily observed; and the greater the reputation of the author is,

the more severely are they scrutinized: men celebrated for their genius,

great poets, and illustrious historians, are, for the most part, if not

always, envied by those whose pleasure and particular entertainment

consists in criticising the works of others, without having obliged the

world with any thing of their own.’—‘That is not to be wondered at,’

said Don Quixote; ‘for there are many theologists who make but a poor

figure in the pulpit, and yet are excellent in discerning the faults and

superfluities of those who preach well.’—‘That is all true, Signior Don

Quixote,’ said Carrasco; ‘and I could wish that those censurers were

either a little more compassionate, or something less scrupulous, than

to insist upon such blemishes of the work they decry, as may be compared

to little spots in the sun, and as _aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus_,

consider how long the author watched, in order to display the light of

his performance, with as little shade as possible. Perhaps, too, those

things which disgust them are no other than moles, that sometimes add to

the beauty of the face on which they grow; and therefore I affirm, that

he who publishes a book runs an immense risk; because it is absolutely

impossible to compose such an one as will please and entertain every

reader.’—‘I believe few will relish that which treats of me,’ said the

knight. ‘Quite the contrary,’ answered Sampson; ‘for, as _stultorum

infinitus est numerus_, the number of those who are delighted with your

history is infinite; though some accuse the author’s memory as false or

faulty, because he has forgot to tell who the thief was that stole

Sancho’s Dapple, of whom there was not a word mentioned: we can only

infer from the history, that he was stolen; and by-and-by we find the

squire mounted on the same beast, without knowing how he was retrieved.

They say, likewise, that he has omitted telling what Sancho did with

those hundred crowns which he found in the portmanteau, in Sierra

Morena; and which are never mentioned though many people desire to know

what use he made of them; and this is one of the chief defects in the

work.’

‘Mr. Sampson,’ answered the squire, ‘I am not in an humour at present to

give accounts and reckonings of that affair; for I feel a certain

qualmishness in my stomach, and if I don’t recruit it with a couple of

draughts of old stingo, I shall be in most grievous taking[136]; I have

the cordial at home, and my dame waits for me; but when I have filled my

belly, I will return and satisfy your worship, and all the world, in

whatever they shall desire to ask, both with regard to the loss of my

beast, and the spending of the hundred crowns.’ So, without expecting a

reply, or speaking another word, he hied him home, while Don Quixote

desired and intreated the batchelor to stay and do penance with him. The

batchelor accepted the invitation, and stayed; a pair of pigeons was

added to the knight’s ordinary; he talked of nothing but chivalry at

table, and Carrasco encouraged the discourse. The repast ended, they

took their afternoon’s nap, Sancho returned, and the former conversation

was renewed.

Footnote 131:

_Pedir cotufas en el golfo_, signifies to look for tartuffles in the

sea; a proverb applicable to those who are too sanguine in their

expectations, and unreasonable in their desires.

Footnote 132:

_Aun ay sol en las bardas._ There is still sun-shine on the wall, i.

e. It is not yet too late.

Footnote 133:

Finding it impossible to translate the original pun or blunder, I have

substituted another in its room, on the word Grammatical, which I

think has at least an equally good effect.

Footnote 134:

The original is, ‘_De paja, y di beno, el jergonelleno_;’ i. e. ‘The

bed is filled, though it be with hay and straw.’

Footnote 135:

Alphonsus Tostatus, bishop of Avila, was said to have known every

thing that could be known. He made a figure at the council of Basil;

wrote twenty-seven volumes; and dying in the fortieth year of his age,

was interred in the church of Avila, with this epitaph:——_Hic stupor

est mundi, qui scibile discutit omne._

Footnote 136:

In Spanish, _Me pondra en la espina de Santa Lucia_; i. e. ‘Will put

me on St. Lucia’s thorn:’ applicable to any uneasy situation.

CHAP. IV.

IN WHICH SANCHO PANZA SATISFIES THE DOUBTS,

AND ANSWERS THE QUESTIONS OF BATCHELOR SAMPSON CARRASCO;

WITH OTHER INCIDENTS WORTHY TO BE RECITED AND KNOWN.

Sancho returning to his master’s house, resumed the former conversation,

to gratify Mr. Sampson, who said he wanted to know when, in what manner,

and by whom his ass had been stolen; ‘You must know, then,’ said he,

‘that very night we fled from the holy brotherhood, and got into the

Brown Mountain, after the misventuresome adventure of the galley-slaves,

and the corpse that was carrying to Segovia, we took up our quarters in

a thicket, where my master and I, being both fatigued, and sorely

bruised in the frays we had just finished, went to rest, he leaning upon

his lance, and I lolling upon Dapple, as if we had been stretched upon

four feather-beds; I, in particular, slept so sound, that the thief,

whosoever he was, had an opportunity of coming and propping me up with

four stakes, fixed under the corner of my pannel, on which I was left

astride; so that he slipped Dapple from under me, without my perceiving

it in the least.’—‘And this is no difficult matter, nor new device,’

said Don Quixote; ‘for the same thing happened to Sacripante at the

siege of Albraca, where, by this contrivance, his horse was stolen from

between his legs by the famous robber Brunelo[137].’—‘When morning

came,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘I no sooner began to stretch myself, than the

stakes gave way, and down I came to the ground with a vengeance; I

looked for my beast, and finding he was gone, the tears gushed from my

eyes, and I set up a lamentation, which, if the author of our history

has not set down, you may depend upon it, he hath neglected a very

excellent circumstance; a good many days after this mischance, as I

chanced to be travelling with my lady the Princess Micomicona, descrying

a person riding towards me in the habit of a gypsy, I immediately knew

my own ass, and discovered the rider to be Gines de Passamonte, that

impostor and notorious malefactor, whom my master and I delivered from

the galley-chain.’

‘The error lies not in that part of the history,’ replied the batchelor,

‘but consists in the author’s saying that Sancho rode on the same ass,

before it appears that he had retrieved him.’—‘As so that affair,’ said

the squire, ‘I can give you no satisfactory answer; perhaps it was an

oversight in the historian, or owing to the carelessness of the

printer.’—‘Doubtless it was so,’ replied Sampson; ‘but what became of

those hundred crowns? were they laid up or laid out?’—‘I laid them out,’

answered Sancho, ‘in necessaries for my own person, my wife, and

children; and those crowns were the cause of my gossip’s bearing

patiently my ramblings and rovings in the service of my lord and master

Don Quixote; for if, after such a long absence, I had come home without

my ass, and never a cross in my pocket, I might have expected a welcome

the wrong way. Now, if you have any thing else to ask, here I am ready

to answer the king in person; and it matters not to any person, whether

I did or did not bring them home, or whether I spent them or lent them;

for if the blows I have received in our peregrinations were to be repaid

with money, rated at no more than four maravedis a piece, another

hundred crowns would not quit one half of the score; therefore, let

every man lay his hand upon his heart, and not pretend to mistake an

hawk for a hand-saw[138]; for we are all as God made us, and a great

many of us much worse.’

