‘Friend Sancho,’ said Don Quixote, ‘the night is so far advanced, that

we shall not be able to reach Toboso by day-light; yet thither I am

determined to go, before I engage in any other adventure, that I may

receive the benediction and good leave of the peerless Dulcinea, by the

help of which I shall certainly atchieve, and happily perform, the most

perilous exploits; for nothing in this life exalts the valour of

knights-errant so much as the favour of their mistresses.’—‘I am of the

same way of thinking,’ replied the squire; ‘but I believe your worship

will find some difficulty in seeing her in a proper place for courtship,

or indeed for receiving her blessing, unless she throws it over the

pales of the yard through which I saw her for the first time, when I

carried the letter that gave an account of the folly and mad pranks I

left your worship committing in the heart of the brown mountain.’—‘Didst

thou then actually imagine,’ said Don Quixote, ‘that those were the

pales of a yard, over or through which thou sawest that paragon of

gentleness and beauty? Certainly they could be no other than galleries,

arcades, or corridores, such as belong to rich and royal palaces.’—‘It

may be so,’ answered Sancho, ‘but either my memory fails me very much,

or to me they seemed no better than the pales of a farmer’s yard.’—‘Be

that as it will,’ resumed Don Quixote, ‘thither we will go, and at any

rate get sight of her; for be it through pales, windows, crannies, or

the rails of a garden, so the least ray of that sun of beauty reach mine

eyes, it will enlighten my understanding, and fortify my heart in such a

manner, that I shall remain the unequalled phœnix of valour and

discretion.’—‘Truly, Sir,’ said the squire, ‘when I saw that same sun of

my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, it was not so bright as to send forth any

rays at all; but the case was, the wheat that her ladyship was

winnowing, as I told you before, raised such a cloud of dust about her,

as quite darkened her countenance.’—‘Wilt thou still persist, Sancho,’

replied the errant, ‘in saying, thinking, believing, and affirming, that

my mistress Dulcinea was employed in such a mean office, so wide of all

that is or ought to be practised by persons of rank, who are created and

reserved for other exercises and amusements, that denote their quality

at the distance of a bow-shot. Thou seemest to forget, O Sancho! those

verses of our poet, in which he paints the labours that in their

chrystal bowers engrossed the four nymphs, who, raising their heads

above the waves of their beloved Tagus, sat down to work in the verdant

meadow those rich and silken webs, which, as the ingenious poet

describes, were with gold and pearls adorned and interweaved. In this

manner my mistress must have been employed when thou sawest her; but

some wicked inchanter, envious of my happiness and fame, converts and

perverts every thing that yields me pleasure, into shapes and figures

different from its real appearance; and in that history of my

atchievements which they say is printed, if the author be some sage who

is an enemy to my success, I am afraid he hath confounded one thing with

another, and clogged every fact with a thousand falsehoods; straying

from his subject, to recount actions quite foreign to the skilful detail

of a true history! O envy! thou root of infinite mischief, and

canker-worm of virtue! The commission of all other vices, Sancho, is

attended with some sort of delight; but envy produces nothing in the

heart that harbours it but rage, rancour, and disgust.’—‘So say I,

master,’ answered Sancho: ‘and I suppose, in this legend or history of

us, which Batchelor Carrasco says he has seen, my reputation goes like a

jolting hackney-coach, and is tossed about, as the saying is, like a

tennis-ball; though in good faith, I never spoke an ill word of any

inchanter whatsoever; nor am I rich enough to stir up envy in any living

soul: true it is I am a little waggish, and have a small spice of

knavery at bottom; but all this is crowned and covered with the broad

cloak of my simplicity, which is always natural and never affected; and

if there was nothing else but my believing, as I always do firmly and

sincerely, in God, as well as in all that is owned and believed by the

holy Roman catholick church; and my being a mortal enemy, as I certainly

am, to the Jews, the historians ought to have mercy upon me, and use me

tenderly in their writings: but let them say what they will, I naked was

born, and naked remain; and if I lose nothing, as little I gain: though,

provided I see myself mentioned in a book, and circulate through the

world from hand to hand, I don’t value what they can say of me a fig’s

end.’

‘That observation,’ said Don Quixote, ‘puts me in mind of what happened

to a famous poet of this age, who having composed a severe satire

against the court ladies, omitted to insert one in particular, by name,

so that it was doubtful whether or not she was implied in any part of

the performance. The lady, thus neglected, complained to the poet,

asking what he had seen in her character unworthy of being described

among the rest, and desiring him to enlarge the satire, that she might

be included in the supplement, or look to himself. The author complied

with her request, lashing her in terms not fit to be named; and she was

perfectly well satisfied with the fame of being infamous. Of a piece

with this ambition was that reported of the shepherd, who set fire to

the celebrated temple of Diana, reckoned one of the wonders of the

world, with no other view than to render his name immortal; and although

there was a severe edict, prohibiting all persons whatever from making

mention of his name, either by word or writing, that he might not

accomplish his aim, it is very well known at this day, that his name was

Erostratus. This likewise bears an affinity to that occurrence which

passed at Rome, between that great emperor Charles the Fifth, and a

certain knight. The emperor went to visit the famous temple of the

Rotunda, which was of old called the Pantheon, but is now more happily

named the Church of All-Saints, the most entire edifice that remains of

heathen Rome, and which most of all evinces the grandeur and

magnificence of its founders. It is built in the shape of half an

orange, of a vast extent, and very well lighted, though it has but one

window, or rather a round lanthorn at its top, from whence the emperor

considered the inside of the structure, being attended by a Roman

knight, who described the excellence and ingenious contrivance of that

vast and memorable work; and, after they had descended, said to him,

“Sacred Sir, a thousand times was I seized with an inclination to clasp

your majesty in my arms, and throw myself down from the lanthorn, in

order to eternize my name.”—“I thank you,” replied the emperor, “for

having resisted such a wicked suggestion, and henceforward will never

give you an opportunity of repeating such a proof of your loyalty; avoid

my presence, and never presume to speak to me again.” But,

notwithstanding this severe command, he conferred upon him some

extraordinary favour. My meaning, Sancho, is, that the desire of fame is

a most active principle in the human breast. What dost thou imagine was

the motive that prevailed on Horatius to throw himself from the bridge,

armed at all points, into the depth of the river Tyber? what induced

Mutius to burn his hand and arm? what impelled Curtius to dart himself

into the flaming gulph which opened in the midst of Rome? what prompted

Cæsar to pass the Rubicon, in spite of all the unfavourable omens that

appeared? and, to give you a more modern instance, what consideration

bore the ships, and left on shore, encompassed with enemies, those

valiant Spaniards in the new world, under the conduct of the most

courteous Cortez? All these, and many other great and various exploits,

are, were, and shall be performed, in consequence of that desire of

fame, which flatters mortals with a share of that immortality which they

deem the merited reward of their renowned atchievements: although we

catholick Christian knights-errant ought to pay greater attention to

that glory which is to come, and eternally survives within the etherial

and celestial mansions, than to the vanity of that same, which is

obtained in this present perishable state, and which, considered in its

longest duration, must end at length with the world itself, which hath

its appointed period. Wherefore, Sancho, our works must not exceed the

limits prescribed by the Christian religion which we profess. We must,

in slaying giants, extirpate pride; get the better of envy by

benevolence and virtue; resist anger with patience and forbearance;

conquer gluttony and sloth by temperance and watchfulness; luxury and

lewdness by our fidelity to those whom we constitute mistresses of our

inclination; and idleness by travelling through all parts of the world

in quest of opportunities to evince ourselves not only Christians, but,

moreover, renowned knights. Thus, Sancho, thou seest the means of

acquiring that superlative praise which produces fame and reputation.’

‘All that your worship hath hitherto said,’ replied the squire, ‘I

understand perfectly well; but, for all that, I wish you would dissolve

me one doubt, which hath this moment struck me in the noddle.’—‘Thy

meaning is resolve, Sancho,’ said the knight: ‘in good time, out with

it, and I will give thee satisfaction, as far as my own knowledge

extends.’—‘Tell me, then, Signior,’ proceeded Sancho, ‘where now are all

those Julys and Augusts, and adventuresome knights who died so long

ago?’—‘The Heathens,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘are doubtless in hell; and

the Christians, if they were good catholicks, either in purgatory or in

heaven.’—‘Right,’ said the squire; ‘let us next enquire, if the tombs

that contain the bodies of that sort of gentry are lighted with silver

lamps; or the walls of their chapels adorned with crutches, winding

sheets, periwigs, legs, and eyes, made of wax; if not, pray in what

manner are they adorned?’ To this question Don Quixote answered, that

the sepulchres of the heathen heroes were, for the most part, sumptuous

temples; the ashes of Julius Cæsar were placed upon the top of a stone

pyramid, of vast dimensions, still to be seen at Rome, under the name of

St. Peter’s obelisk; the emperor Adrian’s tomb was a building as large

as a good village, formerly called Moles Adriani, but at present the

Castle of St. Angelo; and Queen Artemisia buried her husband Mausolus in

a monument, that was accounted one of the seven wonders of the world;

but none of these sepulchres, nor any other belonging to the heathens,

were adorned with shrouds, offerings, or marks, to denote the sanctity

of the persons there buried. ‘So I perceive,’ said Sancho; ‘and now tell

me, whether it be more meritorious to slay a giant, or raise up the dead

to life again?’—‘The answer is plain,’ replied the knight; ‘it is more

meritorious to re-animate the dead.’—‘Then I have caught you fairly,’

cried the squire; ‘he who revives the dead, restores sight to the blind,

straightens the crooked, heals the sick; before whose tomb the lamps

continually burn, whose chapels are filled with devout people who adore

his relicks upon their knees; I say, he shall have more fame in this

world, and that which is to come, than all the heathen emperors and

knights-errant that ever lived have left or will leave behind them.’—‘I

am very sensible of the truth of what you alledge,’ answered the knight.

‘Now this same, this grace, this prerogative, or what you call it,’

resumed the squire, ‘is veiled in the bodies and relicks of the saints;

and with the approbation and licence of our holy mother church, they

have their lamps, tapers, shrouds, crutches, pictures, periwigs, eyes,

and legs, whereby the devotion of the people is increased, and their own

Christian fame promulgated; the bodies and relicks of saints are carried

upon the shoulders of kings, who kiss the very fragments of their bones,

with which they enrich and adorn their most precious altars and

oratories.’—‘What wouldst thou have me infer from all this?’ said Don

Quixote. ‘My meaning,’ replied Sancho, ‘is, that we should turn saints

immediately, and so with the greater dispatch acquire that fame which we

are in search of; and pray take notice, Signior, it was but yesterday,

or t’other day, as one may say in comparison, that they canonized and

beatified two bare-footed friars; and people now think it a great

happiness to be allowed to touch and kiss the iron chains with which

they girded and tormented their poor bodies; and which are in greater

esteem than the sword of Orlando, which, as the report goes, is kept in

the armoury of our lord the king, whom God in Heaven bless: wherefore,

dear master, it is better to be an humble friar of any order whatever,

than the most valiant knight that ever breathed; for, with God, two

dozen of disciplines will more avail than as many thousand back-strokes,

whether they be bestowed on giants, dragons, or hobgoblins.’—‘All this

is very true,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘but we cannot all be friars; and

various are the paths by which God conducts the good to Heaven. Chivalry

itself is a religious order, and some that were knights are now saints

in glory.’—‘True,’ resumed the squire, ‘but I have often heard it

observed, that there are more friars than knights in Heaven.’—‘The

reason,’ said the knight, ‘is, because there is a greater number of

monks than of the other order.’—‘And yet there are many knights-errant,’

replied the squire. ‘There is, indeed, a good number,’ answered Don

Quixote; ‘but very few that deserve the name.’

In this, and other such discourse, they passed that night and the

following day, without encountering any thing worthy of being mentioned;

a circumstance that chagrined our knight not a little. Next day,

however, in the twilight, they descried the great city of Toboso; at

sight of which Don Quixote’s spirits were exhilarated, and Sancho’s

depressed, because he did not know where to find the house of Dulcinea,

whom he had never seen, neither had his master ever beheld this peerless

princess; so that the one suffered perturbation from the desire of

seeing her, and the other because he had not seen her; and, indeed,

Sancho could not contrive how to manage the affair, when his master

should send him to Toboso. In fine, Don Quixote resolved to enter the

city in the dark; and with this view they tarried in a grove of oaks,

not far from the gate, till the night was advanced; then entered the

town, where they met with things which amount to things indeed.

CHAP. IX.

WHICH CONTAINS WHAT YOU WILL SEE IN THE PERUSAL OF IT.

It was midnight, or thereabout, when Don Quixote and Sancho, leaving

their covert, entered the city of Toboso, which was then in profound

silence, all its inhabitants being asleep, and lying with outstretched

legs, as the saying is. The night was clear, though Sancho wished it

otherwise, that in the darkness he might find an excuse for his

imposition; and nothing was heard in the whole town but the barking of

dogs, which thundered in Don Quixote’s ears, and very much disturbed

the heart of Sancho; yet, from time to time, they were saluted by the

braying of asses, the grunting of hogs, and the mewing of cats; which

different notes being augmented by the stillness of the night, were

considered as ill omens by the enamoured knight, who nevertheless said

to his squire, ‘Son Sancho, lead on to the palace of Dulcinea, whom,

perhaps, we shall find awake.’—‘Body of the sun!’ cried Sancho, ‘what

palace should I lead to? when I saw her highness she was in a very

small cottage.’—‘Then she must have been retired,’ answered the

knight, ‘to some small apartment of her castle, to divert herself with

her damsels, according to the use and custom of princesses and ladies

of rank.’—‘Signior,’ said the squire, ‘since your worship, in spite of

all that I can say, will have my Lady Dulcinea’s house to be a castle,

is this an hour to find the gate open? and will it be decent for us to

throw the whole family into confusion and uproar, by making a racket,

and demanding entrance, at this time of night? Do you think we are

going to a bawdy-house, like your fornicators, who rap and knock, and

enter at any hour of the four and twenty?’—‘First of all, let us

fairly find the castle,’ replied the knight, ‘and then I will tell

thee what is to be done; and take notice, Sancho, for either mine

eye-sight fails me, or that great shadowy building before us is the

palace of Dulcinea.’—‘Advance, then,’ answered Sancho, ‘perhaps it may

be so; and yet, though I should see it with mine eyes, and touch it

with my hands, I will believe it as much as I believe it is now twelve

o’clock at noon.’