‘I will take care,’ said Carrasco, ‘to apprize the author of the

history, that if it should come to another edition, he may not forget to

insert what honest Sancho observes, as it will not a little contribute

to raise the value of the work.’—‘Mr. Batchelor,’ said the knight, ‘did

you, in reading it, perceive any thing else that ought to be

amended?’—‘There might be some things altered for the better,’ replied

Carrasco; ‘but none of such consequence as those already

mentioned.’—‘And pray,’ resumed Don Quixote, ‘does the author promise a

second part?’—‘Yes,’ said Sampson, ‘but he says he has not yet found it,

nor does he know in whose possession it is; so that we are still in

doubt, whether or not it will see the light: on that account, therefore,

and likewise because some people say, that second parts are never good,

while others observe, that too much already hath been written concerning

Don Quixote, it is believed that there will be no second part; though

there is a a third sort more jovial than wise, who cry, “Quixote for

ever! let the knight engage, and Sancho Panza harangue; come what will,

we shall be satisfied.”’—‘And how does the author seem inclined?’ said

the knight. ‘How?’ answered Carrasco, ‘to set the press a-going, as soon

as he can find the history, for which he is now searching with all

imaginable diligence; thereto swayed by interest, more than by any

motive of praise.’—‘Since the author keeps interest and money in his

eye,’ said Sancho, ‘it will be a wonder if he succeeds; for he’ll do

nothing but hurry, hurry, like a taylor on Easter-eve; and your works

that are trumped up in a haste, are never finished with that perfection

they require; I would have Mr. Moor take care, and consider what he is

about; for my master and I will furnish him with materials, in point of

adventures and different events, sufficient to compose not only one, but

a hundred second parts. What! I suppose the honest man thinks we are now

sleeping among straw; but let him lift up our feet, and then he will see

which of them wants to be shod; all that I shall say is, if my master

had taken my advice, we might have been already in the fields,

redressing grievances, and righting wrongs, according to the use and

custom of true knights-errant.’

Scarce had Sancho pronounced these last words, when their ears were

saluted by the neighing of Rozinante, which Don Quixote considered as a

most happy omen, and determined in three or four days to set out on his

third expedition; accordingly, he declared his intention to the

batchelor, whose advice he asked with regard to the route he should

take. Sampson said, that in his opinion, he ought to direct his course

towards the kingdom of Arragon, and go to Saragossa, where, in a few

days, was to be held a most solemn tournament on the festival of St.

George; there he would have an opportunity of winning the palm from the

Arragonian knights, which would raise his reputation above that of all

the champions upon earth: he applauded his design as a most valiant and

honourable determination, and begged he would be more cautious in

encountering dangers, because his life was not his own, but the property

of all those who had occasion for protection and succour in distress.

‘That is the very thing I repose, Mr. Sampson,’ said the squire; ‘for my

master thinks no more of attacking a hundred men in arms, than a hungry

boy would think of swallowing half a dozen pippins[139]. Body of the

universe! Mr. Batchelor, if there are times for attacking, there are

also seasons for retreating; the cry must not always be “St. Jago!

charge, Spain[140]!” especially as I have heard, and, if I remember

aright, my master himself has often observed, that valour lies in the

middle, between the extremes of cowardice and rashness; this being the

case, I would not have him fly without good reason, nor give the assault

when he is likely to be overpowered by numbers; but, above all things, I

give my master notice, that if he carries me along with him, it shall be

on condition that he fight all the battles himself, and I be obliged to

do nothing, but tend his person, that is, take care of his belly, and

keep him sweet and clean; in which case, I will jig it away with

pleasure[141]; but to think that I will put hand to sword, even against

base-born plebeians with cap and hatchet, is a wild imagination: for my

own part, Mr. Sampson, I do not pretend to the reputation of being

valiant, but of being the best and loyalest squire that ever served a

knight-errant; and if my master Don Quixote, in consideration of my

great and faithful services, shall be pleased to bestow upon me one of

those many islands which his worship says will fall in his way, I shall

very thankfully receive the favour; and even if he should not keep his

word, here stand I, simple as I am, and one man must not depend upon

another, but trust in God alone; besides, the bread I eat, without a

government, mayhap will relish better than the dainties of a governor;

and how do I know but the devil may, in these governments, raise some

stumbling-block, over which I shall fall and beat out my grinders?

Sancho I was born, and Sancho will I die; but, nevertheless, if by the

favour of Providence, I could fairly and softly, without much risk or

anxiety, obtain an island, or some such matter, I am not such a ninny as

to throw it away; for, as the saying is, When the heifer is offered, be

ready with the rope; and, When good fortune comes to thy door, be sure

to bid it welcome.’

‘Brother Sancho,’ said the batchelor, ‘you have spoke like a professor;

but for all that, put your trust in God, and Signior Don Quixote, who

instead of an island, will give you a whole kingdom.’—‘The one as likely

as the other,’ answered Sancho; ‘though I dare venture to assure Signior

Carrasco, that the kingdom, which my master shall bestow upon me, will

not be put into a rotten sack; for I have felt my own pulse, and find

myself in health sufficient to rule kingdoms and govern islands, as I

have, upon many other occasions, hinted to my master.’—‘Consider,

Sancho,’ said the batchelor, ‘that honours often change the disposition;

and, perhaps, when you come to be governor, you will not know the mother

that bore you.’—‘That may be the case,’ answered the squire, ‘with those

who were born among mallows; but not with me, who have got four inches

of old christian suet on my ribs; then if you come to consider my

disposition, you will find I am incapable of behaving ungratefully to

any person whatever.’—‘God grant it to be so,’ said the knight; ‘but

this will appear when you arrive at the government, which methinks I

have already in mine eye.’

He then intreated the batchelor, if he was a poet, to favour him with a

copy of verses on his intended parting from his mistress Dulcinea del

Toboso, and desired that every line might begin with a letter of her

name, so that the initials being joined together, might make Dulcinea

del Toboso. Carrasco, though he owned he was not one of the famous poets

of Spain, who were said to be but three and a half[142], promised to

compose such an acrostick as he desired, which, by the bye, he foresaw

would be no easy task, because the name consisted of seventeen letters,

and if he should make four stanzas of four lines each, one must be left

out; or should they be composed of five, called decimas or roundelays,

three letters would be wanting to compleat the number; however, he would

endeavour to sink one letter as much as he could, so that in four

stanzas the name Dulcinea del Toboso should be included. ‘That must be

done, at all events,’ said Don Quixote; ‘for if the name be not plain

and manifest, no woman will believe that she was the subject of the

poem.’ This affair being thus settled, as also the time of their

departure, which was fixed at the distance of eight days, Don Quixote

charged the batchelor to keep it secret, especially from the curate, Mr.

Nicholas, his niece, and housekeeper, that they might not obstruct his

honourable and valiant determination. Carrasco, having promised to

observe this caution, took his leave of the knight, whom he begged to

favour him on every occasion, with an account of his good or evil

fortune; and Sancho went home, to provide every thing necessary for

their expedition.

Footnote 137:

As related in the famous poem of Orlando Inamorato, composed by

Boyardo, of which the Orlando Furioso of Ariosto is the continuation.

Footnote 138:

In the original, ‘Black for white.’

Footnote 139:

Literally, _badeas_, a kind of water melon.

Footnote 140:

This is the cry uttered by the Spaniards when they charge in battle.

Footnote 141:

_Baylar el agua delante_, is a phrase applicable to those who do their

duty with alacrity, taken from the practice of watering the courts in

Spain, an office which the maids perform with a motion that resembles

dancing.

Footnote 142:

Alonzo de Ercilla, author of the Auraucana; Juan Rufo de Cordova,

author of the Austriada; Christopher Verves de Valentia, author of the

Monserratte; and as for the half, Cervantes in all probability meant

himself.

CHAP. V.

OF THE SAGE AND PLEASANT DIALOGUE BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA

AND HIS WIFE TERESA PANZA,

WITH OTHER INCIDENTS WORTHY TO BE MOST HAPPILY RECORDED.

The translator says he looks upon this chapter as apocryphal, because it

represents Sancho Panza speaking in a stile quite different from that

which might be expected from his shallow understanding, and making such

ingenious observations, as he thinks it impossible he should know; but

he would not leave it out, that he might punctually perform the duty of

a faithful translator, and therefore proceeds in these words.

Sancho returned to his own house in such high spirits, that his wife

perceived his gaiety at the distance of a bow shot, and could not help

saying, ‘What is the matter, friend Sancho, that you seem so joyful?’ To

this question the squire answered, ‘An it pleased God, wife, I should be

very glad if I were not so joyful as I seem to be.’—‘Truly, husband,’

replied Teresa[143], ‘I don’t understand you; and cannot conceive what

you mean, by saying you should be very glad, an it pleased God, you were

not so joyful; for, simple though I be, I am always glad with what makes

me joyful.’—‘Mark me, Teresa,’ said the squire, ‘I am rejoiced, because

it is determined that I shall return to the service of my master Don

Quixote, who is going to make a third sally in quest of adventures, and

I must accompany him in his expedition; for so my destiny will have it,

together with the comfortable and lively hope of finding another hundred

crowns like those I have expended: on the other hand, sorry am I to part

with thee and my children; and if God would permit me to eat my bread

dry-shod at home, without dragging me over clifts and cross-paths; (and

this might be done at a small expence, if he would only say the word) it

is plain that my joy would be more firm and perfect; whereas that which

I feel at present, is mingled with the melancholy thoughts of leaving

thee, my duck; wherefore I justly said I should be glad, an it pleased

God, I were less joyful.’—‘Verily, Sancho,’ said his wife, ‘ever since

you made yourself a member of knight-errantry, you talk in such a

round-about manner, that there is no understanding what you say.’—‘Let

it suffice,’ answered the squire, ‘that I am understood by God, who is

the understander of all things; and there let it rest: meanwhile, take

notice, gossip, it will be convenient for you to tend Dapple for these

two or three days with special care; let his allowance be doubled, that

he may be enabled to carry arms; and look out for the pannel and the red

of the tackle, for we are not going to a wedding, but to traverse the

globe, and give and take dry blows with your giants, dragons, and

hobgoblins, and hear nothing but hissing, roaring, bellowing, and

bleating; and all this would be but flowers of lavender, were it not our

doom to encounter with Yanguesians and inchanted Moors.’—‘I very well

believe that squires-errant do not eat the bread of idleness,’ replied

Teresa; ‘and therefore, husband, I shall continually pray to our Lord,

to deliver you from such misfortunes.’—‘I tell thee, wife,’ said Sancho,

‘if I did not expect to see myself in a little time governor of an

island, I should drop down dead upon the spot.’—‘By no means, dear

husband,’ cried Teresa, ‘Let the hen live, though she have the pip; and

I hope you will live, though the devil run away with all the governments

upon earth; without a government did you come from your mother’s womb;

without a government have you lived to this good hour; and without a

government shall you go or be carried to your grave, in God’s own time:

there are many in the world who have no governments, and yet, for all

that, they live and are numbered among the people. Hunger is the best

sauce, and as that is never wanting among the poor, they always relish

what they eat; but take care, Sancho, if you come to a government, that

you do not forget me and your children: consider, Sanchico has already

fifteen good years over his head, and that it is time for him to go to

school, if in case his uncle the abbot has a mind to breed him to the

church: consider too, that your daughter Mary Sancha, will not break her

heart if we marry her, for I am much mistaken if she does not long for a

husband, as much as you do for a government; and the short and long of

it is, you had better have your daughter ill buckled as a wife, than

well kept as a concubine.’

‘Take my word for it,’ answered Sancho, ‘if by the blessing of God I

come to any sort of government, I intend, my dear, to match Mary Sancha

so high, that nobody shall come near her, without calling her, _your

ladyship_.’—‘Never think of that, Sancho!’ cried Teresa, ‘match her with

her equal, which will be more prudent than to raise her from clogs to

pattens, from good fourteen-penny hoyden grey, to farthingales and

petticoats of silk, and from _Molly_ and _thou_, to _Donna_ and _my lady

such-a-one_; the girl’s head would be quite turned, and she would be

continually falling into some blunder, that would discover the coarse

thread of her home-spun breeding.’—‘Shut that foolish mouth of thine,’

said Sancho; ‘in two or three years practice, quality and politeness

will become quite familiar to her; or, if they should not, what does it

signify? Let her first be a lady, and then happen what will.’—‘Meddle,

Sancho, with those of your own station,’ replied Teresa, ‘and seek not

to lift your head too high; but remember the proverb that says, When

your neighbour’s son comes to the door, wipe his nose, and take him in.