Don Quixote, however, proceeded; and having gone about two hundred

paces, came up with the building that produced the shadow, and

perceiving it an high steeple, found it was no castle, but in reality

the principal church in town. ‘We are arrived at the cathedral, Sancho,’

said he. ‘So I perceive,’ replied the squire, ‘and God grant we be not

arrived at our graves! for it is no good sign to be strolling about

church-yards at these hours: besides, I have already told your worship,

(if my memory serves me right) that my lady’s house stands in a blind

alley.’—‘The curse of God light on thee, for a blockhead as thou art!’

cried Don Quixote; ‘where didst thou ever hear of castles and royal

palaces, built in blind alleys?’—‘Signior,’ answered Sancho, ‘every

country has its own customs; and perhaps it is the custom here, in

Toboso, to raise palaces and grand edifices in blind alleys; I therefore

humbly beseech your worship to let me search all the streets and alleys

I shall meet with; and who knows but in some corner I may light on this

same castle, which I wish the dogs had devoured, before it had brought

us to such perplexity and confusion?’—‘Talk respectfully, Sancho, of

those things that appertain to my mistress,’ said the knight; ‘let us

spend our holiday in peace, and not throw the helve after the

hatchet.’—‘Well, I will be pacified,’ answered the squire; ‘though how

can I endure your worship should expect that I who have seen my lady’s

house but once, should know it always, and even find it out in the

middle of the night, when you yourself are at a loss, though you must

have seen it a thousand times?’—‘You distract me, Sancho,’ cried Don

Quixote; ‘heark ye, heretick, have not I told you a thousand times, that

in all the days of my life, I never saw the peerless Dulcinea, nor ever

crossed the threshold of her palace, being only enamoured by hearsay,

and the great reputation of her beauty and discretion?’—‘I hear your

worship say so now,’ replied Sancho; ‘and tell you in my turn, that if

you have not seen her, no more have I.’—‘That is impossible,’ resumed

the knight; ‘at least, you told me you had seen her winnowing wheat,

when you brought back an answer to the letter with which I sent you to

her habitation.’—‘Truly, Signior, you must not depend upon that,’

answered Sancho; ‘for you must know, my seeing her, and bringing back

the answer, was also upon hearsay; and I am as incapable of giving any

account of the Lady Dulcinea, as I am of pulling the moon by the nose.’

‘Sancho! Sancho!’ said Don Quixote, ‘there is a time for jesting, and a

time when jokes are very unseasonable; though I say I have never seen or

spoke with the mistress of my soul, there is no reason for thy making

the same declaration, which thou knowest is so contrary to the truth.’

While they thus conversed together, they perceived a person passing that

way with a couple of mules; and by the noise of a plough-share, which

they dragged along, justly concluded that he was a peasant who had risen

before day to go to labour: they were not mistaken; it was actually a

labourer, who went along singing the ballad of Ronscevalles[149]; which

the knight no sooner heard, than he exclaimed, ‘Let me die, Sancho! if

any thing lucky will befal us to-night; don’t you hear what that peasant

is singing?’—‘Yes,’ said Sancho; ‘but what has the defeat at

Ronscevalles to do with our affair? If he had sung the ballad of

Calaynos, it would have been the same thing with regard to our good or

evil fortune.’

Don Quixote said to the peasant, who was by this time come-up, ‘Can you

tell me, honest friend, and the blessing of God attend you, in what part

of this city stands the palace of the peerless princess Donna Dulcinea

del Toboso?’—‘Signor,’ answered the young man, ‘I am a stranger, and

have been but a few days in town, in the service of a rich farmer, whose

lands I till; but in that house that fronts you live the curate and

sexton of the parish, and either or both can give your worship an

account of that same princess, for they keep a register of all the

inhabitants of Toboso, though I believe, there is no such thing as a

princess in the whole place: there are, indeed, many ladies of fashion,

and every one may be a princess in her own house.’—‘She whom I ask for

must be one of these,’ said the knight. ‘It may be so,’ answered the

peasant; ‘but I shall be overtaken by the morning.’ So saying, he drove

on his mules, without waiting for any more questions.

Sancho, seeing his matter in suspence, and over and above dissatisfied,

‘Signior,’ said he, ‘day begins to break, and it will not be altogether

convenient to let the sun find us here in the street: we had better quit

the city, and look out for some wood in the neighbourhood, where your

worship may enjoy the cool shade; and I will return by day, and search

every hole and cranny in Toboso for this house, castle, or palace of my

lady, and it will be very unfortunate, indeed, if I cannot find it; and

if I have the good luck, to meet with her ladyship, I will tell her

where and how I have left your worship, in expectation of her contriving

some means whereby you may visit her, without any prejudice to her

honour and reputation.’—‘Sancho,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘thou hast uttered

a thousand sentences within the compass of a few words: the counsel thou

hast given me I relish, and most willingly receive. Come, my son, let us

go in quest of some thicket, where I may embower myself, while thou

shalt return to seek, see, and talk with my mistress, from whose

courtesy and discretion I hope to receive more than miraculous favours.’

Sancho burned with impatience to see his master fairly out of town, that

he might not detect the falshood of the answer which he pretended to

bring from Dulcinea, while he remained in the Brown Mountain: he

therefore pressed him to depart, and about two miles from the city they

found a thicket or wood, where Don Quixote took up his residence, while

Sancho went back to commune with Dulcinea; and, in the course of his

embassy, met with adventures that demand new credit and fresh attention.

Footnote 149:

Like our Chevy Chase.

CHAP. X.

GIVES AN ACCOUNT OF THE STRATAGEM WHICH SANCHO PRACTISED,

IN ORDER TO INCHANT THE LADY DULCINEA

—WITH OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES EQUALLY LUDICROUS AND TRUE.

The author of this stupendous history, when he comes to relate what is

contained in this chapter, says, he would have willingly passed it over

in silence, because he was afraid that it would not be believed; for

here the madness of Don Quixote soars to the highest pitch of

extravagance that can be imagined, and even by two bow shots, at least,

exceeds all credit and conception: yet, notwithstanding this jealousy

and apprehension, he has recounted it in the same manner as it happened,

without adding to the history, or detracting one tittle from the truth,

undervaluing the risk he runs of being deemed apocryphal: and surely he

was in the right; for truth may bend, but will never break, and always

surmounts falshood, as oil floats above water. Wherefore he proceeds in

the narrative, saying—

Don Quixote having taken his station in the forest, grove, or wood, near

to the great city of Toboso, ordered Sancho to go back to town, and not

return to his presence before he should have spoken to his mistress, and

begged, in his name, that she would be pleased to grant an interview to

her captive knight, and deign to bestow upon him her blessing, through

which he might expect the most happy issue to all his attempts and

enterprizes.

The squire, having undertaken to execute this command, and to bring back

as favourable an answer as he had brought the first time; ‘Go, my son,’

said the knight, ‘and be not confounded when you find yourself beamed

upon by that resplendent sun of beauty, which is the object of your

enquiry: happy thou, above all the squires that ever lived! Be sure to

retain in thy memory every circumstance of thy reception; observe if she

changes colour, while thou art delivering my message; if she is

discomposed, and under confusion at the mention of my name; whether she

sinks upon her cushion, or happens at the time to be seated under the

rich canopy of her authority; if she be standing, take notice whether or

not she sometimes supports herself on one foot, sometimes on the other;

and if she repeats her answer more than once, changing it from kind to

harsh, from sour to amorous; and if she lifts up her hand to adjust her

hair, although it be not disorderd; finally, son, mark all her gestures

and emotions; and if thou bringest me an exact detail of them, I shall

be able to divine her most abstruse sentiments, touching the concerns of

my passion: for know, Sancho, if thou art still to learn, among lovers,

the least gesticulation in their external behaviour, while the

conversation turns upon their amours, is, as it were, a messenger that

brings a most certain account of what passes within the soul. Go,

friend, and enjoy thy fate, so much more favourable than thy master’s;

and return with much more success than that which I dread and expect in

this cruel solitude, where I now remain.’—‘I go,’ replied Sancho, ‘and

will return in a twinkling; therefore, good your worship, do encourage

that little heart of yours, which, at present, must be no bigger than a

hazle-nut; and consider, as the saying is, A stout heart flings

misfortune; Where you meet with no hooks, you need expect no bacon; and

again, The hare often starts, where the hunter leasts expects her. This

I observe, because, though we did not find the palace and castle of my

lady in the night; now that it is day, I hope to stumble upon it, when I

least expect to see it; and if so be I once catch it, let me alone with

her.’—‘Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘God grant me better fortune in my

desires than you have in the application of the proverbs you utter.’

This was no sooner said, than Sancho switching Dapple, quitted the

knight, who remained on horseback, resting his legs upon his stirrups,

and leaning upon his lance, his imagination being engrossed by the most

melancholy suggestions. Here let us leave him, and proceed with Sancho

Panza; who, parting from his master, in equal perplexity and confusion,

no sooner found himself clear of the wood, than looking back, and

perceiving that Don Quixote was not in sight, he alighted from his ass,

and sitting down at the root of a tree, began to catechise himself in

these words: ‘Brother Sancho, be so good as to let us know, where your

worship is going? Are you in search of some stray beast?—No, truly!—What

then is your errand?—Why, really, I am going in search of a thing of

nought, a princess, God wot! and in her, the sun and the whole heaven of

beauty. And, pray, where may you expect to meet with this that you

mention, Sancho?—Where, but in the great city of Toboso.—Well, and by

whose order are you going upon this enquiry?—By order of the renowned

knight Don Quixote de La Mancha, the righter of wrongs, who gives thirst

to the hungry, and food to those that are dry.—All this is mighty well;

but do you know the house, Sancho?—My master says, it must be some royal

palace, or stately castle.—But have you never once seen this same

princess?—Neither I nor he ever set eyes on her.—And do you think it

will be well bestowed, if the inhabitants of Toboso, getting notice that

you are come with an intention to wheedle away their princesses, and

disturb their dames, should break every bone of your skin, and grind

your ribs to a paste, with pure cudgelling?—Verily they would not be

much to blame, unless they considered, that I do nothing but execute my

master’s command, and being only a messenger, am not in fault.—Never

trust to that, Sancho; for the Manchegans are as cholerick as

honourable, and will not suffer themselves to be tickled by any person

whatever. Ecod! if you are once smoked, you will come but scurvily

off.—Bodikins! since that be the case, why should I plague myself,

seeking a cat with three legs, for another man’s pleasure?—Besides, you

may as well seek for a magpye in Rabena, or a batchelor in Salamanca, as

for Dulcinea in Toboso.—The devil, and none but the devil, has sent me

on this fool’s errand!’

The result of this soliloquy was another, that broke out in these words:

‘There is a remedy for every thing but death, under whose yoke we must

all pass, will we nill we, when this life is at an end. This master of

mine, as I have perceived by a thousand instances, is mad enough to be

shackled among straw; and truly I am not much behind him in folly; nay,

indeed, I am more mad than he, seeing I serve and follow him, if there

be any truth in the proverb that says, Tell me your company, and I will

tell you your manners: and the other, Not he with whom you was bred, but

he by whom you are fed. Now he being, as he certainly is, a madman; aye,

and so mad as for the most part to mistake one thing for another,

affirming white to be black, and black to be white; as plainly appeared

when he took the windmills for giants, the mules of the friars for

dromedaries, the flocks of sheep for opposite armies; and a great many

other things in the same stile: I say, it will be no difficult matter to

make him believe the first country-wench I shall meet with to be his

mistress Dulcinea; and if he boggles at swallowing the cheat, I will

swear lustily to the truth of what I affirm; and if he swears also, I

will swear again; and if he is positive, I will be more positive; so

that come what will, my obstinacy shall always exceed his. Perhaps, by

this stubborn behaviour, I shall get rid of all such troublesome

messages for the future; when he finds what disagreeable answers I

bring; or perhaps, which I rather believe, he will think that one of

those inchanters, who, he says, bear him a grudge, hath transmographied

her shape, in order to vex and disquiet him.’

Sancho having found out this expedient, was quite calm and satisfied in

his mind, and thinking he had brought the business to a good bearing,

remained where he was till the evening, that Don Quixote might think he

had sufficient time to execute his orders, and return. Everything

succeeded so well to his wish, that when he got up to mount Dapple, he

descried three country wenches riding from Toboso, towards the place

where he stood, upon three young he or she asses, for the author does

not declare their sex; though in all likelihood they were of the female

gender, as your village maidens commonly ride upon she-asses; but this

being a circumstance of small importance, we shall not give ourselves

any trouble to ascertain it.