It would be a fine thing, truly, to match our Mary with a great count or

cavalier, who would, when he should take it in his head, look upon her

as a monster, and call her country wench, and clod-breaker’s and

hemp-spinner’s brat; that shall never happen in my life time, husband;

it was not for that I brought up my child; do you find a portion, and as

to her marriage, leave that to my care; there is Lope Tocho, old John

Tocho’s son, a jolly young fellow, stout and wholesome, whom we all

know, and I can perceive that he has no dislike to the girl; besides, he

being our equal, she will be very well matched with him; for we shall

always have them under our eye, and the two families will live together,

parents and children, sons-in-law and grandsons, and the peace and

blessing of God will dwell amongst us; wherefore you shall not match me

her in your courts and grand palaces, where she will neither understand

nor be understood.’—‘Hark ye, you beast and yoke-fellow for Barrabas!’

replied Sancho, ‘why wouldst thou now, without rhime or reason, prevent

me from matching my daughter, so as that my grand-children shall be

persons of quality? remember, Teresa, I have often heard my elders and

betters observe, He that’s coy when fortune’s kind, may after seek but

never find. And should not I be to blame, if, now that she knocks at my

door, I should bolt it against her? Let us, therefore, take the

advantage of the favourable gale that blows.’

It was this uncommon stile, with what Sancho says below, that induced

the translator to pronounce the whole chapter apocryphal.

‘Can’t you perceive, animal, with half an eye,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘that

I shall act wisely, in devoting this body of mine to some beneficial

government that will lift us out of the dirt, and enable me to match

Mary Sancha according to my own good pleasure: then wilt thou hear

thyself called Donna Teresa Panza, and find thyself seated at church

upon carpets, cushions, and tapestry, in despite and defiance of all the

small gentry in the parish; and not be always in the same moping

circumstances, without increase or diminution, like a picture in the

hangings: but no more of this; Sanchica shall be a countess, though thou

shouldst cry thy heart out.’—‘Look before you leap, husband,’ answered

Teresa: ‘after all, I wish to God this quality of my daughter may not be

the cause of her perdition; take your own way, and make her dutchess or

princess, or what you please, but I’ll assure you, it shall never be

with my consent or good will; I was always a lover of equality, my dear,

and can’t bear to see people hold their heads high without reason.

Teresa was I christened, a bare and simple name, without the addition,

garniture, and embroidery of Don or Donna; my father’s name is Cascajo,

and mine, as being your spouse, Teresa Panza, though by rights I should

be called Teresa Cascajo: but as the king minds, the law binds; and with

that name am I contented, though it be not burdened with a Don, which

weighs so heavy, that I should not be able to bear it; neither will I

put it in the power of those who see me dressed like a countess or

governor’s lady, to say, “Mind Mrs. Porkfeeder; how proud she looks! it

was but yesterday she toiled hard at the distaff, and went to mass with

the tail of her gown about her head, instead of a veil: but now,

forsooth, she has got her fine farthingales and jewels, and holds up her

head as if we did not know her.” If God preserve me in my seven or five

senses, or as many as they be, I shall never bring myself into such a

quandary: as for your part, spouse, you may go to your governments and

islands, and be as proud as a peacock; but as for my daughter and me, by

the life of my father! we will not stir one step from the village; for,

The wife that deserves a good name, stays at home as if she were lame;

and, The maid must be still a doing, that hopes to see the men come a

wooing. You and Don Quixote may therefore go to your adventures, and

leave us to our misventures; for God will better our condition, if we

deserve his mercy; though truly I cannot imagine who made him a Don; I

am sure, neither his father nor grandfather had any such title.’—‘I tell

thee, wife,’ replied the squire, ‘thou hast certainly got some devil in

that carcase of thine; the Lord watch over thee, woman! what a deal of

stuff hast thou been tacking together, without either head or tail? What

the devil has your Cascajos, jewels, proverbs, and pride, to do with

what I have been saying? Heark ye, you ignorant beast, for such I may

call thee, as thou hast neither capacity to understand my discourse, nor

prudence to make sure of good fortune when it lies in thy way, were I to

say, that my daughter shall throw herself from the top of a steeple, or

go strolling about the world, like the Infanta Donna Uraca, thou wouldst

have reason to contradict my pleasure; but if, in two turnings of a ball

and one twinkling of an eye, our good fortune should lay a title across

our shoulders, and raising thee from the stubble, set thee in a chair of

state, under a canopy, or lay thee upon a sofa, consisting of more

velvet almohadas[144], than there are Moors in all the family of the

Almohadas in Morocco; wherefore wouldst not thou consent, and with me

enjoy the good-luck that falls?’—‘I’ll tell thee wherefore, husband,’

replied Teresa, ‘because, as the saying is, What covers, discovers thee;

the eyes of people always run slightly over the poor, but make an halt

to examine the rich; and if a person so examined was once poor, then

comes the grumbling and the slandering; and he is persecuted by

back-biters, who swarm in our streets like bees.’

‘Give ear, Teresa, and listen to what I am going to say,’ answered

Sancho: ‘for mayhap thou hast never heard such a thing in all the days

of thy life; and I do not now pretend to speak from my own reflection,

but to repeat the remarks of the good father who preached last Lent in

our village. He said, if I right remember, that all objects present to

the view, exist, and are impressed upon the imagination, with much

greater energy and force, than those which we only remember to have

seen.’ (The arguments here used by Sancho, contributed also to make the

translator believe this chapter apocryphal; because they seem to exceed

the capacity of the squire, who proceeded thus:) ‘From whence it

happens, that when we see any person magnificently dressed, and

surrounded with the pomp of servants, we find ourselves invited, and, as

it were, compelled to pay him respect; although the memory should, at

that instant, represent to us some mean circumstances of his former

life; because that defect, whether in point of family or fortune, is

already past and removed, and we only regard what is present to our

view; and if the person, whom fortune hath thus raised from the lowness

of oblivion to the height of prosperity, be well-bred, liberal, and

courteous, without pretending to vie with the ancient nobility, you may

take it for granted, Teresa, that nobody will remember what he was, but

reverence what he now is, except the children of Envy, from whom no

thriving person is secure.’—‘I really do not understand you,’ said

Teresa: ‘you may do what you will; but seek not to distract my brain

with your rhetorick and harranguing, for if you be revolved to do what

you say—’ ‘You must call it resolved, woman, and not revolved,’ cried

Sancho. ‘Never plague yourself to dispute with me, husband,’ answered

Teresa: ‘I speak as God pleases, and meddle not with other people’s

concerns. If you are obstinately bent upon this same government, I

desire you will carry your son Sancho along with you, and from this hour

teach him the art of that profession; for it is but reasonable that the

sons should inherit and learn the trade of their fathers.’—‘As soon as I

have obtained my government,’ said Sancho, ‘I will send the money for

him by the post, as by that time I shall have plenty; for there are

always people in abundance that will lend to a governor who has no money

of his own; and be sure you cloath him in such a manner as to disguise

his present condition, and make him appear like what he is to be.’—‘Send

you the money,’ answered Teresa, ‘and I will dress him up like any

branch of palm[145].’—‘Well, then,’ said Sancho, ‘we are agreed about

making our daughter a countess——’ ‘That day I behold her a countess,’

cried the wife, ‘I shall reckon her dead and buried; but, I tell you

again, you may use your pleasure: for we women are born to be obedient

to our husbands, though they are no better than blocks.’