In short, Sancho no sooner perceived the wenches, than he rode back at a

round trot to his master, whom he found sighing bitterly, and pouring

forth a thousand amorous complaints; the knight seeing him arrive,

‘Well, friend Sancho,’ said he, ‘is this day to be marked with a white

or black stone?’—‘Your worship,’ answered the squire, ‘had better mark

it with red ochre, like the titles on a professor’s chair, that it may

be seen the better by those who look at it.’—‘At that rate,’ replied Don

Quixote, ‘thou bringest me good news.’—‘So good,’ answered Sancho, ‘that

your worship has nothing to do but to mount Rozinante, and gallop into

the plain, where you will see my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso and two of her

damsels coming this way to pay you a visit.’—‘Gracious God!’ cried the

knight, ‘what is that you say, friend Sancho? Take care how you deceive

me! endeavouring, by feigned joy, to enliven my real sadness.’—‘What

should I get by deceiving your worship?’ said the squire. ‘Besides, you

can easily be satisfied of the truth of what I say. Make haste, Signior,

come and see our mistress the princess, arrayed and adorned; in short,

as she ought to be; her damsels and she are all one flame of gold; all

covered with pearls, diamonds, rubies, and brocade, more than ten hands

deep; their hair flowing loose about their shoulders, like so many

sun-beams waving with the wind; and moreover they are mounted on three

pied belfreys, that it would do one’s heart good to see

them.’—‘Palfreys, you mean, Sancho,’ said the knight. ‘There is no great

difference,’ answered the squire, ‘between palfreys and belfreys; but,

be that as it will, they are the finest creatures one would desire to

see, especially my Lady Dulcinea, who is enough to stupify the five

senses.’—‘Come, then, my son,’ replied Don Quixote; ‘and as a gratuity

for bringing this piece of news, equally welcome and unexpected, I

bestow upon thee the spoils of the first adventure I shall atchieve; and

if thou art not satisfied with that recompence, I will give unto thee

the foals that shall this year be brought forth by my three mares, which

thou knowest we left with young upon our town common.’—‘I stick to the

foals,’ cried the squire, ‘for as to the spoils of our first adventure,

I question whether or not they will be worth accepting.’

By this time, they were clear of the wood, and in sight of the three

country-maidens; when the knight lifting up his eyes, and surveying the

whole road to Toboso, without seeing any thing but them, began to be

troubled in mind, and asked Sancho if the ladies had got out of town

when he left them. ‘Out of town?’ said Sancho. ‘What! are your worship’s

eyes in the nape of your neck, that you don’t see them coming towards

us, glittering and shining like the sun at noon?’—‘I see nobody,’

replied the knight, ‘but three country-wenches riding upon asses.’—‘God

deliver me from the devil!’ cried the squire, ‘is it possible that three

belfreys, or how-d’ye-call-ums, white as the driven snow, should appear

no better than asses in your worship’s eyes? By the Lord! I’ll give you

leave to pluck off every hair of my beard if that be the case.’—‘Then I

tell thee, Sancho,’ said his master, ‘they are as certainly he or

she-asses as I am Don Quixote, and thou Sancho Panza; at least, so they

seem to me.’—‘Hold your tongue, Signior,’ replied Sancho, ‘and never

talk in that manner, but snuff your eyes, and go and make your reverence

to the mistress of your heart, who is just at hand.’

So saying, he advanced towards the damsels, and alighting from Dapple,

seized one of their beasts by the halter; then fell upon his knees

before the rider, to whom he addressed himself in this manner: ‘Queen,

princess, and duchess of beauty, will your highness and greatness be

pleased to receive into grace and favour your captive knight, who sits

there stupified to stone, utterly confounded and deprived of pulse, at

seeing himself in presence of your magnificence; I am Sancho Panza his

squire, and he is the perplexed and down trodden knight Don Quixote de

La Mancha, alias the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.’

[Illustration: Don Quixote Worships His Lady.]

By this time Don Quixote having placed himself on his knees, by Sancho,

gazed with staring eyes and troubled vision, upon the object which the

squire called queen and princess; and perceiving nothing but a

country-wench’s visage, and that none of the most agreeable, for it was

round and flat-nosed, he remained in the utmost confusion and surprize,

without daring to open his lips. The other two damsels were equally

astonished at seeing a couple of such different figures kneeling before

their companion, whom they had detained; but she, breaking silence,

pronounced in a most ungracious and resentful manner, ‘Get out of the

way, and let us pass, for we are in a hurry.’ To this apostrophe Sancho

replied, ‘O princess and universal Lady of Toboso! do not your

magnificent bowels yearn, to see upon his marrow-bones before your

sublimated presence, the very pillar and prop of knight-errantry?’ One

of the other two hearing this pathetick remonstrance, bauled aloud,

‘Would I had the currying that ass’s hide of thine: mind, forsooth, how

your small gentry come and pass their gibes upon us country-folks; as if

we could not give them as good as they bring. Go about your business,

friend, and leave us to mind our’n, and so God b’w’ye.’

Here the knight interposing, said, ‘Rise, Sancho, I can plainly perceive

that fortune, not yet tired of persecuting me, hath barred every avenue

by which any comfort could arrive at the miserable soul that this

carcase contains: and thou! the essence of every thing that is desirable

in nature, thou sum of human perfection, and sole remedy of this

afflicted heart, by which thou art adored! although that malicious

inchanter, my inveterate enemy, hath spread clouds and cataracts before

mine eyes, to them and them only changing and transforming thy

unequalled beauty into the appearance of a poor country-wench; if he

hath not also altered my figure into that of some frightful spectre

horrid to thy view, deign to look upon me with complacency and love;

because thou mayest perceive by this submissive posture I have assumed,

even before thy person thus disguised, the humility with which my soul

adores thy charms.’—‘You may go kiss my grannam,’ cried the damsel; ‘I’m

a fine Madam, truly, to hear such gibberish; we should be more obliged

to you if you would get out of our way, and let us go about our own

affairs.’

Sancho accordingly quitted his hold, leaving her free to go whither she

would, and highly pleased with the issue of his stratagem. The

supposititious Dulcinea no sooner found herself at liberty, than

pricking her palfrey with a goad which was in the end of a stick she had

in her hand, the creature galloped, across the field with great speed,

and feeling the application more severe than usual, began to plunge and

kick in such a manner, that my lady fell to the ground. Don Quixote

perceiving this accident, ran with great eagerness to raise her up, and

Sancho made haste to adjust and gird on the pannel, which had got under

the ass’s belly. This affair being set to rights, the knight went to

lift his inchanted mistress in his arms, and placed her on her seat

again; but she, starting up from the ground, saved him that trouble;

for, retreating a few paces backwards, she made a small run, and

clapping both hands upon the crupper, leaped upon the pannel as nimble

as a falcon, seating herself astride like a man.

‘By St. Roque!’ cried Sancho, ‘my lady mistress is as light as a hawk,

and can teach the most dextrous horseman to ride; at one jump she has

sprung into the saddle, and, without spurs, made her palfrey fly like

any zebra: and truly, her damsels are not a whit behind; for they go

scouring along as swift as the wind.’ This was actually true; for

Dulcinea was no sooner remounted than the other two trotted after her,

and at last disappeared, after having gone more than half a league, at

full speed, without once looking behind them.

Don Quixote followed them with his eyes, until they vanished; then

turning to his squire, ‘Sancho,’ said he, ‘thou seest how I am

persecuted by inchanters, and mayest perceive how far the malice and

grudge they bear me extends; seeing they have deprived me of the

pleasure I should have enjoyed at the sight of my mistress in her own

beauteous form. Surely, I was born to be an example of misery; the very

mark and butt for all the arrows of misfortune; nay, thou art also to

observe, Sancho, that those traitors were not contented with a simple

metamorphosis of my Dulcinea, but have transformed and changed her into

the base and homely figure of that country-wench; robbing her, at the

same time, of that which is so peculiar to ladies of fashion, I mean,

that sweet scent which is the result of their living among flowers and

perfume; for know, my friend, when I went to lift Dulcinea upon her

palfrey, as thou sayest it was, though to me it seemed neither more nor

less than a she-ass, I was almost suffocated and poisoned with a whiff

of undigested garlick!’

‘O ye miscreants!’ cried Sancho, ‘O ye malicious and mischievous

inchanters! would to God, I could see you all strung by the gills, like

so many haddocks! much you know, much you can, and much more will you

still be doing. Was it not enough, ye knaves, to change the pearls of my

lady’s eyes into a couple of cork-tree galls, and her hair of shining

gold into the bristles of a red cow’s tail; and, in short, so

transmography every feature of her countenance; without your meddling

with the sweetness of her breath, by which they might have discovered

what was concealed beneath that bark of homeliness: though, to tell the

truth, I saw not her homeliness but beauty, which was exceedingly

increased by a mole upon her upper lip, something like a whisker,

consisting of seven or eight red hairs, like threads of gold, as long as

my hand.’—‘According to the correspondence which the moles of the face

have with those of the body,’ said Don Quixote, ‘Dulcinea must have just

such another on the brawny part of her thigh, of the same side; but

hairs of such a length are, methinks, rather too long for moles.’—‘I do

assure your worship,’ answered Sancho, ‘they seemed as if they had come

into the world with her.’—‘I very well believe what you say, my friend,’

replied the knight; ‘for nature hath bestowed nothing on Dulcinea but

what is perfectly finished; wherefore, if thou hadst seen an hundred

such moles, in her would they be so many moons and resplendent stars:

but tell me, Sancho, that which you adjusted, and which to me seemed a

pannel, was it a plain pad or a side-saddle?’—‘It was a great

side-saddle,’ answered the squire, ‘so rich that half the kingdom would

not buy it.’—‘And why could not I see all this!’ said the knight. ‘I say

again, Sancho, and will repeat it a thousand times, that I am the most

unfortunate of men.’

The rogue Sancho, finding his master so dextrously gulled, and hearing

him talk in this mad strain, could scarce refrain from laughing in his

face: in fine, a good deal more of this sort of conversation having

passed between them, they remounted their beasts, and took the road to

Saragosa, where they expected to arrive time enough to be present at the

solemn festival yearly celebrated in that famous city; but before they

accomplished their journey, they met with adventures, which, for their

variety, novelty, and greatness, deserve to be read and recorded, as in

the sequel.

CHAP. XI.

OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFEL THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE,

WITH THE CART OR WAGGON CONTAINING THE PARLIAMENT OF DEATH.

Don Quixote jogged along exceedingly pensive, his thoughts being

engrossed by the scurvy trick which the inchanters had played him, in

transforming his mistress Dulcinea into the disagreeable figure of a

country-wench; and he could not conceive what remedy he should find for

restoring her to her former shape. So much was he absorbed in this

reflection, that he insensibly dropped the reins upon the neck of

Rozinante, who being sensible of the liberty he enjoyed, at every two

steps turned aside to take a pluck at the inviting pasture with which

those fields abounded. At length Sancho Panza rouzed him from this fit

of musing, saying, ‘Signior, melancholy was not made for beasts, but for

men; and yet if men encourage melancholy too much, they become no better

than beasts; good your worship, be contented, mind what you’re about,

take hold of Rozinante’s reins, rouze up, awake, and shew that gaiety

which all knights-errant ought to have. What the devil is the meaning of

all this faint-heartedness? Sure you don’t know whether we are here or

in France! let Satan rather run away with all the Dulcineas upon earth;

for the health of one single knight is of more value than all the

inchanted persons or transformations that ever were known.’—‘Peace,

Sancho,’ cried Don Quixote, with a voice that was none of the faintest,

‘Peace, I say; and utter not such blasphemies against that inchanted

lady, of whose disgrace and misfortune I am the sole cause: for, from

the envy of my wicked foes, her mischance hath sprung.’—‘So I say,’

answered Sancho; ‘for, He that hath seen her before, let him look at her

now, and her fortune deplore.’—‘Well mayest thou make that observation,

Sancho,’ said the knight, ‘seeing thou sawest her in the full perfection

of her beauty; as the inchantment did not extend so far as to disturb

thy vision, or conceal her charms from thy view. No! against me alone,

and my longing eyes, was the force of its poison directed! Yet,

nevertheless, Sancho, I cannot help observing, that you made but an

indifferent picture of her beauty; for if I rightly remember, you

likened her eyes to pearls; now, eyes resembling pearls, are more

peculiar to dead whitings than to living beauties; and, in my

conjecture, Dulcinea’s must be rather like green emeralds, arched over

with two celestial rainbows: those pearls, therefore, must be compared

to her teeth, which, without doubt, you have mistaken for her

eyes.’—‘Nothing more likely,’ answered the squire, ‘for I was as much

confounded by her beauty as your worship by her ugliness; but let us

recommend this whole business to God, who fore-ordains every thing that

is to happen in this vale of tears; in this evil world of ours, where

scarce any thing is to be had, without a mixture of falshood, knavery,

and sin. One thing, dear Sir, of all others, gives me the greatest pain;

and that is, to think what method is to be fallen upon, when your

worship, after having vanquished some giant or knight, shall command him

to go and present himself before the beauty of the Lady Dulcinea, where

will this poor giant, or this poor miserable object of a vanquished

knight, find out the person to whom he is sent? Methinks I see them

strolling up and down, and gaping about thro’ the streets of Toboso, in

quest of my Lady Dulcinea; and if they should stumble upon her in their

way, they would no more know her than they would know my

father.’—‘Sancho,’ resumed Don Quixote, ‘perhaps the inchantment will

not extend so far as to disguise Dulcinea to the eyes of those

vanquished giants and knights who shall present themselves before her;

and in one or two of the first whom I shall conquer and send thither, we

will make the experiment, commanding them to return and give me an

account of what shall happen to them, with regard to that

affair.’—‘Truly, Signior,’ said Sancho, ‘I heartily approve of your

worship’s scheme; because, by this artifice, we will soon learn what we

want to know; and if so be that she is only concealed from your worship,

you are the most unfortunate person of the two; for as my Lady Dulcinea

enjoys good health and satisfaction, we will comfort ourselves, and make

the best of a bad bargain, going about in quest of adventures, and

leaving the rest to time, who is the best physician for these and other

greater calamities.’