So saying, she began to weep as bitterly as if she had actually seen her

daughter laid in her grave. Sancho consoled her, by saying, that

although she must be a countess, he would defer her promotion as long as

he could. Thus ended the conversation, and the squire went back to Don

Quixote to concert measures for their speedy departure.

Footnote 143:

Sancho’s wife has already been mentioned under the names of Juana and

Mary, and now she is called Teresa.

Footnote 144:

Almohada signifies a cushion.

Footnote 145:

Alluding to the bough that is adorned and carried in procession on

Palm Sunday.

CHAP. VI.

OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE,

HIS NIECE, AND HOUSEKEEPER,

BEING ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT CHAPTERS OF THE WHOLE HISTORY.

While this impertinent conversation passed between Sancho Panza and his

wife Teresa Cascajo, Don Quixote’s niece and housekeeper were not idle;

for, collecting from a thousand symptoms that their master wanted to

give them the slip a third time, and return to the exercise of his

unlucky knight-errantry, they endeavoured, by all possible means, to

divert him from his extravagant design; but all they could say was like

preaching to the desart, or hammering cold iron. However, among many

other arguments, the housekeeper said to him, ‘As I hope to be saved,

dear master, if your worship will not settle at home in your own house,

but are resolved to stray about the mountains and vallies, like a

troubled ghost, in quest of what you term adventures, but what I call

mischances, I will complain in person, and raise up my voice to God and

the king, that they may apply some remedy to your disorder.’ To this

declaration, the knight replied, ‘Mrs. Housekeeper, how God will accept

of thy complaints I know not; neither can I guess in what manner his

majesty will answer thy petition: this only I know, that if I were king,

I would excuse myself from answering that infinite number of impertinent

memorials which are daily presented; for one of the greatest of the many

fatigues that attend royalty, is that of being obliged to listen and

reply to all petitions; therefore I would not have his majesty troubled

with any affair of mine.’—‘Pray, Sir,’ said the housekeeper, ‘are there

no knights at court?’—‘Yes, there are many,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘and

it is reasonable, that there should be always a good number in

attendance to adorn the court, and support the pomp and magnificence of

majesty.’—‘Would it not be better, then, for your worship,’ replied the

matron, ‘to be one of that number, and serve your king and master

quietly and safely at court?’—‘You must know, good woman,’ said Don

Quixote, ‘all knights cannot be courtiers; neither can or ought all

courtiers to be knights errant: there ought to be plenty of both; and

though we are all knights, there is a great difference between the one

sort and the other; your courtiers, without crossing the thresholds of

their own apartments, travel over the world, in maps, gratis, and never

know what it is to suffer either heat, cold, hunger, or thirst, in their

journey; whereas, we real knights-errant measure the whole globe with

our own footsteps, exposed night and day, on horse-back and a-foot, to

the summer’s sun and winter’s cold, and all the inclemencies of the

weather; we not only seek to see the picture, but the person of our foe,

and on all emergencies and occasions attack him, without paying any

regard to the trifling rules of challenges; whether, for example, his

sword and lance be shorter or longer than our own; whether he wears

about him any relick or secret coat of mail; or whether the sun and wind

be equally divided; with other ceremonies of that nature, which are

usually observed in duelling, and which, though I know them punctually,

thou art little acquainted with: thou must also know, that a good

knight-errant, though he sees ten giants, whose heads not only touch,

but overtop the clouds, with legs like lofty steeples, and arms

resembling the masts of vast and warlike ships; while each eye, as large

as a mill-wheel, beams and burns like a glass furnace, is by no means

confounded or abashed; but, on the contrary, with genteel demeanour, and

intrepid heart, approaches, assaults, and, if possible, vanquishes and

overthrows them in a twinkling, though they are armed with the shell of

a certain fish, said to be harder than adamant; and instead of a sword,

use a keen scymitar of damasked steel, or a huge club, armed with a

point of the same metal, as I have seen on a dozen different occasions.

All this I have mentioned, good woman, that thou mayest see what

difference there is between knights of different orders; and every

prince ought, in reason, to pay greater respect to his second, or rather

this first species of knights-errant, among whom, as we read in history,

there have been some who were the bulwarks not only of one, but of many

kingdoms.’

‘Ah, dear Sir,’ cried the niece, interrupting him, ‘consider that all

those stories of knights-errant are nothing but lyes and invention; and

every one of the books that contain them deserves, if not to be burnt,

at least to wear a _san benito_[146], or some other badge, by which it

may be known for an infamous perverter of virtue and good sense.’—‘By

the God that protects me!’ cried the knight, ‘wert thou not undoubtedly

my niece, as being my own sister’s child, I would chastise thee in such

a manner, for the blasphemy thou hast uttered, that the whole world

would resound with the example. How! shall a pert baggage, who has

scarce capacity enough to manage a dozen lace bobbins, dare to wag her

tongue in censuring the histories of knights-errant? What would Signior

Amadis say to such presumption? But, surely, he would forgive thy

arrogance; for he was the most humble and courteous knight of his time,

and besides the particular champion and protector of damsels: but thou

mightest have been heard by another who would not treat thee so gently;

for all are not affable and well-bred; on the contrary, some there are

extremely brutal and impolite. All those who call themselves knights,

are not entitled to that distinction; some being of pure gold, and

others of baser metal, notwithstanding the denomination they assume. But

these last cannot stand the touchstone of truth: there are many

plebeians, who sweat and struggle to maintain the appearance of

gentlemen; and, on the other hand, there are gentlemen of rank who seem

industrious to appear mean and degenerate; the one sort raise themselves

either by ambition or virtue, while the other abase themselves by

viciousness or sloth; so that we must avail ourselves of our

understanding and discernment, in distinguishing those persons, who,

though they bear the same appellation, are yet so different in point of

character.’—‘Good God!’ said the niece, ‘that your worship should be so

learned, that even, if need were, you might mount the pulpit, or go a

preaching in the streets, and yet remain in such woeful blindness and

palpable folly, as to persuade the world that you are a valiant and

vigorous righter of wrongs, when you are old, feeble, and almost

crippled with age; but, above all things, to give yourself out for a

knight, when you are no such thing; for, though rich gentlemen may be

knighted, poor gentlemen, like you, seldom are.’

‘There is a good deal of truth in what thou hast observed, cousin,’

replied Don Quixote; ‘and I could tell thee such things, concerning

families, as would raise thine admiration; but these I suppress, that I

may not seem to mix what’s human with what’s divine. Take notice,

however, my friends, and be attentive to what I am going to say: all the

families in the world may be reduced to four kinds, which are these; one

that, from low beginnings, hath extended and dilated to a pitch of power

and greatness; another, that from great beginnings hath continued to

preserve and maintain its original importance; a third, that from vast

beginnings hath ended in a point, diminishing and decaying from its

foundation, into an inconsiderable point like that of a pyramid, which

in respect of its base, is next kin to nothing; a fourth, and that the

most numerous, had neither a good foundation, nor reasonable

superstructure, and therefore sinks into oblivion, unobserved; such are

the families of plebeians and ordinary people. The first, that from low

beginnings hath mounted to power and greatness, which it preserves to

this day, is exemplified in the house of Ottoman, that from an humble

shepherd, who gave rise to it, attained that pinnacle of grandeur on

which it now stands; the second sort of pedigree, that without

augmentation hath preserved its original importance, is exhibited in the

persons of many princes, who are such by inheritance; and support their

rank without addition or diminution, containing themselves peaceably

within the limits of their own dominions; of those who, from illustrious

beginnings, have dwindled into a point, there are a thousand examples in

the Pharaohs and Ptolemeys of Egypt, the Cæsars of Rome, with all the

tribe, if they may be so called, of our Median, Assyrian, Persian,

Greek, and Barbarian princes, monarchs, and great men. All these

families and states, together with their founders, have ended in a very

inconsiderable point; since, at this day, it is impossible to trace out

one of their descendants; or, if we could, he would be found in some

base and low degree. I have nothing to say of the plebeians, who only

serve to increase the number of the living, without deferring any other

fame or panegyrick. From what I have said, I would have you infer, my

precious wise-acres, that there is a great confusion of pedigrees; and

that those only appear grand and illustrious, whole representatives

abound with virtue, liberality, and wealth: I say, virtue, liberality,

and wealth; because the vicious great man is no more than a great

sinner; and the rich man without liberality, a mere covetous beggar; for

happiness does not consist in possessing, but in spending riches; and

that not in squandering them away, but in knowing how to use them with

taste. Now a poor knight has no other way of signalizing his birth, but

the practice of virtue, being affable, well-bred, courteous, kind, and

obliging; a stranger to pride, arrogance, and slander; and, above all

things, charitable; for, by giving two farthings chearfully to the poor,

he may shew himself as generous as he that dispenses alms by sound of

bell: and whosoever sees him adorned with these virtues, although he

should be an utter stranger to his race, will conclude that he is

descended of a good family. Indeed, it would be a sort of miracle to

find it otherwise; so that praise is always the reward of virtue, and

never fails to attend the righteous. There are two paths, my children,

that lead to wealth and honour: one is that of learning, the other that

of arms; now I am better qualified for the last than for the first; and

(as I judge from my inclination to arms) was born under the influence of

the planet Mars; so that I am, as it were, obliged to chuse that road,

which I will pursue in spite of the whole universe: you will therefore

fatigue yourselves to no purpose, in attempting to persuade me from that

which Heaven inspires, fortune ordains, reason demands, and, above all

things, my own inclination dictates; knowing, as I do, the innumerable

toils annexed to knight errantry, I am also well acquainted with the

infinite benefits acquired in the exercise of that profession. I know

the path of virtue is very strait, while the road of vice is broad and

spacious. I know their end and issue is different: the wide extended way

of vice conducts the traveller to death; while the narrow toilful path

of virtue leads to happiness and life—not that which perisheth, but that

which hath no end; and I know, as our great Castilian poet observes—

‘“By these rough paths of toil and pain,

Th’ immortal feats of bliss we gain,

Deny’d to those who heedless stray

In tempting pleasure’s flow’ry way.”’

‘Ah! woe is me!’ cried the cousin, ‘my uncle is a poet too! he knows

every thing, and can do every thing: I’ll lay a wager, if he should turn

bricklayer, he could build a house like any cage.’—‘I do assure thee,

niece,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘if those knightly sentiments did not

wholly engross my attention, there is not a thing on earth that I could

not make, nor a curiosity that should not go through my hands,

especially bird-cages and tooth-picks.’

Here the conversation was interrupted by a knocking at the gate; which,

as they found upon enquiry, was made by Sancho; whose presence was no

sooner intimated, than the housekeeper ran away to hide herself that she

might avoid the sight of him whom she abhorred: the niece, therefore,

opened the door, and his master came out to receive him with open arms;

then, shutting themselves up together, another dialogue passed, no ways

inferior to the former.

Footnote 146:

A dress put upon convicted hereticks.

CHAP. VII.

OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE;

WITH OTHER SURPRIZING INCIDENTS.

The housekeeper seeing that her master and Sancho were locked up

together, immediately guessed the subject of the conversation; and

imagining, that the result of this confutation would be a third sally,

she put on her veil, and full of trouble and anxiety, went in quest of

the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, thinking, that as he was a well spoken

man, and her master’s new friend, he might persuade him to lay aside

such an extravagant design: accordingly, she found him taking a turn in

his own yard, and fell upon her knees before him, in a cold sweat,

occasioned by her vexation. Carrasco seeing her appear with such marks

of sorrow and consternation, said, ‘What is the matter, Mrs.

Housekeeper? what hath befallen you? something seems to have harrowed up

your very soul!’—‘Nothing at all, dear Mr. Sampson,’ cried the

housekeeper, ‘only my master is breaking out; he is certainly breaking

out!’—‘How breaking out?’ said Sampson; ‘is any part of his body

unsound?’—‘Where should it break out,’ replied the other, ‘but through

the gate of his madness? My meaning, dear batchelor of my soul! is, that

he is going to make another sally, (and that will be the third)

searching up and down the world for what he calls adventures, though I

cannot imagine why they should have that name[147]: the first time, he

returned so battered and bruised, that they were fain to lay him across

an ass, like a sack of oats, because he could not sit upright; the

second time, he was brought home in a waggon, stretched and cooped up in

a cage, in which he imagined himself inchanted, in such a woeful plight,

that he could scarce be known by the mother that bore him, so lank and

meagre, with his eyes sunk into the lowest pit of his brain; so that

before I could bring him into any tolerable degree of strength, I

expended more than six hundred new-laid eggs, as God and all the world

know, as well as my hens, that will not suffer me to tell a lye.’—‘That

I verily believe,’ said the batchelor; ‘your hens are so good, plump,

and well bred, that they would rather burst than say one thing, and mean

another. Well, then, Mrs. Housekeeper, nothing else hath happened,

neither have you met with any other misfortune, but the apprehension of

what your master Don Quixote will do?’—‘Nothing else,’ said she. ‘Give

yourself no trouble then,’ resumed the batchelor, ‘but go home a-God’s

name, and get ready something hot for my breakfast; and in your way,

repeat St. Apollonia’s prayer, if you can; I will follow in a little

time, and then you shall see wonders.’—‘Dear heart!’ cried the

housekeeper, ‘St. Apollonia’s prayer, say you? that I should repeat if

my master had the tooth-ach; but, lack-a-day! his distemper lies in his

skull.’—‘I know what I say,’ answered Sampson: ‘take my advice, Mrs.