Don Quixote would have replied, but was prevented by the appearance of a

sort of waggon that crossed the road, full of the strangest figures that

can be imagined, and conducted by a frightful dæmon that drove the

mules. The cart being altogether open, without tilt or cover, the first

figure that struck the eyes of Don Quixote, was Death itself in human

shape; next to which appeared an angel with broad painted wings; on one

side, stood an emperor with a crown (seemingly) of gold, upon his head;

and hard by Death, was the god Cupid, with his bow, quiver, and arrows,

but without the bandage on his eyes; there was likewise a knight armed

cap-a-pee, except that he wore neither helmet nor head-piece, but a hat

adorned with a plume of variegated feathers. Besides these, there were

other personages of different countenance and dress; so that the whole

groupe appearing of a sudden, discomposed our hero a little, and filled

the heart of Sancho with fear; but Don Quixote soon recollected himself,

and rejoiced, because he looked upon it as some new and perilous

adventure. On this supposition, and with an effort of courage capable of

encountering the greatest danger, he placed himself before the wain, and

with a loud and threatening voice, pronounced, ‘Driver, coachman, devil,

or whatsoever thou art, tell me straight, whither thou art going, and

who those people are whom thou drivest in that carriage, which looks

more like Charon’s bark than any modern vehicle.’ The devil stopping his

waggon very courteously, replied, ‘Signior, we are players belonging to

the company of Angulo el Malo, and have, this morning, which is the

octave of Corpus Christi, been representing, in a village on the other

side of yon hill, the piece called the Parliament of Death, which we are

going to act over again, this very evening, in that other village now in

sight; we therefore travel in our habits, to save ourselves the trouble

of undressing and dressing anew; this young man plays the part of Death,

that other represents an angel; the woman, who is the author’s wife,

acts the queen; he with the plume of feathers is our hero; the emperor

you may distinguish by his gilded crown; and I am the devil, which is

one of the best characters in the performance, for I myself am the chief

actor of this company. If your worship is desirous of knowing any thing

else concerning our affairs, question me freely, and I will answer with

the utmost punctuality, for being a devil I understand every thing.’

‘By the faith of a knight-errant!’ said Don Quixote, ‘when I first

descried the waggon, I thought myself on the eve of some great

adventure; and now I affirm, that a man ought to examine things with

more senses than one, before he can be assured of the truth; proceed, my

honest friends, a God’s name, in order to exhibit your entertainment,

and if I can serve you in any respect, you may command my endeavours,

which shall be heartily and freely exerted for your advantage; for, from

my childhood, I have been a great lover of masques and theatrical

representations.’

While this conversation passed between them, they chanced to be

overtaken by one of the company, dressed in motley, hung round with a

number of morrice-bells, with a pole in his hand, to the end of which

were tied three blown ox-bladders. This merry-andrew advancing to Don

Quixote, began to fence with his pole, beating the ground with his

bladders, and skipping about, so that his bells rung continually: till

at length Rozinante, being disturbed at the uncommon apparition, took

the bridle between his teeth; and the knight being unable to restrain

him, began to gallop across the plain with more nimbleness than could

have been expected from the bones of his anatomy. Sancho seeing his

master in danger of falling, leaped from Dapple, and ran with all

dispatch to give him all possible assistance; but before he came up, the

knight was overthrown close by Rozinante, who had come to the ground

with his lord; and this was the usual end and consequence of all his

frolicksome adventures. Scarce had Sancho quitted his beast, to run to

the assistance of his master, when the bladder shaking devil jumped upon

Dapple, and began to belabour him with his rattle; so that being

frightened at the noise, rather than with the smart of the application,

he took to his heels, and flew towards the village where they intended

to perform. Sancho seeing, at the same time, the career of Dapple, and

his master’s fall, scarce knew which of these misfortunes he ought first

to remedy; but at length, as became a loyal servant and trusty squire,

his love for his master prevailed over his tenderness for the beast;

though every time he saw the bladders railed aloft, and discharged upon

Dapple’s buttocks, he felt the pangs and tortures of death, and would

rather have received every thwack upon the apple of his own eye than

have seen it fall upon the least hair of his ass’s tail.

In this state of perplexity and tribulation, he arrived at the place

where Don Quixote lay in a very indifferent plight, and helping him to

mount Rozinante, ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘the devil has run away with

Dapple.’—‘Which devil?’ cried the knight. ‘He with the bladders,’

answered the squire. ‘I will retrieve him,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘even

if he should conceal him in the darkest and deepest dungeon in hell;

follow me, Sancho, the waggon moves slowly, and the mules shall atone

for the loss of Dapple.’

‘There is no occasion for putting ourselves to that trouble,’ said the

squire: ‘good your worship, be pacified! for I see the devil has quitted

my ass, and returned to the rest of his crew.’

This observation was actually true; Dapple and his new rider had come to

the ground, in imitation of the knight and Rozinante: upon which the

devil trudged on foot to the village, and the ass returned to his right

owner. ‘For all that,’ said Don Quixote, ‘it will not be amiss to punish

the troop for that devil’s incivility, though it should be in the person

of the emperor himself.’—‘I hope your worship’s imagination will harbour

no such thoughts,’ answered Sancho; ‘take my advice, and never meddle

with players, who are a set of people in such high favour with the

publick, that I have known an actor taken up for two murders, and yet

’scape scot-free: your worship must know, that being the ministers of

mirth and pleasure, they are favoured, protected, assisted, and esteemed

by every body; especially if they belong to the king’s company, or to

some grandee; in which case all, or most of them, look like princes in

their manners and dress.’—‘Nevertheless,’ replied the knight, ‘that

farcical devil shall not escape unpunished, or applaud himself for what

he has done, though all mankind should appear in his favour.’

So saying, he rode towards the waggon, which was by this time pretty

near the village, and called aloud, ‘Stay, my merry men; halt a little,

and I will teach you how to treat the asses and cattle belonging to the

squires of knights-errant.’ Don Quixote hallooed so loud as to be heard

and understood by the people in the waggon, who judging, by his words,

the intention of the speaker, Death instantly jumped out of the cart,

and was followed by the Emperor, the Devil-driver, and the Angel, with

the Queen and Cupid in their train; in short, the whole company armed

themselves with stones, and, drawing up in order of battle, stood

without flinching, to receive the assailant at point of pebble.

The knight perceiving them arranged in such a formidable squadron, their

arms lifted up in a posture that threatened a powerful discharge of

stones, checked Rozinante, and began to consider in what manner he

should attack them, with least hazard to his person. During this pause,

Sancho came up, and seeing him bent upon a assaulting such a

well-compacted brigade, ‘It will be the height of madness,’ said he, ‘to

attempt any such adventure; consider, dear Sir, that there is no kicking

against the pricks; and that there is no armour upon earth sufficient to

defend your body from such a shower, unless your worship could creep

into a bell of brass; you ought also to remember, that it favours more

of rashness than of true valour, for one man to attack a whole army, in

which Death and emperors fight in person, being aided and assisted both

by good and evil angels; and if that consideration will not prevail upon

you to be quiet, you ought to be diverted from your purpose, by knowing

certainly, that among all those enemies in the appearances of kings,

princes, and emperors, there is not so much as one single

knight-errant.’—‘Now, indeed,’ cried Don Quixote, ‘thou hast hit upon

the sole reason that can and ought to dissuade me from my determined

design; I neither can nor ought to draw my sword (as I have told thee,

on many other occasions) against any person who hath not received the

honour of knighthood; to thee, Sancho, it belongs, if so thou art

inclined, to take vengeance for the injury done to Dapple, while I from

hence will assist and encourage thee with salutary advice.’—‘Signior,’

answered the squire, ‘there is no occasion to take vengeance of any

person whatever; for it is not the part of a good Christian to revenge

the wrongs he hath suffered: besides, I will prevail upon my ass to

leave the affair to my inclination, which is to live peaceably all the

days that Heaven shall grant me in this life.’—‘Since that is thy

determination,’ replied the knight, ‘honest Sancho, discreet Sancho,

christian and sincere Sancho, let us leave these phantoms, and go in

quest of adventures more dignified and substantial; for this country

seems to promise a great many, and those very extraordinary too.’

He accordingly turned his horse, Sancho went to catch Dapple, while

Death, with his whole flying squadron, returned to their waggon, and

proceeded on their journey. Thus was the dismal adventure of the waggon

of Death happily terminated by the wholesome advice which Sancho Panza

gave to his master; who next day met with another equally surprizing, in

the person of an enamoured knight-errant.

CHAP. XII.

OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE THAT HAPPENED TO THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE,

IN HIS ENCOUNTER WITH THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRROURS.

The night that followed the rencounter with Death, Don Quixote and his

squire passed among some tall and shady trees; the knight, by Sancho’s

persuasion, having eaten of what was found in the store that Dapple

carried. During this meal, Sancho said to his master, ‘What a fool

should I have been, Signior, if I had chosen, by way of gratification,

the spoils of your worship’s first adventure, instead of the three

foals? Verily, verily, a bird in hand is worth two in the bush.’—‘But,

for all that,’ answered Don Quixote, ‘hadst thou suffered me to attack

them, as I intended, thou wouldst have enjoyed among the spoils the

emperor’s golden crown, with Cupid’s painted wings, which I would have

stripped off against the grain, and put into thy possession.’—‘The

sceptres and crowns of your stage emperors are never made of pure gold,

but of tin or tinsel,’ replied the squire. ‘True,’ said the knight, ‘the

ornaments of comedy ought not to be rich and real, but feigned and

artificial, like the drama itself, which I would have thee respect,

Sancho, and receive into favour, together with those who represent and

compose it; for they are all instruments of great benefit to the

commonwealth, holding, as it were, a looking-glass always before us, in

which we see naturally delineated all the actions of life; and no other

companion whatever represents to us more lively what we are, and what we

ought to be, than comedy and her attendants; for example, hast thou

never seen a play acted, in which kings, emperors, popes, knights,

ladies, and many other characters, were introduced? One acts the

ruffian, another the sharper, a third the merchant, a fourth the

soldier, a fifth the designing fool, and a sixth the simple lover; but

the play being ended, and the dresses laid aside, all the actors remain

upon an equal footing.’—‘Yes, I have seen all this,’ answered Sancho.

‘Then the very same thing,’ said the knight, ‘happens in the comedy and

commerce of this world, where one meets with some people playing the

parts of emperors, others in the characters of popes; and, finally, all

the different personages that can be introduced in a comedy; but when

the play is done, that is, when life is at an end, Death strips them of

the robes that distinguished their stations, and they become all equal

in the grave.’—‘A brave comparison!’ cried Sancho, ‘though not so new

but I have heard it made on divers and sundry occasions as well as that

of the game of chess, during which every piece maintains a particular

station and character; and when the game is over, they are all mixed,

jumbled, and shaken together in a bag, like mortals in the

grave.’—‘Sancho,’ resumed the knight, ‘every day you become less simple

and more discreet.’—‘Yes,’ said the squire, ‘some small portion of your

worship’s discretion must needs stick to me; as lands which are, in

their own nature, sapless and barren, being well dunged and cultivated,

come to yield excellent fruit. My meaning is, that your worship’s

conversation hath fallen like dung upon the barren desart of my

understanding, which being cultivated by the time of my service and

communication, will, I hope, produce blessed fruit, such as shall not

disgrace, nor stray from the path of that good breeding which your

worship hath bestowed on my narrow capacity.’

Don Quixote could not help smiling at the affected terms in which Sancho

delivered himself, though what he said of his own improvement was

actually true; for at certain times he talked to admiration; and yet

when he attempted to argue, or speak in a polite stile, his efforts

always, or for the most part, ended in precipitating himself from the

pinnacle of simplicity to the depth of ignorance; his chief talent

laying in his memory, which never failed to furnish him with proverbs

that he lugged into his discourse, whether they were pat to the purpose

or not, as may be seen and observed through the whole course of this

history.

In this, and other such conversation, the greatest part of the night

elapsed, when Sancho began to be inclined to let fall the portcullices

of his eyes, as he termed it, when he wanted to go to sleep: he

therefore unpannelled Dapple, to let him graze among the rich pasture

with which the place abounded; but Rozinante’s saddle he would not

remove, in consequence of his master’s express order, which was never to

unsaddle his steed while they were in the field, or did not sleep under

cover; it being an ancient established custom, observed by all knights

errant, in these cases, to take the bridle out of the horse’s mouth, and

hang it upon the pummel of the saddle, but to leave the saddle itself

untouched. This expedient was accordingly performed by Sancho, who

turned Rozinante loose with Dapple; and between these two animals such a

strict reciprocal friendship subsisted, that, according to tradition

from father to son, the author of this true history wrote particular

chapters on this very subject; but, in order to preserve the decency and

decorum which belongs to such an heroick composition, omitted them;

though sometimes he seems to neglect this precaution, and writes, that

these two friends used to approach and scrub each other most lovingly;

and after they had rested and refreshed themselves, Rozinante would

stretch his head more than half a yard over Dapple’s neck, while the two

were wont to stand in this posture, with their eyes fixed upon the

ground, three whole days together; at least, till they were parted, or

compelled by hunger to go in quest of sustenance; nay, it is confidently

reported, that the author had compared their mutual attachment to the

friendship of Nisus or Euryalus, or that which subsisted between Pylades

and Orestes. If this be the case, we may with admiration conceive how

firm the fellowship of those two pacifick animals must have been; to the

utter confusion of mankind, who so little regard the laws of friendship

and society, according to the common saying, ‘there is no trust in

profession; the staff will turn into a spear[150],’ and, as the song

goes, ‘the modes of the court so common are grown, that a true friend

can hardly be met.’ Let no man imagine the author went out of his road,

in comparing the friendship of brutes with that of the human species;

for men have received valuable hints, and learned many things of

importance from beasts, such as the clyster from storks, gratitude and

the use of vomits from dogs, vigilance from the crane, foresight and

frugality from the ant, honesty from the elephant, and loyalty from the

horse.

In fine, Sancho went to sleep at the root of a cork-tree, and Don

Quixote began to slumber under an oak; but being in a very little time

awaked by a noise behind him, he started up, and employing both eyes and

ears to distinguish whence it proceeded, he perceived two men on

horseback, one of whom, letting himself drop, as it were, from the

saddle, said to the other, ‘Alight, my friend, and unbit the horses; for

this place seems to abound with pasture for them, and with silence and

solitude, which are the necessary food of my amorous thoughts.’ He had

no sooner pronounced these words, than he threw himself upon the ground,

and his armour rattled as he fell, furnishing Don Quixote with a

manifest proof of his being a knight-errant: he therefore approached

Sancho, who was asleep, and shaking him by the arm, with no small

difficulty, brought him to himself; saying, in a low voice, ‘Brother

Sancho, here is an adventure.’—‘God grant it may be a good one,’

answered the squire; ‘and pray, Signior, whereabouts may her ladyship

be?’—‘Where?’ said Don Quixote, ‘turn thine eyes this way, and behold

lying upon the grass a knight-errant, who, by what I have already

observed, cannot be over and above easy in his mind? for I saw him throw

himself upon the ground, with evident marks of vexation, and heard his

armour clatter in his fall.’—‘But how has your worship found that this

is an adventure?’ replied the squire. ‘I will not positively say that it

is altogether an adventure,’ answered the knight, ‘but rather the

beginning of one: for thus they usually commence: but hark! he seems to

tune a lute or rebeck, and by his hawking and hemming, I suppose he is

going to sing.’—‘In good faith, it is even so,’ said Sancho, ‘and he

must be some knight-errant in love.’—‘All knights-errant are so,’

resumed Don Quixote; ‘but let us listen, and by the thread of his song,

discover the clue of his thoughts; for, From the abundance of the heart

the tongue speaketh.’

Sancho would have made some reply, but was prevented by the voice of the

Knight of the Wood, which was neither very sweet nor disagreeable; and,

listening with surprize, they heard him sing the following song:

I.

‘Subjected to thy sov’reign will,

Ah, cruel maid! my fate decree:

The sentence, tho’ inhuman, still

Shall never be declin’d by me.

II.

‘Say, that my death thy joy would move,

My breath with freedom I’ll resign—

Or wouldst thou listen to my love,

The God himself shall whisper mine.

III.

‘This heart, thy vassal whilst I live,

Like ductile wax, and diamond hard,

Thy stamp will yieldingly receive,

And keep th’ impression unimpair’d.’

The Knight of the Wood finished this complaint with an ‘Ah!’ that seemed

to be heaved from the bottom of his soul, and soon after exclaimed, in a

sorrowful tone, ‘O thou most beautiful and ungrateful woman upon earth!

is it possible, that the most serene Casildea de Vandalia has doomed

this her captive knight to consume and exhaust himself in continual

peregrinations, in harsh and rugged toils? Is it not enough that I have

established the fame of thy beauty above all comparison, by the extorted

confession of all the knights of Navarre, Leon, Tartesia, Castile, and

finally of La Mancha?’

‘Not so, neither,’ cried Don Quixote, interposing; ‘for I, who am of La

Mancha, never made any such acknowledgment; neither could I, or ought I,

to make a confession so prejudicial to the beauty of my own mistress:

therefore, Sancho, this knight must certainly be disordered in his

judgment; but let us listen, perhaps he will explain himself.’—‘Very

like,’ answered the squire, ‘he seems to be in the humour of complaining

for a whole month.’

But this was not the case; for the Knight of the Wood, hearing people

talk so near him, proceeded no farther in his lamentation, but starting

up, called with a courteous and sonorous voice, ‘Who is there? are you

of the number of the happy or afflicted?’—‘Of the afflicted,’ replied

Don Quixote.—‘Come hither, then,’ resumed the stranger, ‘and depend upon

it you will find the very essence of sorrow and affliction.’

Don Quixote hearing him speak in such civil and pathetick terms, went

towards him, with Sancho at his back, when the complaining knight took

him by the hand, saying, ‘Sit down, Sir knight, for that you are one of

those who profess knight-errantry, I am convinced by finding you in this

place, accompanied by solitude and the dews of night, which are the

peculiar companions of those who belong to our order.’

To this address Don Quixote replied, ‘I am a knight of that order you

mention; and though melancholy, mischance, and misfortune, have taken up

their habitation in my soul, they have not been able to banish from it

that compassion which I feel for the unhappy. From the soliloquy you

just now uttered, I gather that your misfortunes are of the amorous

kind; I mean, that they proceed from the passion you entertain for that

beautiful ingrate whom you named in your complaint.’ While this

conversation passed, they sat down together upon the grass, with all the

marks of amity and good fellowship, as if at break of day they had not

been doomed to break each other’s head. ‘Perchance, Sir Knight,’ said

the stranger, ‘you are in love?’—‘By mischance I am so,’ answered Don

Quixote, ‘though the vexation that proceeds from well placed affection

ought rather to be deemed a benefit than misfortune.’—‘True,’ said the

Knight of the Wood, ‘if our judgment and reason are not disturbed by

disdain, which, if exerted severely, seems a-kin to revenge.’—‘I never

was disdained by my mistress,’ replied Don Quixote. ‘No, indeed,’ (cried

Sancho, who stood hard by) ‘my lady is as meek as a lamb, and as soft as

butter.’

The stranger knight asked if that was his squire; and the other

answering in the affirmative, ‘I never saw a squire,’ said he, ‘that,

like him, durst intrude upon his master’s conversation; at least, I can

say so much for mine, who, though as tall as his father, was never known

to open his lips, when I was engaged in discourse.’—‘In good faith!’

cried Sancho, ‘I have spoke, and will speak again, before as good a man

as—but let that rest—the more you stir it, the more it will——.’

Here the other squire took hold on Sancho by the arm, saying, ‘Let you

and I go somewhere, and talk our bellies-full, in our own way, and leave

our masters at liberty to recount their amours; for sure I am, the night

will be spent before they are done.’—‘With all my heart,’ replied

Sancho, ‘and I will tell your worship who I am, that you may see whether

or not I am qualified to be ranked among your talking squires.’ They

accordingly retired together, and between them passed a conversation

every bit as merry as that of their masters was grave.

Footnote 150:

As the original quotation is a fragment that will not complete the

sense, I have taken the liberty to make the allusion altogether

English.

CHAP. XIII.

IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE WOOD—WITH A

SAGE, UNCOMMON, AND AGREEABLE DIALOGUE, THAT PASSED BETWEEN THE TWO

SQUIRES.

The knights and their squires being thus parted, the first entertained

each other with the story of their loves, while the last indulged

themselves with a reciprocal account of their own lives: but the history

first of all records the conversation of the domesticks, and then

proceeds to relate what passed between the masters. The squires,

therefore, having chosen a situation at a convenient distance from the

knights, he of the wood accosted Sancho in these words: ‘Signior, this

is a troublesome life that we squires to knights-errant lead; in good

soothe, we earn our bread with the sweat of our brows, which is one of

the curses that God denounced against our first parents.’—‘It may also

be said,’ replied Sancho, ‘that we earn it with the frost of our bodies;

for no creatures on earth suffer more heat and cold than the miserable

squires of knight-errantry; and even that would be more tolerable, if we

had any thing good to eat; for, Hearty fare lightens care, as the saying

is; but we often pass a whole day, nay sometimes two, without ever

breaking our fast, except upon the winds of heaven.’—‘All this,’ said

the other, ‘may be endured, with the hope of reward; for if the

knight-errant is not extremely unfortunate, his squire must, in a very

little time, see himself recompensed with the handsome government of

some island, or with the possession of a profitable earldom.’—‘For my

own part,’ answered Sancho, ‘I have already told my master, that I shall

be satisfied with the government of an island, which he has been so

noble and generous as to promise me, divers and sundry times.’—‘And I,’

said the stranger, ‘am contented with a canonship, which my master has

already bespoke for me, on account of my faithful services.’—‘It seems,

then, your master must be an ecclesiastical knight,’ replied Sancho,

‘seeing he can provide for his squire in the church: but as for mine, he

is a mere layman; though I remember, that certain very wise persons (and

yet, I believe, not very honest at bottom) advised him to procure for

himself an archbishoprick; but he would be nothing but an emperor: and I

was then in a grievous quandary, for fear he should take it in his head

to be of the church; in which case, I should not have been qualified to

hold a benefice; for your worship must know, though I look like a man, I

am no better than a beast at church-matters.’—‘Verily,’ said he of the

wood, ‘your worship mistakes the matter quite; your governments of

islands are not at all desirable; some are vexatious, some are beggarly,

others attended with much melancholy and fatigue; in short, the most

creditable and orderly brings along with it a load of care and

inconvenience, that lies heavy on the shoulders of the unhappy person

whose lot it is to bear it: it would be abundantly better for us to

undergo this accursed slavery, to return to our own homes, and there

amuse ourselves with more agreeable pastime; such, for example, as

hunting or fishing; for what squire is there on earth, so poor as to

want a horse, a couple of hounds, and a fishing-rod, wherewith to

entertain himself at his own habitation?’

‘For my own part,’ answered Sancho, ‘I want none of these

conveniencies: true it is I have not a horse, but then I am in

possession of an ass, which is worth my master’s steed twice over. God

let me never see a joyful Easter, if I would truck with him for four

bushels of barley to boot; you may laugh, if you will, at the price I

set upon Dapple, (for that is the colour of my beast;) then, I should

never be in want of hounds; for there are plenty, and to spare, in our

town, and you know nothing is so relishing as to hunt at another’s

expence.’—‘Really and truly, Signior Squire,’ resumed the stranger, ‘I

am fully resolved and determined to quit these knights-errant, with

all their crazy pranks, and betake myself to my own town, where I will

bring up my children; for, thank God, I have three, like as many

oriental pearls.’—‘And I have a couple,’ said Sancho, ‘that may be

presented to the pope in person; especially my daughter, whom I breed

up to be a countess, by the blessing of God, though it be contrary to

her mother’s inclination.’—‘And of what age may this young lady be,

whom you are breeding for a countess?’ said the squire of the wood.

‘Fifteen years, or thereabouts,’ answered Sancho; ‘but she is as tall

as a spear, fresh as an April morn, and strong as a porter.’—‘These

are qualifications not only for a countess, but even for the nymph of

the greenwood-tree,’ said the other: ‘ah, the whoreson baggage! what a

buxom jade she must be.’ Sancho, nettled at this epithet, replied,

‘She is no whore, neither was her mother before her; nor shall either

of them be so, an please God, whilst I live: so I think you might talk

more civilly; for, considering your worship has been bred among

knights-errant, who are, as it were, courtesy itself, methinks your

words might be better chosen.’—‘How little are you acquainted with the

nature of commendation, Signior Squire?’ answered he of the wood.

‘Don’t you know, that when any cavalier, at a bull-feast, wounds the

bull dextrously, or when any person behaves remarkably well, the

people exclaim, “How cleverly the son of a whore has done it?” and

that which looks like reproach, is on such occasions a notable

commendation. Take my word, Signior, you ought to renounce all

children, if their behaviour does not entitle the parents to such

praise.’—‘I do renounce them,’ answered Sancho; ‘at that rate, and for

that reason, your worship may call my wife and daughter as many whores

as you please; for both in word and deed, they richly deserve the

name; and that I may see them again, I beseech God to deliver me from

this mortal sin, which will be the case, if he delivers me from this

dangerous employment of squire, which I have incurred a second time,

being seduced and enticed by a purse of one hundred ducats, which I

found one day in the midst of the Brown Mountain; and the devil

continually sets before mine eyes, here and there and every where, a

bag full of doubloons, which, at every step, methinks I have fast in

my clutches, hugging it in my arms, and carrying it home to my own

house, where I purchase mortgages and estates, and live like any

prince; and while I please myself with these notions, I bear, without

murmuring, all the toils and fatigues I undergo, in the service of the

wiseacre my master, who, I know, is more of a madman than a knight.’

‘So that, according to the proverb,’ replied the stranger, ‘Covetousness

bursts the bag. But if you talk of wiseacres, there is not a greater in

the universe than my master, who is one of those concerning whom people

say, He is burdened like an ass, with another man’s load; for truly he

is turned mad, that another knight may turn wise, and is going about in

quest of that which, when he hath found it, may hit him in the

teeth.’—‘And pray, is he in love?’ said Sancho. ‘Yes,’ replied the

other, ‘he is enamoured of one Casildea de Vandalia, the most fickle

dame that ever was seen; but her cruelty is not the foot that he halts

upon at present: he has got other crotchets of greater importance

grumbling in his gizzard, which ere long will more plainly

appear.’—‘There is no road so smooth,’ resumed Sancho, ‘but you’ll meet

with rubs and hollows in it. Other people use beans, but I boil whole

kettles full. Madness is always more accompanied and followed after,

than discretion: but if it be true, as it is commonly alledged, that

company in affliction lessens the weight of it, I shall comfort myself

by reflecting that your worship serves a master who is as distracted as

mine.’—‘Distracted, I grant you,’ said he of the wood, ‘but valiant, and

still mere mischievous than valiant or distracted.’—‘That is not the

case with my master,’ replied Sancho, ‘he has nothing at all mischievous

about him; on the contrary, is as dull as a beetle, and knows not what

it is to harm man, woman, or child, or to harbour the least malice, but

seeks to do good unto all mankind. A child may persuade him that it is

night at noon; and, indeed, for that very simplicity, I love him as my

own bowels, and cannot find in my heart to leave him, notwithstanding

all the mad pranks he is guilty of.’—‘But for all that, Signior and

brother of mine,’ said the stranger, ‘if the blind lead the blind, they

are both in danger of falling into the ditch. We had much better retire

fair and softly, and return to our own habitations; for they who go in

search of adventures do not always find them to their liking.’