Housekeeper, and do not pretend to dispute with me; for I would have

thee to know that I am a batchelor of Salamanca; there’s no higher

batcheleering than that.’ She accordingly moved homeward, while Sampson

went to communicate to the curate that which will be in due time

disclosed.

While Don Quixote and Sancho were closeted together, there passed

between them a conversation which the history recounts with great

punctuality and truth. ‘Signior,’ said the squire, ‘I have at length

traduced my wife to consent that I shall attend your worship wheresoever

you please to carry me.’-‘Say reduced, and not traduced, Sancho,’

replied the knight. ‘I have once or twice, if my memory serves me,’ said

Sancho, ‘intreated your worship not to correct my words, if you

understand my meaning; and when you can’t make it out, I desire you

would say, “Sancho,” or “devil, I don’t understand thee:” then if I fail

in explaining myself, you may correct me as much as you please; for I am

so fossile.’—‘I do not understand thee now,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘nor can

I comprehend what thou wouldst be at, in saying I am so fossile.’—‘So

fossile!’ said the squire; ‘that is, whereby as how I am just so.’—‘Nay,

now thou art more and more unintelligible,’ replied the knight. ‘If your

worship does not understand me now,’ answered Sancho, ‘I know not how to

express it; for I am already at my wit’s end, and Lord have mercy upon

me.’—‘O! now I conceive thy meaning,’ said the knight; ‘thou wouldst say

thou art so docile, gentle, and tractable, as to comprehend every thing

I say, and retain whatsoever I shall teach thee.’—‘I’ll lay a wager,’

said the squire, ‘that from the beginning, you knew my meaning by my

mumping, but wanted to confound me by leading me into a thousand more

blunders.’—‘It may be so,’ said the knight; ‘but in reality, what says

Teresa?’—‘Teresa,’ answered Sancho, ‘says I must be sharp with your

worship. Fast bind, fast find; He that shuffles does not always cut; and

that, A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush: now I know that A

wife’s counsel is bad, but he that will not take it is mad.’—‘So say I,’

replied Don Quixote; ‘proceed, friend Sancho, you speak like an oracle

to-day.’—‘Why then the case is this,’ resumed Sancho; ‘your worship very

well knows we are all mortal, here to-day, and gone to-morrow; for the

lamb goes as fast as the dam; and no man in this world can promise

himself more hours of life than God is pleased to grant him; because

death is deaf, and when he knocks at the door of life is always in a

hurry, and will not be detained either by fair means or force, by

sceptres or mitres, as the report goes, and as we have often heard it

declared from the pulpit.’—‘All this is very true,’ said the knight;

‘but I cannot guess what you drive at.’—‘What I drive at,’ answered

Sancho, ‘is, that your worship would appoint me a certain monthly salary

for the time I shall serve you, to be paid out of your estate; for I do

not chuse to depend upon recompences that come late, or low, or never.

God will protect me with my own. In short, I would know what I have to

trust to, whether little or much; for, The hen clucks though but on one

egg; Many littles make a mickle; and, He that is getting aught, is

losing nought. True it is, if it should happen, which I neither believe

nor expect, that your worship can give me that island you have promised

me so long; I am not so greedy or ungrateful, but that I will suffer my

rent to be appraised, and my salary deducted in due portion[148]’.—‘To

be sure, friend Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘all portions ought to be

proportioned.’—‘I understand you,’ replied the squire, ‘I should have

said proportion instead of portion; but that is of no signification,

since my meaning is comprehended by your worship.’—‘Aye, and so

thoroughly comprehended,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that I have penetrated into

the inmost recesses of thy thoughts, and perceive the mark at which

those innumerable shafts of thy proverbs are aimed. Look you, Sancho, I

would appoint thee a salary, if I could find in any history of

knights-errant, one precedent, by which I might discover, or have the

least glimpse of what they used to give monthly or yearly; but I have

carefully perused all, or the greatest part or those histories, and

cannot remember to have read, that any knight-errant ever paid a certain

salary to his squire. I only know that all of them trusted to favour,

and when it was least in their thoughts, provided their masters chanced

to be fortunate, they found themselves rewarded with an island or

something equivalent, and at least were honoured with rank and title. If

with these hopes and expectations, you are willing to return to my

service, do it a-God’s name; but if you think I will unhinge and deviate

from the ancient customs of chivalry, you are grievously mistaken:

wherefore, friend Sancho, you may go home again, and declare my

intention to your wife Teresa; and if she is pleased, and you are

willing to depend upon my favour, _bene quidem_; if not, let us shake

hands and part: while there are peas in the dove-house, I shall never

want pigeons; and remember, my child, that it is better to be rich in

hope than poor in possession; and that a good claim is preferable to bad

pay. I talk in this manner, Sancho, to show that I can pour forth a

volley of proverbs as well as you; and finally, I must and will give you

to understand, that if you do not chuse to serve me on those terms, and

share my fortune, whatsoever it may be, I pray God may prosper and make

a saint of you; for my part, I shall not want squires more obedient and

careful, though less troublesome and talkative than your worship.’

When Sancho heard this firm resolution of his master, the sky began to

lour, and down flagged the wings of his heart in a moment: for he had

believed that the knight would not set out without him for all the

wealth in the world. While he thus remained pensive and dejected, in

came Sampson Carrasco, followed by the niece, who was very desirous to

hear with what arguments he would dissuade her uncle from going again in

quest of adventures. Sampson, who was a notable wag, no sooner entered,

than embracing the knight, as at first, he pronounced with an audible

voice, ‘O flower of knight-errantry, resplendent sun of arms, thou glory

and mirrour of the Spanish nation! may it please the Almighty, of his

infinite power, that if any person or persons shall raise any impediment

to obstruct thy third sally, they may never extricate themselves from

the labyrinth of their desires, or accomplish what they so unjustly

wish!’ Then turning to the duenna, ‘Mrs. Housekeeper,’ said he, ‘you

need not now repeat St. Apollonia’s prayer; for I know it is the precise

determination of the stars, that Signior Don Quixote shall again execute

his new and lofty plan: and I should greatly burden my confidence if I

forbore to intimate, and desire, that this knight will no longer withold

and detain the force of his valiant arm, and the virtue of his heroick

soul; because, by his delay he retards the righting of wrongs, the

protection of orphans, the honour of maidens, the favour of widows, the

support of wives, with many other things of that nature, which regard,

concern, depend upon, and appertain, to the order of knight-errantry.