About this time Sancho began to hawk a kind of dry spitting; which being

observed by the charitable squire of the wood, ‘Methinks,’ said he, ‘we

have talked till our tongues cleave to the roofs of our mouths; but I

have got something that will agreeably moisten them, at my saddle-bow.’

He accordingly got up, and going aside to his horse, soon returned with

a large leathern bottle of wine, and a pye half a yard long: and this is

really no exaggeration; for it contained a whole fed rabbit, so large,

that when Sancho felt it, he took it for a whole goat or a large kid at

least, crying, as soon as he perceived it, ‘How! does your worship

usually carry such provision as this about with you?’—‘What d’ye think?’

answered the other; ‘d’ye take me for a hackney squire[151]? I carry a

better cupboard on my horse’s crupper than e’er a general on his march.’

Sancho fell to, without staying for intreaty, and swallowed, in the

dark, huge mouthfuls, with as much ease as if it had been flummery,

saying between whiles, ‘Yes, indeed, your worship is a true and loyal

squire, well dammed and gristed, as the saying is, grand and magnificent

withal, as plainly appears from this banquet, which, if it did not come

hither by the art of inchantment, at least seems so to have done; this

is not the case with such an unlucky poor devil as me, who carry nothing

in my bags but a piece of cheese hard enough to knock out a giant’s

brains, accompanied by three or four dozen of carrobes, and as many

hazle-nuts; thanks to the niggardliness and opinion of my master, and

the rule he observes, by which knights-errant must maintain and support

themselves with nothing but dried fruits, and the herbs of the

field.’—‘In good faith, brother!’ resumed he of the wood, ‘my stomach

was not made for your sweet thistle, wild pear, and mountain roots; let

our masters please themselves with their own opinions and rules of

chivalry, and live according to their meagre commands; for my own part,

I always carry some cold pasty, happen what will, and this bottle

hanging at my saddle-bow, which I love so devoutly, that I kiss and

embrace it almost every minute.’ So saying, he handed it to Sancho, who

lifting it up to his mouth, stood gazing at the stars a whole quarter of

an hour, and when his draught was out, he hung his head on one side,

pronouncing with a long sigh, ‘Ah, whoreson! how catholick it is!’—‘You

see now,’ said he of the wood, hearing Sancho’s whoreson, ‘how you have

praised the wine, by giving it such a title.’—‘I am sensible,’ replied

Sancho, ‘and confess that it is no disparagement to any body to be

called the son of a whore, when it is understood in the way of

commendation; but tell me, Signior, by the life of what you best love,

is not this wine from Cividad Real?’

‘You have an excellent taste,’ answered he of the wood, ‘it comes from

no other part, I’ll assure you; and has, moreover, some good years over

its head.’—‘Let me alone for that,’ said Sancho, ‘you’ll never catch me

tripping in the knowledge of wine, let it be never so difficult to

distinguish; is it not an extraordinary thing, Signior Squire, that I

should have such a sure and natural instinct in the knowledge of wine,

that give me but a smell of any kind whatever, and I will tell you

exactly its country, growth, and age, together with the changes it will

undergo, and all other circumstances appertaining to the mystery? But

this is not to be wondered at; for, by my father’s side, I had two

kinsmen who were the most excellent tasters that La Mancha hath known

for these many years; as a proof of which, I will tell you what once

happened to them. A sample of wine was presented to them out of a

hogshead, and their opinions asked concerning the condition and quality;

that is, the goodness or badness of the liquor to which it belonged; one

of them tasted it with the tip of his tongue, the other did no more than

clap it to his nose; the first said the wine tasted of iron, the other

affirmed it had a twang of goats leather; the owner protested that the

pipe was clean, and the contents without any sort of mixture that could

give the liquor either the taste of iron, or the smell of goats leather:

nevertheless, the two famous tasters stuck to the judgment they had

given; time passed on, the wine was sold, and when the pipe came to be

cleaned, they found in it a small key, tied to a leathern thong. By this

your worship may perceive, whether or not one who is descended from such

a race, may venture to give his opinion in cases of this

nature.’—‘Therefore, I say,’ replied the stranger, ‘that we ought to

quit this trade of going in quest of adventures, and be contented with

our loaf, without longing for dainties; let us return to our own

cottages, where God will find us, if it be his blessed will.’—‘I will

serve my master till he arrives at Saragossa,’ said Sancho, ‘and then we

shall come to a right understanding.’

In fine, the two honest squires talked and drank so copiously, that

sleep was fain to tie up their tongues, and allay their drought, which

it was impossible to remove; each, therefore, grasping the bottle, which

by this time was almost empty, fell asleep, with the morsel half chewed

in his mouth. In this situation we will leave them for the present, and

relate what happened between the knight of the wood, and him of the

rueful countenance.

Footnote 151:

Literally, ‘a squire of wool and water,’ an allusion to a custom among

the Spaniards, who sometimes have domesticks to attend them to mass,

and sprinkle them with holy water: these are generally shabby fellows,

who have very poor appointments.

CHAP. XIV.

WHEREIN THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE WOOD IS CONTINUED.

In the course of the conversation that passed between the two knights,

the history relates, that he of the wood said to Don Quixote, ‘Finally,

Sir Knight, you must know, my destiny, or rather my choice, led me to

place my affection on the peerless Casildea de Vandalia. I call her

peerless, because she has no equal, either in point of stature, quality,

fortune, or beauty. Now this lady, in return for all my virtuous

inclination and amorous desires, like the stepmother of Hercules,

employs me in many various toils and dangers, promising at the

conclusion of each, that with the next my cares shall be finished; but

thus she goes on, stringing one labour to another, without number, and I

know not which will be the last that is to produce the accomplishment of

my wishes. At one time she commanded me to go and challenge that famous

giantess of Seville, called Giralda[152], who is so valiant and strong,

(her body being made of brass) and who, without shifting her station, is

the most changeable and fickle female in the whole world. I came, saw,

and conquered; fixing her motionless to one point, for during a whole

week, the wind blew from the north. Another time, she ordered me to

weigh the ancient figures called the Valiant Bulls of Guisando[153]; an

enterprize more suitable to porters than to knights; nay, she even

commanded me to throw myself headlong into the gulph of Cabra, an

adventure equally new and dangerous, and bring to her a particular

account of what is contained in that dark and deep abyss. I fixed the

inconstant Giralda, weighed the bulls of Guisando, precipitated myself

into the gulph, and brought to light the secrets of its abyss; and yet

my hopes are dead; ah, how dead! while her cruelty and disdain are still

alive; ah, how much alive! In short, to conclude, she ordered me to

traverse all the provinces of Spain, and compel every knight-errant in

the kingdom to confess that she is preferable, in point of beauty, to

all the women upon earth; and that I am the most valiant and amorous

knight in the world. In consequence of this command, I have travelled

over the greatest part of Spain, and vanquished many knights who have

presumed to contradict my assertion: but I value and applaud myself

chiefly for having conquered in single combat, that so renowned knight

Don Quixote de La Mancha, and made him confess that my Casildea is more

beautiful than his Dulcinea. Now, in that single conquest, I deem myself

superior to all the knights in the universe; for that same Don Quixote

hath vanquished all his cotemporaries; and I, in conquering him, have

transferred and conveyed to my own person all his honour, glory, and

reputation; the victor being always honoured in proportion to the fame

of his vanquished foe; wherefore, the innumerable atchievements of the

said Don Quixote are placed to my credit, as if they were the effects of

my own personal prowess.’

Don Quixote was astonished at hearing the knight of the wood talk in

this manner, and was a thousand times tempted to give him the lye; nay,

‘You lye,’ was at the very tip of his tongue; but repressing his

indignation as well as he could, that he might make the stranger’s own

tongue convict him of falshood, he replied very calmly, ‘That your

worship, Sir Knight, may have vanquished the greatest part of the

knights-errant in Spain, and even in the whole world, I do not pretend

to question; but that you have conquered Don Quixote de La Mancha, I

doubt very much; perhaps it might be another who resembles him, though

there are few such.’—‘How! not conquer him?’ cried he of the wood; ‘now,

by yon canopy of Heaven, under which we sit, I engaged, overcame, and

subjected that very individual Don Quixote; he is a tall, meagre,

long-legged, lanthorn-jawed, stalking figure; his hair inclining to

grey, his nose hooked and aquiline, with long, straight, black,

mustachios; in his excursions he assumes the name of the Knight of the

Rueful Countenance; and is attended by a peasant called Sancho Panza,

who serves him in quality of squire; he presses the loins, and governs

the reins of a famous steed hight Rozinante; and, in fine, he avows, as

the mistress of his heart, one Dulcinea del Toboso, formerly known by

the name of Aldonza Lorenzo; in like manner, my own mistress, whose name

is Casildea, being a native of Andalousia, is now distinguished by the

appellation of Casildea de Vandalia. If all these proofs are not

sufficient to evince my veracity, here is my sword, which shall make a

convert of incredulity itself.’

‘Have a little patience, Sir Knight,’ said Don Quixote, ‘and give ear

unto what I am going to say. You must know, that same Don Quixote you

mention, is the dearest friend I have upon earth; so that I may say, I

love him as well as my own individual person; now your description of

him is so punctual and exact, that I should never doubt but he is

actually the person you have vanquished, did I not see with my eyes,

and, as it were, feel with my hands, the impossibility of the fact; and

yet, as divers inchanters are his enemies, particularly one who

persecutes him incessantly, some one among them may have assumed his

figure, and allowed himself to be overcome, in order to defraud the

knight of that fame which his gallant exploits had collected and

acquired through the whole known world; in confirmation of this

conjecture, I must also tell you, that about two days ago, those

perverse inchanters transformed the shape and person of the beautiful

Dulcinea del Toboso, into that of a mean and plebeian country-wench; so

that Don Quixote must have also undergone a transformation. And if all

this is not enough to ascertain the truth of what I say, here is Don

Quixote himself, who will maintain it by force of arms, on horseback or

on foot, or in any shape you please.’

So saying, he started up, and grasping his sword, stood waiting for the

resolution of the Knight of the Wood, who with great deliberation

replied; ‘A good paymaster needs no pawn, Signior Don Quixote; he who

could vanquish you when you was transformed, may well hope to reduce you

in _propria persona_; but as it is unseemly for knights to perform their

exploits in the dark, like robbers and ruffians, let us wait for day,

that the sun may shine upon our works; and let this be the condition of

our combat, that the vanquished shall comply with the will of the

victor, and do every thing that he shall desire, provided his commands

be such as a knight-errant can decently obey.’

Don Quixote assured him, that he was extremely well satisfied with the

condition and proviso; upon which they went in quest of their squires,

who were found snoring in the very same attitudes in which sleep had

surprized them. They wakened, and ordered them to get their horses

ready; for by sun-rise they intended to engage in a most unparalleled

and bloody single combat. Sancho was astonished and confounded at this

piece of news; despairing of his master’s safety, when he recollected

what the other squire had told him concerning the valour of the knight

of the wood. The two squires, however, without pretending to make any

words, went to look for their cattle, and found the three steeds, with

Dapple, (for they had smelled each other out) very sociably met

together. While they were thus employed, ‘Brother,’ said he of the wood

to Sancho, ‘you must know that it is customary with your warriors of

Andalousia, when they are godfathers in any quarrel, not to stand idle,

with their arms across, while their godsons are engaged. This I hint, by

way of apprising you that, while our masters are at it, we must exchange

a few dry blows too.’—‘That custom, Signior squire,’ answered Sancho,

‘may pass current with those ruffians and warriors you mention; but that

it prevails among the squires of knights-errant, I can by no means

believe; at least, I have never heard such a custom mentioned by my

master, who knows all the ordinances of chivalry by rote. Besides,

granting it to be fact, and expressly ordained, that the squires must go

to loggerheads while their masters are engaged; I will by no means

comply with it, but pay the penalty incurred by peaceable squires, which

I am sure cannot exceed a couple of pounds of wax; and that will not

cost me so much as the pence I should expend in the cure of my head,

which I should lay my account with having split and divided into two

halves; and moreover, it is impossible that I should fight, because I

have got no sword, and never wore one in my born days.’—‘I know a very

good remedy for that inconvenience,’ said the stranger: ‘here are a

couple of linen bags, of the same size; you shall take one, and I the

other, and play away upon each other with equal arms.’—‘With all my

heart,’ answered Sancho; ‘that sort of exercise will serve to dust our

jackets, without hurting our skin.’—‘Not quite so neither,’ resumed the

other, ‘for that the bags may not flap in the air, we will clap into

each half a dozen clear smooth pebbles, of equal weight and magnitude;

so that we may thwack one another without hurt or damage.’—‘Body of my

father,’ cried Sancho, ‘mind what sable furrs and flakes of carded

cotton he would line the bags withal, to prevent them from grinding our

skulls, and making a paste of our bones! Hark ye, master of mine, I’ll

have nothing to do with them, though they were fluffed with balls of

silk; let our masters fight as they shall think proper, but for our

parts, let us drink and live quietly; for old father Time will take care

to rid us of our lives, without our seeking occasions to throw them away

before the appointed season, at which, being ripe, they drop off of

their own accord.’

‘But, for all that,’ replied he of the wood, ‘we must have a bout, if it

should not last half an hour.’—‘By no means,’ said Sancho; ‘I shall not

be so uncivil and ungrateful as to have any difference, let it be never

so small, with a person at whose cost I have both eaten and drank:

besides, who the devil do you think can fight in cool blood, without any

sort of anger or provocation?’—‘I know how to remove that objection,’

resumed the stranger: ‘before we begin the battle, I will come up fair

and softly, and give your worship two or three such hearty boxes on the

ear, as will lay you flat at my feet, and awaken your choler, though it

should sleep sounder than a dormouse.’—‘Against that expedient,’

answered Sancho, ‘I know another twice as good: for I will lay hold on a

good cudgel, and before your worship comes to awaken my choler, give

your own such a lullaby of dry beating, that it shall never wake but in

the next world, where you’ll have reason to know that I am not a man who

will suffer his nose to be handled by any person whatsomever; wherefore,

let every one look to his own affairs. Though it would be the wisest

course for every man to let his own choler lie still and sleep: for

nobody knows the heart of his neighbour, and some who go out for wool,

come home quite shorn. God himself bestowed his blessing upon peace, and

curse upon contention; for if a cat that is confined, provoked, and

persecuted, turns into a lion, the Lord knows what I, who am a man, may

turn into: I therefore, Signior Squire, give your worship notice, that

all the mischief and damage which shall proceed from our quarrel, must

be charged to your account.’—‘Mighty well,’ replied the stranger, ‘we

shall see what is to be done, when God sends us morning.’

Now a thousand kinds of painted birds began to warble from the trees,

and in their various and sprightly notes seemed to welcome and salute

the fresh and joyous morn, which already, through the gates and

balconies of the east, disclosed her beauteous visage; while from her

hair distilled an infinite number of liquid pearls, in which delicious

liquor the herbs being bathed, seemed to sprout and rain a shower of

seed-pearl upon the earth. The willows shed savoury manna, the fountains

laughed, the brooks murmured, the woods rejoiced, and the meadows

adorned themselves at her approach.

But scarce had the light of day rendered objects distinguishable, when

the first thing that presented itself to the eyes of Sancho Panza was

the nose of his brother squire, which was so large as almost to

over-shadow his whole body. It is actually said to have been of

excessive magnitude, crooked in the middle, and studded all over with

warts of a mulberry colour, like the fruit called berengena; and it hung

down two fingers breadth below his mouth. The size, colour, warts, and

curvature of this feature, rendered the face so frightful and deformed,

that Sancho no sooner beheld it than he began to shake in every limb,

like a child troubled with convulsions; and resolved, in his heart, to

endure two hundred buffetings, before his choler should be awaked, so as

to fight with such a hobgoblin.

Don Quixote surveying his antagonist, found his vizor already down, and

closed in such a manner as effectually concealed his face; but he

perceived him to be a muscular man, of a middling stature. Over his arms

he wore a loose coat or cassock, to all appearance of the finest cloth

of gold, powdered with a number of small moons formed of the brightest

looking-glass, which had a most magnificent, gay, and shewy effect. Over

his helmet waved a great quantity of green, yellow, and white plumes;

and his lance, which leaned against a tree, was excessively long and

large, armed with above a hand’s breadth of pointed steel. All these

particulars were observed and considered by Don Quixote, who concluded,

from what he saw and observed, that the said knight must be a person of

Herculean strength. Nevertheless, far from being afraid, like Sancho

Panza, he, with the most gallant intrepidity, thus addressed himself to

the Knight of the Mirrours: ‘I entreat you, by your courtesy, Sir

Knight, if your eager desire of fighting hath not destroyed that

quality, to lift up your beaver a little, that I may see whether or not

the grace of your countenance corresponds with the gallantry of your

demeanour.’—‘Signior cavalier,’ replied he of the looking-glasses,

‘whether you are victor or vanquished in this enterprize, you will have

time and opportunity more than sufficient to consider my visage: my

reason for not satisfying your desire at present, is, that I should deem

it a notable injury to the beautiful Casildea de Vandalia, to spend so

much time as it would take to lift up my beaver, before I compel you to

confess what you know I pretend to maintain.’—‘Yet, while we mount our

steeds,’ said Don Quixote, ‘you may easily tell me if I am that same Don

Quixote whom you pretend to have overcome.’—‘To that question I answer,’

said he of the mirrours, ‘that you are as like the knight I overcame, as

one egg is like another; but as you say you are persecuted by

inchanters, I will not venture to affirm whether or not you are the same

person.’—‘That is enough,’ replied Don Quixote, ‘to convince me that you

are mistaken: nevertheless, to persuade you beyond all possibility of

doubt, let us have recourse to our horses, and in less time than you

would have taken to lift your beaver, if God, my mistress, and my arm

avail me, I shall see your face; and you will see I am not that

conquered Don Quixote whom you suppose me to be.’

Thus breaking off the conversation, they mounted their horses; and Don

Quixote turned Rozinante, in order to take a sufficiency of ground for

returning to encounter his antagonist, while he of the mirrours took the

same precaution. But the first had not proceeded twenty paces when he

was called back by the other, and the two meeting again half way, ‘Take

notice, Sir Knight,’ said he of the looking glasses, ‘the condition of

our combat is, that the conquered, as I have already observed, must be

at the discretion of the conqueror.’—‘I know it,’ answered Don Quixote,

‘provided the commands imposed upon the vanquished be such as do not

transgress the bounds of chivalry.’—‘So I understand the conditions,’

answered he of the mirrours.

At that instant the strange nose of the squire presented itself to the

eyes of Don Quixote, who was no less astonished than Sancho at the

sight; insomuch that he took him for some monster, or new-fashioned man,

such as are not commonly found in this world. Sancho, seeing his master

set out, in order to take his career, would not stay alone with nozzle,

being afraid, that one flirt of such a snout in his face would determine

the quarrel, and lay him stretched along the ground, either through fear

or the severity of the blow, he therefore ran after his master, and

laying hold of one of Rozinante’s stirrups, when he saw him ready to

turn, ‘I beseech your worship, dear master,’ cried he, ‘before you turn

to begin the combat, help me in climbing this cork-tree, from whence I

may behold, more to my liking than from the ground, your worship’s

gallant encounter with that same knight.’—‘I rather believe, Sancho,’

said Don Quixote, ‘that thy motive for clambering up is to see the

bull-fight from a scaffold, without any danger to thyself.’—‘The truth

is,’ answered Panza, ‘the outrageous nose of that squire fills me with

such astonishment and affright, that I dare not tarry along with

him.’—‘It is such indeed,’ replied the knight, ‘that were I any other

than what I am, I should be feared at its appearance: come, therefore,

and I will help thee to ascend to the place you mention.’

While Don Quixote stopped until Sancho should get up into the cork-tree,

the Knight of the Mirrours took as much ground as he thought necessary,

and imagining that Don Quixote had done the same, without waiting for

sound of trumpet, or other signal, he turned his horse, which was not a

whit superior to Rozinante, either in fleetness or appearance, and at

his full speed, which was a middling trot, rode forwards to encounter

his antagonist; but seeing him busy in the exaltation of Sancho, he

pulled in the reins, and halted in the middle of his career; a

circumstance that gave infinite joy to his steed, which was already so

tired, that he could not move another step. Don Quixote perceiving his

enemy approaching with such speed, drove his spurs stoutly into the

meagre flanks of Rozinante, and made him spring forwards in such a

manner, that the history says, this was the only occasion on which he

was ever known to gallop; for, at all other times, his swiftest pace was

no other than a downright trot; and with this hitherto unseen fury he

arrived at the spot where the Knight of the Mirrours sat, thrusting his

spurs rowel-deep into the sides of his horse, without being able to move

him one finger’s breadth from the place where he had made his halt. In

this confusion and dilemma Don Quixote found his antagonist embroiled

with his horse, and embarrassed with his lance, which, either through

want of knowledge or of time, he had not as yet fixed in the rest. Our

Manchegan, who never minded these incumbrances, safely, and without the

least danger to his own person, encountered him of the mirrours with

such vigour, as to bring him, very much against his inclination, to the

ground, over the crupper of his horse, with such a fall, that he lay

without sense or motion, to all appearance bereft of life.

Sancho no sooner saw him unhorsed, than sliding down from the cork-tree,

he ran down to his master, who having alighted from Rozinante, stood

over the Knight of the Mirrours, untying his helmet, in order to see,

whether or not he was actually dead, and to give him air, in case he

should be alive. Then it was he saw—who can relate what he saw, without

creating admiration, wonder, and affright in those who hear it! He saw,

says the history, the very face, the very figure, the very aspect, the

very physiognomy, the very effigies, the very perspective of the

batchelor, Sampson Carrasco; and this he no sooner beheld, than raising

his voice, he cried, ‘Come hither, Sancho, and behold what thou shalt

see, but not believe; quick, my child, and contemplate the power of

magick: here thou wilt see what those wizards and inchanters can do.’

Sancho accordingly approached, and seeing the face of batchelor

Carrasco, began to cross and bless himself a thousand times.

Mean while, the overthrown knight, giving no signs of life, Sancho said

to Don Quixote, ‘In my opinion, master, right or wrong, your worship

should thrust your sword through the jaws of this miscreant, who seems

to be the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, and in him, perhaps, you may slay

one of those inchanters who are your enemies.’—‘That is no bad advice,’

said the knight, ‘for the fewer enemies the better.’ So saying, he drew

his sword, in order to put in execution the advice and counsel of

Sancho, when the squire belonging to the Knight of the Mirrours, came up

without his frightful nose, and cried aloud, ‘Take care what you do,

Signior Don Quixote; he who lies at your feet is your friend the

batchelor Sampson Carrasco, and I am his squire.’

Sancho seeing him without his original deformity, ‘And the nose?’ said

he. ‘I have it here,’ replied the other; who putting his hand in his

right side-pocket, pulled out a paste-board nose, covered with varnish,

such as we have already described. Sancho having considered him more and

more attentively, broke out into a loud exclamation of wonder, crying,

‘Blessed virgin watch over me! Sure this is not my neighbour and gossip

Tommy Cecial?’—‘The very same,’ answered the unsnouted squire, ‘Thomas

Cecial I am, your own friend and gossip, Sancho Panza, and I will

presently tell you by what round-about conduits, tricks, and mischievous

stories, I have been brought hither: in the mean time, supplicate and

beseech your master’s worship not to treat, maltreat, wound, or slay,

the Knight of the Looking-glasses, who now lies at his feet; for,

without all doubt, he is no other than our townsman, the inconsiderate

and ill-advised batchelor Sampson Carrasco.’

About this time, the Knight of the Mirrours came to himself; and Don

Quixote perceiving he had recovered the use of his senses, clapped the

point of his naked sword to his throat, saying, ‘Knight, you are a dead

man, if you do not instantly confess that the peerless Dulcinea del

Toboso excels your Casildea de Vandalia, in beauty; and in the next

place, you must promise, (provided you escape with life from this

contention and overthrow) to go to the city of Toboso, and present

yourself before her, in my name, that she may dispose of you according

to her good pleasure; and if she leaves you at your own disposal, you

shall return in quest of me; for the tracks of my exploits will serve as

a guide to conduct you to the place where I shall be, and give me an

account of what hath passed between you; these conditions being

conformable to what we agreed upon before the combat, and not deviating

from the customs of knight-errantry.’—‘I confess,’ said the vanquished

knight, ‘that the clouted dirty shoe of the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso,

excels the dishevelled, though shining locks of Casildea: I promise to

go and return from her to your presence, and give you a full and

particular detail of what you demand.’—‘You must, in like manner,

confess and believe,’ added Don Quixote, ‘that the knight whom you

overcame neither was nor could be Don Quixote de La Mancha, but some

other who resembled him; as I confess and believe, that although you

appear to be the batchelor Sampson Carrasco, you are not really he, but

another cloathed in his appearance, with which my enemies have invested

you, in order to arrest my arm, and restrain the impetuosity of my rage,

so as that I may bear the glory of my conquest with moderation.’—‘I

confess, judge, and perceive, in all respects, as you believe, judge,

and perceive,’ answered the discomfited knight; ‘and I beseech you to

allow me to rise, if the severity of my fall, which hath put me in a

miserable plight, will permit me to get up.’

He was accordingly assisted in rising, by Don Quixote and his own squire

Tommy Cecial, from whose person Sancho could not withdraw his eyes,

while he asked a thousand questions; the answers to which manifestly

shewed, that he was really and truly the individual Tommy Cecial, whom

he pretended to be; but the apprehension which Sancho had conceived,

from what his master said touching the inchanters, who had metamorphosed

the Knight of the Mirrours into the Batchelor Carrasco, hindered him

from giving credit to the truth of what he saw with his own eyes.

Finally, both master and man remained under the influence of that

deception, while he of the mirrours, with his squire, in exceeding bad

humour and evil plight, took his leave of Don Quixote and Sancho, to go

in quest of some place where he might beplaister and besplinter his

ribs. Don Quixote and Sancho returned to the prosecution of their

journey; in which the history leaves them, to explain the mystery of the

knight of the looking-glasses and his snouted squire.

Footnote 152:

A brass statue on a steeple at Seville, serving for a weather-cock.