Courage! Signior Don Quixote, beautiful and brave; may your worship and

grandeur set out before to morrow morning; and if any thing be wanting

to forward your expedition, here am I, ready to make it good with my

person and fortune; and, if need be, to serve your magnificence in

quality of squire; an office in the execution of which I should think

myself extremely happy.’

Don Quixote hearing this proffer, turned to Sancho, saying, ‘Did not I

tell thee, Sancho, that I should not want for squires? Take notice who

it is that offers to attend me; who, but the unheard of batchelor

Sampson Carrasco; the perpetual darling and delight of the court-yards

belonging to the Salamancan schools; sound of body, strong of limb, a

silent sufferer of heat and cold, hunger and thirst, and endued with all

those qualifications which are requisite in the squire of a

knight-errant: but Heaven will not permit me, for my own satisfaction,

to break and demolish this pillar of learning, this urn of sciences, and

to hew down such an eminent branch of the liberal arts. No, let this new

Sampson stay at home, and honour the place of his nativity, together

with the grey hairs of his ancient parents; while I make shift with any

sort of squire, since Sancho will not vouchsafe to go along with me.’

‘Y—yes, I do vouchsafe!’ cried Sancho, blubbering; ‘it shall never be

said of me, dear master, that when the victuals were eaten up, the

company sneaked off; I am not come of such an ungrateful stock; for all

the world, and especially my own townsmen, know what sort of people the

Panzas were, of whom I am descended; besides, I have perceived, and am

sensible, by many good works, and more good words, that your worship is

actually inclined to do for me; and if I have haggled more than enough

about my wages, it was to please my wife, who, if she once takes in hand

to persuade me to any thing, no cooper’s adze drives the hoops of a

barrel as she drives at her purpose, until she hath gained it; but,

after all, a man must be a man, and a woman a woman: now I being a man

every inch of me, when or wheresoever I please to shew myself, (that I

cannot deny) I am resolved to be master in my own house, in spite of the

devil, the world, and the flesh; and therefore your worship has no more

to do but prepare your will, with the codicil, so as that it cannot be

rebuked; and then let us take our departure, that we may not endanger

the soul of Mr. Sampson, whose conscience, he says, prompts him to

persuade your worship to make a third sally through the world; and here

I promise again to serve your worship faithfully and lawfully, as well

as, and better than, all the squires that ever attended the

knights-errant, either in past or present time.’

The batchelor was astonished at hearing the manner and conclusion of

Sancho’s speech; for although he had read the first part of his master’s

history, he never believed him so diverting as he is there represented;

but now, hearing him talk of the will and codicil that could not be

rebuked, instead of revoked, he was convinced of the truth of what he

had read, and confirmed in the opinion of his being one of the most

solemn simpletons of the present age; saying, within himself, two such

madmen as the master and his squire are not to be paralleled upon earth.

In fine, Don Quixote and Sancho were reconciled, and embraced each

other; and, in consequence of the opinion and assent of the great

Carrasco, whom they looked upon as an oracle, it was determined that

they should depart in three days, during which they would have time to

provide themselves with necessaries for the journey, and find a compleat

helmet for the knight, who insisted upon carrying one along with him

into the field. Sampson, accordingly, undertook to accommodate him,

saying he could command an helmet that was in possession of a friend of

his; though the brightness of the metal was not a little obscured by the

rust and mould which it had contracted.

Innumerable were the curses which were vented against the batchelor by

the housekeeper and niece, who tore their hair, and scratched their

faces; and like the hired mourners, formerly in use, lamented the

departure, as if it had been the death of their master. But Sampson’s

view in persuading him to another sally, was to execute a design which

he had concerted with the curate and barber, as will appear in the

sequel. In short, during those three days, Don Quixote and Sancho

furnished themselves with every thing they thought they should have

occasion for; the squire pacified his wife, the knight appeased his

niece and housekeeper; and on the evening of the fourth day, without

being perceived by any living soul but the batchelor, who insisted upon

accompanying them half a league out of town, they set out, and took the

road to Toboso; Don Quixote mounted on his trusty Rozinante, and Sancho

throned upon his old friend Dapple, with a pair of bags well lined with

belly-timber, and a purse of money, which his master deposited in his

hands, in case of accidents in their expedition.

Sampson, embracing the knight, intreated him to write an account of his

good or evil fortune, that he might congratulate or sympathize with him,

as the laws of friendship require. Don Quixote assured him, he would

comply with his request; the batchelor returned to the village, and the

other two pursued their way towards the great city of Toboso.

Footnote 147:

The original, _ventura_, signifies good luck as well as adventures.

Footnote 148:

I have substituted this play upon the word proportion, in lieu of

Sancho’s blundering on _rata_.

CHAP. VIII.

AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE,

IN HIS JOURNEY TO VISIT HIS MISTRESS DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO.

‘Blessed be the Almighty Ala,’ saith Cid Hamet Benengeli, in the

beginning of this chapter; and this benediction he repeats three times,

in consequence of finding Don Quixote and Sancho in the field again;

observing, that the readers of this agreeable history may assure

themselves that, from this period, the exploits of the knight and his

squire begin. He therefore persuades them to forget the former

adventures of our sage hero, and fix their attention upon those which

are to come; and which now begin in the road to Toboso, as the others

took their origin in the field of Montiel; and truly his demand is but

reasonable, considering the fair promise he makes. Thus, therefore, he

proceeds.

Scarce had Sampson left Don Quixote and Sancho by themselves, when

Rozinante began to neigh, and Dapple to bray most melodiously; a

circumstance which was looked upon by both our adventurers as a

fortunate signal and most happy omen; though, to deal candidly with the

reader, the brayings of the ass exceeded in number the neighings of the

horse; from whence Sancho concluded, his fortune would surmount and

overtop that of his master. But whether or not he founded his belief on

his knowledge in judicial astrology, I cannot determine, the history

being silent on that subject; yet certain it is he had been heard to say

when he stumbled or fell, that he wished he had not stirred over his own

threshold; for nothing was to be got by a stumble or fall but a torn

shoe, or broken bone; and truly, simple as he was, he had some reason

for making that observation.