Footnote 153:

These are stone statues of bulls, erected by the Romans at Guisando, a

town in Castile; all the inscriptions are effaced, except the name of

A. Quintus Cæcilius, Consul II.

CHAP. XV.

WHICH GIVES AN ACCOUNT AND INFORMATION

OF THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRROURS AND HIS SQUIRE.

Don Quixote went on his way rejoicing; he gloried, he triumphed in the

importance of his conquest, imagining the knight of the mirrours to be

the most redoubtable of all knights that had yet ever appeared; and what

afforded him likewise great matter of comfort was, that this knight,

having engaged himself by the ties of honour, from which he could not

deviate, without forfeiting his title to the order, he conceived hopes

of hearing soon from Dulcinea, and of being certainly informed whether

the inchantment of that princess still continued; though, indeed, it

happened, that he and the knight of the mirrours thought, at that time,

differently upon this subject; inasmuch as the latter was solely intent

upon thinking how he should repair the damage done to his carcase.

And here the historian informs his readers, that when Sampson Carrasco

advised Don Quixote to resume the profession of knight-errantry, it was

in consequence of mature consultation between him, the curate, and the

barber, when they deliberated upon the means of keeping him in peace and

quiet at home, so that his brains, for the future, should not be

disturbed in pursuit of those wild extravagances; the result of which

was, that the only way to cure the frenzy of this unhappy man, was at

present not to check his ungovernable obstinacy, but to humour it, and

encourage him to go out again, as they saw it was impossible to prevent

him; that Sampson should arm himself, and take an opportunity of meeting

and challenging him, as a knight-errant; that he should settle the terms

with him, that the vanquished should be at the disposal of the

conqueror; that, in consequence of this agreement, Don Quixote, when

overcome, (which they looked upon as a matter of little doubt and

difficulty) should be ordered to return home, and not to pass the bounds

of his own village for the space of two years, without the good-will and

permission of the other; that, no doubt, this he would religiously

comply with, as not daring to violate the laws of the order; and that

there might be hopes, he would either in that space of time be naturally

cured of those extravagant follies, or they might find out some method

of diverting his mind from the farther pursuit of them. Carrasco

undertook the affair very readily; and this Thomas Cecial, an intimate

friend and companion of Sancho, and a queer sort of fellow, proffered

his service to go upon the expedition, in the quality of squire. Sampson

got himself accoutred in the manner you have read, and Cecial appeared

in the terrors of that tremendous paste-board nose, to disguise himself

from Sancho; and being thus equipped, they followed him so close, that

they were very near coming up with him at the adventure of the waggon of

Death; they met him however in the wood, where ensued what the attentive

reader must already be acquainted with; and where, had it not been for

Don Quixote’s heated imagination, which hurried him into the belief that

the batchelor was not the batchelor Signior Sampson Carrasco, would have

been effectually stopped in the progress of his university degrees, and

would not even have found a nest where he expected a flight of sparrows.

Thomas Cecial, finding the unhappy success that attended their

undertaking, said, ‘Mr. Carrasco, I cannot in my conscience see why we

ought to complain; it is one thing to undertake, but another thing to

finish: we looked upon Don Quixote as mad, and ourselves as hugely wise;

but, behold the end! we take our march back again, both from a fool’s

errand, and you most handsomely drubbed to boot, while he pursues his

journey in safety and triumph; and I should really be curious to know

which is the greatest fool, he who is made so by nature, or he who makes

himself one?’—‘There is this difference,’ replied the batchelor,

‘between a natural and a wilful fool; that the former will always remain

so, the latter may cease to be so when he has a mind.’—‘As that is the

case,’ said Thomas, ‘I think I have been a monstrous fool in coming here

to attend you as your squire; and therefore, that I may be so no longer,

I will this instant hie me to my own habitation.’—‘In that particular,

you may do what seems good unto you,’ replied Sampson; ‘but as for me, I

see not the place of my dwelling, until I shall have taken bodily

vengeance upon Don Quixote: ’tis not now from motives of charity or

benevolence; no, ’tis revenge, and the anguish of my ribs, that prompt

me to persevere in attempting the work of his reformation.’

They entertained one another in this manner, till they came to a

village, where they had the good fortune to find a bone-setter, who put

the batchelor’s ribs somewhat to rights; and Cecial took the route for

his own village, leaving Carrasco deep in his meditations, projecting

schemes of revenge. In due time, the history will again mention him;

but, at present, let us share with Don Quixote in the transports of his

joy.

CHAP. XVI.

WHAT HAPPENED TO DON QUIXOTE WITH A GRAVE GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA.

Don Quixote, as we have observed, went on his way, glorying in his

success. From that day, he dated himself the most renowned and

invincible of all knights that had ever yet gone through a course of

labours on this our earth: he looked upon all dangers, all difficulties

that possibly could come in his way, as already vanquished, already

overcome: he now valued not a rush the machinations of the most powerful

inchanters. The very traces of former misfortunes, those drubbings out

of number he had undergone, in discharging the functions of knighthood,

were now quite obliterated from his memory. He thought no more of the

shower of stones which had so sorely afflicted his jaw-bones, nor the

mortifying ingratitude of the galley-slaves; nor did he think any more

of the pack-staves of the Yanguesian carriers, who had the hardiness to

make his sides resound like the dusting of a carpet: in short, the idea

he conceived of his own felicity was so great, that, ‘Could I,’ said he

to himself, ‘but accomplish the great point of delivering my celestial

princess from the power of inchantment, I should not envy the glory that

ever was or will be purchased by any knight in the universe.’

He was lost in these reveries, when Sancho interrupted him: ‘Signior,

you will hardly believe what a fool I am; but it is an actual truth,

that I cannot keep myself from thinking on that horrid and unmeasurable

nose of my neighbour Tom Cecial.’—‘And dost thou really believe,’

replied the other, ‘that the Knight of the Mirrours was Sampson

Carrasco; and that thy old companion, Thomas Cecial, was his

squire?’—‘As to that affair, I can say nothing to it,’ answered Sancho;

‘only one thing I am positive in, that no one but himself could have

given me such an account of my house, my wife, and my children; and as

to his face, when that nose was slipt off, it was the very individual

face of Thomas Cecial, just as I have beheld it many a time, when we

were next door neighbours in our village: and as for his voice, I will

take my oath, it is the same to a tittle.’—‘Come, Sancho,’ said Don

Quixote, ‘let us reason coolly upon this head: what probability is

there, that Sampson Carrasco should come, as a knight-errant, armed

cap-a-pee, to offer me combat? Am I his enemy, or did I ever give him

occasion to bear resentment against me? Do you imagine I am his rival,

or that he has entered into the profession of chivalry, as envying the

glory I have acquired by arms?’—‘But then, Sir,’ answered Sancho, ‘what

account can we give of the resemblance of that same knight and his

squire to Sampson Carrasco, and my old friend Thomas Cecial? And if it

be inchantment, as your worship says, were there no other two in the

world but them whose likeness they could assume?’—‘It is all design,’

answered the other; ‘and the contrivance of those cursed inchanters that

persecute me, who easily foreseeing I should be victorious in the

combat, changed the form of the vanquished knight into that of the

batchelor, that the friendship I have for him might check the fury of my

sword, and shield him against the effects of my just indignation; and by

that means save the life of him who by treachery and artifice had

attempted to take away mine. But what farther proof need there be of the

power of those inchanters, to change the appearance of human

countenances, the fair into the deformed, and the deformed into the

fair, than what thou thyself hast lately found by certain experience?

Thou, who not two days since beheld the peerless Dulcinea in all the

charms and lustre of perfect beauty, while at the same time she appeared

to me an ugly rustick wench, with bleared eyes, and stinking breath; and

doubtless, if the wicked magician could effect such a diabolical

inchantment as that, it is not to be wondered at, if he did the like by

Carrasco and Thomas Cecial, to rob me of the glory of my victory:

however, this is my consolation, that the prowess of my arm hath

prevailed against my enemy, whatever shape he has assumed.’—‘It is God

alone who knows the truth of all things,’ answered Sancho: who, well

knowing that the transformation of Dulcinea was the effect of his own

inchantments, upon that account was not quite convinced by his master’s

arguments; but durst not mutter the least word, lest something should

have dropped from him, by which he might have betrayed himself.

While they were discoursing in this manner, a gentleman, mounted in the

jockey-fashion, on a fine flea-bitten mare, came up with them, dressed

in a riding-coat of fine green cloth, faced with murry-coloured velvet,

and a hunting-cap of the same; his furniture of a piece, murry-coloured

and green; he had a belt of green and gold, at which hung a Moorish

scymitar, and his buskins were wrought in the same manner; his spurs

were not gilt, but so finely varnished with green, that as they were

more of a piece with the rest of his dress, they looked better than if

they had been pure gold. When this gentleman overtook them, he saluted

them with great politeness, and was spurring on, in order to pass them,

when Don Quixote calling to him, said, ‘Signior, if you are not in

haste, and are a going this way, I should be exceeding glad to join

company with you.’—‘Sir,’ answered the other, ‘I should not have been in

such haste to pass you, but was afraid your horse might be unruly, in

the company of my mare.’—‘If that be all,’ answered Sancho, ‘you may

stop your mare when you please, with great safety; ours is the most

sober and most discreet horse in the world, and has more breeding than

ever to let his naughtiness get the better of him upon such occasions,

and never transgressed in this particular but once, and then my master

and I both suffered severely in the flesh for it: I say once more, your

worship may stop; for if your mare was served up in a dish, our steed

would not so much as smell to her.’ Upon this assurance, the gentleman

stopped, and looked with amazement at the air and appearance of Don

Quixote, who rode without his helmet, which hung like a wallet before

Sancho, at the pummel of his ass’s pannel; and, on the other hand, Don

Quixote beheld him with no less attention, conceiving him to be some

person of figure and distinction. The traveller seemed to be a man about

fifty; he had some, though few, grey hairs; his features were sharp, and

in his looks appeared neither levity nor moroseness: in short, his

appearance bespoke him a man of consequence. He looked with a kind of

astonishment at Don Quixote, as having never beheld such a phænomenon

before; the lankness of the horse, and the tall stature of the person

that rode him, the sepulchral meagreness of his aspect, his solemn

gravity, the strangeness of his armour, all together forming such a

composition as perhaps had never before been seen in that country.

Don Quixote observed with what attention the traveller considered him;

and, by the surprize he saw him in, guessing what he wanted to know, as

he was himself the very flower of civility, and of excessive

complaisance, he was resolved to be beforehand with him, and save him

the trouble of asking any question: ‘Signior,’ said he, ‘I am not at all

surprized to find, that with amazement you contemplate this my

appearance, so new to you, and so different from that of other mortals;

but your wonder will cease, when I have told you that I am of the

fraternity of those knights whom people distinguish by the title of

adventure-hunters. I have left my native home, mortgaged my all, bid

adieu to ease and pleasure, and cast myself upon fortune, to dispose of

me as she shall think proper; my design being to awaken the lost and

decayed spirit of knight-errantry: it is now some time since I entered

upon the resolution of accomplishing this aim, during which period I

have suffered a variety of fortune, tossed about from one adventure to

another, sometimes triumphant, at other times not so successful, until I

have in a great measure fulfilled my design, having relieved many

disconsolate widows, afforded protection to many distressed damsels, and

been of aid and assistance to divers married women and fatherless

children, the true duty and intent of our order; so that, by numberless

exploits becoming a Christian hero, I am now celebrated in print through

almost all the nations of the habitable globe. Thirty thousand copies of

my renowned history are already in the hands of the publick; and if

Heaven does not think proper to put a stop to it, in all likelihood

there will be a thousand times as many more. In one word, Sir, I am Don

Quixote de La Mancha, otherwise stiled the Knight of the Rueful

Countenance; and though I own it is illiberal to sound one’s own

praises, yet am I sometimes obliged to do it; but then, never unless

when no one is by to do it for me; so that, Signior, after what I have

told you, neither my lance nor my shield, my horse nor my squire, the

wanness of my countenance, nor the lankness of my person, and all my

whole composition together, ought any more to affect you with surprize,

since you know the profession I am of, and the order I belong to.’

There Don Quixote stopped to give the traveller an opportunity of reply;

but he was so long before he opened his mouth, that it seemed as if he

could make no answer; however, after a long pause, ‘Sir Knight,’ said

he, ‘you was not mistaken, when, by the surprize you saw me in, you

guessed the desire I had to be informed; but I am still as much

surprized as ever, and though what you say may be right, that my knowing

who you are ought to have made my wonder cease, it is yet far from

having that effect upon me. Can it be possible, that there are indeed

now in the world knights-errant really existing, and that there are

published accounts of real adventures? I should never have once dreamed

that there was such a thing upon earth as any one who assisted married

women and orphans, relieved widows, and protected damsels, if I had not

had this opportunity of being convinced by now seeing you; and Heaven be

praised, that this noble history of your real and glorious atchievements

is in print, as it must efface and discredit those numberless romances

about knights-errant, who never had being, and with which the world was

so pestered and abused, to the apparent corruption of the mind of the

readers, and the discredit of real and true history.’—‘As to that

circumstance, Sir, there is much to be said, and you must not be too

rash in believing, that the histories of knight errantry are all

fable.’—‘Is there any one,’ answered the traveller, ‘who makes a doubt

of it?’—‘I do, for one,’ answered Don Quixote; ‘but we will drop that

subject for the present, as I doubt not but, if we continue any time

travelling together, I shall be able, by the blessing of God, to

convince you of your error, and to shew you that you are prejudiced only

by the number of those who have entertained a notion, that such accounts

are fictitious.’